A Kingdom for a Stage

by Heidi Heilig

  “I’ll send someone with a meal,” he says. Then he turns crisply on his heel, his footfalls echoing as he walks down the hall, and I am alone but for the soldiers outside and the ghosts in my head.

  Act 1,

  Scene 5

  The sanctuary. THEODORA is at her desk, making notes. XAVIER enters, then stops when he sees her, surprised.

  XAVIER: I told you to go without me.

  THEODORA: The advisers won’t talk to me if you aren’t there. You know they don’t think I can make any real decisions.

  The general shakes his head, annoyed.

  XAVIER: They’ll treat you with more respect when you’re queen—

  THEODORA: Do you really think so?

  XAVIER: Because you’ll have the power to dismiss them if they don’t.

  La Fleur gives a wry smile.

  THEODORA: That’s true. To be honest, it’s the Chakrans I’m more worried about.

  XAVIER: Me too. Though possibly for different reasons.

  THEODORA tosses down her pen and cracks her knuckles. She stands, falling in beside XAVIER. Side by side, they walk through the sanctuary, down the wide steps and across the plaza.

  THEODORA: It all comes down to legitimacy. Without a marriage to the last living heir, my claim to the throne is spurious. The rebels did their best to make Raik’s disappearance look like an armée attempt to assassinate him. It doesn’t help that our father did in fact want him dead. Now, even if he’s still willing to marry, the Tiger can easily claim he was coerced, and the fight would never end. This is why I keep pushing for capital improvements. Roads. Hospitals. Schools—

  XAVIER: Save it for the advisers.

  The general sighs as they wind through the garden that sprawls between the temple and the palace.

  What we really need to end the fight is a decisive blow. Like our uncle said.

  La Fleur makes a face.

  THEODORA: If you want an armée of walking corpses, we could start right away.

  XAVIER’s hand goes to the medallion he wears.

  XAVIER: None of my men would accept such an abomination. Nor would I. But I have hope that the girl’s powers could be different.

  THEODORA: You sound unsure.

  XAVIER: Of course I am. The things she does are unnatural. But it’s possible that God brought her to us for a reason.

  THEODORA gives him a wistful smile.

  THEODORA: Leo certainly did. Though of course it was a different reason.

  XAVIER grimaces.

  XAVIER: You act like it’s romantic. But she’s dangerous, Theodora.

  THEODORA: To be honest, I wasn’t certain Leo would actually bring her in.

  XAVIER gives her a sharp glance.

  XAVIER: You don’t trust him?

  THEODORA: He’s our brother, Xavi. Of course I do. But it’s like you said. She’s a nécromancien. She might have found a way to escape from him.

  XAVIER: Our father defeated Le Trépas with a gun.

  THEODORA: Leo is capable of many things, but I can’t imagine him shooting someone he loves.

  XAVIER’s lip curls.

  XAVIER: I suppose that’s why he asked me along.

  THEODORA: I thought you went along because you didn’t trust him.

  XAVIER: Well. Don’t you wonder what he was doing in the time between our father’s death and the day he showed up at your door?

  THEODORA shudders delicately.

  THEODORA: Frankly, no. I’m the one who saw him first, remember? I think he must have spent the whole two weeks drinking.

  XAVIER: I can’t help but feel there’s something he’s not telling us.

  The young general glances back over his shoulder, but the temple has disappeared behind the leafy green of the garden.

  Where is he now, anyway?

  THEODORA: I sent him to the workshop to pack ammunition.

  XAVIER: Is it wise to give him free run of the place?

  THEODORA: You may want to act as his keeper, but I’m too busy for that. Besides, we’re shorthanded.

  XAVIER: That’s exactly why you have to be wary of how it looks. Everyone is on edge around cha—around Chakrans these days. Desertion is on the rise, and morale is low enough after the letter from our dear uncle.

  THEODORA raises an eyebrow at his tone.

  THEODORA: The letter where he pledges you his full confidence?

  XAVIER: And nothing else! Read between the lines, Theodora. He didn’t put me in charge for the glory. He set me up to fail.

  A beat.

  THEODORA: You’ll prove him wrong.

  XAVIER: I’ll prove our father right. No matter what it takes.

  His voice breaks on the last word. XAVIER stops short, his jaw tight, his hand going to the symbol he wears at his neck. He takes a deep breath, then another, before he speaks again. The words are very soft.

  I wish he was still here.

  Reaching out, THEODORA puts her own hand on her brother’s shoulder.

  THEODORA: You have me, Xavi.

  He smiles briefly, touching her hand before dropping his own back to his side.

  XAVIER: And thank God for that.

  They continue through the garden toward the palace. Clouds of white jasmine flutter softly as they pass.

  Chapter Six

  Even with the door open, the cell is too small. Or is it only the carcan? I contort my arms, trying to stretch the seams, but if anything, the jacket only feels tighter when I stop. Blood pounds in my ears. I rest for a moment on the edge of the bed before trying again. The longer I wrestle with the garment, the angrier I get. But the carcan is not the worst of it—nor even the cell. After so long spent seeking it, it is the elixir that frustrates me.

  How could I dose myself daily without considering what would happen when I stopped? I should have known that nothing the Aquitans offered came without a price. Then again, I could hardly do worse than I had without the treatment. Treason, sabotage, murder. My brother’s soul pulled back into his clammy skin. The memories are a plague. I wrestle with the carcan instead.

  Finally I fall back on the thin pillow, breathing hard. My mind is a tangled pile of threads—and the feeling is too familiar. Is the new elixir less potent than the last batch? No . . . it had taken days to start to work the first time around, and I had been at half doses for nearly a week. Besides, my malheur has always been worse during times of turmoil. I laugh, low and bitter. It is a particular weak spot for a rebel, to succumb to upheaval.

  I spring to my feet, wishing there was enough room to pace. Hoping for some air, I come to the doorway, but one of the soldiers outside lowers his bayonet to bar my way. “Stay inside!”

  For a disconcerting moment, I imagine falling on the gleaming blade; it seems to pull me forward, like a beautiful stranger inviting me to dance. Instead, I retreat back through the door, taking refuge on the bed, my back against the wall. But while my thoughts go in circles, the stone feels like it’s closing in. I focus for a while on the basin and the washcloth, but the sight of them is an unbearable torment in the confines of the straitjacket, and my mouth is so dry I can’t decide if I’d prefer to wash with the water or drink it.

  The smell of smoke creeps in—a hallucination? I cast another accusing glance at the elixir, but the guards are only sharing a cigarette. I am oddly offended. Shouldn’t they fear me enough to remain on alert?

  Annoyed, I climb, with some difficulty, to stand on the thin mattress—one knee, then the other, to one foot, then the other. My back scrapes against the stone wall as I push myself upward, trying to get a breath of fresh air through the window above the bed. It’s too high for me to see anything aside from the blushing gold color of the morning sky, but the smell from the garden is heady: orchids and rain and the faint sweet smell of overripe fruit. I wish more than anything I could be outside in it.

  Is Akra? Had he followed me to prowl around the grounds of Hell’s Court? Or had he gone back to Papa, to give him hollow reassurances that I’d be back soon? Dare I h
ope Leo will get word to them? Let them know that I’m safe—at least for now?

  I grimace at the next thought: if Leo returned to the slums, my family might already know more about the plan than I do.

  But asking myself questions won’t bring any new answers, and when the smoke clears, I sink back down, hoping to sleep. Instead I get lost in the carved patterns on the ceiling. The work is exquisite—almost as though the masons had been knitting silk, not carving stone. They show not landscapes or pictures, but words and letters. Old Chakran, though I cannot read it. The language has been forbidden since La Victoire, along with all the old ways. Still, I recognize one symbol among the lovely scrollwork of the language: life.

  It repeats so often—how so, in the temple dedicated to the King of Death? What do the carvings say? Are they stories or prayers? Spells or curses? Maman had spent a year in Hell’s Court, back before La Victoire. Had she read the writing carved into the walls? Shuddering, I bury my face in the thin pillow. Old songs swirl through my head. Music from shows we’ve played. In the dark behind my eyes, shadows dance with light: the King and the Maiden. Life and Death, each one side of the other. In all our stories, the King was never evil. How could Le Trépas have become such a monster? Was it his rumored madness that made him do what he’d done? And if so, without the treatment, was I resigned to the same fate? It’s only when voices in the hall clear the shadows like a mist that I realize I’d been dreaming.

  “General’s orders,” one of the soldiers is saying. He is talking to someone just out of sight. “No one goes inside.”

  “I’m not afraid.” The reply makes me blink: Leo’s voice. “What could she do to me? She’s trussed like a goose!”

  Struggling to sit upright, I lean to peer around the open door. There he is, holding a tray. It must be the meal Xavier promised. But the guard takes it from him with a pointed look. “The general wants to keep it that way.”

  “Bien.” Leo clenches his jaw under his smile—he can do little more than meet my gaze before the first soldat waves him back down the hall.

  The other guard sets the tray down on the stone floor, just inside the door. Aquitan food—some kind of meaty stew . . . a browned bun . . . a hard-boiled egg. I clench my hands in the long canvas sleeves. “How exactly am I supposed to eat?”

  Both men ignore me, and I am not yet hungry enough to lower my face to the plate, though I consider it as the hours pass.

  The stew congeals. The guards share another cigarette. The sun creeps down the wall in patterns of gold and shadow. How long will I be waiting? It is below the horizon by the time I am led back to the sanctuary.

  The walk down the long hall feels something like freedom. I half hope to see Leo at the end of it; another part of me dreads Xavier. But Theodora is the only other person there. She is sitting at the altar she uses as a desk, and it’s hard to imagine she hasn’t been here all day. Hunched over her work, she looks at home in the heart of the temple. And though the daylight is a memory and the hum and flow of the workshop has ebbed, La Fleur looks up at me expectantly when the guard shows me in, as though the day is only beginning.

  “Jetta,” she says, closing the book she’s been reading and tossing it into the open trunk beside the altar. Then she frowns, her eyes falling again to the carcan. “He didn’t release you.”

  “No.”

  “Will you kill me if I do?” Theodora searches my face. What does she expect me to say?

  “No.” The silence stretches. But why would she believe me? I am a nécromancien, after all. Just like Le Trépas. “The legends about . . . about him say he was able to kill at a touch, but I only know how to put souls into bodies, and there are no souls here.”

  She frowns. “What do you mean?”

  “They’re drawn to temples, but not this one. They must have fled from him, and never came back.” My lips twist; a semblance of a smile. “If there were any spirits lurking, I would have escaped much more easily the first time I was here.”

  “I see.” She waves me over, standing as I approach. Her hands go to the buckles at the small of my back; she hesitates for a moment before she starts to loosen the straps. “Leo tells me you’re not the monster Xavier thinks,” she says then, the metal chiming as she works. “I hope he’s right.”

  So do I, I do not say. I want to ask her what else Leo said about me, but I bite down on that question too. Best not to raise suspicions. At last the sleeves fall and my arms lift, almost involuntarily; for a moment I myself feel ensouled with the spirit of a bird. Then I shrug out of the carcan as fast as I can, tossing it to the floor with more force than necessary. I start to peel off the gloves as well, but La Fleur holds up a hand.

  “Leave them,” she says. “Please? As a courtesy.”

  I flex my fingers, but better a concession than the carcan. “Bien,” I say, like the Aquitans do, and a little smile flickers at the corners of her red mouth.

  “Will you sit?” She takes her own chair and gestures to another beside it, but my eyes are drawn to the dinner tray sitting atop the pile of papers. Coconut curry with roasted duck and fragrant rice. Pickled vegetables. A little pile of shrimp cakes. Real Chakran food, and she’s hardly touched it. That’s no surprise. When we used to make the circuit, the richer patrons never stooped to eat a curry. What a waste. But my mouth is watering, and La Fleur catches me staring. “Do you want some?”

  The offer is tempting, but is this just another tactic? Sharing a meal to gain my trust? Is that why she let me out of the carcan? I press my lips together as I lower myself into the chair. “The general had food sent to my room.”

  Theodora makes a face. “And yet he didn’t bother making sure you could eat it. Then again, if it was armée rations, perhaps that’s for the best.” She holds out the plate of shrimp cakes. What harm can it do, as long as I don’t let it go to my head? Giving in, I take one. To my surprise, La Fleur does too, taking a delicate bite, so careful of her red lips. “Mmm.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “I would have thought traditional Aquitan food would be more to your taste.”

  “I’ve lived in Chakrana as long as I can remember,” she says with a look. “Besides, the chef is very talented. Go ahead, try it.”

  I can no longer resist; one turns quickly into two, then three. I’m ravenous—and they’re delicious. Meaty and spicy sweet and fried crispy on the edges. Almost as good as Maman’s. Maman. The thought of her takes my breath away, and my appetite with it. The bite I am chewing is suddenly hard to swallow, and when Theodora offers the plate again, I shake my head. “Non,” I say. “Merci.”

  Does La Fleur see the pain on my face? This time she does not insist. She only sets the plate aside and reaches into her pocket, pulling out the note I’d written to the Tiger. It flutters limply in her hand. “Bien,” she says softly. “Let’s talk instead.”

  I take a deep breath, sitting back in my chair. Maman’s instructions are a distant echo: never show, never tell. What would she say to me now? I wish more than anything she was here, even if it was to chide me. “May I have that back?” I hold out my hand, but a smile ghosts across La Fleur’s lips.

  “I’ve already read it,” she says, passing me the letter. “So has Xavier. Are you still hoping the Tiger will come find you?”

  “The Tiger doesn’t have my elixir,” I remind her, turning the paper over and over in my hands. It’s not even a lie.

  “My father did,” Theodora says. I tense, waiting for the accusation, but her tone is soft, contemplative. “And yet you rejected his offer.”

  I blink at her, unsettled. “Leo told you about that?”

  She gives me a look. “It doesn’t take a genius to guess that negotiations fell through. But the particulars of his offer were here.” Theodora taps the trunk beside the altar with one booted foot. The lid is propped open against the stone; peeking inside, my jaw drops.

  It is packed with rows of slim leather books—journals, I realize, organized by year. The book she’s tossed on the top has a
name on the cover: GENERAL JULIAN LEGARDE. “My father kept contemporaneous records during his entire campaign in Chakrana. Nearly twenty years’ worth of notes. It’s how he compiled his official reports. I’ve been trying to review them in all my spare time.”

  Her laugh is hollow; beneath the careful makeup, there are dark circles under her eyes. Is it exhaustion? Overwork? Or something more? For a moment, pity makes a lump in my throat. Twenty years of the general’s campaign—of the occupation. How much of it has she read? Her father was a monster too, but perhaps she hadn’t known it. Does she know now? “What have you found?”

  Her answer disappoints me. “So far, nothing too surprising. The offer he planned to make to you, as I said. The kingdom for the elixir, as long as you followed his commands.”

  I narrow my eyes; she makes it sound simple. Is she truly so unbothered by her father’s offer to me, this girl who had once meant to be queen? “As long as I didn’t object to him shooting Leo, you mean?”

  Theodora’s pale skin goes paler still. She looks once more at the trunk full of journals. “That wasn’t part of his records.”

  “Of course not,” I say wryly. “The armée is a master of propaganda.”

  “Or maybe you’re lying,” she shoots back. “Leo didn’t mention it either.”

  “You think he wants to admit your father would have shot him to teach me a lesson?”

  She frowns, answering my question with one of her own. “Is that the only reason you refused the deal? For Leo?”

  “Isn’t that good enough?” I raise an eyebrow. She looks away, but not before I see the hurt in her face. “No,” I add then, softer now. “I’m not exactly suited to rule.”

  “I don’t think you would have lasted long,” Theodora agrees, her voice distant. I can’t help but laugh. Pressing my gloved hands together, I half bow in my chair.

  “Thank you for your confidence!”

  “Not because of you. Or your malheur,” she adds quickly. “After all, my uncle has a similar affliction, and he’s ruled nearly two decades in Aquitan.”

  “Then why?”