by Nina Varela
“Stay here,” Crier ordered Faye. The guards outside Crier’s door looked surprised, as much as they ever looked anything. Crier pictured herself: dressed for her own wedding, face a rictus of horror and . . . anger, she realized. She was angry. She drew herself up to her full height. “Take me to my father.”
“Lady Cr—”
“I said, take me to my father,” she repeated, voice hard. “Question me one more time. I dare you.”
Without a word, they led her through the long corridors toward the north wing, to her father’s quarters. Crier tried to calm down. If she seemed at all upset, her father would dismiss her as a child throwing a tantrum; he wouldn’t hear a word she said. She had to be completely rational.
Her eyes darted over the tapestries on the hallway walls, the scenes from her people’s history: so much imagery from the War of Kinds, always triumphant, a crush of subservient human bodies bowing down to the superior Automae, right there on the battlefield. Crier had grown up surrounded by these images, never really questioning them. She’d read so many books on human history, written so many essays advocating for better treatment of humankind, but she’d never even thought about the war scenes on the walls of her own home. Wars were won by whichever side caused the most suffering. How was that something to be proud of?
Now, a new war. Gathering like shadows as night began to fall. Kinok and ARM versus . . . everyone. A level of suffering Crier couldn’t even begin to imagine.
They reached her father’s rooms, where more guards were stationed outside his bedchamber. Crier ignored the suspicious looks they gave her and cried out, “Father!”
When Hesod opened the door, he did not look pleased. It looked like he’d been about to leave for the ballroom to make his appearances with the guests; he was dressed in deep red, forehead adorned with a thin band of gold Crier had only seen him wear a couple times before. His red robes were already pinned around his shoulders, the crest of Family Hesod at his throat; he looked less like her father and more like the sovereign than ever before. “Get inside,” he said, clipped, and the moment the door closed behind Crier, he rounded on her. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Father—”
“Your wedding is in less than an hour,” he said. “You should be at the ballroom. What in all hells are you doing here?”
Crier flinched. She’d never heard her father curse before. “Father, I have to tell you something. Please don’t send me away. Please listen.” As quickly as possible while still sounding calm and rational and anything other than terrified, she told him what she’d learned, careful to leave out any mention of Faye. She kept waiting for his outrage, but his expression remained blank. “Father,” she said when she finished and he still hadn’t responded. “Father, don’t you understand what I’m telling you?”
Hesod was just looking at her. Desperate, Crier reached out but was stopped by her father, who gripped her wrist so hard it felt like he might break it. “What are you doing?” she said, struggling against his hold. “Father, please listen to me, Kinok is planning—”
“To destroy the Iron Heart,” said Hesod. “Foolish girl. You think I didn’t know?”
She froze.
“Foolish girl,” he said again. “I Designed you with intelligence, but all you’ve ever used it for is reading books. You have no understanding of this world. Do you truly believe I don’t know what darkness is stirring in my own country, in my own palace? Not all of us are like you, daughter.” He squeezed her wrist and she had to bite back a cry of pain. “Why do you think you’re marrying him?”
“To . . . ,” she whispered. “To . . . bridge the differences between . . . Traditionalism and the Anti-Reliance Movement. To foster an . . . alliance.”
“I expected you to see beneath the surface of this union,” said Hesod, “but I suppose that was too much to ask. In the past I have overestimated you, daughter; I will not make that mistake again. You are marrying Scyre Kinok because he is a both a threat and a boon. I cannot kill him. If he dies, he becomes a martyr. His followers would rise up against me; half the Red Council would turn. And . . . I no longer want to kill him. His work could benefit me—could benefit all of us—if it’s successful.”
Tourmaline. He had to be talking about the search for Tourmaline. He just didn’t know that Crier knew.
Did her father crave immortality too?
Had he, like Rosi with her Nightshade, fallen for Kinok’s lies?
Father, she thought. What did he promise you?
“So he cannot die,” said Hesod. “But make no mistake: I do not trust him. I want to know what he’s doing, now and always. Keep your enemies close, as the humans say. Clever little things, they have a saying for everything.” He finally let go of her wrist. “That is why you are marrying him, daughter. That is why you were created—you, the chess piece, the offering, the sacrifice I am willing to make. I have been playing this game a long time. I always knew there would someday be an enemy I could not kill.”
“You knew about his plans,” Crier said hollowly. She couldn’t even think about the rest of what he was saying. “He wants to rule us all, and you knew, and—what of the humans?”
What would Kinok, all-powerful, do to humankind?
“Do wolves concern themselves with the slaughter of sheep?” said Hesod.
Crier took one step back, and then another.
She looked at Hesod, really looked at him, and tried to reconcile the Automa standing before her with the one who had raised her. The one who had let her sit with him in his study throughout the night, reading books, helping with his correspondences, sometimes even talking politics. The one who had . . . let her do those things, only to smile condescendingly and brush her off when she presented any belief that didn’t align with his own. The one who knew how badly she’d wanted a spot on the Red Council, how badly she’d wanted to follow in his footsteps, and had never once, not even for a moment, taken her seriously. The one who thought she was stupid and naive for—for not wanting to be a monster anymore.
“I understand, Father,” she said, bowing her head. “You’re right, of course. I apologize for my stupidity.”
“You test my patience, child,” said Hesod. Then, before her eyes, the cold mask fell away; he became charming, jovial Sovereign Hesod again, entertained by his daughter’s naivete. “But you are forgiven, as long as you head to the ballroom at once. The ceremony will begin soon, and the handmaidens will be wondering where you are.”
“Yes, Father,” she said. “I’ll see you there.” And she left him.
Inside her chest, there was a hollow where her heart should be. Perhaps there was one thing Crier had in common with Kinok. From this day forward, she no longer believed in family.
From this day forward, Hesod was not her father.
Her mind had gone strangely quiet. She felt so removed from her body, as if she had retreated into some faraway corner of her own head, somewhere soft and soundless. Her body was doing things and she was only watching, a distant observer, curious to see what happened next.
Her body waited until she and her guards were out of earshot of her father’s guards. Then her body told her guards to go to the ballroom ahead of her, as her father had instructed her to take a few minutes alone. Her last minutes as a maiden, unbound. When her guards hesitated, her body said, Sovereign’s orders. Would you like to go back there and challenge him yourselves?
Once alone, her body made its way through the palace to Kinok’s quarters. She walked at a steady pace, chin held high, through gilded hallways, down a flight of marble stairs and passed by many guards, and none of them dared to approach her. She reached Kinok’s quarters, and her body picked the lock on the door to his study. It was easy; she had done it before. And he would be upstairs, greeting all the guests, charming and lovely to everyone.
Her body slipped inside. There was a bookshelf behind the desk. On one of the shelves, beside a little glass ball, there was a heavy gold locket set with a red
jewel. It looked exactly like the one currently hidden inside her mattress, one story up and two wings over. Her body took it, slipping it down the front of her gown, and left the study.
Her body, moving faster now, traveled back to her room.
Faye was still there, sitting on Crier’s bed, staring off into space, and it took her a long moment to react when Crier entered. Like she, too, was here and not-here at the same time.
“My lady,” said Faye. “Aren’t you getting married soon?”
“No,” said Crier. “No, I don’t think I am. I need your help, Faye.”
Faye gave her a long look. It was so strange, the way she slipped in and out of lucidity, the way she was sometimes reachable and sometimes lost. Maybe it wasn’t so strange. “Seems dangerous.”
“It is dangerous,” said Crier.
“What have I got to lose?” said Faye, and Crier heard: I have already lost what mattered most.
Within minutes, Faye had stripped off her clothing and Crier was wriggling out of her wedding gown, frantic, an insect caught in a gossamer spiderweb. She scrambled into Faye’s scullery maid uniform: a loose shirt and pants made of rough red fabric, scratchy against her skin, smelling of lye soap and human sweat. Instead of soft slippers, she crammed her feet into Faye’s tattered leather shoes. She scrubbed all the makeup off her face, removed all her ceremonial jewelry—keeping only the set of twin lockets—then, with shaking hands, finger-combed her hair out of the ornate crown of braids and tied it back in a single, messy braid, tucked down the back of her shirt.
Finished, Crier glanced at herself in the mirror. She didn’t look human. She was still taller than most human girls, and her face was unmistakably Made. But she also didn’t look like Lady Crier, daughter of the sovereign.
Good.
“All done, lady,” said Faye, turning around. She’d changed into the plainest clothing Crier owned, a simple blue cotton dress. Hopefully simple enough to not draw attention until she could make it back to the servants’ quarters and change into another uniform. When she saw Crier, transformed, she snorted. “I’ve never seen one of your Kind look so . . . ordinary.”
“Blue suits you,” Crier replied. “Let’s go. Before the guards come looking for me.”
Together, they hurried out of the bedroom. Heads bent, Crier hoped they just looked like a couple of house servants. The plan was that Crier would make it to the stables, to a horse. Most of the palace guards would be stationed in and around the ballroom by now. If she was going to escape, the window of time was now. If she was going to outrun the guards, she needed something faster than an Automa.
They started down the main hallway, but Faye quickly ducked down another, much smaller and less decorated passageway, used only by the servants. Crier had lived in this palace all her life and had never used any of these passageways. Her eyes always skipped right over them. Now, they were her only chance of escape. The ceremony was due to begin in less than half an hour; the guards had surely realized that her “few minutes alone” had been going on far too long. She calmed herself—she couldn’t think about that. She had to keep her heart rate down. The last thing she needed was her chime going off, alerting every guard in the palace that she was in distress.
After what seemed like ages, the passageway ended with a door. “Servants’ entrance,” Faye muttered, and pushed it open. Crier’s eyes adjusted to the sunlight immediately. They had exited the palace just off the north wing. To the east, there were the flower gardens and beyond those the sea. Directly in front of them, across a wide lawn of seagrass, were the stables. Crier could see a row of carriages and caravans belonging to the wedding guests, their horses being tended to by the stableboys.
“Stick close to me, lady,” said Faye. “Don’t run unless I tell you to.”
Crier nodded.
They set off along the edge of the lawn where it bordered the gardens; there was a low stone wall, and it felt a little less like being right out in the open, even though the wall only came up to their waists and didn’t offer any actual protection. Crier kept waiting to get caught, kept waiting for someone to shout There she is!, but she and Faye reached the stables unhindered. Probably the guards were still searching the palace. Probably they hadn’t even started searching the grounds. Probably Hesod assumed Crier was upset but still his obedient child and was just hiding somewhere in the palace, waiting to be found. He’d never thought her capable of anything. He definitely wouldn’t think her capable of running away.
The stables were divided into two sections: one for the sovereign’s horses, all of them thoroughbreds and warhorses of the finest stock, and the other for the servants’ horses, used to pull plows and carry messengers. Faye led Crier to the servants’ section and together they pushed through the heavy wooden doors into the cool dark, where the air smelled like hay and the musky scent of animals. All the stableboys were occupied with the guests’ horses; Faye and Crier were alone. Quickly, they saddled one of the messenger horses—a young, strong mare who would be used to traveling long distances.
“Where are you going, lady?” Faye whispered as she slipped the bit into the horse’s mouth. “You owe me that much.”
Crier wasn’t sure yet. She had a half-formed plan in mind: First she would go to Rosi’s estate, wait for Rosi to return from the not-wedding. Rosi fawned over Kinok. If Crier could convince her that Kinok had planned this, that her disappearance was part of a top-secret plan and he trusted Rosi, above anyone else, to protect Crier, maybe Rosi would harbor her until she figured out what to do next. Where to go next.
Deep down, Crier already knew where she’d be going next. She just didn’t want to admit it.
“To find the one person who can stop Kinok,” she said, and swung up onto the horse. She’d barely slipped her feet into the stirrups when the doors at the other end of the stables burst open.
“There!”
The guards had found her.
She and Faye looked at each other at the same time, exchanging a horrified glance. Crier started to say, Quick, get up here with me, come on, but—
“Go!” said Faye, and struck the horse hard across the flank.
The horse startled, whinnying, and leaped forward through the open stable doors, out toward the sunlight. Crier gasped, turning back to look at Faye—the guards had already reached her, no, no—but Faye didn’t even look frightened. She was standing stock-still, staring after Crier, even as one of the guards caught her by the throat. The other guards started after Crier, and they were Automae, they were fast, they’d catch up with her and make all of this for nothing if she didn’t just go.
Crier cracked the reins, dug her heels into the horse’s sides, and left everything she’d ever known behind her.
The birthplace of the Magick Arts has long been a point of contention among Historians; each kingdom lays claim to that title, each can trace the advent of the Magick Arts to their own court; it remains a mystery which claim is true. However, birthplace or not, one cannot deny the kingdom of Varn—a territory which has gone by many names: from years 311 to 429, under the rule of the clan Ta’en, the golden hills were called Vhi’ros-Kai; after the defeat of the Ta’en by a foreign prince known only as Prince Qell or the Crow Prince, Vhi’ros-Kai became Qell-den; mid–Era 600, the ancestors of the current King Tiren ousted the Crow Prince and took the throne, first naming their kingdom, then about half the size it is now, Varnandanna; by Era 800, the kingdom had expanded west to the edge of the Great Spine, and the name, in contrast, had shortened to Varn—one cannot deny the kingdom of Varn has practiced the Magick Arts for hundreds of years; indeed, one of the first known mentions of the Arts was found in the personal records of a girl whose name has since been lost to time (referred to hereafter as Alchemist X), pre–Era 100, who spent her life in a mining village in what is now southwestern Varn. Alchemist X’s writings included extensive notes first on the desire to turn lead to gold, later to define and recreate artificially the human soul; X was fascinated by prima m
ateria, that formless essence, the root of all things. It was Alchemist X who Designed the first rudimentary alchemists’ alphabet, beginning with five symbols: earth, fire, air, water, gold.
—FROM A HISTORY OF THE SOUTHERN TERRITORIES BY IVY OF FAMILY FANG-THIEL, 3029510850, E. 900, Y. 19
5
Three hours into the first lesson with Lady Dear found Ayla reconsidering whether or not Storme was worth it. Learning to read and write—both her mother tongue and alchemy, the language of the Makers—was frustrating enough without Lady Dear huffing impatiently every time Ayla took more than two seconds to remember a letter.
She already knew some words. She could write her name, Benjy’s name, Rowan’s. Automa, human, rebel, heart. And she could recognize a handful of other words by shape, if not spell them herself. When it came to the language of the Makers, she knew only a few symbols: the eight-point star engraved into the necklace she’d inherited from her mother; the symbols for salt, mercury, and sulfur; body, mind, and spirit. The pyramids of fire and air then inverted to form water and earth. That was it. The written language of Zulla only used twenty-four letters, but even the most basic alchemic alphabet required over a hundred symbols. It was all about memorization, which wasn’t Ayla’s strong suit.
Lady Dear was seated next to Ayla at the small writing desk, loose pieces of parchment spread out before them, some covered in Lady Dear’s perfect, loopy handwriting and some in Ayla’s chicken scratch. They’d been at it long enough that afternoon sunlight was falling across the desk, turning the parchment a pale yellow-gold, almost glowing; the black ink looked blue. Dust motes drifted, starlike, before Ayla’s eyes. She wished for . . . something. What was it about this? The soft-edged smell of parchment, sharp notes of ink, sunlight warming a room.