by Nina Varela
Is it pleasant or painful? Crier had asked.
Depends. Ayla’s voice, soft across her neck.
So you do remember.
There was only one logical explanation for such madness: she loved Ayla because she was Flawed. Because she had a fifth pillar. It was her Passion that had fallen in love with Ayla, not Crier herself—she would never otherwise be that foolish, that uncalculated, that wrong. Lady Crier was an Automa. She was heir to the sovereign—had every intention of reforming the Red Council, of changing the laws and ways of Zulla. Lady Crier would never allow herself to become so weak and soft over a human girl. She would never open herself up to betrayal.
All of this had happened only because of the fifth pillar. Logically, there was only one solution.
She needed it gone.
Ayla hadn’t succeeded in cutting out Crier’s heart. So Crier would do it for both of them. She wanted the Passion out of her, wanted to carve it out herself, like cutting away the bruise on a piece of fruit. Like burning away deadly spores on a tree branch, killing part of the tree so the rest could survive.
The Midwifery operated out of what had once been a human cathedral. It was a massive building, nearly the size of the Old Palace, the spires twisting up into the sky like columns of smoke. Every inch of the facade was carved with intricate designs: scenes from old human stories, gods and heroes, diagrams of the night sky: the planets, the constellations, the phases of the moon. The Automae guarding the doors were cloaked in black, their faces hidden by masks, and they reminded Crier far too much of Kinok. As her carriage drew near, she couldn’t help clutching the necklace, rubbing her thumb over the smooth red stone. Somehow, it helped calm her down.
A pair of Midwives appeared the moment Crier’s carriage passed through the iron gates. Like all Midwives, they were human and dressed all in white: white uniform shirt and pants, their hair pulled back and hidden under a white veil. One of them wore a white mask over their mouth, sort of like the masks Queen Junn and her retinue had worn. They looked like the inverse of the guards.
“Welcome, Lady Crier,” said the Midwife without the mask, even though Crier hadn’t introduced herself or sent word ahead that she was coming. “We are honored.”
The two Midwives helped Crier out of the carriage, and then the one with the mask led it away toward a small keep so the horses could rest and replenish themselves for the journey home. The remaining Midwife glanced at Crier’s small guard, her eyes impassive.
“We do not allow weapons inside the Midwifery,” she said.
“Don’t worry,” said Crier. “They will remain outside.”
The Midwife nodded, giving Crier a long look from beneath her white veil. Then she inclined her head. “You may call me Jezen.” Then she turned on her heel and headed for the wide wooden doors of the Midwifery.
Crier followed, trailing after Midwife Jezen through the doors and into the belly of the cathedral.
If the exterior of the Midwifery was beautiful, the interior was breathtaking. The walls were lined with polished stone pillars that met to form an arched ceiling so far above her head that she had to crane her neck back to look at it. Shafts of sunlight streamed through the tall windows lining the nave, tiny galaxies of dust motes floating and orbiting in the light, and the walls were painted with images similar to the ones carved into the facade. But the paintings were newer than the carvings: they included Automae. Golden-eyed figures emerging from swirls of red smoke, images of Kiera in her bloodred cloak, Kiera charging into battle during the War of Kinds. Humans genuflecting at her feet. Humans gazing reverently at newbuilt Automae. Humans crying with joy, bowing happily into the dirt, as if there was nothing more pleasurable than being ruled.
Crier looked away from the painting. She’d seen enough.
Where there might have been pews in a human cathedral, the Midwifery had rows of tables, sort of like the work space at the back of an apothecary. Some of the tables were curtained off, protecting newbuilt Automae. Others were covered in plants, some in stones or bits of metal. Some of the tables held clearly Made objects: everything from tools to trinkets to jewelry and, despite Jezen’s words, even weapons. This was where Crier had been Designed and Made. Crier would have been spread out on one of those tables, once, hidden by a curtain. Existing but not yet alive.
“Why have you come, Lady Crier?” Jezen asked. They had stopped in the center aisle of the nave, between the two rows of tables.
“I am getting married in a few days,” Crier stalled. “I came here to Make a gift for my husband.”
Jezen studied her for a moment. “That’s not true.”
Crier wanted to point to her chest, this is the hurting part, this is the bleeding part, fix it or take it out.
She looked down into Jezen’s big green eyes. She took one deep breath and then another, and then realized this was an utterly human tic that she must have picked up from Ayla, and that made it easier to speak. “You must help me.”
“Lady Crier?”
“I am Flawed,” Crier said. “I was Made wrong. You must help me correct it.”
“I don’t understand what you mean,” said Jezen slowly. She looked Crier up and down, as if searching for a well-hidden third arm. “What is your Flaw?”
“I have five pillars.” Crier saw the way Jezen’s eyes widened and kept going. “I was never supposed to know. My father Designed me, but someone sabotaged his Design. Someone Made me with five pillars on purpose. Midwife Torras,” she said, remembering the name Kinok had given her. “I don’t know why she did it. A huge scandal, I was told—I’m not the only one. But I saw the difference between my father’s papers and the final blueprint. I have Intellect, Organics, Calculation, Reason—and Passion.”
She waited for the Midwife to gasp in shock. Maybe recoil, the way people recoiled from lepers. But instead Jezen just stared at her with a slight furrow between her brows, her expression more confused than anything else.
“I have two Automa pillars and three human pillars,” Crier said again, just in case Jezen somehow didn’t understand. “I have a fifth pillar. You must remove it.”
“No, my lady,” said Jezen. “You don’t have a fifth pillar. You can’t.”
Crier shook her head. “Please, do not lie to me. I know what I saw.”
“Lady Crier, I am not trying to hide anything from you. It’s just—what you saw is simply not possible. I would know better than anyone. Years ago, I was one of many Midwives who experimented with creating Automae with five pillars, hoping we could Make an even stronger and more perfect being. But it never worked. Every single five-pillared Automae died in the Making process. Every single one. The fifth pillar threw their inner workings off-balance, no matter what we did—and trust me, my lady, we tried everything. It is not possible to have five pillars. You would have died newbuilt.”
“But—I’m not lying,” said Crier. “I, I saw the blueprints. . . .”
“I believe you. I believe that you saw them. I don’t think it’s you who is lying, Lady Crier. But it’s not me either.” Jezen paused for a moment, then nodded to herself. “I’ll prove it to you. Wait here, my lady. I’ll be right back.”
Crier couldn’t have moved if she tried. During the handful of minutes that Jezen was gone, she stood there struggling to comprehend what the Midwife had said.
Jezen returned with a roll of parchment in her hands. “We keep records of everything, of course,” she said, beckoning Crier over to a nearby worktable and undoing the length of leather string that kept the parchment bound. “This, here—these are your blueprints, my lady. Your real blueprints.”
She unrolled the parchment. Like the papers Crier had gotten from Kinok, there were multiple Designs—first a rough draft, then improvements, as her father worked with Midwives and Designers to home in on a final model. Then, finally, the last sheet of parchment. The final blueprint. Unlike the papers Crier had found, this final blueprint bore her father’s signature. The midnight-blue ink of Hesod’s name was stark agains
t the softer, lighter lines of the blueprint.
Jezen pointed to the center of the blueprint, the center of the Crier on the page, but it wasn’t necessary. Crier was already looking at the pillars. Four tiny columns of ink: Intellect, Organics, Calculations, Reason. Four. Just like there were supposed to be.
“I don’t understand,” she whispered. “Why would there be . . . ?” And even as she said it, she did understand.
“The blueprints you saw were fake,” Jezen said gently. She could probably already see the realization on Crier’s face. “They were forged. Can you think of anyone who might want to trick you, Lady Crier?”
Yes, of course she could. Someone who wanted not just to trick her, but to control her. To blackmail her into absolute obedience. To make her live in constant fear.
She felt sick.
Crier wasn’t Flawed. She’d never been Flawed. She was perfect; she was fully Automa. There was nothing wrong with her, no Passion consuming her from the inside out. No love.
“No,” she said without meaning to. “I don’t know who would do that.” Her own voice sounded so far away, as if she were hearing herself speak from across the entire Midwifery.
With careful hands she picked up her own blueprints and rolled them up again and fastened the leather string tight around them. She did all of this without a single thought in her head, nothing but a faint hum, the buzz of a locust swarm. Perhaps she had finally hit her limit.
“Lady Crier,” said Jezen.
Crier handed her the roll of parchment. “Thank you for clarifying the error, Midwife Jezen,” she said. “I apologize for keeping you.”
“Lady Crier—”
“My driver is waiting. I’ll take my leave now. Thank you again.”
“Crier,” Jezen said, grabbing Crier’s sleeve. Crier turned to face her again, so surprised by a human grabbing her like that that she didn’t even try to resist. “Before you go, let me say this.”
Crier waited. Jezen’s eyes, the color of the forest in Siena’s memory, were so intent on Crier’s face.
“Humanity is how you act, my lady,” said Jezen. “Not how you were Made.”
And she let go of Crier’s sleeve.
Back in the carriage, Crier did nothing but turn Ayla’s necklace over and over in her hands. It had become a habit to run the gold chain through her fingers like water, to hold the tiny red stone up to the light, to rub the gold casing like a talisman between finger and thumb. To hold the stone up to her ear and listen to the faint ticking of its odd inorganic heartbeat.
She supposed she should do away with it now. It belonged to Ayla, and she would never see Ayla again. Before Ayla it had belonged to Siena, long dead. Crier was done fishing through the memories of a person she would never know. Whatever had driven Siena to Make or commission this necklace, Crier would never know. She didn’t want to see Siena with that wild, beautiful, laughing human boy. Definitely didn’t want to see her with the not-Automa, Yora. That was a story that could only end with sorrow and blood.
But there was still one thing she didn’t understand: What did Yora’s heart mean? And why had Kinok written it down?
Closing her eyes, Crier held the locket between her palms. She could feel the heartbeat like this, the tiniest vibration against her skin.
One last time, she thought, squeezing the locket tight. If she couldn’t cut the love out of her, she would rid herself of it like humans did: by saying goodbye. Goodbye, Ayla. She took one of the bone hairpins from her hair and carefully pricked the top of her finger with it. Then she pressed her finger to the red stone and closed her eyes.
Images flashed through her head, one right after the other, and she realized she was thrown back into the same memory she’d witnessed before, entering where it had cut off—
A burning city. Buildings collapsing beneath the weight of the flames, smoke billowing into a sky like an open wound. Two figures racing away from the flames, toward the sea—the port. Leo and Siena, little Clara in Leo’s arms.
“. . . humans in the southeast fishing villages are standing strong,” Leo was saying, his voice loud and raw above the deafening roar of the fire. “We just have to make it down the coast and we’ll be safe—”
They reached the port. There were other terrified humans huddled on the docks: all of them dirty and shell-shocked, children wailing, parents staring back at the city with anguish on their faces. Their city, their beautiful city, their history, their lives—all of it destroyed. Clara shifted in his arms, pressed her face into his neck. Thank the gods she was all right.
But something was still wrong. Siena kept wavering, looking back at the city, the haze of smoke and flame. Leo knew what she was searching for. Knew it was too late. But she would never believe that. Not when it came to Yora.
Right at the edge of the docks, seawater lapping at their feet, Siena stopped dead. She was holding something. Cupping it with both hands. She must have been holding it this entire time; he hadn’t noticed. Siena held out her hands, revealing a stone cradled in her palms. It was about the size of a plum, smooth like glass, a deep, dizzying blue.
“Take it,” Siena said, pressing the blue stone into Leo’s free hand, the one that wasn’t clutching their daughter. “Please just take it.”
“Si, what is this?”
She looked manic. “Tourmaline. Just take it.”
“What—what is that? Why does it matter so much? Si, please—”
“It’s Yora!” she said desperately, terribly, her voice breaking on the name. “Please, Leo, please, it’s Yora, it’s her heart, it’s everything, please just take it, take it and keep it safe. I have to go back for her, for her Design, I have to save something else of her, but I’ll be back. I promise.”
“No!” he gasped. “No, Si, don’t you dare—SIENA,” but she was already running, running away from him and Clara, away from the port, back into the burning city. Leo screamed her name. Clara began to cry, struggling against his grip, wailing for her mother—Mama!—Si, please, don’t do this—Mama, come back—
And then Crier was wrenching awake, gasping, tasting bile.
She flung the locket away. It hit the opposite wall of the carriage and fell to the floor at her feet, landing with a thud far louder than any object that small should have made.
Crier tried to calm her breathing. She stared at the locket, resting so innocently on the floor of the carriage. Practically glowing, even though the velvet curtains were drawn across the carriage windows.
It’s Yora. It’s her heart.
No, Crier thought, even as the pieces fell into place at last.
Tourmaline.
You’re Tourmaline, she thought, thinking of the magnificent blue stone Siena had held in her palms. You are Yora, and you are Tourmaline. It felt impossible that the truth had been right here the whole time, first hidden beneath the collar of Ayla’s uniform and then in Crier’s hands. It was real.
It was just like Rosi had said—someone had invented the Automa before Thomas Wren, but their designs had been stolen. Siena’s mother was the inventor, the creator of Yora: a creature similar to Wren’s Automa, but not the same. A different prototype. One that had a blue gem for a heart and didn’t require heartstone to live.
The blue gem. Tourmaline. A source of immortality.
Crier understood the locket now, too, what it was. Siena had been a Maker—amateur, maybe, but a genius. She must have made the locket to trap memories—perhaps she’d made it for Leo, since it seemed to have captured his side of the story and not hers.
Somehow—the result of genius and alchemy—Siena had created Tourmaline, too; she’d put it in Yora’s body in an attempt to ensure that Yora, her greatest creation, would never die. It was real.
It was real.
Oh, gods.
Maybe Tourmaline wasn’t perfect—Crier couldn’t forget Yora’s soulless eyes, her blank stare. But still. Immortality. An infinite source. The Automa who knew how to create Tourmaline would be the most powerful A
utoma in Zulla overnight. Kinok would be more powerful than the sovereign. More powerful than the entire Red Council, the Scyres, the Watchers, Queen Junn. Every last Automa would be under his command.
The girl who was no longer under Crier’s protection.
No, said a voice in Crier’s head, so fierce that it took a second for her to recognize it as her own. No. You cannot take her.
There was only one thing to do. Crier felt oddly calm as she considered it. Something inside her had already accepted that she would do what must be done to save Ayla and stop Kinok. It was simple, in the end. She had to find the source of Tourmaline before he did.
She already had her first lead: Siena’s locket. And Ayla was her second. There was no other human alive who could trace the locket’s history, help her find out more about where exactly it had come from. There was a possibility Ayla wouldn’t be able to help at all—she hadn’t even known about the locket’s properties—but she was Crier’s best bet. Crier’s only hope.
Find Ayla.
Find Tourmaline.
Only then could she stop Kinok.
Crier pressed both hands to her sternum and breathed in deep. Find Ayla. The idea brought forth so many emotions, she didn’t know how to sort through them, which ones to focus on. It made Crier shiver and close her eyes and take another deep breath, trying to calm herself.
She had to find Ayla. Had to warn her—
“My lady,” said her driver, knocking on the carriage door.
Gods, had they stopped moving? She hadn’t even noticed.
“We were intercepted by a messenger from Varn. There’s an urgent message for you.”
A message. From Varn. Crier flung the carriage door open and the driver handed her a letter. The wax used to seal it was green, the seal itself forming the imprint of a single, tiny feather.
Crier shut the door again and tore open the envelope with shaking hands, heart pounding. . . .
Fox—
Don’t worry about the missing red hen. I took care of her.
I know it pains you, but you must go through with the wedding. Trust me, little Fox. The Wolf, his followers, and all of the corrupt Red Hands in one place . . . I can think of no greater opportunity to eliminate the worst of what stands in our way.