“Da, what happened to you in Sophia?”
“What happened to me?” His father paused to eat a spoonful of potato; his hand shook so badly it seemed unlikely it would ever reach its destination. “I thought I was handling the torture well. But when you realize that what you’ve experienced so far is only the barest fraction of the pain that will soon be brought to bear, you lose hope very quickly. I think I would’ve gone mad if she hadn’t brought me those books to read.” Another long and precarious journey of spoon from tray to mouth; Clive would’ve offered to feed his father, but he knew it would only embarrass them both. “Of course I knew it was all part of a strategy to turn me against the Descendancy: first cruelty, then kindness. But as I read those books, I found all my old pieties and certainties falling away. Ariel opened my eyes.”
“Ariel?”
“Director Zeno.”
Was it something in Daniel’s voice, that subtle softening as he spoke her name, or else in his eyes, momentarily disappearing into reminiscence? Clive felt betrayed on behalf of his mother, but he knew that was rank hypocrisy, given everything he’d done for Paz.
“Did you… care about her?” Clive asked.
His father nodded, still half-immersed in memory.
“And did she—”
“I don’t know. Maybe I was just another piece on her chessboard. But it doesn’t matter. By that time, I was fully converted to her cause. When she was convinced of that, she sent me to work with the Mindful here in the Anchor. I haven’t heard from her since.”
“Clover said the Mindful had you locked up in a basement.”
“That was my idea. I figured if I could fool Chang into thinking I was a prisoner, I might still be of some service to the cause.”
“Which is why you gave that speech.”
“Now everyone knows the truth about the Descendancy. It’s only a matter of time before the whole putrid edifice comes crashing down.”
Daniel smiled at the thought of this apocalyptic outcome, while Clive tried to get his head around everything he’d just learned. Not only had his father fallen in love with the leader of Sophia, the woman responsible for the death of his wife, but he’d also been turned against his religion, his country. The foundation of Clive’s identity had just collapsed under his feet; he was falling through space.
“You’re upset,” Daniel said.
“I think that’s fair to say.”
“But why? You and I are the same. We’ve both ended up here, enemies of the state, men without a nation.” True, yet it felt false, or at least incomplete. The paths by which they’d reached this destination were so different that they changed the very nature of the destination itself. Clive had never taken a side; the vagaries of love and duty had led him here. But his father had chosen this outcome. “I owe you an apology, Clive. Your whole childhood, I was trying to sculpt you into a copy of me. If you dared to question anything, I came down on you like the Daughter herself.”
“Clover had it worse.”
“Because he always doubted. Your mother liked to joke that his first word was ‘why.’ I tried to keep both of you from that sort of curiosity, from thinking for yourselves. Now I see how wrong that was. When people are governed by fear—whether of divine punishment, or savages coming for their children, or just the idea of change—they’re too easily manipulated. All it takes is one man willing to exploit those fears.”
“Or one woman.” They were silent for a moment. Then Clive whispered, “So you really want Sophia to win this war?”
“I do.”
“But what about all the good the Church has done?”
“That doesn’t disappear just because now it’s time for something better.”
“And you’re that sure Sophia is better?”
Before his father could answer, a guard called an end to lunch, and they were ordered back to their stations.
Back in his cell that night, Clive replayed everything Daniel had said, holding the arguments up to the light to see where they were thinnest, trying them on to see if they fit. He realized with some chagrin that up until now, all of his choices had been based on personal, rather than political, considerations. He’d agreed to interrogate Paz as a kind of penance for what he’d done to his brother. He’d helped her escape in order to save Flora. He’d kept running because he’d fallen in love. Through it all, he’d seldom given much thought to the big picture. But now, facing down what were almost certainly his last few days on Earth, he had to ask himself the fundamental question: Who did he want to win the war—the Anchor or Sophia?
* * *
Another week passed. Clive’s hands grew knobby with calluses and blotchy from epoxy residue, and he’d developed a cough from the invisible fragments of lead that flew up from the grinder. He hadn’t been able to speak to his father again; the guards must have been ordered to keep them apart.
One morning he was ordered to stay in his cell when the other prisoners were taken up to the workshop. A few minutes later, two members of Chang’s honor guard came and escorted him to a nondescript office upstairs, leaving him alone with a fat man in a gleaming white apron.
“What’ll it be, Hamill?” the man said, tenting his fingers and turning them inside out with a thunderous crack.
Clive had never heard of a torturer asking for suggestions. “What’ll it be?”
“To eat. I’m Chef Fernandez. I’ll be preparing your last meal. Anything you want. Opportunity of a lifetime.” He frowned at Clive’s silence. “You know they’re hanging you, right?”
It took Clive a moment to recover his senses. “Yeah. I just didn’t know it was happening today.”
“Today, tomorrow. What’s the difference?”
“A lot can happen in twenty-four hours,” Clive said. Now that the moment was at hand, he realized he’d been foolishly hoping Paz would pull off yet another last-minute rescue.
“Keep dreaming, kid. And while you’re at it, tell me what I’m cooking.”
“I can really ask for anything?”
“Within reason. I couldn’t fry you up a baby, no matter how nice you asked.”
Clive considered requesting something punitively complicated, as if he might stave off the inevitable that way. But he couldn’t quite see fit to denigrate such a famously symbolic ritual, one that connected him to all the men and women put to death—rightly or wrongly—throughout history. “Back when I would go on tour with my father’s ministry, my ma would make this stew,” Clive said. “At least a couple of times a month, using whatever she happened to have around. And before we ate it, she would tell the whole story of what went into it. The potatoes were a gift from that farmer in Grandsville. Flora picked the sage from behind the little general store on the road into Two Forks. Clover caught the rabbit in a rope trap. The salt and pepper—”
“I get the drift, kid,” Fernandez interrupted.
“Sorry. I know that’s not a very specific description, but it’s what I want. Just make me a stew with whatever happens to be around. One that’s got a story to it.”
Chef Fernandez smiled slightly. “I’ve got a story for you right now, kid.”
“What’s that?”
“I met with your father just before you, and he asked for the same damn thing.”
* * *
The stew was still warm in Clive’s belly when Chang’s honor guard returned. They escorted him out to the hallway, where his father was already waiting.
“How was your dinner?” Daniel asked.
“Not a bad one to go out on. You?”
“Same.”
They traveled quickly across the city to Annunciation Square. Though Clive had prepared himself for a crowd, the sight of it still took his breath away. A good ten thousand people had come to witness the executions—packed onto the balconies and the roofs, hanging out of windows and off lampposts, snaking back along the alleys that fed into the plaza. Clover was probably out there somewhere, unless he didn’t have the stomach to watch; Clive certain
ly wouldn’t have blamed him for that. The bells of Notre Fille began to sound, and the spaces between the chimes were filled with boos and hisses. The crowd parted for the prisoners, and through the opening Clive could make out the hangman. His pointed black hood looked ridiculous, like a child’s Hallows’ Eve costume. Clive paused at the foot of the gallows and gazed upward; the nooses circumscribed two ovals of clear black sky, like gateways to another, more peaceful world. Bishop Allen stood beside them.
“Go on,” one of the guards said.
Clive looked to his father. “I guess you don’t believe in heaven anymore, huh?”
Daniel smiled sadly. “How’s that for timing?”
9. Athène
THERE WAS NO LONGER ANY space left in the longhouse proper. Over the last two weeks, the majority of the Wesah who’d survived the Black Wagon Massacre had made their way to the Villenaître, drawn there by what Grandmother would call the spirits, and what Athène would call basic self-preservation. Now the ritual spilled out of the longhouse, bodies filling the plaza from end to end, close to four thousand tribeswomen kneeling on blankets in the dirt, their faces expressing every conceivable variation of grief. The sound of their sorrow could be heard for miles in every direction, streaking across the marshland like a volley of arrows. Athène knew this because she’d abandoned the ritual days ago, choosing instead to pass her time hunting the birds and small game that lived near the Villenaître, whose food stores were running dangerously low. Flora went with her on these sojourns, and turned out to be surprisingly adept at laying snares. Now and again they would run into missives who were also out hunting. The men who served the Wesah had shown admirable courage during the massacre, rushing Chang’s gun even as many Wesah fled the hailstorm of bullets; only a few dozen of them had made it back to the Villenaître, where they learned they would not be allowed to join their sisters in the longhouse—insult added to literal injury.
There would have been something noble in refusing to take part in the ritual out of a sense of solidarity with the missives, but Athène could claim no such lofty justification. In truth, she’d abandoned the Song of Crow because she couldn’t bear to sit in one place for so long. Every morning for the past week she’d woken up with a pounding headache and a swirl in her belly, symptoms she attributed to her growing anxiety about the future. The ritual would be over in a few days, and then the tribe was to travel north to the Kikiwaak di Noor. There, Andromède would have the Wesah hide like frightened mice while the fate of the world was decided without them. Athène had tried every method she knew to change her mother’s mind—flattery, cajoling, bargaining, invective—but Andromède remained certain of her course.
“It makes no sense,” Athène said, kicking at a rock that remained stubbornly stuck in the mud. She spoke in English, just in case Flora ever decided to contribute something to the conversation. “My mother thinks what happens at the tooroon is her fault. She says we should not have gone. But this is not her mistake. Her mistake is making us go with our teeth hidden.” It was an idiom in Wesah, and though Athène knew those seldom translated well into English, she didn’t care; she was only talking to pass the time, to momentarily drown out the distant, dolorous drone of the lamentation.
A pair of ducks floated lazily in a shallow pond beyond a stand of reeds: a fine offering, which would earn Athène a place at Andromède’s table tonight—and another chance to convince her of the folly of her plan. She took aim and drew back the bowstring. Seconds later, one duck flew off into the sky, bereft but alive.
* * *
Athène and Flora returned about an hour before sunset. For appearance’s sake, they knelt down in the square and joined in the lamentation, but after only a few minutes, Athène was distracted by a movement near the archway leading into the Villenaître—two women entered the settlement, one leading the other on a leash, as Descendant folk were known to do with dogs. There was something familiar about both of them, but it wasn’t until Flora leaped to her feet with a gasp that Athène realized who they were. The girl with the rope around her neck was Paz, and holding the leash, impossibly, was Noémie.
Athène could feel her heart thumping in her chest, the goose bumps stippling her skin. She wanted to scream. She wanted to cry. Here was the woman who’d killed Gemma beside the woman who’d tried but failed. Could it be said that either one was better than the other, or more worthy of mercy?
“Stay here,” Athène whispered to Flora. She stood up and made eye contact with Noémie, gesturing for her old lover to follow her. Only when she was certain they were far enough from the square that they wouldn’t be overheard did she turn and draw her dagger, pressing the blade into Noémie’s neck. “Why are you here?” she growled.
Noémie didn’t flinch or fight back, only held Athène’s gaze with guilty, pleading eyes. “I brought you the girl.”
Athène glanced at Paz, who was tightly gagged. “How did you find her?”
“I went to the tooroon to look for you. I wanted to make things right. But before I could find you, I saw this one fighting your Chemma.” Noémie had never learned to pronounce Gemma’s name correctly, or else refused to. “They were all the way across the pasture. Too far for me to help. I am sorry.”
“What is that bitch telling you?” Paz managed to say around the gag. Noémie backhanded her across the cheek, and the girl fell to her knees.
“Then what happened?” Athène said.
“I chased after her, but she rides fast. It took me weeks to catch her.”
“And then you brought her here? Why?”
“For you! Everything I do is for you.” Noémie’s voice softened, and Athène couldn’t help but remember the old days, when they’d been in the first flush of love. “You broke my heart, Athène. But that is no excuse for what I tried to do to your Chemma. I know that now. I want to make amends.”
Athène finally lowered the blade. “It’s not that simple.”
“Maybe not. Maybe you will send me away again. Maybe you will kill me. Whatever you decide, take your vengeance on this one first. There will be no better moment.”
Athène turned her attention back to Paz. The woman was in a sorry state: hair matted; unshod feet calloused and blistered; ankles, wrists, and neck all chafed from her bindings. And yet somehow she retained that ineffable beauty Athène had found so remarkable the first time they’d met, when her scouts had discovered Paz foolishly loitering at the margins of their camp. It was a dangerous beauty, the kind that left people shattered in its wake—and according to Gemma, Paz had been unsparing in her exploitation of it. Her machinations and seductions had resulted in the deaths of Gemma’s father and younger brother, the estrangement of the Hamill brothers, and who knew what other crimes and catastrophes. And as if that weren’t enough, she’d murdered Gemma in cold blood. But why? Athène had spent long hours considering the question and could find no satisfactory answer.
She went to where Paz was crouched in the dirt and leaned down, sliding her dagger along the woman’s cheek. Then, with a tug, she cut the gag loose.
“What are you doing?” Noémie said. “The girl speaks only lies. You know this.”
Athène addressed Paz in English. “Before you die, tell me why you killed Gemma.”
Paz stretched out her jaw, which had been forced open by the gag. She tried to speak, but her throat was too dry and all that emerged was a coughing fit. Finally, after swallowing twice, she managed to rasp out two words: “I didn’t.”
“See?” Noémie scoffed. “She just denies it. You’re wasting your time.”
“Why are you lying?” Athène demanded. “I saw you holding the dagger. I saw the blood.”
“I was trying to help her. I was hoping we might…” Paz trailed off. After a moment she began to laugh. “You’ll never believe me, will you? So what is it you want to hear? I did it because I was jealous. I did it because I was crazy. I did it for Sophia, or the Anchor, or for God and his fucking Daughter. Who even cares anymore? Let’s jus
t get this over with.”
Noémie was right. Paz was an inveterate liar. There was nothing to be gained by interrogating her. Athène would simply have to live without closure, without understanding. She placed the point of her dagger at the girl’s breast, just over the heart. She could feel its flutter—that most fundamental, animal fear, impossible to conceal.
“Fine,” she said. “Then take your secrets to the grave.”
One quick thrust and it would be done. Her muscles tensed.
“Stop!”
Athène froze. Flora had just spoken for the first time in nearly six weeks. “What is it?” she said. “This woman killed your sister.” A tear ran down Flora’s cheek, but she wouldn’t speak again. Her exclamation hadn’t been an instance of a dam bursting; it was merely the one word she knew couldn’t go unsaid.
Athène sheathed the dagger.
“You’re making a mistake,” Noémie said.
“Maybe. Which is why I need counsel. We will take the killer to my mother.”
* * *
Six women sat on smooth stones around a blazing fire. The ritual had ended for the day, and the Villenaître was overflowing with Wesah, but this area on the dunes overlooking Pchimayr was reserved for Andromède and her guests alone. The moon gazed down placidly on its breeze-rippled reflection. Five of the women ate succulent scraps of duck off smooth skewers carved from driftwood, drank birch tea, and chewed the wintergreen leaves at the bottom. The sixth sat silent, her hands and ankles bound, waiting.
Andromède picked a sliver of gristle from between her front teeth. “It is a riddle,” she said at last. “We can’t know what happened. It is possible your Gemma attacked Paz, rather than the other way around.”
“I told you what happened,” Noémie interjected. “You would believe the word of an outsider over that of one of your own?”
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