Bid My Soul Farewell

by Beth Revis

  Someone bumped into me, almost knocking me down.

  “Sorry, miss,” the man said. He tipped his hat at me, not even really looking my way before turning and rushing down the street.

  I frowned. It was a workday, but the streets were almost entirely empty.

  Where was everyone?

  “Excuse me!” I shouted, running to catch up with the man. He slowed but did not stop. “Where are you going?” I asked.

  He laughed. “To the Imperial Gardens, of course,” he said.

  “Of course,” I repeated slowly.

  He hurried on, and I followed, remembering the way to the Imperial Gardens thanks to Grey.

  The closer I got, the more people appeared. Some moved quicker than others, but all headed in the general direction of the vast public park bestowed upon Northface Harbor by Emperor Aurellious.

  I wrapped my hand in Nessie’s, determined not to lose her in the growing crowd. All around me were people of all different social classes. Gowned women walked beside factory workers. Orphans with amputations from the plague played with schoolboys and schoolgirls dressed in uniforms from the elite private academies. Everyone seemed . . . happy. Food vendors called out wares, clusters of people sang cheery folk tunes, and a man nearby tuned his fiddle as another invited any passing person, male or female, to dance a jig with him.

  The energy reminded me of the docks at Miraband, except more joyful.

  But there was no holy day today. No festival or memorial. I opened my mouth, ready to stop someone nearby and ask what the cause of the celebration was, when I saw it.

  At the far end of the gardens, a large, long gallows stood, holding thirteen empty nooses.

  I stopped in my tracks. Lunar Island hadn’t had a public execution since Bennum Wellebourne.

  But then another thought seized me. “Come on,” I whispered to Nessie, pulling her along faster behind me.

  I had no idea who was going to be hung today, but I knew I wasn’t likely to find thirteen fresher souls to take than these.

  FORTY-SIX

  Grey

  BEFORE I’D GONE to bed last night, two messages were delivered to my suite. One was from the Emperor—an order given to everyone in the castle that our presence at the public execution was mandatory. The other was an iron ring made from a horseshoe nail. From Hamish, I was certain of it. I hid it in my trunk.

  I was just about to leave for the Imperial Gardens when I received a summons to the throne room.

  The last time I had been here, Master Ostrum had been a revenant, controlled by Governor Adelaide. Together, they had tried to convince me to lure Nedra to the castle, where Governor Adelaide had planned a trap to steal Nedra’s necromancy crucible.

  I had not known then to be wary. I had blindly trusted all I had been told.

  As I entered the throne room now, my stomach tightened in trepidation.

  The enormous, life-size painting of the Emperor hung over the throne as a reminder of his power over every colony in the Empire. But as ostentatious as the portrait was, it was not nearly as commanding as Emperor Auguste himself.

  He draped himself over the throne, the picture of ease and relaxation. All traces of the weakened boy Governor Adelaide had locked away were entirely gone. Most of the council was there, milling about the edges of the room, clinging to the shadows. The people standing closer to the Emperor held notepads, their eyes flitting around, absorbing every detail. Reporters, I realized.

  When Emperor Auguste saw me, his face lit up. He straightened in the throne and motioned for me to approach. The room silenced as I crossed the tile floor; I felt the attention shift to me, and I tried to pretend not to notice.

  A flash of anger washed through me. The Emperor was making a habit of summoning me without warning. I never knew what I would find—the Emperor’s private chambers, a council room where I was expected to give a report I had not prepared, or a throne room full of reporters. Emperor Auguste’s easy, bright smile lit up his face as I neared him. The more uncomfortable I was, the more calm and in control he appeared.

  “Astor!” the Emperor said loudly. Not as a greeting, although it appeared to be that. But the flurry of movement and whispers from the reporters made me realize that he spoke for their benefit, not mine.

  Emperor Auguste leapt down from the throne and took my arm. “A turn around the room,” he said, leading me in a casual stroll away from the group of people who’d gathered near.

  “What is this?” I asked in a low voice.

  “A little intrigue gets them excited.” The Emperor flicked his gaze at the reporters, who were watching us raptly.

  Emperor Auguste squeezed my elbow, then relaxed his hand in the crook of my arm. “It’s fine,” he assured me.

  “What are they all doing here?” I asked.

  The Emperor frowned. “Vultures, that’s what reporters are. But feeding them keeps them at bay.” When I didn’t respond, the Emperor added, “You’re young.”

  “So are you,” I shot back.

  The Emperor stopped short. It was only in the ringing silence of the room that I realized how my comeback came across. How I had insulted the most powerful man in the world.

  But Emperor Auguste barked out a laugh.

  “I cannot stay on Lunar Island forever,” he said as we turned the corner of the throne room. We were close to Hamish now, his eyes narrow slits as he watched us from the shadows. “And I will need new leadership—leadership I can trust—in place here before I go.”

  A new sort of tension coiled around my insides. Was he offering me the governorship of Lunar Island? Technically, the position should be chosen through an election, but as the Emperor reminded us all when Governor Adelaide had been appointed, the Emperor’s choice trumped any vote.

  “But before I make any decisions,” Emperor Auguste continued, seemingly oblivious to the chaos his words had created in my mind, “I need to know that whoever I appoint to the role will be able to make the hard decisions that this colony needs.”

  He waited for me to respond. I felt foolish, but all I could say was, “I don’t understand.”

  “The plague has left so many people angry. And rightly so; it was a true tragedy. They want someone to blame.” His voice was so low it was nearly a whisper. I couldn’t help but think that if this conversation needed to be so private, then we probably shouldn’t have been having it in front of a room full of observers.

  “The execution of the thirteen traitors,” I said. I bit the words off. The Emperor said the people demanded it, but it had been one of his own council members who had started the rallying cry for a hanging.

  The Emperor nodded at me tightly, then flicked his gaze to the reporters still crowded around the throne. “They are going to have to hang,” the Emperor said. “You understand. Someone has to hang.”

  And I didn’t want it to be Nedra.

  “And,” Emperor Auguste continued, his voice a little louder now, “they are guilty. I’m not plucking innocents from the streets, Astor. They’ve committed the crimes they will pay for.”

  I didn’t turn to see Hamish, but I felt keenly aware of his presence. Because others had committed crimes, too. They simply had the means to pay for them in a way that didn’t involve a noose. Not people like my father; he’d gone too far and would never see a fair trial, of that I was now certain. But others, who had been less vocal and less powerful, could make the law turn a blind eye with coins.

  “Everyone pays for their crimes,” I mused, “either with their life or their gold.” It was how the rich stayed rich and the poor stayed poor. After their indiscretions, the rich could recover, and even earn more money. But the poor—unless aided by Nedra—could not earn another life.

  I had ignored Father’s rants at the supper table, about how Lunar Island wasn’t progressing the way it should, how our colony was under the thumb of
the Empire. Hadn’t I seen this for myself in Miraband? The capital city, the home of the Empire, had electricity and trolleys, advanced city planning and networks of established trade. The Emperor was here on Lunar Island now, and he’d made plans to build us orphanages and hospitals, but hadn’t mentioned developing a railroad or trolley system for public transportation. Hamish worked as city planner, and he’d been tasked with reorganizing the city blocks, but no allowance had been made for future advancements. Even our factories were outdated and unsafe, but the Emperor didn’t seem to have a plan to address them.

  I burned with shame. I had thought the Emperor would save us, that he was good and helping. He was only giving us scraps from a table set with a feast only he partook of, and he expected our everlasting adoration for it.

  The Emperor paused. We were near the middle of the room, opposite the throne. The reporters stood on one side of us, the council members along the wall on the other. We were as isolated as we could be in this room.

  “Is that what you truly think, that some can escape punishment?” the Emperor asked me, his tone still light. “I can name at least one person who has yet to answer for her crimes.”

  There it was—the threat against Nedra, should I not play the Emperor’s game. I wondered if he kept Nedra alive just to use me, or if I was a convenient pawn, easiest to move across the board in this round of his game.

  “What we’re doing today—it cannot come from me, Greggori,” Emperor Auguste said. He turned to face me, his eyes sincere. “I don’t have a governor appointed—not yet,” he added, subtly leaning into the word. “The people don’t trust the council; too many members were corrupt and have fled, and they’re seen as an . . .” The Emperor waved his hand, searching for the right word. “Elite,” he concluded.

  When I didn’t answer, the Emperor added, “You are a man of the people. A homegrown boy, a hero who worked to fight the plague and free the Emperor. Me.”

  Over his shoulder, I could see the reporters all watching us, eyes wide, waiting eagerly.

  “What do you need me to do?” I asked. A dread I couldn’t explain filled my gut.

  “I need you to be my representative,” Emperor Auguste said. “Can you stand beside me?”

  I swallowed. “At the hanging,” I said, even though I already knew that’s what he meant.

  The Emperor nodded gravely. “At the hanging of thirteen traitors,” he said in a voice so low I almost couldn’t hear it. “Not of your Nedra.”

  “I—” I hesitated. I had never—never—wanted this. I had wanted to help the north by traveling to Miraband, but this was something else entirely.

  The entire room watched me.

  “Governor Adelaide saw only the power and glory. But you—you see the responsibility, don’t you? The work?”

  “Yes,” I said. The Emperor’s face lit up, and I knew he thought I’d accepted the role.

  As soon as I spoke, the Emperor whirled around, facing the reporters. “I present to you the Lunar Island Colonial Representative!” he announced. The council members behind me clapped politely, and the reporters rushed forward.

  Emperor Auguste took something from a servant and then turned to offer it ceremoniously to me. A sheathed sword. “Defender of your people,” the Emperor said at my confused look. He inclined his head to me. When I didn’t move, Emperor Auguste himself crossed over to me and affixed the sheath to my belt. The sword felt heavy at my side, but also strangely comfortable.

  A group of servants rushed toward me as soon as the Emperor stood back. Two footmen carried a table, and another brought a chair. “Sit,” the Emperor told me, and before I had a chance to agree, I felt the seat of the chair bumping against the backs of my knees. I sat, and the servant pushed the seat under the table.

  A council member—Finip Brundl—stepped forward with a scroll as a different servant arranged a desk set on the table, a leather writing pad before me, with an ornate ink bottle and quill on one corner, and a lit candle with a wax burner suspended over it on the other.

  “Of course,” the Emperor said, twinkling at the reporters, “we all know the pen is mightier than the sword.”

  Finip unrolled the linen parchment in front of me. Across the top, in elegant calligraphy, were the words Execution Orders.

  My eyes grew round, and I tried to find the Emperor. But he’d walked behind me, standing with one hand draped over the high back of my seat.

  “How does it feel to represent Lunar Island?” a reporter asked me, stepping forward.

  “Um—an honor,” I said, unsure of myself.

  “You’re young, but you’ve already completed major tasks at the direct behest of His Imperial Majesty,” another said. She waited for me to respond, even though she hadn’t really asked a question.

  “Er, yes,” I said. “I went to Miraband to secure a trade commission to aid commerce in the north.”

  “Successfully,” Emperor Auguste said, beaming at me as he dropped a hand on my shoulder. I jumped under his touch, and felt more than heard the low rumble of his chuckle.

  My eyes kept falling to the open scroll in front of me. It listed the names of the thirteen conspirators, along with the command that they be hung by the neck until dead.

  There was a blank line at the bottom.

  “We are eagerly awaiting news of who the next governor will be,” the first reporter said, eyeing me.

  “And you’ll continue waiting,” the Emperor said. It was hard to see him from my angle. “For now, we have grave business to attend to.”

  The mood of the room shifted perceptibly, all eagerness replaced with solemnity.

  “It is with no small measure of grief that we find ourselves faced with the heaviest responsibility of the crown,” the Emperor continued. I wasn’t sure if he meant the royal “we,” or if he included me in the statement. “But the people have spoken. They will not see unjust criminals go unpunished. And the people”—Emperor Auguste squeezed my shoulder—“have been answered.”

  Every eye turned to me.

  I stared down at the execution orders. This was far more than standing beside the Emperor at the hanging today. The blank line at the bottom of the scroll stared up at me. The hot wax bubbled in the burner, the heavy metal seal of Lunar Island lying beside it, waiting for me, just as every person in the room waited for me.

  The pressure of the Emperor’s hand on my shoulder tightened. I remembered his unspoken threat—them or Nedra. And these men would hang anyway. This hanging would happen, regardless of whether I signed my name. But if I didn’t, so, too, would Ned.

  My hand shook as I picked up the quill and dipped it in the black ink.

  I couldn’t look up. Not at the people watching me. Not at the words at the top of the parchment. I focused on the blank line until it was blank no more. My signature scrawled across the bottom, small but undeniably there.

  A servant picked up the metal burner and poured a measure of hot red wax in a circle beside my name. I lifted the heavy seal and dropped it onto the parchment. A tiny droplet splattered up, burning my skin. I did not wipe it away.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Nedra

  MOST OF THE crowd pushed to the front of the platform, jostling to get as close as possible. I kept to the edge, on the lane, behind the food vendors. Children had tied ribbons of red and black, the Allyrian colors, on their wrists, and they screamed with joy as they wove in and out of the trees, their parents only half-heartedly calling for them to stay nearby.

  Ten or so meters from the platform was another, smaller raised box. A banner painted with the words ORYOUS SAVE THE EMPIRE hung around the box, and I could see a large, gilded chair in the center, with a smaller chair beside it.

  The Emperor’s private box for the best view of the execution.

  I kept well away from the box—and the circle of guards that surrounded it. It was easier to move o
n the perimeter of the crowd anyway.

  “A flag, miss?” A woman held out a little patch of cloth with the Allyrian flag on it, the material so stiff with paint that the flag stuck out without the need of a breeze to lift it.

  “I don’t have any money,” I said, already walking away.

  “It’s free.” She grabbed my shoulder—my left shoulder, where the arm gave way to nothing. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said, still awkwardly holding on to my residual limb. I looked down at her hand. “It’s free,” she said again, lamely, taking her hand away and holding the painted cloth to me. “The Emperor himself commissioned the Sewing Society to make them.”

  “Thank you,” I said, taking the little flag and pinning it to my cloak, because it seemed apparent that she wouldn’t leave me be if I didn’t.

  “And one for your”—she peered up at Nessie, to see if this was a relative or a spouse—“sister?”

  I took the second flag and turned to attach it to Ernesta’s cloak myself. I could feel the woman’s eyes on us.

  “The plague?” she said in a near whisper. Rather than help me, she watched as I held the cloth steady with my residual arm and used my right hand to slide the pin through Nessie’s cloak.

  “Obviously,” I snapped. I cast my eyes at her. The Sewing Society, she had said. Women and men whose parents, spouses, or inheritances supported them enough that they could sew for fun rather than necessity. What must it be like to turn labor into a hobby? That was the definition of luxury—not only to be able to buy what you needed, but to have the time to create things that no one did.

  “Yes, well,” the woman said, unsure of how to politely disengage. I didn’t bother to respond to her; I just walked away, my sister following mutely behind me.

  As I suspected, the prisoners had not yet arrived, but there was a space blocked off behind the platform, surrounded by guards. Members of the council milled about under a large tent. Servants poured glasses of wine for the esteemed guests. A table with charcuterie had been laid out, thinly sliced meats on plates nestled over glass, garlic-stuffed olives sprinkled between blocks of cheese.