For a Muse of Fire

by Heidi Heilig

  So I count to three and plunge into the pool.

  Gasping and splashing, I wade to the center. The water only reaches to my waist, but the temperature is shocking, and I can hardly catch my breath. I let myself pause a moment, trying to adjust, using one leg to scrub the other—both to clean my skin and to rub away the shivers. Then, gritting my teeth, I bend my knees, letting the water rise to my ribs . . . my breasts . . . my neck.

  Quickly, gently, I rub the dirt from my skin. Then I gather my courage, along with a deep breath, before dunking my head. In a strangled scream of bubbles, I scrub my scalp with my fingertips, letting the water lift the grit and muck from my hair. Resurfacing, I gulp in air before plunging back below for one more good scrub.

  Then I hear a splashing sound, and the water rocks in waves around me—someone else is in the pool. Startled, I stand, and see Leo crashing through the water, a crazed look in his eyes. I scream, scrambling backward, covering myself with my hands, and he freezes, waist-deep in the pond. “What the hell are you doing?” I shout in the sudden silence.

  “I thought you were drowning,” he says at last, his face pale.

  I stare at him, crouching to keep my body below the surface of the pool. “In waist-high water?”

  “Right.” He takes a deep breath. Then embarrassment darkens his face, and he whirls around, wading toward the bank. “Right. Désolée . . . I’m so sorry.”

  I watch him scramble out of the water. His shoulders are heaving, his jacket is dripping—his leather shoes squelch as he walks. My own heart is pounding, and I’m shivering, but not from the cold. How could he think I couldn’t find my footing? Did he not know how shallow the pool was?

  “I don’t understand,” I say, but then I realize I do. “You thought I was doing it on purpose.”

  I am still watching his back. He hangs his head, but anger sparks in me.

  “I would never . . .” I falter then. “I have never done anything like that.”

  “No one does until they do,” he says.

  The sorrow in his voice only makes it worse. I splash through the pond toward the bank, no longer worried about my modesty. “I don’t need you to save me,” I tell him through clenched teeth, grabbing the towel from the rock and scrubbing myself dry. “I don’t want to be rescued.”

  “What do you want then?” he snaps, shrugging off his jacket, his back still toward me. He wrings it out, water dripping onto the bank. “Because if Cheeky sent me here on a prank, I swear to god, I will use her fishnets to go fishing.”

  The mention of Cheeky brings me up short—he’s here because I wanted him to be. “No . . . I . . . No.” More gently now, I twist the towel around the wet mass of my hair. “I . . . I did want to talk to you.”

  “About what?” he says, his voice still cold.

  “About a cure,” I say softly. He is quiet for a moment, and suddenly I am afraid—sure he will scoff, laugh, shrug me off. Why would he want to help me, after all I’ve done? But he only tosses his jacket over another stone, kicking off his wet shoes. I reach for the silk dress—it’s so soft on my fingertips. Gently I slip it over my head, and the smooth clean coolness is heaven on my skin. I wrap the shawl around my shoulders; it smells faintly of perfume, distantly familiar.

  “I’m sorry about La Perl,” I say then. “About Eve. About Eduard. And leaving you on the boat. You were right. It was all madness. But I don’t want to be that way.”

  Leo says nothing, but between us, the quality of the silence changes—no longer cold, only sad. I reach out a tentative hand and touch his shoulder. After a moment, he laces his fingers through mine. For a long while we stand there, in the cool fragrant evening, and then his shoulders rise and fall. “Can I turn around now?”

  I laugh a little, and let go of his hand. “Yes.”

  He does, slowly, his eyes flicking down at the dress. Then he looks away, embarrassed, glancing at the vines, the rocks, his shoes. “I’m sorry too,” he murmurs. “For putting you and your family in danger. You were desperate, back in Luda. But so was I.”

  I wave his words away—I know too well what desperation does. “You’ve more than made up for it. Thank you for keeping my secrets.”

  “Well.” He takes a deep breath, looking up into my eyes. “Like I said . . . I did the best I could.”

  Something about his tone, the hesitation in it—and the cold rushes back. Colder than the water in the pool, colder than the stones of the temple prison. “What does that mean?”

  He shifts on his feet, leaning down to tip water out of his right shoe, then his left. “The king knows,” he says at last, but the words don’t make sense.

  “The king was killed aboard Le Rêve.”

  “The king was rescued from Le Rêve,” he says. “The assassination was staged.”

  “But . . . I saw him shot!”

  “You saw a man shoot, and the king fall over the side. Raik is in league with the rebels, Jetta. He needed to get out from under Legarde’s thumb. Apparently the general had planned to have him killed after the marriage to my sister.”

  His words wash over me; I grasp at them, but it’s like holding water. “In league . . . ? How could the king be in league with the Tiger?”

  “What’s so strange about it? They both want the Aquitans out of the country.”

  “But the Tiger is . . .” I trail off, all the stories rising in me only to die on my tongue. Distantly, the sounds of village life drift from the camp—so different than the silence of Dar Som, the screams in the prison, from all the aftermath of the armée’s work. What was real, what was show? I shake my head, trying to gather my thoughts. “How do you know all this?”

  “We left the ship together.” Leo takes a breath, hesitating. “I had your dragon with me at the time.”

  “My fantouche?” I blink at him. “You didn’t drown them all.”

  His smile is sad. “Well. It is a very beautiful piece of work.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “The king has her,” Leo says. “He’s very eager to meet you.”

  A month ago, the thought would have left me breathless. I suppose it still does now, but not for the same reasons. “And where is he?”

  “Out in the jungle,” Leo says. “Looking for the bird you brought to life.”

  I shiver, pulling the silk shawl tighter across my shoulders. “What does he want, exactly?”

  “Can’t you guess, Jetta?” Leo stands then, sliding his feet back into his shoes. “He wants an army. And he might be able to get you what you want in exchange.”

  “An army.” My mind drifts to the flying machines. Could I have given each one a soul? Could I command a flying horde, blazing fire and vengeance? I imagine it for a moment—all the death . . . all the blood. “No. No.” I clench my fists, digging my nails into my palms, using the sting to focus. “What about your sister’s letter?”

  He gives me a cautious look. “What about it?”

  “‘Les Chanceux is not the only cure,’ she says.” I paw through the pockets of the uniform, thrusting the letter into his hands when I find it. “So what else?”

  “I didn’t exactly get a chance to ask her on the boat,” Leo says. “And rumor has it, she might not be so receptive to the question at this point.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You stole one of her machines.” He raises an eyebrow. “Destroyed her workshop. You might have burned a bridge there. The king, on the other hand—”

  “No,” I say again, more emphatically. “I’ve seen enough war. Enough blood.”

  “And they haven’t?” Leo’s voice is incredulous; he gestures to the camp.

  “You expect me to save them when I can’t even save myself?” I stare at him. “Every choice I make is wrong. Everything I’ve done has only made things worse!”

  “Then maybe this is the chance to set things right!” His words scorch the air; it’s hard to breathe. He must see the pain on my face; his look softens and he takes my hand. “I know what it
’s like to have regrets, Jetta—things you can’t undo. The only way to soothe that pain is to try to do better.” He hesitates then, wetting his lips. “But I won’t make you do anything you don’t want to.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Just what I said! If you want to leave now, I’ll tell the king you’ve vanished. I’ll say you went back to the city or . . . wherever it is you aren’t going. But I think this is your best option, if you really want the cure.”

  “What are you getting out of this?” I say, still suspicious, and he cocks his head. “I know you, Leo. You’re a smuggler. A dealer.” In my words, I hear an echo of Legarde: a traitor, a pimp. Familiar with loose women. “What do you get in return?”

  “What do I get?” He stares at me. “Do you know what it’s like? Seeing someone you—” He stops then, suddenly, but the unspoken words shimmer in the air between us. I cock my head.

  “Someone you what?”

  “Someone you know,” he says. “Watching them struggle with something you can’t help them fight.”

  His voice is so soft, but the hard part is what he isn’t saying. I wet my lips. “Do you think I’m your redemption, Leo?”

  “No. It’s not that.”

  “What, then? Pity?”

  “No! I . . .” He scrubs a hand through his hair. “I care about you.”

  “Why?” I say, my voice fierce. “Because I’m mad? Because I’m broken? Because you want to fix me?”

  “Because you burn too bright for me to see you burn out,” he says, and it brings me up short. He takes my hand then, pressing my palm with his fingers—and there it is again. The spark I’d first felt as we rode away from Luda . . . but this time, not a whim, no passing fancy born of my malheur. It is not danger that draws me now—it is Leo himself. What I know of him, and what he knows of me. The way he looks at me makes me feel seen.

  “And . . .” I brush my thumb over his knuckles, considering the warmth of his hand in mine. “That’s all you want.”

  “Oh, I want many things,” he says, quirking an eyebrow. “But only if you want them too.”

  He gives me that smile, and my anger banks to a different heat. I can no longer help it. I lean closer, as does he, and press my lips against his, my heart beating fast, my thoughts rolling slow. His hands slide around my waist, smooth on the silk, and inside, I no longer spark, but burn. He crushes me close and I drink him in, drowning as I try to quench this sudden flame. It billows in the pit of me—this want, this need—nearly a rage, fierce and frightening. I need him closer . . . so I push him away, hard.

  Leo stumbles back, raising his hands. His breath is coming fast, but he doesn’t move, and his eyes are cautious—patient. In them, a question: yes or no?

  Do I want this?

  No. Yes.

  Do I?

  I hesitate, but before I can decide, the sound of cheering rings out from the village. Leo turns, both of us staring back toward the camp. There, coming through the trees, is a group of rebels all in a line, like ants. On their shoulders, the bound bamboo form of the flying machine; even here I can see her fighting her bonds. And even worse . . . at the head of the column, with my fantouche draped around his neck—the Boy King, alive and well, just as Leo said.

  Gone are the fine scarlet silks, the casual posture, the easy smile he wore at his coronation. How had he orchestrated his escape under the noses of his advisers? Between the guns smuggled to the ship, the rebels brought aboard in servants’ dress, and the faked assassination pinning blame on the armée, it seems the rumors of his playboy attitude were much exaggerated. Should I go to him? I still don’t know. I take a deep breath, trying to collect my thoughts, but then a voice—too close—makes me whirl.

  “What are you doing with my sister?”

  Akra materializes out of the dark in a flurry of motion, shoving Leo back into the greenery, though I was the one with my hand on his chest. “Akra!” I take his arm, pulling him back, but his muscles are tense under my hand. “Leave him alone!”

  “What are you doing with him, then?” he says, turning to me. “Maman would be furious!”

  I can’t help it—I laugh. “Trust me, Akra. Leo is the least of her worries.”

  “I’ll see to that,” Akra says, his mouth twisted. Then he turns as Leo pulls himself out of the vines. “Stay down, you moitié bastard.”

  Suddenly, the air is as still as the dead. My eyes go wide, but Leo only brushes off his wet jacket and gives Akra that easy smile. “Good to meet you, capitaine. I’ve heard so much.”

  The words are simple but loaded. Akra bristles. “From who?”

  “Here and there,” Leo says casually, putting out his hand, Aquitan style. “Leo Rath, at your service. Or if you prefer, Leo Legarde.”

  “Legarde?” Akra’s eyes narrow. He ignores Leo’s hand to take a step closer, so they are face-to-face. “So whose side are you on?”

  Leo’s smile doesn’t budge, and he doesn’t drop his eyes. He only tilts his head toward me. “For now? Hers.”

  I pull Akra back again, before he can respond, and step between the two of them. “We were just discussing how to get us out of here.”

  Now my brother looks at me with hope in his eyes. “Back home?”

  “To Aquitan,” I say, harsher than I have to. I hesitate then. But what are my options? “With the king’s help. Or so Leo says.”

  Leo raises an eyebrow. “You’ll do it, then?”

  “I’ll talk to him,” I say. “See what he wants. See what he’ll give me in return.”

  Leo’s careful smile breaks into a real grin. He offers me his arm. “Should we go back? I could use a dry set of clothes.”

  “You go,” Akra says, putting his hand on my shoulder. “I need to talk to my sister.”

  Leo hesitates—why? It takes me a moment to understand the sudden fear in his eyes—fear for me. I draw myself up. Though Akra is angry, he would never hurt me. But Leo doesn’t know that. How many men has he had to run off from La Perl? “Go on,” I tell him softly. “I need to talk to him too.”

  Leo narrows his eyes, as though trying to see past the lie, looking from me, to Akra, and back. I lean closer to my brother, suddenly defensive. And after a moment, Leo nods. “I’ll tell the king you’re coming along shortly.” He gives me one last look—a chance to call him back—then starts back up the river.

  After he’s gone, Akra turns to me. “Who does he think he is?”

  “He helped us get here,” I say, but Akra scoffs, gesturing at the dark jungle, the rebel camp.

  “That’s not exactly something to brag about.”

  “We would still be in Luda without his help.”

  “Closer to home.”

  “Home is gone, Akra.” The words are hard—I take his hand to try to soften them. “We lost everything getting this far. There’s nothing to go back to. The only way is forward.”

  He takes a deep breath then. His eyes glitter in the dark. Are those tears? If so, this man who was my brother never lets them fall. “Forward to Aquitan,” he says at last, and I nod. “Because of your malheur.”

  “Yes.”

  On his face, emotions flicker—the longing for and parting from a home he’ll never see again. It had taken me months to make the same journey—and in a way, I’m still on that road. My brother swallows; I can see the muscles moving in his throat. Suddenly, it comes back to me . . . does he remember? The first time I knew there was something wrong with me. It was years ago—I was eleven, maybe twelve. Teetering there, at the edge of the broken stone, looking over the water rushing through the lava tunnel. Inching closer and closer, standing on the edge of oblivion, imagining what might come after.

  Akra had found me there as the sun was setting—long after the other children had tired of losing the game of dares to me. He had taken my hand, led me home. He never said anything about it, but I think he knew too. And now, after a long moment, he nods. “D’accord. If you want to get to Aquitan, we’ll get there. And if you th
ink the king will help you, we can ask. But I don’t trust him, or your friend,” Akra says, practically spitting the word.

  “Because he’s m—” I stutter over the word, changing my mind at the last moment. “Mixed?”

  “Because I finally spoke to that girl. The quiet one.” It takes me a moment to realize he means Cheeky. “That’s how I knew where you went. She and another girl. Tia. They had this.”

  Akra pulls something out of his pocket: a little slip of paper, about the length and width of my finger. It wants to roll up like a scroll—the sort of paper a messenger bird would carry on its leg. I unroll it, squinting in the dark, but even by the light of the spirits, I can’t make out the tiny words.

  “They said they were told not to give it to you,” he says. “There were dozens, all the same. The rebels burned the others. She hid this one in her . . . she took it for you.”

  “What is it?” I whisper. The paper trembles in my hand.

  “It’s from Legarde,” he says. “An offer. He has Papa. He wants to trade him back to us.”

  My heart leaps—my mind races. “What could he possibly want?”

  Akra raises an eyebrow. “He says he wants Leo.”

  * * *

  Jetta of the Ros Nai. Meet me at the temple. You may have your father back if you will bring my son.

  * * *

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The first thing I do is burn the letter.

  Akra loans me his lighter—a new one, armée green; I’d lost his old one on the ship. But as the paper goes up in a puff of flame and smoke, tears start in my eyes. I cannot unmake it. I cannot unsee it. And who else knows?

  The rebels, of course. Someone will have told the king. And Cheeky . . . Tia. What about Leo?

  Had he known what Legarde wanted before he’d asked me to stay?

  Is that why he’d done it in the first place?