For a Muse of Fire

by Heidi Heilig

  The notes fall like water, they soar like swallows, they shimmer more vibrant than the stars. Leo is playing the audience back into silence. Chairs scrape, feet shuffle, people murmur—how dare they? But the music rises over it all, and his shadow dances with it. I take a step toward the scrim, and another, reaching out with tentative fingers to the outline of his form—the dark space he’s cut from the light. Are any of my shadows half so graceful?

  “Jetta?” I whirl, snatching my hand back at Cheeky’s soft voice. But where is she? The call comes again from a crack—a trapdoor in the center of the stage: she’s peeking through, her eyes rising just above the floor. “Jetta!”

  I approach on quiet feet, hunkering down to whisper. “What is it?”

  “Capitaine Legarde is looking for you,” she says. My brow furrows, then my heart stutters. The soldier in the road—the one who gave us back the coin. He must be the general’s son. What could he want now? “You have to go.”

  My eyebrows go up. “Now?”

  “Easier now than later!” she hisses. “Leo will meet you at the roulotte when Tia takes the stage. We’ll keep the capitaine distracted as long as we can. But you have to hurry.”

  I chew my lip. Is it wise to run from the armée? What if he only wants something innocuous—something small, an innocent question?

  How did you do it?

  Hidden strings . . .

  But when I straighten up, Maman and Papa are standing close—by their faces, I can tell they’ve heard what Cheeky said, and they know there is nothing innocent about the capitaine’s request. Without a word, Maman nods to the trapdoor. My fantouches are scattered across the stage, near the scrim. I move to gather them, but she puts her hand on my arm and shakes her head.

  Inside me, something shrivels. Leave my fantouches?

  Each one represents hours, days, weeks of work—not only mine. Our version of the spirit maiden was the last fantouche Akra made.

  And what of the souls sewn into these skins? Will they behave without me near, or will they grow bored and start to wander without my permission? Would they be trapped forever in their bodies as they slowly waste away, longing for reprieve, unable to be reborn?

  There’s little time for the dead when the living are in danger. So when the next round of applause comes, I slip down through the stage and walk empty-handed into the dark. With a bitter twist of my lips, I see Papa holding his bird flute, and Maman with the little painted thom she loves so well—but they are small things, easy to carry, and close to hand. The delicate lute that belonged to my grandmother is still in the dark backstage—not to mention our silk scrim, hiding us from the audience. Still, these are not the first things we’ve had to leave behind. They will not be the last.

  The creak of the stairs underfoot is covered by the cheers of the audience. Cheeky lowers the trapdoor behind us; the thick wood muffles the first few notes of the piano. Tia’s voice comes in from above: “J’errais avec les fous, je me retrouve chez les âmes perdues. Nul ne sait où il est parti, mais je me suis languis de toi, de toi . . .”

  The song fades as we pick our way through the warren of the basement. The ceiling is so low we have to duck, and the air here is cool and damp and smells of mildew and river water. Old munitions crates hold dusty props; touring trunks are stacked with empty barrels marked RHUM, all of them gently moldering. Little souls glimmer in the dim. We pass a peeling vanity, finely carved in Aquitan style—expensive once. I sound out the red writing on the cracked mirror: AU REVOIR.

  Cheeky leads us to another stair, this one leading up to a pair of slanted cellar doors at street level. “I have to go back and get dressed,” she says. Then she grins brightly in the dark. “Then undressed again. Break a leg. Preferably someone else’s.”

  “Do me a favor,” I say quickly, and she rolls her eyes.

  “Another one? Usually I charge.”

  “Burn the fantouches.”

  Her eyes go wide in the dark. “Why?”

  I bite my lip—there’s no time to explain, but even if there was, I couldn’t say. Never show, never tell. “Just do it. Please.”

  She looks at me, uncertain, but then she nods, and I trust her to do what I’ve asked. Fear hits me as she disappears into the dark—when the capitaine discovers we’ve fled, will he take it out on the girls? But she must know how to take care of herself. Or am I only telling myself that? Either way, I can’t make myself call her back.

  Instead we slip up the stairs. Reaching the top, I press my shoulder against the heavy door and heave. Grit trickles down the back of my neck as the panel lifts. Then someone outside takes the weight of the door, lifting it all the way open.

  It’s Leo. His jacket is unbuttoned and a violin case is slung over his back; he beckons us up into the moonlight. We have exited the theater just a few steps from the alley door. Everything is so quiet—odd, for a city the size of Luda. A deep, layered silence, the kind that comes from fear. Even the spirits seem furtive, gleaming from deep corners and shining between cracks in buildings. The feeling of being watched is back; I turn my head quickly. Was that a flicker of blue, beneath the roulotte? No matter—not now. Soon enough we will be far away from here.

  On quiet feet, we steal to the wagon. To my surprise, Leo ushers us toward the door. “Get in the back.”

  Maman shakes her head. “I’ll drive.”

  “He’s looking for you, not me,” Leo murmurs. “Besides, you don’t know the route.”

  Maman eyes him skeptically. “Out of the city?”

  “Out of the city without driving past the entire encampment.”

  But Papa is wasting no time; he swings open the door and starts in. Maman follows, and I have my foot on the stair when I hear a little metal click. A chill, cold as cruelty, drips down my spine. I lift my chin. There is a man lying atop the roulotte. A soldier. Moonlight shines on the steel barrel of his gun.

  “Sava, Leo?” the man says, and beside me, Leo sighs through his teeth.

  “Sava, Eduard. I see you’ve still got my pistol.”

  “You really ought to stop misplacing guns. But right now all I need is the girl. Your brother has a few questions for her. You likely know that already.”

  At first I don’t understand, but the look on Leo’s face says it all. “The capitaine is your brother?”

  “Quiet, girl.” The soldier gestures with the gun, and I swallow the lump in my throat. “And close the door of the wagon.”

  In the deep shadows in the roulotte, the whites of Maman’s wide eyes gleam. “What’s going on, Jetta?”

  The soldier raps on the roof with his fist. “Ferme ta gueule and close the door! Is there a way to lock it?”

  My hands are shaking, but better that my parents are safe inside—that they cannot chase after me, that they cannot be shot for fighting back. Maman scrambles toward the doorway as I swing it closed; I lower the latch as she pounds on the door, cursing the armée. The soldier pays her no mind. He only jerks his chin at the theater. “Now step back against the wall.”

  My heart is a wild bird in the cage of my ribs; I am watching the gun, waiting for the bullet. What will happen when the capitaine comes out? Can Leo intercede? Or will they drag Maman and Papa from the wagon? Will they line us up, three in a row, kneeling in the dirty alley? Was the death of the rebel boy only a premonition of my own?

  Just behind me, out of my field of vision, it burns—the blue flame. What color will my soul be when it springs from my body?

  “Did you hear me? Step back!”

  At the soldier’s shout, I jump, but I do not obey. Instead, I whisper to the soul I put in the wagon—the old dog, eager to please. “Throw him down,” I murmur. “Throw him down.”

  The spirit obeys. The roulotte tilts, two wheels lifting with a groan, then slamming back to the earth. The soldier tumbles to the ground with a shout. The gun skitters across the stones and Leo leaps after it. But as his hands close around the pistol, the soldier is on him. They struggle, but Eduard is bigger
; he smashes Leo’s knuckles bloody against the cobbles and the gun tumbles free again. I race toward it, but the soldier wraps his hand around my ankle and pulls me off my feet; I fall, hard, on my stomach, and the jolt knocks the wind out of me. Leo is scrambling after the gun on his hands and knees, but Eduard hauls me up, pressing my back to his chest, one thick arm cinched around my waist, another across my shoulders. And up under my chin, a painful point—the tip of a knife. I cannot see it, but oh, I can feel it as I breathe, as I swallow, as my pulse pounds against the coldness of the steel.

  My free hand flies to my throat. Eduard tightens his grip and I hiss. Blood is already slipping down, slick on my fingers. Spirits are gathering in the still air, and the blue fire is just over my shoulder, as though to whisper in my ear.

  Leo is on his feet again, holding the gun, but he lowers it when he sees me in Eduard’s arms. Against my shoulders, the soldier’s heart is pounding. “Put it on the ground,” he growls.

  “The capitaine can’t question a dead girl,” Leo says, but the point of the knife digs deeper; I stop breathing.

  “There’s a long road between life and death,” Eduard says. “And I can get answers out of almost anyone along the way. Put the gun on the ground.”

  Visions of the bodies displayed on the roadside float behind my eyes like shadows on a screen. Am I in the hands of the torturer? Is the knife he used to flay their skin pressed against my throat? Is the soul of the rebel here now, waiting for revenge on the man who put his head on a pike?

  Would his vengeance doom the soldier—and save us?

  Carefully, slowly, Leo obeys; ever so slightly, the soldier relaxes his grip. And gently, softly, I lower my arm to my side, to where the questioneur’s fingers dig into my ribs. With my bloody hand, I trace the sign of life on the back of his hand.

  There is a flash of blue. Eduard screams as he stumbles back, convulsing. The sound splits the night—it pierces my skull—it rings in my ears. It goes on and on, an alarm, an accusation. His eyes roll, his body writhes, his head lolls like a mad thing. Then it ends, and the soldier drops in a heap.

  Is he still breathing? I am cold all over. What have I done? The sudden silence is a void, filling now with other sounds—Maman’s muffled cries, a dog barking . . . and the wet hiss of air through the soldier’s clenched teeth.

  Leo turns to me, his eyes wide in the dark; he’s still holding the gun, and it’s not exactly pointed at the ground. “What happened to him?”

  I open my mouth but no explanation comes. “Why are you asking me?”

  “Because you don’t look all that surprised.”

  I grit my teeth—too late to don a mask of shock. “We should go,” I say instead, and he only nods. I follow Leo onto the bench of the roulotte. Lani is snorting, stamping, afraid and impatient; she practically bolts down the alley when Leo snaps the reins. The wagon lurches forward. As we turn onto the main street, the theater door opens and the capitaine’s voice calls, “Arret!” Like the general. We don’t stop.

  Act 1,

  Scene 11

  For the second night in a row, a show at La Perl ends before curtain call, and somehow, tonight’s screams are even more disturbing than last night’s explosions. When CAPITAINE XAVIER LEGARDE leaps from his seat and runs from the theater, CHEEKY doesn’t even bother with a bow before she hops offstage and hurries down the hall. TIA leaves the piano to follow her, and EVE joins them both, watching through the crack in the door.

  Outside, EDUARD still twitches on the ground. EVE looks at TIA, but CHEEKY shakes her head, mouthing an exaggerated “no” to the question she did not ask.

  EVE: What happened to him?

  CHEEKY: You couldn’t pay me enough to check.

  XAVIER is coming back down the street, cursing the roulotte for disappearing around the corner. Reaching the prone questioneur, the capitaine kneels beside him, checking his airway, his pulse, slapping his slack cheek. At last EDUARD’s eyelids flutter open. XAVIER draws back in alarm.

  XAVIER: Putain.

  The stricken soldier’s eyes slide closed again, but it takes XAVIER a moment to reach out, to peel back the eyelid on the vacant face.

  A trick of the dark, of the crescent moon, or perhaps a symptom of a strange jungle poison . . . but the iris is a cold, ethereal blue.

  XAVIER stands, wiping his hands on his uniform. Then he grits his teeth and strides toward the corner, where the rattled audience is spilling into the street. The capitaine conscripts two strong men from the crowd.

  XAVIER: You. And you. Help me take this man to the docteur’s tent at the encampment.

  Though they are not soldiers, the two Chakrans know better than to disobey a direct order from the armée. XAVIER leads them back to the camp as they drag EDUARD between them, directing them to the docteur’s tent before dismissing them with a curt thanks.

  He has just sat down to prepare a telegram when the screaming starts. XAVIER looks up from his field desk. Then comes the sound of gunfire and panic, the trumpeting of horses—and someone raising the alarm.

  * * *

  Sent at 2236h

  Capitaine Legarde at Luda

  To: General Legarde at Lysan

  ATTACK ON GARRISON STOP POSSIBLE REBEL

  PLOT STOP SITUATION UNFOLDING

  Sent at 0913h

  General Legarde at Lysan

  To: Capitaine Legarde at Luda

  HOLD THE LINE

  * * *

  Act 2

  Chapter Eight

  As Lani stretches her legs into a gallop, my own heart pounds. The soldier’s scream still echoes in my skull. My back is pressed to the scrollwork; my whole body is so tense I’m shaking. I keep expecting more shouting or shooting, for the capitaine to chase us down on a great gray horse, for Legarde himself to return and drag us back to the killing spot.

  How could I have missed that Leo was the general’s son? They have the same jaw, the same nose—the same voice, the kind that can cut across a crowd. But where Legarde commands, Leo charms. Why hadn’t he mentioned it before? I shouldn’t have trusted him.

  Then again, he hadn’t handed us over to his brother. We are still rolling on through the city, away from the wharf and the warehouses and the armée, and no one is chasing us—not yet, anyway.

  Maman will be harder to escape. I swallow my heart and turn around on the bench, bracing myself for her reprimands. Leo’s question echoes in my skull: “What happened to him?”

  I had acted on instinct—a hope and a prayer . . . and something else. Some dark draw—vengeance or just curiosity? Never before had I put a spirit into a body that already had a soul. Some people say that’s what madness is. Two souls in one skin. And a n’akela isn’t just any spirit.

  Would it drive him mad? Or kill him—or something worse? Now I can begin to imagine fates worth than death. Nevertheless, that fate wasn’t ours tonight. I had saved us yet again. So I square my shoulders and open the panel, ready to reject Maman’s condemnation. But when my eyes adjust to the dimness inside the roulotte, instead of the anger I expect, Maman is curled against Papa’s side like a frightened animal. My tension slips into uncertainty. “Are you both all right?”

  “I saw,” she says. Nothing more—but her eyes gleam in the slices of moonlight that slip through the scrollwork. I balk at the expression on her face. Fear. Is she afraid for me, or of me? For a moment, I wonder if she hates me.

  But Papa shushes her, stroking damp hair from her forehead. “He was armée,” he says darkly. “He had a gun.”

  I draw myself up. “If it was me or the soldier, Maman—who would you try to save?”

  At my question, she lifts her head as though surprised. “You, Jetta. I’m always trying to save you.”

  Her words leave me breathless. “From what?”

  Maman only glances at Leo, sitting beside me on the bench, and I know she will not answer. I look to Papa for help, but he only sighs, nodding to his other side—an invitation. “Come, Jetta. Come rest awhile.” />
  Rest. At the word, my shoulders sink, losing some of the tension I hadn’t known I was carrying. I long for the comfort of my parents’ warm embrace. More than that—for the closeness of feeling like family. When was the last time I felt it? Years ago, before the fire and the souls. . . . It was during the Hungry Year—the day Akra left, and Papa, who had been so angry he hadn’t looked at my brother for a week, finally pulled him close and sobbed into his uniform. We had all wrapped our arms around one another—I can still remember feeling Papa’s ribs through his shirt. We were all so hungry, but we’d had one another.

  Looking at Maman now, I think she needs comfort more than she can give it. I shake my head. “We can’t stop yet.”

  “When?” Papa’s tone is pointed. “You need to sleep.”

  I hesitate—I am tired. But my mind is still racing, and something about the thought of sleep makes my skin crawl. “Soon,” I lie, sliding the panel shut.

  Turning, I face forward on the seat. Leo glances my way, but only briefly—maintaining the decorous silence of any gentleman who has overheard an argument. Together, we watch the town blur by, but only I see the vana swirl in the breeze of our passing. We’re moving fast. The roulotte is light with the arvana inside, and Lani has been resting all day. We’ve left the slapdash shacks of the dockworkers and the sugar millers far behind. Just beyond the telegraph office is the center of town. Here are old Chakran houses with upturned roofs, new Aquitan buildings of terra-cotta tile and white stone—fine homes for fine people. A perfect place to scatter flyers, if there was to be yet another show tonight. A laugh tries to scramble up my throat; I press my lips together to suffocate it.

  But this road leads north, winding into the old mountains—in the opposite direction of the capital. If we go far enough this way, we’ll pass into the Tiger’s territory—beyond that, to the source of all the rivers, where old dragons live in icy pools in the caldera of dead volcanoes. “Where are we going?” I murmur to Leo.