by Heidi Heilig
Does he sleep? If so, he wakes at a sound. The last soldier is standing over him, and for a moment, Akra wonders if the man has come to try to finish him off. But the soldier ignores him as he rifles through the lieutenant’s pockets. When he straightens up, he doesn’t hold bullets or the man’s gun. Instead, he carries a glass jar with a sludge of black liquid in the bottom.
As the soldier tucks the jar into his own pack, he notices AKRA’s look. The soldier stares back frankly, his eyes a chilling blue. Then he disappears down the path. Relief washes over AKRA. He closes his eyes again and does not open them for some time.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
It is the pool outside the temple that tempts the dragon down. When she sees it, she points her sinuous body toward the glassy water and dives. It is with some difficulty that I curb her instinct long enough to make her let me off on the shore, and once she is unencumbered by a passenger, she sinks comfortably into the silt to eat the ghosts of fish.
Back aground, my legs are oddly shaky—adrenaline? Exhaustion? Fear? Akra’s words are still echoing in my head: Pique is dead. I am still waiting for the rest of the story. Then Leo lands, rushing to my side. Taking his arm makes the world more solid. We cast a single shadow in the orange glow of the rising sun. As we approach the temple, the rebels rush out to greet us.
There are more than I thought there would be—at least two dozen aside from Cheeky and Tia. Had they missed the evacuation or just refused to leave the Tiger’s side? I have heard louder ovations, but none as heartfelt as this one. They cheer us like stars, they touch us like lucky stones.
Part of me wants to bow, to soak up the celebration. To enjoy the moment while it lasts. The rest of me feels like a fake—or a traitor. Leo had been the one to defeat the avions; I had only been the one to save Leo. If they knew that I had stopped Le Trépas from killing all the Aquitans and failed to capture his soul, would the rebels still sing my praises?
Then I see the look on Cheeky’s face, the question in her eyes, and I push through the crowd to give her the best answer I have. “He went after Pique. Don’t worry,” I add, trying to follow my own instructions. “He won.”
All around us, a murmur ripples through the crowd: Pique, dead. But Cheeky is scanning the area hopefully, as though she might have missed Akra the first time. “Where is he?”
“He’s on his way,” I say, wanting it to be true. Can she sense my uncertainty? She only nods, pasting on her best smile. Then Leo opens his arms, and she falls into them with a sob of relief. Her tears make my own eyes sting, but I take a deep breath, struggling for control. If I let it loose now, the emotion would overwhelm me.
Instead, I turn away, catching sight of the Tiger and Theodora. They stand side by side, their shoulders touching, their faces somber. “What happened down there?” Cam says as I approach.
“The armée was unprepared against the dragon,” I say. “Especially with the avions grounded.”
“And how did you manage that?” Theodora says, but by the look in her eyes, I can tell she fears the answer.
Still, I hesitate. Is it mine to give? But better me than Leo, especially now, while the pain is so raw for the both of them. “Xavier is dead,” I say, and her breath catches like I’d punched her.
“I could have talked to him.” Her voice shakes, and I can’t tell if it’s with grief or anger. “Why didn’t you let me talk to him?”
“I tried that,” Leo says, coming up behind me. “He wouldn’t listen.”
Theodora’s eyes go wide as she turns to her brother. “You killed him?” Leo doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. Her face goes blank, then pale. She takes a deep breath, and another, but the third hitches in her throat. “Excuse me,” she says then, before turning on her heel and walking back into the sanctuary.
Beside me, Leo sags; this time, it’s my turn to steady him. Camreon’s jaw tightens. “What about Le Trépas?” he says.
“I had to stop him,” I say, trying to explain. “He wanted all the Aquitans dead. Leo, La Fleur—”
“Not just the Aquitans,” Cam says; when I frown, he elaborates. “I found Raik’s body in the mine. We’ll leave it there until we can hold a proper funeral. As for Le Trépas’s corpse, the jungle can take care of it.”
There is anger on his face, but it doesn’t hide the pain. I am reluctant to add to the burden. “I’m more worried about his soul,” I say carefully, glancing at the glow in the banyan grove behind him. Would Le Trépas’s soul come to the temple? Would it come after me and try to creep into my skin? Will other souls warn me of its approach by fleeing as they did when he was alive? What will happen when it’s finally reborn?
Camreon only gives me a grim look. “If you see it, feel free to raise the alarm. For now, I need your help.”
I blink at him, more exhausted than surprised. “What for?”
“We need to send notes to the evacuees, telling them it’s safe to return. Then we’ll go down to the valley. I want those avions—”
“She needs to rest first,” Leo says, though he looks even more tired than I feel. “Besides, there are still troops down there. It isn’t safe until we have an official surrender.”
The thought of a bed is enticing, but I shake my head. “My brother is in the valley.”
Cam cocks his head. “As soon as we have people to spare, I’ll organize the search.”
With a sigh, I nod. “I’ll help you with those letters.”
Letting Leo go on without me, I follow Camreon into the temple. Under the dense green canopy, I find another audience, this one more somber. The souls of the dead from the valley—some gold, some blue. Thankfully, none of them follow as the Tiger leads me to the dining hall.
Here, a small group of rebels is already at work with pen and ink. I take a stack of letters and pluck the souls of songbirds from the branches overhead. But as the first few notes wing away through the canopy, the souls of the n’akela drift closer. I set the stack aside, half finished, and press my hands against a kerchief till the bleeding stops.
While I wait for the n’akela to lose interest, I beg a scrap of paper and a pen off a young rebel. They massage their hand while I write my own note addressed to Maman and Papa.
I am safe. He is dead. I’ll see you soon.
Handing the pen back, I make one last mark and send the note off with a special prayer. Should I have sent another to find Akra? No . . . word will come faster if it travels directly. Cradling my battered hands, I walk back to Cheeky’s room whispering his name. But the only answer is the gentle wind in the leaves.
I let myself into the room quietly. Leo is there, but he is not sleeping. He sits cross-legged on the floor, holding the medallion in his hands. I hesitate in the doorway, but he doesn’t look up. So I close the door softly behind me and sit down beside him. “I’m sorry, Leo.”
“Me too.” The silence stretches. He rubs his thumb over the medallion. “Before Xavi died, he wondered where he would go. His soul, I mean. He wanted to know if he might make it all the way to the cathedral at Lephare.”
I open my mouth to answer the question he didn’t quite ask, but I hesitate. If it were Theodora, I know she’d want the truth—that the temple of the Maiden is full of akela after the fight, and most of those souls are Aquitans. Why would Xavier’s soul be different? But for Leo, the story has always been more important. “I think you could at least bring something of the cathedral here.”
Leo frowns. “What do you mean?”
Standing, I go to the nest of pillows where I’d been sleeping. His violin case is still beside them. “You played a hymn the other night,” I say softly. “While we were on the ship. Isn’t that an Aquitan song?”
“It is.” Leo runs a hand over the case, but his eyes are on the temple walls—the braided roots, the shivering leaves where the souls hide. “Do you think the gods will be offended to hear it?”
“No,” I say, but it takes him a moment to open the case. He tucks the medallion inside before he lif
ts out the violin. I lie down in the soft silk pillows beside him as he puts the instrument to his chin, and the souls and I listen while he plays.
The sky is dark when a knock wakes us both. I sit up beside Leo, my mouth dry, my head half in a dream. “Come in,” Leo mumbles, but when the door opens, it’s only Tia. I’m about to lie back down when I see the look on her face.
“They found Akra,” she says, and I scramble to my feet.
“Take me to him.”
Leo catches up to us halfway down the hall. Together, we follow Tia into a smaller room, and when I walk through the door, I gasp.
The pallet where my brother lies is red with blood—his clothes are stiff with the stuff. Memories burst through my mind: blood on the stone floor of Hell’s Court . . . my brother’s slack face. But he is not dead. Leo catches me as I sway, and Akra opens one bleary eye. “I told you I couldn’t let him escape,” he rasps.
“Shhh,” Cheeky says. Kneeling beside him, she squeezes bloody water from a wet cloth, then dips it in a fresh bowl. Gently, she cleans his brow. Her fine dress is stained scarlet, but she doesn’t seem to notice.
Someone taps me on the shoulder and I startle, but it is only Camreon. He jerks his chin toward the corner, and we step away from the others.
“My searchers found him and Pique,” Cam says quietly. “The lieutenant is definitely dead. Akra will survive, of course. The docteur is on the way to remove the bullets. The problem is . . . he mentioned something strange.”
The tone of his voice chills me—there is a warning in it. “What?”
“Pique was carrying what’s left of the jar of your blood,” Cam says. “But a soldier escaped with it after Pique was shot.”
Air hisses through my teeth. “Can we track him down? Take it back?”
Beside me, Leo laughs darkly. “We’re not that lucky, Jetta.”
Camreon’s look is confirmation. “One of my lookouts has just reported seeing an avion take flight,” he says grimly. “I don’t think the soldier is going by foot.”
I swear softly . . . but not softly enough. Cheeky turns, glaring at me. Does she think a curse can hurt my brother? The thought makes me want to laugh—or is that only hysteria? I don’t know; my thoughts are scattered. Cam’s voice pulls me back to the present.
“I have men going back to guard the avions now,” he says, glancing down at my hands, bruised and bloody. “It would help if you could ensoul them as soon as possible.”
“Of course,” I say, distracted, but Leo is frowning at me.
“How are you?” he says then, and by his tone, I know what he’s asking. My hand goes to my satchel—no. To the place where my satchel had been.
“I don’t know,” I say truthfully. “I don’t remember when my last dose was.”
“You’re out of elixir?” The Tiger chews his lip. “We’ll make it a priority right after the coronation.”
“Coronation?” But of course; the Boy King is dead. “When is that?”
“After the funeral,” he says tersely. He hides the pain well. Then something softens around his eyes. “And just before the wedding.”
I try to smile—it should be a happy occasion. But Leo’s pain is clear on his face . . . will his sister even want him there? As for me, it’s hard to let go of the dread I feel. How much of my blood is left in that jar? I give my brother one last look as Cheeky dabs at his scarred face. “Let’s go take care of the avions,” I say to Camreon.
Rather than walk down the hillside, I lead the others out to the pond and whisper to my dragon. She rises from the water like mist, her long teeth shining in the thin moonlight. “In case there are still any soldiers around,” I say, and the Tiger gives me his own toothy smile before we climb on.
But as we rise above the trees, his grin drops away. In the valley below, a fire rages. We don’t have to get much closer before we can see it is the avions.
After the act of sabotage, the rebel camp is on alert, but the culprit is already halfway back to Nokhor Khat, or wherever the soldier is going. And the damage is already done: Theodora’s accelerant is powerful stuff. By the time the fire burns out, the graceful avions have melted into ugly lumps of slag.
We don’t have the manpower to move them. Instead, Camreon organizes groups to clear the village of bodies, stripping their weapons and stacking them for burning before the villagers return. For his brother, he orders a coffin built. The rebels look at him askance: burial is a city custom, imported from Aquitan. But Cam only shrugs. “Raik would have wanted it,” he says.
The wooden coffin only takes two days to finish, but when the rebels carry it down to the mine, they discover the Boy King’s body has gone missing.
When the news reaches me, I go straight to Camreon. He is at an ornate desk in his brother’s old rooms, reviewing a list. “The avion,” I say, out of breath, but not from running. “The one that left. Did your lookouts notice how many people were in it?”
“No,” he says grimly. “I already asked.”
“Are there other bodies missing?” I ask him, and he tips the paper toward me with a grimace.
“I watched Pique burn myself,” he says. “But the general’s body is gone, too. I still have people searching for Le Trépas.”
There is a knot in my belly. I don’t bother offering to help search. When the message arrives that afternoon, it confirms my suspicions.
The note comes winging through the open ceiling of the dining hall, like the ones we’d sent off to the rebels just days before. But though this letter has my blood on the corner, I’m not the one who put it there.
No wonder Le Trépas did not fear death. He had another life waiting in the wings.
Author’s Note
I have taken liberties.
It seems like a strange confession. After all, this is obviously a work of fiction. But while fantasy is often set in opposition to reality, I have always seen history as the animus of any story I want to tell.
So while readers will see references to real-life things like French colonialism, bipolar disorder, and the chemical volatility of lithium, they will also note a fast and loose approach to specifics like language, the general dates of scientific discoveries, and the exact recipe for a jam-tin grenade. The book is also shot through with personal (and thus subjective) experience, including commentary on my own experience of being mixed-race, or the side effects of suddenly stopping mood-stabilizing drugs. There is also a heavy dose of pure fabrication in the culture, language, and religions referenced.
I’d like to claim there is a method to this madness, but it comes down to the speech from Shakespeare’s Henry V, from which I found the titles for each book in this trilogy. I am invoking the muse of fire: the imagination. Because facts aside, we’ve all dreamed of using our art to strike back against a violent oppressor . . . haven’t we?
Acknowledgments
Writing a book—especially the second in a series—can be like taking an epic hike through a near-impenetrable jungle. My editor, Martha Mihalick, has always been an excellent path-breaker, though she wields her pencil much more delicately than a machete. Molly Ker Hawn, my agent, is the sort of companion you need on such a trek: one who keeps you from getting turned around or eaten alive by metaphorical mosquitoes.
My friend Mike Pettry, who wrote the music featured in the book, would be the one who brought his guitar to keep everyone’s spirits up. Thank you, Mike.
After the hypothetical hike, designer Sylvie Le Floc’h is the one who makes it look so gorgeous that everyone else wishes they’d been along for the journey. Tim Smith’s detailed editing always ensures that no one guesses how many bugs there were on the way. Of course, if Haley George or Sam Benson, master publicists, had organized this hike, it would have been a lot smoother and more fun in the first place (and we’d have stopped by a lot more bookstores).
Speaking of bookstores, a special thanks to the Indies—particularly East City Bookshop, One More Page Books, Oblong Books & Music, and Books of Wonde
r—you are beacons of civilization after a long time in the writing wilderness. Booksellers Cecilia Cackley, Nicole Brinkley, and Shauna Morgan, you have a special place in my heart. Thank you for your support.
To my boys—Bret, Felix, and Hansen—thank you for making the trek with me. It’s always an adventure, wherever we go.
About the Author
HEIDI HEILIG is the author of the acclaimed For a Muse of Fire. Her debut novel, The Girl from Everywhere, was an Indie Next Pick and was also named a Best Book of the Year by NPR. Heidi Heilig holds an MFA from New York University in musical theatre writing, and she’s written the book and lyrics for several shows. She lives in Brooklyn, New York, with her family.
www.heidiheilig.com
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Books by Heidi Heilig
The Girl from Everywhere
The Ship Beyond Time
For a Muse of Fire
A Kingdom for a Stage
On This Unworthy Scaffold
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Copyright
Content notes: Mental illness (bipolar), blood use in magic, gun violence, war, colonialism, racism, descriptions of dead bodies, mention of reproductive coercion, mentions of torture, mention of suicide
This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used to advance the fictional narrative. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.