by Nina Varela
She reached Della within a matter of seconds and swung up onto her back, nearly overbalancing and falling off the other side, and kicked hard. “GO,” she shrieked, her voice raw with terror, “GO, GO!” Della seemed to sense her fear and broke out into a gallop, fast as a racehorse. Only then did Crier dare to look back—and nearly screamed. Rosi was racing after them, but it looked wrong. It was like she was running on broken legs, her movements jerky. She kept pitching forward, fingers clawing at the ground, dragging herself upright again. She wasn’t going to catch up with them, but still Crier felt sick. Rosi’s body was breaking down. The Nightshade had eaten away at her, first her muscles and then her mind.
What a terrible way to die.
Crier urged Della forward, back up and over the hill. She didn’t want to stop until she was far away from the manor, from Rosi, from the monster Rosi had become. A fur of trees was visible maybe half a league away, the promise of shelter. The sky deepened from blue to the purple of the gloaming as Crier rode toward the trees, the sun sinking at her back. “Just a little farther,” she told Della, reaching down to pat her neck. The mare’s coat was foaming with sweat. “Just a little farther.”
The fur of trees turned out to be a small wood of skinny, white-barked birches, naked with winter, like finger bones rising up out of the earth. The cover was scarce, but it was still better than being out in the open. Crier felt better the second she and Della broke the tree line. The ground sloped downward, and she could even hear the rush of a river at the bottom. An unexpected blessing: Della could drink her fill, and maybe in the morning Crier could bathe. Della had slowed to a walk, and Crier led her downhill toward the sound of the river. The spaces between the trees was so narrow. Twigs kept catching in Crier’s hair, plucking at her sleeves.
It was very quiet here.
Crier realized that she could hear the river so clearly because there was no birdsong. It was dusk. There should have been birdsong, sparrows and swallows and little black noonbirds singing to the coming night.
Her skin was prickling again.
But she’d left Rosi far behind. She hadn’t been followed. She would have seen another rider coming over the hills.
Still, Crier tightened her grip on the reins. She and Della reached the bottom of the slope, where the trees thinned and then gave way to the banks of a river, more white trees on the other side. The slow-moving water sparkled in the last rays of sunlight.
“We’ll cross the river,” Crier whispered to Della, nudging her forward. The river was very shallow, the sand and stones at the bottom visible all the way across. They’d cross over and find a place to camp for the night. Crier had no choice. Della had to rest after such a brutal ride.
Della hesitated at the edge of the river, but Crier soothed her, murmuring in her ear, and she stepped into the water.
They were exactly halfway across when the first Automa emerged from the trees.
Crier saw it on the opposite bank, right ahead of her. A fraction of a second later Della went stock-still beneath her.
The Automa looked like Rosi, if Rosi had already died.
It had the same black veins. The same skeletal frame. But it was naked and its skin was sagging off its bones, peeling open in some places to expose the shiny, metallic muscles below. The nerves like golden hairs. The veins like black worms. Its eyes, sunken deep into the sockets, were pure black. As if the pupil had swallowed everything else. Its ink-stained mouth was hanging open, jaw dangling loosely, dislocated.
Crier couldn’t think.
Her mind had gone completely blank.
All she could do was stare at the Automa—was it an Automa, still?—as it picked its way out of the trees and down the riverbank. The thing that had been an Automa once, like her.
Its black eyes were fixed on Crier’s face.
A noise came from behind her, a fall of pebbles into water, and despite herself Crier turned to look. She immediately wished she hadn’t. There was another black-veined Automa on the bank she and Della had just left. It was looking at her too, opening and closing its mouth, like it was trying to say something or—or like it was chewing.
Oh gods.
Crier had no weapon. Even if she did, they were coming at her from both sides of the river. She was trapped in the center, the perfect prey, frozen with terror. She tried to think. Tried to come up with an escape plan. But her brain wasn’t working. All she could think of was—maybe if she and Della ran downstream, following the river—but Della would be slower moving through water, and what if it got suddenly deeper later on?
The Automa in front of her reached the edge of the water. It was barely twenty paces away now. Like Rosi, its movements were jerky, awkward, like it didn’t have full control over its body. Crier tried to think. She was supposed to be brilliant, Designed with inhuman intelligence, why couldn’t she think? The Automa took another step into the water, mouth opening even wider. Too wide, like a snake unhinging its jaw. But then Crier heard a sharp crack, and the Automa twitched hard. It went stiff all over, a puppet with its strings pulled tight, and staggered sideways, letting out a low, rasping noise, wordless and awful. Its body twisted as it fell, and Crier understood why.
Someone had just shot it through the skull with a crossbow. The iron bolt was sticking out the side of the monster’s head, black blood already oozing from the wound. Crier whipped her head around to look at the other Automa—just in time to see a second crossbow bolt bury itself in the Automa’s chest and a third in its face, piercing it right through one of the soulless eyes. Crier gasped and looked away, sickened. She heard the splash when it fell.
Was she safe?
Or was she the next target?
Who’s there? she wanted to call out, but she couldn’t speak. Fear had paralyzed her throat. Beneath her, Della was panting with terror, trembling all over, muscles twitching.
She didn’t have to wait long for an answer. There came a shout, and then humans burst out of the trees ahead of Crier, running down the bank. They were armed, some with crossbows, some with swords at their hips or strapped to their backs, and some with burning torches, their faces illuminated in flickering orange light.
“Get ready to burn!” one of the humans shouted, the first one to reach the water. He waded in without hesitation, grabbing the body of the dead thing and dragging it back to shore, dumping it on the rocks. “Bree, Mir, get the other one!” Two of the other humans immediately splashed into the river and headed for the second body, ignoring Crier entirely. Numb, she watched as the rest of the humans—maybe eight or ten in total—crowded around the first body, taking out waterskins and dousing it with . . . water?
No.
Oil.
The other two humans, carrying the second body between them, rejoined the others on the banks. They dumped it next to the first, and it too was doused with oil. Then one of the humans armed with a torch darted forward and set the bodies ablaze.
It all happened very fast. Shooting the black-veined Automae, retrieving their bodies, setting them on fire. The humans were efficient, methodical, like they’d done this before. Crier still wasn’t breathing. She should probably be breathing. She should probably be spurring Della away, racing back the way they’d come. She knew burning was one of the best ways to kill her Kind. Severing the head, stabbing the heart, burning the body so it could not heal. What if she was next? She took a deep, shuddering breath. She had to get out of here.
“Hey!” one of the humans called out. It was the one from before, maybe the leader, the one who’d been shouting orders. He was standing at the edge of the riverbank, silhouetted against the leaping fire behind him. He was looking at Crier. Some of the other humans had turned to look at her too. “Are you all right?” he called. “Are you hurt?”
She opened her mouth and nothing came out.
“It’s okay,” he said, voice raised so she could hear him over the crackle of the flames. “It’s okay, you’re safe.”
She stared at him.
“Are you alone?” the human boy called out.
He thinks I’m human, she realized. He thinks he just rescued a human girl. He thinks we’re allies.
She nodded. Yes, she was alone.
“Well, not anymore,” said the human boy. “We’re camped nearby. Come with us. You can warm up, get something in your belly. No offense, but you look like you’re about to keel over. Both you and your horse.”
Crier found her voice again. “Okay,” she agreed. “I’ll come with you.”
She said it like a human.
A,
In the beginning, you told me about the law of falling.
How did I reply? Did I reply? I remember everything, yet I do not remember that. Surrounded by the familiar, you’d caught me off guard. As with the night before—you on the cliffs, you in the sea spray, you, saving me, the first of many times. You touched the tears on my cheek. You touched my face and even then, in the beginning, I did not pull away.
A law for a paradox. I’ll trade you.
We believe the Universe birthed an infinite number of stars. By this logic, you could stand anywhere in this world and look up at the night sky and your line of sight would inevitably end on a star. By this logic, the night sky shouldn’t be dark at all; it should be a blinding wash of starlight. Therein lies the paradox. The problem is the assumption that the Universe is static, unmoving; that every star has always occupied the same space in our sky. The paradox doesn’t account for the fact that the Universe, like all things, was born and has been growing ever since. Expanding outward—pushing, pulling, as you told me. Celestial bodies floating in a black sea, carried by a current older than life. Drifting farther and farther apart. The nature of the Universe is that everything inside it becomes lonelier and lonelier and lonelier. Some nights I can think of nothing else, and nothing more terrifying. Some nights I lie awake, thinking of this, and it makes me unspeakably sad.
Not as often, these days.
Because it’s you.
It’s you, the wash of starlight, the old paradox: if the Universe were static, I could stand anywhere in this world and I swear my line of sight would end on you. I swear I’d find you in the dark.
—FROM AN UNSENT LETTER BY CRIER OF FAMILY HESOD, 9648880130, YEAR 47 AE
7
“Storme,” said Ayla, and watched as shock rippled across Storme’s face when he realized exactly who he’d just saved from a nasty fall.
“Ayla?” he said, gaping at her.
He let go of her waist, taking a step back. Ayla found her footing on the grassy lawn of the sculpture garden. “What are you doing here?” she asked. “I thought you weren’t due back for another week.”
“What am I doing here?” Storme demanded, still staring at her with huge eyes. “What are you doing here? Since when are you not in Rabu? Since when did you leave the sovereign’s palace?” He sucked in a breath. “Oh gods, are you connected to— I heard rumors of an attack, and now the sovereign’s daughter has gone missing, are you—but also—how did you get here? How long have you—?”
“Storme!” Ayla broke in. “Breathe. One question at a time.” She couldn’t help but study him, drinking him in. Their time together in Rabu had been so limited; Queen Junn’s company had spent only a day and a night in the palace, and Ayla had only gotten Storme alone the one time. At night, in a moonlit corridor. And it had gone so wrong. All Ayla had wanted to do was embrace her long-lost brother, but instead they’d ended up exchanging awful, poisonous words, and then he’d turned his back and stalked away, leaving her alone. Again. And—furious, miserable, confused—she’d sought comfort in Lady Crier’s bed.
Now she looked at him, this grown version of the nine-year-old twin brother she’d lost. They weren’t identical twins, they’d looked more alike when they were children, but Ayla could still see herself in Storme’s face. They had the exact same eyes, big and brown and wide-set. The same brown skin, the same dark, untamable hair. Ayla’s face was rounder. Her features more elfin, her freckles more pronounced—she’d spent so much time working under the hot sun. Storme was more classically handsome. He’d gotten their father’s cheekbones and strong chin. (And, frustratingly, their father’s height.) Then there was the pale starburst scar over Storme’s left eye. The result of a silly childhood accident involving the edge of the stone hearth. It was strange seeing that familiar scar on such a changed face.
Storme was dressed in green, though not for a ball. Ayla frowned. Her brother looked a little ragged, honestly. Even in the dim moonlight, she could tell his clothing was wrinkled, his hair limp and unwashed.
“One question at a time,” he agreed, then grimaced. “No, no, wait. I want to hear everything that’s happened, everything that brought you here, but I have to see J—the queen. It’s urgent.”
“What? No!” said Ayla. “No, Storme, I’ve been waiting for you to return, I have so much to tell you, it’s important. I came to Varn for a reason.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, already looking past her. “But I returned early for a reason, too. I have to see the queen immediately, Ayla. It cannot wait. We’ll talk tomorrow, all right? I promise we’ll talk. Just not right now.”
“No,” she said. “Storme, I don’t want to wait until tomorrow.” She wanted to tell him about Scyre Kinok’s Nightshade, but more than that . . . there was still a part of her that felt like she was talking to a ghost. They’d seen each other so briefly in Rabu, and then he’d been gone again, leaving nothing but a green feather behind, like something out of a folk tale: a boy transformed into a bird by a witch’s curse, his desperate sister searching for him everywhere. What if Ayla let him out of her sight and he disappeared again? She tried to grab at his sleeve, but Storme sidestepped her, starting off into the darkness. Ayla bit back a noise of frustration and followed. When she caught up to him, she said, “Fine. The queen first. But I’m coming with you.”
He huffed, sounding so much like the young Storme who used to scowl and roll his eyes whenever Ayla tried to boss him around. “Fine, come along, then.”
“I will,” she said. “Let’s go, brother.”
Queen Junn’s solarium was a large many-windowed room with a massive hearth and walls lined with portraits of what must be the royal lineage. Seated around a low wooden table with Benjy and Junn, studying the portraits while she waited for someone to speak, Ayla was reminded again how young Junn had been when her father, the king, had been murdered, and she’d been forced to take the throne. It was difficult to tell an Automa’s age after they hit twenty or so; in accordance with their longer lifespans, the physical effects of aging were far subtler on their Made faces. Still, the Automae in the portraits were clearly older than Junn by a few decades at least. In Rabu, they called her the Bone Eater but also the Child Queen. Ayla had always found it ridiculous: Automae were never children, not really. But the more time she spent around Junn, the more she understood the title. For all Junn’s cleverness and authority, she was still only a couple years older than Ayla and Storme. It showed on her face, sometimes. It showed on her face now.
“What do you mean, monsters?” Junn said, staring at Storme. Like Ayla, she’d come straight from the ball, which was still going on in the courtyard far below. Even this high up in one of the palace towers, Ayla could hear voices and music floating through the night. She kept waiting for Junn to send her away, because Ayla clearly didn’t belong in this meeting, but it hadn’t happened. Perhaps that was another benefit of being Storme’s sister.
When Junn had visited the sovereign’s palace, Ayla had noticed a familiarity in the way she spoke to Storme. An odd warmth in the way he looked at her. Somehow they’d seemed more like friends than queen and adviser.
“I don’t know how else to describe them,” said Storme. In the lanternlight, it was even more obvious how disheveled he was. He glanced at Ayla. “Two weeks ago, we received disturbing messa
ges from two of our largest heartstone traders, alerting us to an ‘ongoing threat’ along the border we share with Rabu. I arrived expecting bandits, human rebels, perhaps some trouble from the sovereign . . . but that’s not what I found. I understand now why the traders were reluctant to describe the threat in detail. It sounds unbelievable. But I saw it with my own eyes.”
“Get to it,” said Ayla and Junn at the same time, and then blinked at each other across the table.
“The trading caravans keep getting attacked by these . . . creatures,” said Storme.
“What, like animals?” Junn asked.
“No. They are wild like animals, vicious like starving wolves, but they are Automae. Or at least something close.” Storme’s gaze was fixed on the lantern in the center of the table, on the tiny flame trapped like a firefly within the glass. “The creatures look like Automae, but—Made wrong. Their eyes and veins are pure black. Their mouths, too—it always looks like they’ve been drinking ink. At first I thought perhaps they were victims of some sort of plague that affects Automae. But they aren’t weakened by this—affliction. The opposite, actually. They’re almost unstoppable. They don’t seem to feel pain. If they attack something, they will not stop until that thing is destroyed. I have seen them keep fighting with all four limbs broken. With swords sticking out of their bellies. With their faces blown off by powder bombs.”
Horrified, Ayla tried to imagine such a creature. Something . . . stronger than Automae? More violent? Even less human? Storme was right, it sounded unbelievable. Except something he’d said had caught in Ayla’s mind. It looks like they’ve been drinking ink. Ayla knew exactly what that looked like, because she’d seen it before. Crier’s friend Rosi, the one whose fiancé had been murdered. Ayla hadn’t seen much of Rosi when she and Crier visited Rosi’s manor. The two Automae girls had spoken privately, Ayla dismissed to stand outside the door. And then, on their way back to the palace, Elderell had happened: Ayla had watched, helpless, as Rowan was killed by an Automa guard. In the wake of Rowan’s death, Ayla had forgotten all about Rosi’s odd behavior, her ink-stained mouth.