For a Muse of Fire

by Heidi Heilig

  Maman is suffering too, but neither of us wastes the air to complain, and Akra only continues forward—though mercifully he slows his pace. At last the path leads us to a long, low building perched on the face of the ridge: the workshop. The walls are made of bamboo and painted in drab green, and the roof is thatched with palm, but one side is open to overlook the city below, and a scaffold of bamboo juts from the wide opening, like a pier in midair.

  “What do they work on here?” I say, frowning, but Akra puts his fingers to his lips and points. It takes me a moment to understand what he’s showing me: the light that glimmers in the building is not a stray soul, but a lamp.

  Drawing his gun, he creeps closer to the door of the workshop; it sits slightly open on the jamb. Akra peers inside, and I try to see over his shoulder, wrinkling my nose. There is a strange smell in the air here—a chemical scent that tingles on my tongue. But the sight is stranger still: a room full of enormous contraptions, crafted of bamboo and iron and leather, each of them different, all in various stages of completion.

  For a moment, the scattered pieces remind me of my own fantouches. But these machines are not built for show. There is one like a bat, fearsome and finely jointed, the pieces of one wing scattered on the floor. Another is a basket with some machinery inside—it looks like an iron furnace. Trailing on the ground beside it is a multicolored bag of silk at least two wagon lengths wide. Another creature has skeletal wings resembling a hawk’s, but missing cladding or feathers. Beside it, a black hawk is pinned to a board, wings outstretched, one plucked bare to see the joints. Its soul still circles through the rafters of the workshop.

  There are half a dozen other half-built heaps scattered about. “What are they?” I breathe softly into my brother’s ear.

  Akra wets his lips. “Flying machines.”

  “Flying?”

  Akra turns back sharply, raising a finger, warning me into silence. I swallow my next question—what are they for? I already know the answer: war. This is the armée, after all. My jaw drops as I imagine it—men with guns, raining death from the sky. “The rebels won’t stand a chance,” I whisper, and my brother twitches. But then the next thought comes, too quick to keep quiet. “Akra. We can fly Papa out of the city!”

  He rounds on me, but inside the workshop, I hear the clatter of metal and a muffled exclamation. My stomach sinks, but Akra curses, kicking open the door and raising his gun. “Arret!” he calls. “Hands up!”

  There, in the shadows, a large figure hesitates. For a moment, the form looks to me like some strange puppet, but when I blink, I realize it’s a person covered head to toe: heavy black boots, a thick leather work smock that reaches to the floor, and black rubber gloves up to the elbow. Something about the form is familiar—and about the golden hair.

  “Don’t shoot, capitaine,” the girl says, nudging the goggles up onto her forehead with one elbow. “It’s only me, Theodora.”

  I gape at the Flower of Aquitan in her oil-stained work boots, but Akra’s aim doesn’t waver. “Hands up,” he repeats, cocking his weapon. “Jetta, tie her.”

  Theodora’s voice goes up an octave. “What?”

  “Quiet,” Akra says. “Or I’ll have her gag you too. Jetta?”

  My eyes are wide—I glance at Akra for reassurance, but he doesn’t take his eyes from La Fleur. Her red lips are sour as bayberries. I approach with caution, looking for something to use as a rope. Rummaging on her workbench in the corner, I see wire, but I cannot imagine letting it bite into her flesh. Akra pulls a short knife from his belt.

  “Cut the straps from her apron,” he says, holding out the blade, but I’ve already found some rubber tubing.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Theodora hisses as I pull the gloves from her hands and wind the hose around her wrists. “The general is my father.”

  “Which makes you a perfect hostage,” Akra says. He looks at her goggles, her apron, her boots. “You’re the scientist.”

  “Are you surprised?”

  “I’m disgusted,” Akra spits. “You build machines to kill innocents.”

  Theodora glances at his gun. “And you use them.”

  Akra’s eyes narrow, but Maman slips past him, toward one of the flying machines, running her hands over a bamboo wing. “Do these work?”

  Theodora’s eyes dart left, then right. “Not yet,” she says, too quickly, but though many of the devices are clearly half finished, some look complete. And while the machinery is far too complex for us to operate—with buttons and levers, dials and throttles—the soul of the hawk still circles over the structure inspired by its own flesh and bone.

  “Akra,” I whisper to him. “Give me your knife.”

  He hands it over without asking why, but Maman gives me a look. “Jetta, no.”

  “You have a better plan?”

  Her pained silence is my answer. I approach the skeletal machine, all long bamboo bones fused with bright bronze cartilage. No feathers nor webbing, not yet—but none are needed, not for me. As she looks on, Theodora’s lips twist, trying to hold back a laugh. “That will never fly,” she says. “Be reasonable. Leave now, and you might have a sporting start before my father tracks you down.”

  I don’t bother responding, but at her words, Akra looks at me sideways. “What are you doing?”

  “Just get in.” The blade flashes in the low light as I slice the pad of my thumb. Blood wells up in a thin line. When I lift my hand, the arvana stoops, and with a flare of fiery wings, she settles on my wrist.

  “Jetta . . .” Akra’s uncertainty is plain on his face, but Maman wastes no time scrambling into the belly of the bird. I follow her, daubing the symbol of life onto the bamboo. There is another flash of light, and the soul clambers into her new skin.

  With a metallic clang that makes me jump, the wings unfold, knocking the metal barrel on its side. The drum rolls sideways, spilling kerosene across the floor. Theodora leaps out of its path and my brother swears, tracking her with his gun, but she ducks behind one of the machines, disappearing into the shadows. Akra curses again, starting after her, but I call him back as the bird shudders under our feet. “Akra!” I shout. “Get in!”

  He hesitates, still scanning the dark corners of the warehouse as kerosene seeps across the floor. “That machine isn’t finished. You heard her.”

  “It doesn’t matter!” I call, but though he turns from his pursuit, he keeps his distance from the bird.

  “Why not?”

  I grit my teeth. “Just get in!”

  He wavers for another moment. Then he curses again, shoving his gun into its holster and leaping with wide steps across the spreading chemical puddle. Maman reaches out to him, and he takes her hand, hauling himself up into the bird just as a shot rings out from the shadows of the warehouse. The hot breath of a bullet raises the hair on the back of my neck.

  Maman screams and Akra swears, scrambling into the bird. “There’s no cover here!” he snarls at me, drawing his gun once more. But Theodora is well hidden in her workshop—and free of the binding. I should have tied her with the wire. Too late now.

  Instead, I lean down to murmur to the soul. “Up,” I whisper. “Fly.”

  With a lurch and a shudder, the creature lifts off the ground as another shot rings out from the dark. Akra ducks, though La Fleur’s aim is not as good as her craftsmanship. The shot whizzes past his head.

  The soul of the hawk is eager for the open sky; too quickly, the roof descends. Maman tries to cover my head with her arms as we burst through the grass ceiling. There is debris in my hair, my eyes, the air around us, but it falls away back into the warehouse below as the bird hovers in the cool night air. Brushing leaves from my stolen uniform, I search for my bearings. Before us, the city is spread as though on a stage—there, the palace; beside it, the temple.

  Akra’s eyes are as wide as mine, but he isn’t looking at the city. “How is this possible?” he says, watching the skeletal wings as they beat. But before I can answer, a g
reat metallic screech floats up from the warehouse.

  “What was that?” Maman says, but Akra pulls a lighter and a kerchief from his pocket.

  “It won’t matter in a minute,” he says, knotting the kerchief and flicking the flame to life. Lighting the fabric, he drops it down through the hole in the roof. A moment later, a warm rush of heat buffets us from below as the pool of kerosene catches fire. With a curse, I urge the hawk toward the temple. We haven’t gone far when a deep bass boom shatters the air, and the grass roof of the workshop is flung like confetti in a ball of fire.

  Debris rockets upward; we are shaken in the blast. The air turns to heat and light. My heart stops . . . my ears ring . . . my stomach lurches, but the soul of the hawk bears us into freer skies, and soon enough I can breathe again.

  Then a buzzing sound rips at the air like a swarm of bees; I glance behind us and curse. Another creature has burst from the inferno, zipping down the bamboo pier and gliding toward us on great wings—and in the cockpit of the soot-black bird is Theodora Legarde.

  * * *

  14 Août

  —Progress on the design based on the Chakran top—a child’s toy made of bamboo, capable of vertical flight—is promising, but the trouble comes from powering the spring. The machinery necessary is heavier than the craft can reliably lift.

  23 Août

  —Fixed wing: the curve is of particular importance to keeping it aloft. But for initial lift the craft needs more height. A natural cliff? A scaffolding?

  —Movable wing. THE POWER IS THE PROBLEM. I have one machine nearly ready to test, but range is limited. I cannot yet carry enough fuel to travel very far.

  2 Septembre

  —Kerosene may be a dead end. Methylated spirits???

  * * *

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The Flower of Aquitan glares at us from behind a shield of glass, her hair streaming silver in the moonlight. On the wide wings of her contraption, propellers spin, and gunfire flashes from a barrel mounted to the nose of her machine.

  Bullets zip by. Akra aims back, firing madly. But his shots go wide as our hawk pulls away, dodging and weaving through the air, as quick on the wing as she was in life. The world seems to tilt and my stomach twists like a snake, but Theodora falls back. As our hawk slows, I scan the horizon—there, the temple, across the garden. Murmuring to the hawk’s soul, I point her toward Hell’s Court.

  Akra swears and reloads his gun, but his face is pale and his hands are shaking; he keeps glancing at the earth below as bullets slip through his fingers. “Turn us around, Jetta! We need to get over the ridge out of the city!”

  “Not yet,” I say through my teeth, but Theodora is circling too, coming back to meet us head-on. Akra curses as another round of gunfire tears the air. The soul of the hawk dips and turns, sweeping back and away again. “Shoot her, Akra!” I shout; he’s already taking aim, but he cannot steady his hand.

  “Our bird is faster,” he calls. “Just keep going!”

  “No!” Maman grips my arm and points south, toward the Hundred Days Sea. “We should leave now while we can!”

  “Leave?”

  “To Aquitan!”

  “We’ll never make it that far,” Akra says over the rushing wind. “We have no food, no water—”

  “What are saying, the both of you?” Disgust curls my lip. “We can’t leave Papa behind!”

  Under his breath, Akra swears, but Maman doesn’t look away. “He made his choice,” she says. “To save you. Don’t throw it away.”

  “Don’t make this about me.” I spit the words through clenched teeth. “We’re going back to the temple!”

  At my command, the bird banks again, beating the air as we turn. But Theodora is still waiting over the plaza, and the next round of bullets clips our wing.

  Our hawk lurches as the bamboo splinters; she shudders in the air, struggling for balance, for height. I wrench at the controls like reins, but Akra reaches out to take my shoulder. “Jetta!” Something in his tone turns my head. “We were never going back.”

  He gives me that look . . . Maman’s look. Leo’s look. The look that fears my reaction to their reality, and at first anger flares in me. But it burns fast into bitter ash. I’d already known about Papa, hadn’t I? I’d known when I’d left him with the gun.

  I’d known and I’d left anyway.

  I want to shout at Akra, to make it his fault, or Maman’s—anyone else’s. But it’s mine, isn’t it? Not because Papa chose to save me, but because of my choices along the way. From Legarde in Luda to Leo aboard Le Rêve—it was always about me. And at last I urge our hawk toward the ridge as cold wind wipes the tears from my eyes.

  We pass high over the garden as Theodora circles to stay on our tail, but when we reach the face of the mountain, the bird works harder for height. Souls are strong, but the crack in the bamboo leaves her off-balance. Still, she pulls at the air, clambering up the side of the caldera. Finally, when we reach the apex, the country unrolls before me like a stage lit by the faint glow of dawn.

  For one bright moment, we hover. The horizon levels out, the open sky before us, the night air fresh and cool. Then the roar of the propellers grows as La Fleur pulls up to keep us in her sights, and the rattle of her guns splits the sky. “Down!” I say to the hawk, and she folds her wings and stoops. We tip, dropping below the lip of the ridge, picking up speed as we skim over the jungle. The wind of our passing pulls the leaves from the trees. The earth rushes closer . . . closer . . . too close—then the hawk snaps her wings open to stop the fall. But instead of the whuff of wind, I hear a sickening crack.

  A jolt, a snap. The bamboo breaks. The hawk twists in the air as the bent wing clips a branch and sends us spinning, tumbling, falling from the uncaring sky.

  Thrown from the bird—

  A blur of leaves. Branches lash my cheeks.

  I land briefly in a tangle of vines, scrambling for purchase before I lose my grip, flip head over heels, and flop heavily to the earth. A firework flashes behind my eyes; for one eternal moment, I cannot breathe. Is this the end? Has my neck snapped in the fall?

  No . . . it was only the wind knocked out of me. My lungs heave and air fills me again. Blood rushes in my ears and vana appear in my vision, buzzing lazy circles around my face. I lie on my back, blinking at the hole in the greenery above. Leaves drift from the canopy as the last stars wink down.

  Where are Maman and Akra?

  And where is Theodora? Can she make it over the ridge?

  I should move . . . I know I should . . . though my body doesn’t seem to agree. For a long while, I lie listening to the wind in the trees and the sound of the birds calling. Then I hear something else—a rustle of leaves—and fear pushes me to my feet. The world spins. I fall back to my hands and knees. Panting, I crawl toward the cover of a nearby patch of ferns. Slipping into the greenery, I peer through the fronds, trying to catch my breath. Another rustle—then my brother’s whisper. “Jetta?”

  He staggers through the undergrowth, holding his ribs, blood flowing from a gash on his left arm. I scramble from hiding and stumble toward him as he leans against a tree to rest. “Are you all right?”

  “Broken rib,” he says, taking shallow breaths. “Maybe two. You?”

  I flex my arms, my legs. “Only bruises.”

  “And cuts,” he says, nodding at my face. I touch my cheek; my hand comes away bloody. “Where’s Maman?”

  “I don’t know.” He scans the canopy and the distant sky. “But we have to find her and get out of here.”

  He turns, pushing off the tree, and I follow. Together we search, one eye on the ground and one on the sky. It is too risky to call out, so we creep across the turned soil and broken branches. There is no sign of Maman, neither body nor soul, though soon enough I hear another shiver of leaves. I freeze; Akra draws his weapon. But as we move closer, the twisted bamboo body of our hawk comes into view.

  She is caught in the branches of a mimosa tree, her skeletal wing
s still trying to beat. Blossoms fall like rain around us, shaken loose by her feeble movements. Akra turns to me, a strange look on his face. “It almost looks alive.”

  There is an unspoken question in his voice, but I don’t have the words—or the time—to explain. “We have to get her down from there.”

  “After we find Maman.” He hesitates. “Do you think . . . you can make it fly again?”

  I take a deep breath. I don’t have the supplies to make a good repair—the glue, the rope, the rivets, everything was left behind in the roulotte. But perhaps I could cobble something together. It wouldn’t have to be graceful as long as we could go slow. “Probably.”

  “How, Jetta?”

  I know what he is asking, but I do not have the energy to collect my thoughts, my words. Not yet. “Let’s find Maman first.”

  We search in widening circles, past tumbles of trumpet vines and patches of wild yam. The vana follow me, their glow fading as the daylight filters down through the jungle. An arvana creeps close, peering out of the leaves—an ocelot, perhaps; some sort of jungle cat. Then the souls of birds, gliding from branch to branch in eerie, expectant silence.

  Finally we find her behind a thicket lying on her back, her hair across her pale face. I brush it back, but she does not move.

  No . . . no. I cannot lose her too. But if she were dead, wouldn’t I see the bright light of her soul? Kneeling beside her, I search for a pulse on her throat; I sag with relief when I find it, still strong. But her breathing is so shallow I didn’t notice it at first. Akra hovers behind me. “Is she alive?”

  “Yes,” I say, forcefully, angry at the question. Then my voice softens. “But I don’t know what’s wrong.” I remember my own fear. “Could she . . . could her neck be broken?”