by Heidi Heilig
I’m sure he’ll enjoy it when he wakes. But you should tell the kitchen not to waste the good stuff on a murderous bastard like him.
AKRA pulls out the stick of sugar and holds it out to her. CHEEKY stares at it, dismayed.
What?
The silence stretches. Akra shifts on his feet, annoyed.
Why don’t you talk?
CHEEKY: Why don’t you eat?
AKRA stiffens, suddenly flustered.
AKRA: I’m not hungry.
CHEEKY: You could have the grace to pretend. I traded my favorite earrings for that candy!
AKRA looks down at the stick of sugar in his hand.
AKRA: Why?
Her exasperated sigh echoes in the tunnel.
CHEEKY: Because I find you fascinating, you absolute oaf! Gods, next time let it be a girl!
She spins on her heel and flees, but AKRA follows her halfway down the hall.
AKRA: Wait! Please.
CHEEKY slows, turning at last; AKRA stands before her, suddenly less sure.
I don’t . . . I didn’t . . . I wasn’t expecting this.
She gives him a pointed look.
CHEEKY: Neither was I.
AKRA barks a laugh.
AKRA: I guess a girl as pretty as you is used to being seen.
CHEEKY: That depends on if you like to leave the lamp lit.
The sentence hangs in the air; the blush starts up her cheeks. But AKRA is delighted; he laughs so loud the sound rattles the bones in the tunnel.
AKRA: You are . . . I like you.
She rolls her eyes.
CHEEKY: Careful, flattery like that will go to my head.
AKRA: You expect me to put you into words?
CHEEKY catches her breath . . . the blush deepens . . . she is at a loss once more. Gently, AKRA reaches out, tugging on one of her pincurls, then tucking it behind her ear. He holds out the stick of sugar.
AKRA: You should go get your earrings back.
Her smile falls.
CHEEKY: Why?
AKRA: Because I don’t need this.
He holds out the stick again, and she narrows her eyes.
CHEEKY: Me, or the sugar?
AKRA: Let’s say the sugar.
The showgirl plucks it from his hand, then uses it to wave his claim away as though the words are only bad air.
CHEEKY: I didn’t need earrings either, but they were nice while they lasted. Besides, everyone deserves a little sweetness.
AKRA: What if I don’t?
His voice is soft; CHEEKY cocks her head.
CHEEKY: What could you have done that’s so wrong?
AKRA’s smile twists—bitter. The lamplight shines lurid on the scar on his chin.
AKRA: I was a Chakran in the armée. I made capitaine in three years. I served under Pique, for god’s sake. You can guess at the rest.
His voice breaks; he goes silent. His eyes shine; are those tears? CHEEKY is taken aback.
CHEEKY: But you left.
AKRA: Not soon enough.
CHEEKY: Then use the time left to make it better.
AKRA: But how?
She lowers her voice, enticing.
CHEEKY: I’ll think of something.
AKRA peers at her.
AKRA: Are we still talking about sugar?
CHEEKY laughs, holding out the candy. After a moment, he takes it, their hands brushing on the stick, each of them unwilling to let go of the soft touch, the hint of sweetness.
This is how RAIK finds them.
He looms out of the dark like a threat. AKRA startles; he is unused to being caught unawares. For a moment, he tenses, unsure, but RAIK’s face is a tangled knot as he glares at the girl.
RAIK: Still a bad time, I take it.
CHEEKY: I’m sorry—
RAIK: Just go.
She hesitates, looking back down the hall toward AKRA. RAIK drops his hand to the gun at his waist, speaking through his teeth.
Get out! The both of you! That’s an order from your king!
Chapter Thirty-Five
“Jetta?” Akra’s voice comes to me through the warm haze of half a glass of champagne.
“Mmm?” My answer is lazy. I look up from the violin case: it rests in my lap as I toy with the clasps, still unable to open it.
“There’s a problem,” he says, and my hand stills.
“Le Trépas?” I whisper the name through dry lips, soft enough the other girls can’t hear me.
“Raik,” my brother replies, almost primly. “He walked in on a private conversation.”
I make a face. “That’s very nearly as bad.”
“We’re fine,” Akra says quickly. “But he was armed, and I didn’t think it was wise to push him. And now the monk is unguarded, except by the king.”
“Unguarded?” My voice edges up in both pitch and volume; hurriedly, I set the violin case aside. “I’ll be right there.”
Tia gives me a quizzical look as I grab my satchel. “What is it, Jetta?”
“Raik followed Cheeky to the mine,” I say, slipping the strap over my head. “He ordered Akra out of the tunnel and went in with Le Trépas.”
“This isn’t about Cheeky,” Theodora says, slowly. “Raik and Cam didn’t see eye to eye on the plan for tomorrow. I have to let him know.”
“Tell him to meet me down there,” I tell her as we head for the door
Tia calls after me. “What if Le Trépas is out of his cell?”
“What if he kills Raik?” I shoot back over my shoulder. I do not relish the idea of walking into the dark tunnel, not knowing where Le Trépas is. Or of looking for the Boy King, dead or alive. But the rebels need him, and if he’s gotten himself killed, I’m the only one who can bring him back.
Theodora and I part ways in the hall—her toward Camreon’s quarters, and I toward the sanctuary. The temple is nearly deserted now, the rebels fled to safer sanctuaries. But there is still life here—the wind in the green leaves, the souls lounging on the stone floor. Will it all be ash tomorrow? The thought is painful. As I pass the statue of the Maiden, I slow. Overhead, the light is shifting, and the shadows have turned strange.
Squinting, I peer up toward the canopy. The light has taken on an odd quality: cold, like moonlight cutting through the sunny glow of the souls. Have the clouds cleared? Then a shriek splits the air, like a spike in my skull. I bend double, covering my ears with my hands, but it does nothing to muffle the sound. Dread floods into the pit of my stomach. A sound that’s only in my head . . . “Akra?” He doesn’t answer. “Akra!”
His voice comes back then—not hurt, but scared. “Are you all right, Jetta?”
“Yes,” I say over the pounding of my heart. “You?”
“I am,” he mutters. “But I have a bad feeling.”
“Me too,” I say. It seems like an understatement. What was the sound, if not my brother? It comes again—a keening wail—as piercing as a hawk’s, as heartbreaking as a child’s. Wincing, I squint up at the cold light on the leaves, but the canopy is too thick to see the sky. I make my way across the sanctuary, ducking through the banyan archways and turning my face toward the heavens. Toward the source of the icy light, which is nothing like the moon.
In the sky winds a long ribbon of blue fire, incomprehensibly large. A soul—of course it is, though I have never heard one cry out like that. The spirit undulates through the clouds like a snake through water, but so much bigger. Still, more chilling than the size is the color: the sapphire blue of vengeful ghosts. As I watch, it cries out again, a sound to split heaven itself.
A hand falls on my shoulder; I jump, but it is only Cam. His brow is furrowed—he must see the look on my face, because I am the only one who can see the soul. Me . . . and Le Trépas. After all, it’s one of his. “What’s wrong?”
“The dragon’s soul,” I say, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Le Trépas must have summoned it back.”
Cam’s eyebrows shoot upward, but I do not wait for his response. Instead, I pelt
down the hillside toward the mine. Dimly, I am aware of the Tiger calling after me as he follows. I am halfway down the mountain when the air shatters again. The ghost of the dragon gives one last aching cry—what life had it been living until Le Trépas called it back?
But the sound fades as the spirit dives toward the mine, disappearing among the greenery—the blue light flickers out as though it had never been. What is left is a sudden darkness, deeper than it should be. Where are the drifting vana, the little jungle spirits, the arvana of birds that chatter in the trees? Fled to the temple, it seems—are they wiser than me, or only more cowardly?
It is in the shadows of a soulless night that I come to the mouth of the tunnel, lit with unearthly blue. From the hole in the earth like an old grave, the skeleton of the dragon emerges.
The curved teeth lead, all limned in blue fire. Next come the dark hollows of the skull—the empty sockets stare right through me. Then a foreleg, the claws digging furrows in the trembling earth. The long horns shine silver in the sapphire glow of the vengeful soul, and there is Le Trépas, seated between them.
Gone is the demeanor of the old Chakran uncle, gone is the fatherly look in his eye. The carcan is gone too; his chest is bare and bleeding from a clean cut under his collarbone. And as I stand before the monk at the feet of the great beast, the dragon lowers its head until the teeth are inches from my face.
Act 3,
Scene 36
The officer’s tent in the village square. The space is sparsely furnished; the avions have carried extra men from Nokhor Khat in lieu of supplies. Pique and the rest of the soldiers are bunked in the abandoned huts surrounding the square, but XAVIER prefers familiarity to comfort. He is asleep in the dark. Outside: a brief discussion . . . a short scuffle . . . a muffled cry. XAVIER’s eyes snap open, his hand creeping up beneath his pillow. Then the canvas flap twitches, and a dark form slips in through the opening of the tent.
XAVIER: I’m armed.
LEO: That makes two of us.
XAVIER blinks at the sound of his voice. Slowly he sits up.
XAVIER: Leonin?
LEO nods, his expression grim as the gun he holds. Without compromising his aim, he digs in his pocket, pulling out a lighter and nodding at the glass lamp on the floor beside XAVIER’s cot.
LEO: A little help?
XAVIER flips back the thin wool blanket with his free hand; the other is wrapped tightly around the grip of his own pistol. Together, the brothers light the lamp—XAVIER lifting the glass surround, LEO touching the flame to the wick. The flame sputters, struggling to take hold.
XAVIER: Is this to be a short meeting, or should I have my aide de camp bring more kerosene?
LEO: The boy outside? I’m afraid you’ll be waiting a while for a response.
XAVIER: Too bad. He was just starting to get the hang of things.
The general makes a face, frowning at LEO’s uniform.
Tell me you didn’t steal that off a body.
LEO: Is it theft if the body doesn’t need it?
XAVIER: Is that how you got past the perimeter?
LEO: The avion helped. The guards are looking for rebels in the jungle. Not soldiers on warbirds. And you’ve never put my name and description on a recherche.
XAVIER (shaking his head): That was always a mistake. I should have warned everyone how dirty you Chakrans can fight.
LEO: Can you blame us? This has never been your home. But the rest of us have nowhere else to go. You know we can’t surrender tomorrow.
Quickly XAVIER stands, nose to nose with LEO, jabbing him in the chest with the pistol.
XAVIER: Is it the girl? The nécromancien? Is that why you chose their side?
LEO: You think it was my choice? Our father was the first to remind all of us that I’m something less than Aquitan.
XAVIER: But that doesn’t make you Chakran, either. I’ve seen the way they look at you. Make no mistake, this is no more your home than it is mine.
LEO: That doesn’t mean it’s not worth saving. As for you—there’s an entire country you love but have never really seen. Take the next ship back to Aquitan, and the armée with you. Take the avions, if you want. But go, and leave us here to make our own choices.
XAVIER: I’m not going to disgrace our family name.
LEO: That was always my job, anyway.
At LEO’s little smile, the general’s facade cracks; for a moment, he is more brother than son.
XAVIER: Why couldn’t you have stayed out of it? For the sake of the blood we share, I hoped it would be someone else who had to kill you.
LEO: It will be, Xavi. I have plans after this.
XAVIER: With your nécromancien?
The word hardens in his mouth; the general tightens his grip on the gun.
No. Desolée, Leonin. I’ll send your regrets for you. Then again, who knows? She can’t be far. And if your soul wanders back to her, you can give them yourself.
XAVIER pulls the trigger just as LEO does the same, but only one weapon fires, silent as a whisper. The general’s eyes go wide, first in surprise, then in pain. Grunting, he curls over his stomach, pressing a fist to his ribs; it comes away bloody.
XAVIER: Salaud. You shot me.
LEO’s impassive look breaks; air hisses through his teeth as though he feels the wound in his own flesh. Then he clenches his jaw, swallowing the rush of emotion.
Putain.
The general straightens up, taking aim again. The hammer clicks on the empty cartridge, once, twice, thrice.
What did you . . .
XAVIER paws at the gun, opening the chamber to find it empty. Groaning, he tosses the pistol aside—as his knees go weak, he reaches for the rail of the cot.
You stole my bullets.
LEO: I stole a move from the Tiger, really. You left the tent unoccupied at dinner, and I had a lot of time to kill. Did our father teach you and Theo both to keep guns under your pillows?
Heavily, XAVIER tries to sit, but he misses the edge of the bed. Instead, he falls to the floor beside it, a sharp grunt catching in his throat. The sound turns into a rueful chuckle. Then he leans back, resting his head on the bed. When he speaks next, his voice is much softer.
XAVIER: I can’t believe you shot me. What would Father say?
LEO: He’d say I finally learned the lesson he tried to teach me.
XAVIER: I don’t want to die here, Leonin. I don’t want to die in this godforsaken country.
LEO presses his lips together; his hand trembles. At last he lowers the gun.
LEO: I’m sorry, Xavi.
XAVIER’s hand creeps up to the medallion he wears; fumbling, he grasps it tight.
XAVIER: What will happen to me?
LEO: I . . . I’m not sure.
XAVIER: She said . . . the nécromancien said . . . souls live three days. Is that true? Three days to get to Aquitan. Do you think I’ll make it to the cathedral at Lephare?
LEO swallows before he speaks.
LEO: I think so.
XAVIER: They say the trip is ten days by boat. How fast does a soul fly? Can you ask her for me, Leo? Can you . . .
Chapter Thirty-Seven
All the world has narrowed to this moment—this time—to the inches between my face and the dragon’s teeth. Memories fade, dreams wink out like snuffed candles as I wait for the final curtain. Le Trépas’s voice breaks the spell. “Enjoy the show.”
The old monk presses his palms together and gives me a mocking bow as the dragon leaps up to the heavens.
The next thing I know, I am staring at the dome of the predawn sky, amazed I am still here to see it. Was it the rush of wind that knocked me flat? Or did my knees simply give out? Either way, I am alive. How? Is it the Maiden who protected me, or the King who passed me by?
“War isn’t like theater, you know,” Akra says grimly as he arrives in my field of vision. “Front and center isn’t the spot to covet.”
I make a face, but I take the hand he offers. My head spins as he pulls
me to my feet; I take hold of his shoulder while I regain my footing. “Where’s Cheeky?”
“I sent her to hide in the next mine downhill,” he says. “She’s not exactly dressed for battle.”
“You’d be surprised,” I murmur, letting go of his arm at last. Then I catch a glimpse of the valley, lit by the first glimmer in the east, and the dizzy feeling returns. “What happened to the village?”
Akra follows my gaze, the scar on his chin twisting. “Pique always made a habit of destruction.”
Below us the paddies have been churned to mud—the fields stripped, the livestock slaughtered, and the pastures replaced by a field of avions. And in the village square, beside the single tent—something too familiar, though I’d only seen them once before in the ruins of Dar Som. A row of crosses, each one leaning against a triangular structure instead of sunk into the unstable ground, all assembled from cut bamboo. The armée must be eager for prisoners.
Rage flares in my chest. I feel no pity for them as Le Trépas approaches the camp.
The men on patrol notice him first—or rather, they notice the dragon in the sky. I am too far away to hear the alarm they raise, but not far enough that I miss the ensuing panic. Can the Aquitans see by the light of the creature’s soul? To my eyes, the encampment is lit in shades of blue and black; shadows turn and deepen in the rows between the tents as the beast approaches. Men scatter, stumbling as they flee toward the fields, to the jungle—and to the avions.
My heart quavers—the dragon is formidable, but fifty warbirds would take it down in short order. But there is something wrong. As soldiers clamber in, the avions stay on the ground. As the dragon passes overhead, the bone jaws gape, grabbing one of the avions and tossing it through the air.
The warbird tumbles like a child’s toy, crashing through one of the huts on the green. A soul flares brightly against the destruction—a soldier, killed instantly. The distant sounds drift to my ears as more soldiers pour out of the huts—the shouting, the screaming. Guns pop like fireworks as the soldiers fire fruitlessly through the dragon’s bones. Gouts of fire burst from the flamethrowers, but without the ability to aim the avions, the flame only licks along the fields and catches in the nearby thatch. The dragon’s tail sends another of the avions rolling, but the rest of the warbirds are still.