by Nina Varela
Even leeches had their tells.
At first glance, there was nothing interesting at all about the corner: there was the edge of a bookshelf and then nothing else, just solid stone wall, solid stone floor. Ayla ran her hands over the wall, checking for a give, a hinge, anything. She knocked quietly against the wall and the floor, but there weren’t any parts that sounded like they might be hollow.
But she was sure the safe would be somewhere around here.
She ran her hands over the bookshelf next. It was a sturdy piece of furniture, made of the same dark cherry wood as Kinok’s desk. Quickly, more and more paranoid about Kinok’s return as the minutes dragged on, Ayla began checking each book on the shelf—lifting each one carefully so as not to disturb the dust on the shelves, flipping through the pages, searching for anything remotely off. She found nothing on the first shelf or the second. She knelt down to search the third and final shelf, the bottommost one, trying to be as careful as possible while still moving quickly. Surely Kinok would be back any moment now. . . .
There.
Hidden behind one of the books from the middle of the shelf, only visible because Ayla was kneeling, there was a tiny, nearly invisible seam in the wooden back of the bookshelf.
Heart pounding, Ayla set the book aside and reached out, running her fingers along the seam. It made a rectangular shape, barely larger than her palm. Like a tiny door. She pressed at the edges, trying to figure out how to open it—and there, yes yes yes, a tiny give when she pressed at one side of the seam. She pressed harder and the tiny door sprung open, revealing—
Metal.
The edge of what looked like a thin metal box. A safe. It was similar to the one Crier kept her finest necklaces in.
This one must have been barely an inch thick to fit so perfectly in the back of the bookshelf, painstakingly hidden by the tiny wooden door. Ayla leaned forward, wondering if she could maybe pry it out with her fingernails . . . but no, it was still half embedded in the wood, she’d need to remove all the books and then replace them afterward in the exact right order, which would take time she definitely didn’t have, and even then she could see part of a lock on the front of the safe, a series of little clockwork gears, all labeled with strange alchemical symbols. Some she recognized: the eight-point star, the symbols for salt, mercury, and sulfur; body, mind, and spirit.
The language of the Makers. She didn’t know it, but Benjy did. He’d learned that at the temple, as a child.
Breathless with her discovery, Ayla returned the book to the shelf and went back to sit in her chair, mind racing. So she wouldn’t be able to open the safe alone. But she knew it had to be opened. She knew, with near absolute certainty—the kind that only came when you were so close to death you could taste it—that this was the puzzle piece she needed.
I can return anytime I wish, Kinok had said. There are ways.
Now all she had to do was get into that safe.
Kinok returned only a few minutes later. Ayla straightened up the second she heard his key scrape in the lock, feeling so much less afraid than before. Even though she still didn’t know why he’d asked about her parents, even though she still didn’t know why or how he’d gotten hold of her locket, even though she still didn’t know what her punishment would be. As long as she could tell someone about the location of the safe, she would be triumphant. She’d win this one—or die trying.
She stared at Kinok, waiting.
“Leave,” said Kinok.
Ayla pulled up short. “. . . Excuse me?”
“Leave,” he said again, slow and drawn out, like he was talking to a horse or a particularly dim child. “I require nothing from you. Leave.”
“I don’t understand,” she heard herself say, even as her entire body yearned for the door and the steps back up to sunlight, to something that wasn’t freedom but was better than this. “I don’t understand, aren’t you going to—?”
“We are done here,” he said, every word from his lips like something heavy dropping to the carpet between them, like he spoke stones.
She wavered for a moment longer, is this a trap is this a trap, but then finally body won out over paranoia and she darted away from him, out the door, up the marble steps, until she was inside the palace again and the air smelled like the sickly perfume of too many flowers.
She hurried toward the exit closest to the servants’ quarters, walking as fast as she could without looking too suspicious, knowing she needed to talk to Benjy—immediately.
But before she could even make her way outside, another servant stopped her abruptly.
“You’re needed in the kitchens. Malwin’s been looking for you.”
Malwin? What could she want? Their last interaction hadn’t exactly been pleasant. She’d not soon forget how Malwin spat at her feet.
But she couldn’t disobey.
Full of a new dread, Ayla made her way to the kitchens.
Upon arriving in the dim, smoky, cavernous room, she was ordered straight to a corner station to begin shucking the papery skin off a pile of onions. She hadn’t spent much time in here, had only been on cooking duty once or twice—humans her age were usually reserved for manual labor.
The kitchens of a leech’s palace weren’t like any human kitchen. The floor was trodden earth and there was a roasting pit, a larder, a few big, rough-hewn worktables, a wall dedicated to pots and platters and knives—but there was also a massive clay fireplace that took up almost an entire wall, the flames occupied by a black cauldron that both Ayla and Benjy could have comfortably curled up inside with room to spare. This cauldron was used for one thing only: brewing liquid heartstone. The white steam rolling thickly into the chimney smelled bitter, metallic. Ayla breathed through her mouth, and still she could taste it on her tongue. There was always a single leech guard stationed by the heartstone cauldron. Startled, Ayla realized that she recognized today’s guard. It was the same one she’d run into last night.
Ayla shifted, hiding her face.
Through the thick curtain of her hair, Ayla watched a kitchen boy stir the contents of the cauldron. Soon, she knew, it would be strained and poured into another cauldron to cool. You could tell who was on pouring duty because their hands and clothes were stained red.
“Handmaiden.”
Ayla looked up.
Malwin stood before her. She didn’t look hateful or angry, as Ayla had expected. If anything, she was peering at Ayla with something like curiosity.
“I’m under orders from Queen Junn’s adviser,” said Malwin, speaking in a hushed voice so the leech guard wouldn’t hear.
Storme.
Somehow, Ayla kept her face blank. “The human, ma’am?”
“Yes. He caught me just before they left.”
So he really did leave. It wasn’t a surprise, but it still stung all over again. Storme was already gone.
So much had happened between their argument last night and her getting caught this morning that she’d hardly had time to think of him again—or to grieve.
Because that was how it felt. It was like another death. Not crueler or more upsetting than the first, but dull and deep and aching.
“What’s that got to do with me, ma’am?”
“Gave me something to give to you. He said you dropped it. He said to tell you, ‘Don’t lose it again.’”
Ayla stared as she reached into the pocket of her uniform and pulled out a single green feather.
“You know, you really shouldn’t have this,” Malwin scolded her. “I don’t know why you carry it around with you, but I’m sure it counts as a belonging. You’re lucky the adviser saw you drop it and not Lord Hesod. You could’ve got in real trouble, girl.”
Ayla nearly barked out a laugh. Clearly, Malwin didn’t know what kind of trouble she’d already gotten in.
“Right,” Ayla said after a pause. “You’re right, I’ll—I’ll be more careful.”
“Well, don’t tell me. ’S not my neck on the chopping block.” She pushed t
he feather into Ayla’s hands. “Hide that. I should’ve tossed it in the fire, but I’m feeling kind today.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Ayla put the feather in her pocket . . . and set aside her curiosity. She’d have time later to wonder about it.
For now, she had to talk to Benjy.
Ayla waited for him under their tree, staring into the gnarled eye. She’d left her comb on his pillow, a signal that she wanted to meet, but what if he hadn’t noticed it? It was so strange, using the comb as a signal instead of just whispering to him, or tapping the back of his hand as she walked past. They used to spend every possible moment together, but ever since Ayla became a handmaiden she hadn’t seen Benjy nearly as much. Most days, all they exchanged was a single glance as they climbed into bed, their bodies separated by a dozen other sleeping servants.
As she waited, her thoughts were a hive of worries. Why had Kinok asked about her family? Would she ever see Storme again?
What about Rowan and the other rebels who’d joined her going south? She’d been desperate not to think of that—to think of the fact that she hadn’t heard anything about them since. What had happened to them?
She couldn’t worry about that now, though. Not yet. Because she had to tell Benjy about what Crier had told her.
Kinok’s compass pointed to the Iron Heart. She was sure of it. Why else would such a thing be so special? Why else would even the Red Hands want it?
Total destruction was a possibility now in a way it hadn’t been before.
Ayla was buzzing with the knowledge of it.
So excited that if Crier were here, she could kiss her for it.
She wanted to slap the thought straight out of her head, but just then, Benjy ducked under a tree branch, dust and sunlight in his curly hair. Ayla realized with a pang that he didn’t even know she’d found Storme. But maybe it was better if he didn’t know her secrets.
Anything to fray the thread between them.
But Ayla missed him. She missed him in the way of missing people who are not dead, who are warm and close and breathing. It wasn’t something she’d ever experienced before. Missing her parents (and Storme, until yesterday) was different; it felt like trying to draw water from a well that had long since run dry. Missing Benjy felt like staring at a bucket of cool, clear water and refusing to drink. He was right there. But she had to keep him at arm’s length, because anything closer was too dangerous.
“Hey,” he said, smiling at her, and she did not smile back. “How’s life in the royal palace?”
“Charming. Malwin loves biting my head off.”
“Poor baby,” he said, leaning against the trunk of the tree. “Wanna trade?”
She rolled her eyes. “Please. You wouldn’t last a second as a handmaiden.”
Something flickered across his face. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “I probably wouldn’t be as good at it as you are.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” He sighed and shook his head, reaching up to pluck a leaf and play with it between his fingers. “Nothing, sorry, been a long day. A long week.”
“A long life.”
“Listen, I have news.”
“I do, too. But you go first.”
“Rowan. She’s back.”
This wasn’t at all what Ayla had been expecting to hear. Her heart practically thumped out of her chest. “Is she okay? Where is she?”
“Shh,” he said, coming away from the tree trunk, his face part in shadow. “Not here.”
“But—”
He took her hand. It felt warm and rough. “She’s going to meet us. By the cliffs. Come on.”
Together, they cut through the grounds, heading for the sea cliffs—the spot where Ayla and Crier had first met, where Ayla had saved Crier’s life. They stuck to the shadows, the aisles of soft black dirt between rows of seaflowers, and Ayla glanced behind them every few moments to check for guards or other servants. But there was no one, and they reached the cliffs unheeded.
It was colder so close to the ocean, the rocks slick with sea spray. Ayla’s arms were pebbled with gooseflesh.
Rowan was already waiting for them on the cliffs, silhouetted against the night sky and the ocean. Her silver hair tumbled over her shoulders and she looked still and calm as always, but when they drew closer Ayla could see the shadows under her eyes and the careful way she was holding herself, as if she had a hidden injury. Ayla forgot her own discomfort and hurried forward.
“Rowan!” Ayla said, joining her on the edge of the cliff. “Gods, I thought you wouldn’t be back for weeks.” If at all. “What happened? Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine,” said Rowan dismissively. “And—nothing happened.”
Benjy made an impatient noise and Ayla held up a hand to silence him. “We weren’t followed,” she said. “Even if we had been, nobody could hear us over the waves. You can tell us.”
“That was me telling you,” said Rowan. She sounded even more exhausted than Ayla felt, her voice empty. “That’s why I’m back so soon. Here’s what happened in the south: nothing.”
Ayla frowned.
“I don’t understand,” said Benjy beside her.
Rowan sighed and sat down heavily on the rocks. Ayla immediately dropped to her knees beside her, halfway to panicking, but Rowan waved her away. “It’s fine, Ayla. Just some bruising on my ribs. Makes it hard to stand for too long.”
“But what happened,” Ayla insisted. “It can’t have been nothing. You said there were two hundred gathering in the south, a full moon, you said—”
“I know what I said. And I know what I heard, and who I heard it from—a person I thought was a reliable source. But I’m telling you, when I reached my contacts in the south, I found nothing. There were no uprisings. There were never going to be any uprisings.” She looked between them, her face grave. “The humans on those estates hadn’t even heard the rumors. My contacts knew nothing. I came for a rebellion and walked into normal day after normal day. It was all a lie.”
The three of them were silent, Ayla and Benjy struggling to make sense of Rowan’s story.
Benjy spoke first. “But who would have spread a lie like that? Who stands to gain from it? Some leech trying to confuse the Resistance, make us doubt each other? Maybe even provoke us into fighting with each other instead of the enemy?”
“I don’t know who it was,” said Rowan. “But I think this was less of a provocation and more of an experiment.”
“What do you mean?” said Ayla.
“I mean that whoever created this falsehood, whoever wanted me to believe there were going to be uprisings to the south . . . I think they did this because they wanted to know where I get my information and then where I spread it. I think they wanted to track the connections between members of the Resistance. To see who talks to who, who follows who. They wanted to map us.”
Benjy said something in response, but Ayla didn’t hear it—her ears were roaring, and it wasn’t the sound of the ocean waves crashing against the rocks.
They wanted to map us.
She had a pretty good idea of who lied to Rowan about the uprisings.
But how?
She didn’t realize she’d spoken aloud until Rowan said, “I don’t know how. I don’t know which of my contacts I can trust anymore. All I know is that we have a mole. And we—the entire Resistance—is in danger.”
“Who did you first hear about the uprisings from?” Ayla asked quietly.
“I don’t reveal names,” said Rowan. “But . . . I will tell you that it was someone from within the palace. A servant.” She looked away, a muscle flexing in her jaw. “Someone whose information has always been true. Someone who has never led me astray before.”
“And that person? Who did they hear it from?”
She shrugged. “In the past, they’ve mentioned only where she was stationed.”
She. “And where was that? Where was she stationed?” Ayla’s heart was pounding. She leaned forward, eye
s intent on Rowan’s face. Some part of her already knew what she was about to hear, already knew the answer, but she asked anyway.
“My contact said she’s a scullery maid,” Rowan said cautiously. “Stationed in the laundry room.”
“Do you know something?” Benjy asked Ayla, catching the look on her face.
“Faye,” Ayla said quietly.
Rowan’s expression collapsed, but she didn’t look shocked. She must have had the same suspicion.
But if that were true . . .
“Benjy, did you find out anything more about the sun apples Faye kept talking about?”
He nodded, looking grim. “I tried to get into the crop house at the end of the field this morning. Claimed I’d seen a bad batch of grain and wanted to check some of the supplies. There was a mountain of sun apple crates—far more than I would have thought the orchards could produce in just over a month.”
“That’s odd,” Ayla said slowly.
“Not as odd as what I found inside them.”
“What do you mean?” Rowan asked, her voice hoarse and low.
“The crates weren’t full of apples at all—at least not the ones I managed to pry open. I didn’t have much time before that tall guard, Tiren, was going to find me out, so I wasn’t that thorough, but I did open two of the crates, and, and . . . they were full of . . . I don’t really know. This . . . this dust. Black dust.”
“Black dust? Like some sort of powder?” Rowan asked.
“Could it be a weapon?” Ayla chimed in.
Benjy shook his head. “I honestly don’t know.”
Ayla looked at Rowan. “If Faye was helping Kinok make shipments of this dust . . .”
“She was definitely in way over her head,” Benjy finished.
Ayla’s breath shook in her chest as she tried to speak. “Well, whatever the purpose of the dust, we know one thing—Kinok is controlling Faye. Using her. Maybe she tried to defect. Maybe that’s why . . .”
She didn’t have to finish her sentence. All three of them were thinking the same thing. Maybe that was why Kinok had ordered Luna’s death.
Ayla swallowed hard. “So what do we do?” She and Benjy both looked at Rowan.
Rowan’s voice was cold. “We take the Scyre down.”