by Nina Varela
Crier’s shock was genuine. A peasant woman had created the first Automa. Not Thomas Wren of the Royal Academy of Makers. Some woman no one had ever heard of.
It couldn’t be.
“Are you sure?”
“Foer seemed to be.”
Crier sank back in her chair. Rosi’s eyes swept over her greedily, as if feeding on Crier’s reaction to the secret.
She thought again of Kinok’s notes. Of the phrase “Yora’s heart.” Of Wren’s secret connection—affair?—with H.
“But . . . I don’t understand,” said Crier. “Why would this person allow Wren to take credit for her work? Why would she give him something so valuable?”
“I asked the same question. Foer said maybe her work wasn’t given. Maybe it was taken.”
The two of them sat there for a moment, mulling over the knowledge. Or at least Crier was—Rosi didn’t seem to be thinking of anything at all, her eyes darting around like mayflies, fingers drumming on her knees. Her gaze was so empty.
“I wonder what made Kinok suspicious of Wren,” Crier mused aloud. “I wonder why he told Foer to investigate him.”
Rosi made a dismissive noise. “Who knows? He’s a genius. If anyone could find Tourmaline, it’s him.”
Tourmaline.
“Thank you, Rosi,” Crier said. “That was more than enough.”
After making assurances that Rosi would be well taken care of by the sovereign’s men should she need any support in the wake of Foer’s death, Crier felt her duty had been completed—and truthfully, she was eager to get out of Rosi’s house, to get away from the girl whose arms shook and eyes blazed and veins popped out dark against her skin. But it wouldn’t have been proper to leave without a ceremonial dinner, and the trip was too long to make it back in one day.
So Crier dined, hardly taking a bite of the useless food put out before her. She pocketed a biscuit to bring to Ayla in the morning.
When dawn broke, she was anxious to get moving. Ayla had been made to sleep in the servants’ quarters, and Crier felt irrationally protective, worried for her safety, even though there was no suggestion of danger to her here.
They left Rosi’s estate the next morning, Crier feeling more disturbed than ever. Nightshade, Tourmaline, Yora’s heart, Thomas Wren, the mystery of the unnamed woman . . . not to mention Rosi’s strange and frightening behavior.
And Kinok had given her the black dust. Kinok did that to her. To countless others. Every day, with every new piece of information, the case against him seemed to build. Crier was determined to keep building it until her father had no choice but to listen to her, to see Kinok for who he truly was: a threat.
There was one more stop to make before she returned home. The village of Elderell.
It was the last place Reyka had been seen before she disappeared.
Crier waited until she knew they must be close to the village gates, and then she knocked on the wall of the carriage, hoping it was loud enough to be heard over the horse’s hooves. No response. She knocked again, louder and more frantic this time, and heard the driver call out to the others. Halt for a moment, the lady—
She had only a few seconds before he would open the doors. She ignored Ayla’s hissed what are you doing, hissing right back, “Just play along, all right? Just do as I say.”
A second later the carriage door was opening and the driver said, “Is everything all right, Lady Crier?”
“No!” she said urgently. “My handmaiden is gravely ill.”
The driver glanced at Ayla, who promptly doubled over and groaned loudly. A little theatrical, maybe, but it did the trick.
“We should keep going if we want to return to the palace by sundown, my lady,” the driver said. “Perhaps the handmaiden—”
“Do you want her dead?” Crier demanded, drawing herself up. The driver cowered beneath her gaze. “She’s a human, she is weak. What will it look like to the sovereign if I return with a dead handmaiden? What will it look like if you couldn’t even keep both of us alive for two days?”
Ayla groaned again.
“My deepest apologies, Lady Crier,” the driver said in a rush. “We are barely a league from the village of Elderell. I will take you there at once.”
“Well, get on with it!” Crier snapped. “Take us to the Green River Inn at the heart of the village. Now.”
The driver nodded and slammed the carriage doors shut. A few moments later the jostling movement started up again, and Crier leaned back against the velvet seat in satisfaction as their course veered slightly east. When she looked up, Ayla was staring at her.
“Thank you,” said Crier. “You did well.”
“Right,” said Ayla after a pause. Then she leaned closer, and Crier took in a breath. “Are you going to tell me what’s in Elderell?”
Crier hesitated. She didn’t know enough. The last time she divulged information hastily, three people ended up murdered overnight.
“I can’t. Not yet. It’s too—dangerous.”
Ayla studied her for a moment, then pulled back and looked away.
“Ayla.”
Ayla still refused to look at her.
To his credit, the carriage driver delivered them to the Green River Inn in record time. Crier had chosen it because she’d heard Reyka mention the inn a few times, as she frequently stopped to do business in Elderell. They pulled up outside the inn—a somewhat ramshackle building just off the village square, with a friendly-looking green door and smoke pouring from the chimney—just past midday. Crier hopped out of the carriage, bid the driver and guards to remain outside the inn, ready for departure, and helped Ayla down, supporting most of her weight. Ayla was pretending to be annoyed about the whole pretending-to-be-ill act, but Crier suspected she was secretly enjoying it. Her pained groaning was quite loud, and she was limping very dramatically.
“Which illness gives you stomach pains and a limp,” Crier muttered, helping Ayla through the green door of the inn.
“A bad one,” Ayla retorted.
The inside of the inn was warm and homey. The ground floor was a tavern. All the rooms were upstairs. A massive hearth fire crackled away happily in the corner, a spit turning slowly over it; the smell of roasted meat hung in the air. A human inn, then. It wasn’t surprising—Reyka had always favored places run by humans instead of Automae. She said they were warmer.
Crier “helped” Ayla sit down at one of the low tables in the center of the room. There were only a couple of other patrons at this time of day, the sun still high in the sky, and they were both curled over mugs of ale.
The innkeeper, a plump human woman, noticed Crier at once. She approached Crier slowly, seemingly wary of a strange Automa in her tavern—especially because Crier looked like a noble. “Can I help you, ma’am?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Crier. “When was the last time you saw Councilmember Reyka?”
The innkeeper frowned. “Councilmember Reyka? It must have been over a month ago, ma’am.” She hesitated, and then leaned in closer. “I’ll confess, I’ve been a bit worried myself. Usually we see the Hand every other week like clockwork. I’ve known her for near five years now, ma’am, and I’ve never known her to miss more than one visit in a row.”
Every other week for five years, in a tiny village like this? “Do you happen to know the nature of the business the councilmember was conducting here?” Crier asked, trying not to sound too desperate.
“No, ma’am, I’m sorry. Tight-lipped, the Hand is.” Another beat of hesitation. “But she was—kind. Always kind. If anything’s happened to her . . .”
Crier ignored the innkeeper’s searching look. She had no reassurances to give. Instead, she felt bitterness rising up inside her. And Crier had delayed her return home for nothing. “I see,” she said, defeated. “Thank you for your help.”
She was about to collect Ayla and head back outside to the carriage when a flicker of movement caught her eye. There, in the stairwell leading up to the rooms, a human girl w
as staring at Crier. When Crier looked at her, she beckoned.
Curious, Crier slipped off the stool and headed over to the stairs. She could feel Ayla’s eyes on her back and glanced over her shoulder once, giving Ayla a short nod. Stay there. I’ll be right back.
Wordlessly, the human girl led Crier up the stairs. She was clearly a maid of the inn, wearing a dove-gray uniform with her hair hidden under a kerchief. She was young—barely older than Crier and Ayla, with big doe eyes and hair like flax.
They reached the first landing and the girl stopped. “I overheard you asking after the Red Hand,” she said in a whisper, keeping her eyes on the ground. She looked scared, hands twisting in the hem of her uniform shirt. “She was—she was always kind to me. She treated me well.”
“What do you know?” Crier asked. “Have you seen her lately?”
The girl shook her head. “No. Not for weeks. But the last time she was here, she—she left something behind.”
The girl hurried away, coming back a minute later, holding a small wooden box. “It was under the bed,” she said, and pressed the box into Crier’s hands. “I didn’t open it, I swear, I would never—I just wanted to keep it safe. For Reyka.” Her eyes went huge. “Councilmember Reyka. I’m sorry. I just—she was kind.”
“Thank you,” Crier said gently. “What is your name?”
“Laur,” the girl said. She met Crier’s eyes and then looked away again. “My name is Laur.”
“Thank you, Laur. When I see Councilmember Reyka again, I will tell her what you did for her. She will be just as grateful as I am.”
“I hope she’s all right,” Laur said, biting her lip.
“She is,” Crier said. “I’m sure of it. Now—do you have an empty room I could borrow?”
Minutes later, Crier was alone in an empty room of the inn. She set the wooden box on the bed and stared at it, oddly nervous. This was the only clue she had about Reyka’s disappearance. The only thing that could help her find Reyka and make sure she was alive and whole. Crier took a deep breath, steadying herself, bracing for disappointment, and opened the box.
It was full of green feathers.
Crier pressed both hands over her mouth, horror washing over her like cold water.
Reyka was working with Queen Junn, and someone must have found out, someone who didn’t like the queen, who considered her, and thus Reyka, an enemy to the state.
But who would feel that way about the queen?
Only one name came to mind: Kinok.
Of course, she had no proof, but then again, Kinok had multiple motives. He didn’t like the queen or her beliefs. And he wanted a spot on the Red Council.
What had he done?
Reyka, please be alive.
Perhaps the answer was less dire. Perhaps Reyka had simply realized she’d been exposed, and was forced to go into hiding.
Maybe, even now, she was in Varn, under the queen’s protection. The thought gave Crier some relief.
Crier stared at the green feathers, so flimsy and light, yet carrying so much meaning.
If Kinok did do it, if he was willing to go after a member of the council, where would he draw the line? What if he found out Crier was conspiring with Queen Junn as well?
Would he make her disappear, too? Would he expose her Flaw?
Or would he go after her real weak spot, who was currently sitting in the tavern just one floor below, unaware that she was in unspeakable danger?
When she looked up and saw Ayla standing in the doorway of the room, stock-still, Crier at first questioned her own eyes. It seemed she had simply thought of Ayla, and Ayla had appeared. But it wasn’t an illusion—Ayla was standing there with her wide eyes fixed on the open box. The green feathers.
Panic.
One second, they were staring at each other, ten feet between them, and the next Crier had dropped the box from her lap, allowing the feathers to scatter all over the floor, and she was across the room, twisting her fingers into the collar of Ayla’s shirt, dragging Ayla inside, closing the door and slamming Ayla back against it harder than she intended—hard enough to make Ayla cry out in pain, or surprise, or anger.
“You saw nothing,” Crier hissed, her voice tight and desperate in a way it had never been before. “You saw nothing, do you understand me?”
“Let me go!” Ayla snapped. She tried to wriggle away from Crier’s hold; Crier only tightened her grip on Ayla’s collar. She could feel Ayla’s heartbeat against her fingers, radiating out from the pulse point in her soft neck, rabbit-quick, human-quick. “I’m not going to—”
“You must keep this a secret,” Crier insisted. “You must.”
“Crier—”
“If Kinok finds out, he will kill me,” said Crier, meeting Ayla’s eyes. Their faces were so close—she had the advantage of height over Ayla, and something about staring down into Ayla’s face, even when it was all twisted with indignant anger, made Crier’s blood sing. “He will kill me. And if I die, so do you.”
In era nine hundred, year fifty, justice came to Zulla like summer rain to scorched and sterile earth.
Their names were Tayol and Neo, and it was they who gained control of the Iron Heart.
It was they who captured Thomas Wren, the Maker of the First of our Kind, the Maker of Kiera. Once a brilliant alchemist, now a disgrace, a hermit, hoarding heartstone deep within the mountains, using it as leverage over the Made.
It was Tayol and Neo who murdered Wren.
With that single act, they set us free.
—FROM ON THE WAR OF KINDS
BY RIA OF FAMILY DARYLLIS, 0922950901, YEAR 8 AE
20
“Will you calm down?” Ayla snapped, trying to remain calm herself. It was as if her mind had slowed, gone into survival mode. “I’m not going to tell anyone. I know what those feathers mean. You’re in contact with the Mad Queen.”
Crier’s mouth moved but no sound came out. “How do you know?” she whispered at last.
“I’ll show you how. But first you’ll have to let go of me.”
Still gaping, Crier finally let go. She took a step back, her eyes never leaving Ayla’s face.
“Gods,” Ayla said, rubbing at her shoulder. She could already feel the bruises forming, marks in the shape of Crier’s fingers.
“How do you know about the feathers?” Crier demanded.
“Because.” Ayla reached into her pocket and pulled out her own green feather, the one Storme had given her. She hated thinking about Storme. It was like pressing on an old wound that had only just recently reopened. But there was no safer place to keep the feather than on her person at all times. “I didn’t know she’d contacted you.”
“I didn’t know she’d contacted you,” said Crier.
Ayla snorted. “Guess I don’t seem like a likely candidate, do I.”
“Neither did Reyka.” Catching Ayla’s look of surprise, Crier explained. “You’re right. I am in contact with Queen Junn. But these feathers aren’t mine. I wanted to stop in this village because it was the last place Councilmember Reyka was seen alive.”
“The box is hers,” Ayla realized, looking around at the feathers scattered everywhere.
“Yes. Apparently, she left it behind the last time she stayed here, sometime this fall. I think she did it on purpose. Perhaps she knew she was in danger, perhaps she was leaving a clue in case someone came looking for her. Either way, she was working with the queen. And I’m not sure, but I think Kinok could be connected to her disappearance.”
“Why are you telling me all of this?” Ayla asked.
Crier bit her lip, a human gesture. “You already knew about the feathers. I have to trust you, don’t I?”
Ayla paused. “You didn’t trust me an hour ago, when we were in the carriage.”
“I didn’t want to endanger you,” Crier said.
Ayla registered that it was true. She could read Crier, she realized—had been able to for some time. “That night,” she said quietly. “The night your chi
me went off.” She couldn’t bring herself to say the night we lay side by side on your bed. It felt like it had happened in another lifetime. She felt her body heat up at the memory of it. “I asked you what you know about Kinok. What have you learned?”
“That his reach extends through all ranks of Automa society. That he is controlling his followers with a black dust. They take it instead of heartstone. They call it Nightshade, but it seems to have . . . damaging effects.”
“Yes.” Ah. The crates of dust—that’s what it was, then. Not a weapon, exactly, but a substance. “And not just Automa society.”
Crier looked at her. “What do you mean?”
“He knows all about us, too. My Kind. How we’re connected to each other, who we care for. He even charted it—I saw it in his chambers, it was like a map of our relationships, our connections. Not just bloodlines but also friendships, romances. Any kind of love.” The word love floated in the air between them. “And . . .” Could she really tell Crier all this?
“And what?” Crier stepped toward her and Ayla backed up, remembering the strength and power of Crier’s grip on her just moments ago—it was the strength and power of an Automa. An enemy.
But an enemy who could help.
“I believe,” Ayla said slowly, remembering what Rowan had told her and Benjy in the orchard just last week, “that he’s had help spreading false information about the Resistance among us. Spreading claims of an uprising among the humans, perhaps to . . .” Her mind was spinning. “To set us up.”
Crier was staring at her so powerfully she feared Crier’s eyes would set her skin on fire. “Rosi told me that Kinok had armed the southern estates in advance of the first Southern Uprisings,” Crier said. “Almost as if he’d—”
“Been the first to know about them. Or—”
“Been the instigator.”
Ayla felt sick. “He didn’t just have insider knowledge. He was the insider. The west was a tinderbox and he was the flint, the spark. He created a rebellion to justify slaughtering my Kind . . .”