by Nina Varela
“You . . . think we should not rely on the Iron Heart?”
“Of course we shouldn’t,” he said. “It is, and has always been, a finite resource. It’s no different from a diamond mine, Lady Crier. Eventually you run out of diamonds.”
Her eyes widened. “How long before we run out of heartstone?”
“No one knows. Not even the Watchers. But—I prefer to prepare for the worst. That way, I am never taken off guard.”
Crier absorbed this, reeling, but didn’t let herself forget why she was here in the first place. “But what does any of this have to do with ‘Yora’s heart’?”
“Ah. That, my lady, is simply another name for Tourmaline. I believe it originated from a human rumor, an old wives’ tale, about the history of Tourmaline. That is all.”
He turned away, effectively ending that line of questioning. Everything about his face and body language read disinterest, but Crier couldn’t help but think that he wasn’t telling the truth about Yora’s heart, at least not entirely.
There was a small table in the corner holding an array of tools. Kinok retrieved a thin knife and, as Crier watched, he pricked his finger and let the blood drip into one of the vials. And Crier realized what the dark purplish liquid was. Kinok was experimenting with his own blood.
She turned away, a little repulsed. Her eyes fell on one of the diagrams on the wall. It looked sort of like a human family tree, except it was arranged not from top to bottom but outward from the center, like the spokes of a wheel. The name in the center of the tree was Thomas Wren.
“Your investigation,” Crier murmured. “Does this map show the people who worked with Wren?”
“Every genius draws from others,” said Kinok almost wryly. “You can learn a lot by tracing the connections from one mind to another.”
She didn’t answer. She actually felt a little relieved after seeing Kinok’s work laid out like this. She traced one of the lines on the map; it was the only one in red.
“What’s that one?” Crier asked.
Kinok glanced over. “A rumor, not fully substantiated, but some say that Thomas Wren was in love with another scientist and that she bore him a child.”
It comforted Crier somehow. Nothing he was doing seemed very dangerous—maybe she’d been overreacting with her suspicion of him. Maybe he really did want to work with her, to help her, Flaw and all.
“I’m glad you find my work intriguing,” Kinok said a few minutes later, after carefully closing the hidden door, as they finally headed to the great hall for dinner with Hesod and Junn.
“I do,” Crier said honestly. “I like anything that has to do with the history of our Kind. And . . . Tourmaline is certainly a tempting idea. Especially if we really are in danger of running out of heartstone. Have you spoken to my father about this? Or anyone else on the council?”
“So many questions, Lady Crier,” he said, smiling indulgently. “Don’t worry, I’ll give you your answers. And I have more to show you—so much more. As long as you can prove your loyalty to me.”
What?
Crier didn’t have a chance to ask him what that meant. They had reached the great hall, and Queen Junn awaited.
Dinner was tense.
In a display of Hesod’s beliefs, the table in the great hall was piled with human delicacies in addition to the bird’s-skull teapot of liquid heartstone: stewed lamb, salted fish, rich brown bread with butter and honey, platters of sugared fruits from the orchards. No one ate except the queen.
Hesod sat beside Queen Junn as she feasted, partaking in cordial conversation. But Crier could see something cold and calculating in her father’s eyes. He looked regal tonight, in the deep-red robes he usually reserved for council meetings or other formal affairs. A gold brooch glinted at his throat, engraved with the crest of the sovereign: a clenched fist, a crown, a glittering ruby. He was smiling. Arranging his features into something friendly—the welcoming, good-humored ruler. But his eyes told a different story.
Crier took a sip of her liquid heartstone. It was all she could keep down. She could hear the noise of Ayla’s stomach eating itself whole. Ayla was kneeling at Crier’s feet, like usual, even though Queen Junn’s human adviser was seated at the table with everyone else. It made Crier’s skin feel itchy and too small.
Ayla had been acting distant all day. During the tour of the palace, she had trailed behind Crier like a silent specter, looking ahead with sightless eyes. At one point, she’d nearly tripped over the train of Crier’s gown. Would have, if Crier hadn’t yanked it out of her path just in time.
The only thing that seemed to catch Ayla’s attention was the human adviser. Whenever he so much as breathed audibly, Ayla’s eyes flicked over to him, sharp and awake. It had been like that all day. What was so fascinating about him? Crier frowned at the uneaten scraps of meat on her plate. Was it because he was human? She glanced at him over the rim of her teacup. He was—not bad-looking, without the white mask. He actually looked a little similar to Ayla, as if they had come from the same village. Like Ayla, the adviser had thick, dark hair. He had a similar chin, a similar bump on the bridge of his nose. Though Crier noted that he didn’t have Ayla’s freckles. Or her cheekbones.
Not bad-looking, no, she thought to herself, and tore off another chunk of bread she had no desire to eat.
As if he somehow sensed that she was thinking about him, the adviser chose that moment to speak. “Lady Crier,” he said, and Crier went still—a bit stunned that a human would address her directly, unprompted. He spoke like a native Rabunian, not like someone from Varn. That explained the dark hair. “Do you have anything to voice?”
She blinked. “I—I became distracted. Apologies,” she said, nodding to the queen and then her father. “What is the subject?”
“What else?” he said. “Coexistence.”
“I am my father’s daughter,” she said. “I believe in the perpetuation of Traditionalism. Coexistence, to a degree, with certain social, cultural, and political boundaries in place to separate the two Kinds.”
Crier had said these words many times before, but they left a bad taste in her mouth this time. Her eyes wanted to find Ayla, but instead they found her father.
Across the table, Hesod regarded her with approval.
This was what she always wanted, his approval. But somehow, in this moment, it did not give her satisfaction. Rather, she felt unease.
“Interesting, daughter of Hesod,” said Queen Junn, who was seated at the head of the table. Unlike most guests, she had not balked when presented with human food; she had eaten without complaint. Now she was watching Crier, her long fingers curled around a cup of liquid heartstone. “Then you truly believe that boundaries are necessary for peace between the Kinds?”
“Yes,” said Crier. For some reason, she was finding it a little difficult to hold Junn’s gaze. “All societies require some level of social organization. A society without boundaries and separation devolves into anarchy, chaos.”
“You know this through experience?”
“Through extensive study.”
“I agree with you,” said the queen. “I do think society requires some sort of organization in order to function. But I am curious, Lady Crier: Why do you think we must be separated according to Kind? Why draw the borders of our hierarchy according to Made or not-Made?”
Because it’s obvious, Crier almost said. One Kind is stronger and one Kind is weaker. One dominant, one submissive. One meant to rule, the other to obey.
Two months ago, she would have given that answer—straight from her books, straight from her lessons, straight from her father’s teachings.
Now, though.
Now, with Ayla beside her (kneeling at her feet, refusing scraps), with the queen’s human adviser across from her, Crier found herself unable to answer so easily. Her hesitation lasted only a moment, but it was still long enough for Hesod to cut in.
“You ask too much of her,” he said, refilling his cup. His mouth was st
ained red. “My daughter is brilliant, but her mind is best suited for a library, not a debate.”
You’ve never let me debate, Crier thought sourly. So how would you know?
“My apologies, Lady Crier,” said Junn. “I forgot myself. I take too much pleasure in sharing my own beliefs.”
“Ah,” said Hesod, smiling indulgently. “Here it comes.”
“You see, Lady Crier,” said Junn, “for me, coexistence—not Traditionalism, not Anti-Reliance”—Crier stiffened at the mention of Kinok’s movement and hoped the queen wouldn’t notice—“but absolute coexistence, true coexistence, equality between the Kinds—is more reality than fantasy. In Varn, Automae and humans live and work side by side.”
“I can think of nothing more admirable,” said Crier, and Hesod’s smile stiffened around the edges. Kinok, for his part, was silent. His face was blank, his eyes glittering with—amusement, maybe. “I know you’ve been working toward that reality ever since you took the throne.”
“The War left my country all but destroyed,” said Junn. “We are still rebuilding. We are simultaneously ancient and newborn. We are a growing nation, and all growing things must ache and learn and readjust. But in my nation, every day, we come closer to a future in which Automae and humans live in harmony.”
Crier stared at her, transfixed.
“A fascinating idea,” said Hesod. “But completely impractical. Our Kind was created for the express purpose of—”
“Lady Crier,” the queen interrupted, and Hesod fell silent perhaps only because no one had ever interrupted him before. Crier could tell how much it rankled him, but he kept his mouth shut. Junn was a queen on a tour of diplomacy. None of them could afford to offend her. “After dinner, I would very much like to speak with you,” she said. “Privately.”
The shock from Hesod and Kinok—and admittedly Crier herself—was palpable, but the queen’s smile didn’t wane. Crier almost looked to her father for direction, but then she remembered the way he had ignored her during the council meeting. The way he’d said, Stay.
She raised her chin and met the queen’s gaze dead on. “I would be honored, Your Highness.”
And so, after dinner, Crier was summoned to Queen Junn’s quarters. She tried to walk slowly at first, dignified, but the apprehension in her stomach made it feel like she’d swallowed a nest of horseflies. Her steps grew faster and faster until she rounded a corner so quickly that she startled a housemaid into dropping an entire tray of cutlery, all of which fell to the flagstones with a tremendous clatter, which resulted in the housemaid trying to simultaneously curtsy, collect the fallen forks and knives, and apologize profusely. Crier hovered for a moment before realizing that her presence seemed to make the housemaid nervous, and then she left, feeling extremely awkward and no less apprehensive.
When she knocked on the queen’s door, it opened immediately, Queen Junn ushering her wordlessly inside. Maybe Crier was not the only one who felt a strange urgency right now.
The bedchamber was sparse. The queen’s company was set to leave the next morning at dawn, so the only signs of life in the massive room were the hearth fire and the slightly rumpled bedding. There was a platter of cheese and candied fruits on the table, untouched.
Crier shifted awkwardly, gripping at her skirts. “You wanted to speak with me, Your Highness?”
“Please,” said the queen. “Sit.”
Crier sat in one of the two chairs at the table. The queen sat across from her. They were so much closer than they had been over dinner. Crier could smell her, like rain and dark spice.
“I am not the type to mince words, my lady,” said Queen Junn. “The Scyre is a problem.”
Crier’s first thought was, Stars and skies, finally. “Oh?”
“But you already know that, don’t you,” said Junn, reading it from Crier’s face. “You fear him.”
“I do not fear him,” Crier corrected her. “I do not fear anyone.”
Junn smiled with her teeth showing. It was a smile somewhere between kindness and wickedness. “Fear is a good thing, Lady Crier. Fear means you are alive, and you want to keep it that way.”
“My life is not in danger.”
“Of course not,” said Junn. “Because you are untouchable. Because you were Made to be invincible.” She leaned closer. “I’ll tell you a secret, Lady Crier. Humans believe themselves invincible, too.”
A flash of memory: solid ground disappearing beneath her feet, the cliffside slippery and crumbling in her grip. Dark water below, white foam, tooth-sharp rocks. The clear image of her own body, shattered and bloated, her Made flesh unwanted by the wheeling seagulls.
Not invincible, no.
“What do you know about Kinok?” Crier asked.
“He is powerful,” said Junn. “His ideas are dangerous. They spread like a human infection. You have studied the various plagues of the human world, I’m sure.”
Crier nodded.
She remembered books filled with graphic illustrations. Human bodies bisected, cross-sectioned. Studies of ruined skin, weeping wounds. Maps covered in thin red lines, detailing the spread of a hundred different sicknesses.
“Fever and fervor,” said Junn. “There is very little difference, in the end.”
“Fervor isn’t necessarily dangerous, Your Highness. Neither is passion.”
Crier fought the urge to clap a hand over her mouth. Suddenly she felt like one of the illustrations in those medical books—flayed open, exposed. Passion isn’t dangerous? There was nothing more dangerous. Nor was there a reason for her to argue in Kinok’s favor—it was more a gut reaction, a defense mechanism because she felt so flustered. Why did she feel so flustered?
Queen Junn leaned in closer. And then closer still, so close that Crier’s breath quickened in her throat. “You’re right,” Junn murmured. “But the Scyre’s ideas are dangerous. I know this; you know this. I see it in your face when you look at him. I know that look because I have worn it myself.”
“What do you mean, Your Highness?”
“You are not the first maiden to draw his attention, Lady,” said Junn, jaw tightening. “Before you, it was me. He came to my palace last autumn. I admit: in the beginning, I found him charming. Desirable. He is clever, Lady, even for our Kind.”
“He—he courted you?” Crier asked, shocked that she hadn’t known of this. Did her father know? Did it even matter?
“Of course,” the queen answered, waving the back of her hand as if brushing away a fly. “As you may have noticed, he is drawn to any whiff of power. His supporters are vocal, but his base is small. In order to truly push his agenda, he must ally himself with an established force. But I admit that even I was intrigued at first. For the whole of autumn, his ideas seemed to glitter inside my head. He spoke of a glorious future for our Kind, and I wanted so badly to help him create it. But it was a tangle of lies, Lady. A fox’s trick.”
At Crier’s confused look, she continued. “It’s from an old human story. Once, during a long and terrible winter, Fox and Bear were afraid that their children would starve. Their milk had dried up and they were both too weak to hunt. Everybody knew that Fox was the cleverest animal in the whole forest, so Bear went to her and begged for help. ‘My children are hungry,’ she said. ‘I can hear their bellies at night. What should I do?’ And Fox told her, ‘Last week, Brother Wolf attacked the farm on the edge of this forest. He killed one sheep and two fat hens. Now the humans are scared. Go to them peacefully and tell them that in exchange for one fresh hen per day, you will guard their hens and livestock from the wolves. You are weakened, but your body is big and your teeth are sharp. Brother Wolf will not cross you.’
“So Bear did as Fox said. That night, she left her cubs in their den and traveled to the farm on the edge of the forest. She knocked very gently on the farmer’s door and said, ‘I come peacefully. Please let me in.’ And the farmer opened the door only to sink his hunting knife into Bear’s heart. He thought it was another attack, you see.”
Crier watched Junn’s face as she spoke. Junn’s eyes were focused on something that did not seem to exist in this room, something visible only to her.
“What happened next?” Crier asked. “Did Fox steal the farmer’s chickens?”
“No,” said Junn. “Fox waited until Bear’s children died of starvation. Then she ate them. The meat of two bear cubs was enough to last Fox and her kits through the final weeks of winter. She had hunted without ever lifting a paw.”
“So she killed Bear on purpose.”
“Weren’t you listening?” asked Junn. “Fox didn’t kill Bear. The farmer did. When the other animals discovered what had happened, they all blamed Bear for going mad. ‘Walking right up to the farmer’s door,’ they said. ‘What a fool.’ And Fox nodded along with them, and nobody ever found out what she had done.”
She looked at Crier closely, searching her face.
“So Kinok is the fox,” Crier said. “Clever and deceiving.”
The queen smiled. “No, my dear. Kinok is the wolf.” She paused and stared at Crier for a moment. Then she said, “I want you to be the fox.”
Her words moved over Crier like a wave of arctic air. “You said he spoke of a future for our Kind,” she said slowly. “What future is that?”
“The New Era.” The smile had left Junn’s face. “The Golden Era. To the Scyre, it’s a travesty that we still inhabit human cities—he thinks of us as vultures picking at dead things, living on the bones of a failed civilization. The true dreams of the Anti-Reliance Movement go far beyond just one capital city. He wants to raze all the old cities to the ground and build new cities, Made cities, Designed entirely for our Kind. Cities where humans are not only unwelcome but incapable of survival. Let them struggle, starve, kill one another off until they are, as his supporters would put it, ‘no longer our problem.’ And that’s not all. He wants to Make a new breed of Automae. He wants the next generation of our Kind to be even stronger, sharper. With no human pillars at all. And most importantly, most desperately, he wants to end our reliance on the Iron Heart.”