by Nina Varela
Until now.
Ayla noticed Queen Junn didn’t seem at all shocked or even unsettled by Storme’s words. Her eyes were alight with something, but it wasn’t fear.
“What of their minds?” Junn asked. “If they’re launching organized attacks on the trading caravans . . .”
Storme shook his head. “Thing is, the attacks aren’t organized. I honestly don’t think they’re trying to sabotage our heartstone supply. I don’t even think they’re aware of what’s inside the trading caravans; I don’t think they have the capacity to be aware of anything at all. They’re attacking the caravans because they’re there. If it were a traveler’s carriage, a single rider, Automa, human, a commoner, the sovereign himself, the outcome would be the same. These creatures are mindless. If something crosses into their territory, they will kill it.”
“And what is their territory?” Junn asked.
“The border between Rabu and Varn,” said Storme. “And some parts of Tarreen, apparently. Why they’re so concentrated in southern Rabu, I don’t know.”
But I do, Ayla realized. I know why.
“It’s Kinok,” she said, drawing their attention. “Ever since the Southern Uprisings, he’s had a lot of followers in the south.”
The Southern Uprisings. When hundreds of human servants across the southern estates had planned to revolt on the same night, at the same time, so the Automa nobles couldn’t help or warn each other. But somehow Kinok had found out and warned the nobles far in advance. The humans’ plan hinged on the element of surprise, and there was no surprise. The uprisings were quashed fast and bloody. And Kinok was a hero.
But Ayla and Crier had discovered that Kinok had been able to predict the uprisings because he’d been the one to instigate them. He’d used his web of connections to spread false information, manipulating the humans of the southern estates into planning a rebellion doomed from the start.
“He’s been tricking his followers into replacing heartstone with a substance called Nightshade,” Ayla continued. “It looks like heartstone dust but black. He tells them it’s a more powerful heartstone, that it’ll make them even stronger, sharper. But I’ve seen its true effects.” She told Storme and Junn about the visit to Rosi’s. She recounted Rosi’s black-stained tongue, her body starved to bones, her shaky, erratic movements. “She wasn’t violent, but it can’t be coincidence. Maybe if you consume enough Nightshade, you turn into . . . that.”
Storme looked troubled. “If that’s true, and Scyre Kinok is behind this . . . What’s he planning? Is he just trying to create an army of monsters?”
“But what you described doesn’t sound like an army,” said Junn. “You said the creatures are mindless. That they cannot be controlled. I don’t believe this is Scyre Kinok’s master plan—above all else, he craves control. What does he stand to gain from this?”
“Maybe it’s about fear, intimidation,” said Storme. “Like a warning to his other followers. A display of power.”
“No,” said Ayla, mind racing. “That doesn’t make sense. I think . . .”
What did she know about Kinok? He had the mind of a scientist, an alchemist. He was a former Watcher of the Heart, as well as a Scyre—someone who studied the Four Pillars of the Automae in the name of advancing Automakind. He wanted to end his Kind’s reliance on the Iron Heart, their weak spot.
He’d created Nightshade himself. Crier had said, He wants us to be invulnerable. He’d sent it not to his enemies but to his followers. Like Rosi, who worshipped him. Ayla had seen it herself, when she and Crier had visited Rosi’s estate: the way Rosi’s eyes lit up at the mere mention of Kinok’s name. She adored him.
And yes, above all else: Kinok craved control.
“I think he made a mistake,” Ayla said, hearing the realization in her own voice. “Why would he want to turn his most loyal followers into mindless killing machines? I think he didn’t know what Nightshade would do to them. I think he was just testing it out on them, maybe. Experimenting. But he didn’t know it would poison them like this.”
Silence for a long moment.
Then Junn said, “I knew you’d be useful.”
Storme looked troubled. “Your majesty, I think we should send reinforcements to the border immediately,” he said. “The traders are well armed, but only against human rebels. Already two traders have been killed, their caravans destroyed. Varn’s entire heartstone supply is in jeopardy.”
Junn nodded. “After we end here, go directly to the marshal. I want reinforcements ready to depart at dawn.”
“Yes, your majesty.”
“In the meantime, do you think it feasible to use the old trade routes? We’ve plenty of records and maps.”
“I had the same thought, but I don’t think it’ll work,” said Storme. “Those routes were targeted during the War of Kinds—bridges destroyed, passes blocked by rockfall. They haven’t been usable for fifty years.” A cautious note entered his voice. “We don’t need old routes. We need new weapons.”
New weapons?
The queen’s eyes narrowed. “I assume you are not speaking hypothetically, adviser.”
Storme straightened up, as if the mention of his title made him want to appear worthy of it. “As I said, the monsters have appeared in some parts of Tarreen as well. But it seems the Tarreenians are not quite so helpless as the heartstone traders. I spoke with a trader who passed through Tarreen and saw this weapon in use. He didn’t know exactly what it was, but he described it as ‘blue fire.’ Like a powder bomb but much more powerful—he said it took out twenty monsters at once. An explosion of blue fire, he said.”
“But it’s not being used by the Rabunians,” Junn said slowly. “It didn’t come from the sovereign. The Tarreenians created it themselves.”
Storme nodded. “And if the sovereign wants it, he’ll have to take it by force. He might claim to rule over Tarreen, but he has no real foothold there. The Tarreenians are mostly human, after all. He provides nothing for them; he barely acknowledges their existence. The Tarreenians are few, but they rule themselves. And even the Automae among them despise Sovereign Hesod.” He met the queen’s eyes head-on, and Ayla had to admit he did look like someone who could advise a queen. Young as he was, obnoxious as he was when they argued, he was worthy of his title, and despite everything Ayla felt a rush of pride. “Your majesty,” he continued, “if we can forge an alliance with the Tarreenians, perhaps we can use this new weapon.”
“I need to think,” Junn said, sounding like the girl she was. “I need to think. And you need rest, adviser. When was the last time you slept?”
“Two days ago, I think,” said Storme, sounding almost sheepish.
The queen sighed. “Go to the marshal, and then to bed.”
Ayla glanced between them. They definitely seemed more familiar than queen and adviser. She could have sworn she’d seen a flicker of warmth in Junn’s eyes just now, even as she reprimanded Storme.
Then again, Ayla thought sourly, Junn had been dancing and laughing with Benjy just a couple hours ago. Maybe she was overly familiar with everyone.
The three of them parted. Ayla wanted so badly to grab Storme’s sleeve, to keep him close, to make sure he wouldn’t disappear again, but she knew that was a childish urge. It had been a long night, two days without rest for Storme, and they both needed sleep.
He’d promised they would talk tomorrow. Ayla would believe him. She had to. Her brother was back from the dead—she wouldn’t let him disappear a second time.
8
The humans’ camp was a ways down the river, hidden within a copse of fir trees. It was really just a small section of forest floor with the undergrowth cleared away, creating enough space for a campfire and a few sleeping mats. Another pony was tied nearby, a fat little roan. The humans rode ponies and workhorses, not thoroughbreds like Della. Crier was hoping they wouldn’t notice how fine Della was. During the short ride to the campsite, Crier came up with a backstory for herself. It was a welcome distrac
tion from the horror of the past few hours: Rosi attacking her, the monsters on the riverbanks, their burning bodies. Crier decided she was a human girl from the northwest, the foothills of the Aderos Mountains—far from the capital city and the sovereign’s palace. Her parents were dead and she had no siblings. She was on her way to the port towns on the coast of the Steorran Sea, where she would board a ship for Thalen, the capital city of Varn. She was going to Varn because Rabu held nothing for her anymore.
When the human boy who’d first called out to her asked her name, Crier said, “Ayla.”
The name was melted sugar on her tongue. Then bitter metal.
“Well met, Ayla,” he said. “I’m Hook.”
She’d just nodded. The less she spoke, the less chance there was of revealing herself as an Automa. Hook didn’t seem to care if she was talkative or not. He was a nice-looking human boy with a wide, toothy smile. He couldn’t have been older than twenty, and Crier wondered how someone so young had become the leader of a group like this. Then, surreptitiously glancing around at the seven other humans, Crier realized Hook was the oldest. The others looked around Crier’s age or even younger. And she’d just watched these humans kill two monsters and set the bodies aflame without a moment of hesitation.
What happened to you all? she thought. What drove you to this life?
But perhaps she already knew the answer.
Now, sitting in a circle with them around a low-burning campfire, forcing down bites of hardtack and salted fish, Crier kept her eyes down. The fire was little more than smoldering embers—Hook had explained that the monsters were drawn to light—but she was still paranoid about her eyes refracting gold. Exposing her in a heartbeat, in a blink. It was more difficult than she might have expected to keep up the act, and she’d only been doing it for an evening. But there was so much to remember: breathe evenly, blink regularly, don’t hold too still, don’t move too smoothly, keep your eyes down, for skies’ sake don’t speak like the daughter of the sovereign. She was immeasurably grateful for the grime on her face, obscuring her Made skin.
“So, Ayla,” said Hook, once they’d all eaten their fill. “What brings you to these parts? Fool move riding alone through Shade territory like this, isn’t it?”
“What do you mean, ‘Shade territory’?”
Hook’s eyes widened, and suddenly all the rebels were looking at Crier. Their expressions ranged from startled to curious to . . . wary. “I thought word had spread just about everywhere,” said Hook. “The whole south is dangerous right now, my friend, from the western mountains to the eastern shores. It’s especially bad here, so close to the southern estates. You really haven’t heard anything?”
“Been alone for weeks now,” Crier mumbled.
“Well, all right. Here’s what you should know: those black-eyed things, we call ’em Shades. They used to be Automae. But they’re even deadlier than your average leech—they’re stronger, faster. They don’t feel pain, as far as we can tell, or if they do it doesn’t stop them. They’re violent. Bloodthirsty. And they’re near impossible to kill unless you know exactly how to do it. Get too close and you’re dead meat. Welcome to hell.”
One of the other humans raised her waterskin. “Hurrah!”
“Why do you call them Shades?” Crier asked.
“They got like that by taking some sort of fake heartstone, or poisoned heartstone, maybe. It’s called Nightshade. Nobody knows exactly what it is, only that it turns leeches into monsters.”
So her suspicions were correct. This was the end result of Kinok’s Nightshade. This was what had happened to Rosi. And this had to be why Kinok was so desperate to find Tourmaline. His experiment had failed.
He must be furious.
Crier almost smiled, until she remembered the Shades were her own Kind. Those two Shades from the river—who were they? Nobles from the southern estates? Travelers? Just two Automae from a nearby town? They had to be Kinok’s followers, supporters of the Anti-Reliance Movement, but still. Nobody deserved a fate like that.
Kinok does, Crier thought, surprising herself.
“Where does Nightshade come from?” she asked Hook, still trying to figure out how much these humans knew.
He exchanged a glance with one of the others—the one who’d said Hurrah. She was either Bree or Mir, one of the two who had retrieved the second monster’s body and dragged it across the river to be burned. Unlike the others, she looked more Varnian than Rabunian, with curly hair the color of summer wheat.
Bree-or-Mir leaned forward, the glowing embers casting odd shadows across her face. “If you’ve been traveling alone for so long . . . how much do you know about the Scyre called Kinok?”
How much would Ayla, the runaway human from the northwest, know?
No, that wasn’t the right angle to take. Crier wanted as much information about Kinok as she could get, anything she could use to take him down, and she had no interest in protecting any of his secrets. As long as she didn’t say anything that incriminated her as Lady Crier, she could tell these humans anything. They wanted the same thing she did, in the end.
“The last time I stopped in a village,” Crier said, choosing her words carefully, “I spoke with a servant girl who had escaped the sovereign’s palace.”
Now she had everyone’s attention. Eight pairs of eyes were fixed on her.
“I’ll trade my information for yours,” she said.
Hook snorted. “Fair enough, my friend. But all we know is Scyre Kinok’s connected to Nightshade. We’ve got a contact—well. We had a contact.” He closed his eyes, tapping his sternum with two fingers, and the other rebels did the same. Crier quickly copied them. “May the stars find you well, Rowan,” Hook said softly.
“Stars find you well,” the humans murmured in unison, but Crier was too stunned to do the same. Rowan. She knew that name. Rowan, the woman from the riot at Elderell—a village barely a day’s journey from here. The woman Ayla knew. The woman who had been killed right in front of them, throwing Ayla into a silent, blank-eyed grief.
“Before she died, Rowan was the best contact we had. The best any of us had. She said the Scyre created this Nightshade. As a backup plan, maybe. The leeches know if the Iron Heart runs out of heartstone—or, better, we’re finally able to destroy it—they’re doomed. They’re probably terrified.” He sounded quite pleased about it.
We’re finally able to destroy it.
These weren’t just humans traveling in a group. They were part of the Resistance.
If only they knew they weren’t the only ones who wanted to destroy the Iron Heart.
“Your turn, Ayla,” said Hook, and it took Crier a moment to realize he was addressing her. “What did your runaway servant girl tell you?”
Crier took a deep breath. “That you’re right,” she said. “Scyre Kinok is searching desperately for an alternative to heartstone.” She cleared her throat, focusing on her accent, on sounding like the human commoner she was supposed to be. “He thinks the answer is a stone called Tourmaline. He’s trying to find it. He’d—he’d do anything to find it. If someone else gets to it first, they’d have—”
“Leverage,” said Hook.
“Power,” breathed Bree-or-Mir.
“Every leech in Zulla by the throat,” said a third rebel, a boy with an empty socket where his right eye should have been.
Crier nodded. “Exactly.”
“Well, well, well,” said Hook. When he leaned forward, the firelight turned his deep brown skin to burnished gold. “Damn good thing we saved you from the Shades, Ayla. You should stick with us, yeah? Where are you headed?”
“Varn,” said Crier.
It clearly wasn’t the answer he was expecting, but he just grinned wider. “If anyone can get you there, my friend, it’s gonna be us.”
And for the first time since running away from the palace, Crier felt almost safe.
An hour or so later, the fire had been put out and the rebels were settling in to sleep. Bree-or-Mir,
who turned out to be Bree, had been assigned first watch. Which meant Crier would have to actually fake sleep for the next few hours. She’d offered to take the second shift, but Hook had told her, not unkindly, that they didn’t trust outsiders, no matter how useful. Then he’d given her a sleep pallet and a thin, scratchy blanket and bid her good night.
So Crier spread out her pallet under a wide-bellied fir tree and resigned herself to being wide awake until dawn. She didn’t want to sleep, not when she knew there were Shades out there. She wished she could have told Hook: I can see in the dark like a cat, I can hear a twig snap from a hundred paces away, and there’s no chance I’ll fall asleep. I am the perfect lookout. But of course she couldn’t.
Perhaps it was a good thing, though. In the darkness, under the cover of low branches curving down to brush the dirt, Crier pulled Ayla’s locket out from beneath her shirt, leaving its twin in her pocket. The token she’d held so many nights to give herself comfort. It felt like being close to Ayla. And she had eventually realized it wasn’t just that it had belonged to Ayla—the locket was a Made object, created by Ayla’s grandmother Siena, then gifted to Ayla’s grandfather Leo. It was always him at the center of these memories. She’d come to learn the locket—a marvel of alchemical invention—contained memories of his past, of every day he’d worn it. When Crier’s blood triggered the locket’s magick, she could relive those memories. But she never knew which memories would surface when she pricked her finger. The locket held a whole lifetime within its clasp. It held Ayla’s history, her past—and maybe, her legacy.
It held, Crier feared, the secrets Kinok was looking for.
She felt around on the forest floor until she found a sliver of rock and, the movement familiar now, used it to prick her finger. A single drop of dark blood welled up.
Crier closed her eyes, took a calming breath, and pressed the tip of her finger to the red stone in the center of the locket. The stone with a tiny, ticking pulse.