by Heidi Heilig
ELLISIA: He isn’t here. And you’re getting water on his floor.
She looks pointedly at CAMREON’s foot, then leans on the door, trying to close it. But LEO steps into the light spilling through the crack.
LEO: Ellisia?
She frowns, looking up in surprise.
ELLISIA: Leo? What are you doing here?
Looking back toward the street, she pulls the door open.
Come in. Quickly.
Chapter Six
I wake with applause roaring in my ears, only to find my cheek pressed against the cold metal of the avion. It takes me a moment to recognize the smell in the wind on my face: the briny scent of the sea. It was not the roar of applause I’d heard, but the rolling waves of the ocean.
I take a deep breath through my nose, then put a hand over my aching ribs. The painkiller I’d taken before getting into the avion is wearing off. We had left the plantation just after sunset, heavy with provisions raided from the Audrinnes’ larder. I had wanted to help Theodora pack, but she insisted that I first change out of my sarong, stiff with blood. Wrestling into a dress from Madame’s closet had left me sweating, and so I had ignored Theodora’s I-told-you-so look and let her load the avion herself.
She had used the opportunity to take control of the flying machine; as Camreon had said, there was plenty of blood lying around. Now Theodora guides the bird easily over the landscape. I glance past the wings, trying to get a sense of where we are . . . there, to the right. The open water of the Hundred Days Sea. The jungle tumbles green and wild in the jagged valleys just off the other side of the avion; we are skirting the shoreline west of Nokhor Khat.
Theodora sits in the front seat, glancing between the map in her hands and the land below. “Are we close?” I call over the breeze.
She looks back at me, as though surprised I am awake. “I think so, but this is our second pass. Keep an eye on the sea cliffs, will you? We’re looking for a cavern near the waterline, but it’s hard to find in the dark.”
I peer down at the cliffs, black and dramatic above the booming waves. They are formed of old lava rock, brittle and broken. Years ago, Chakrana was forged in fire, but the jungle has covered much of the country, leaving only the old tunnels beneath the surface. They stretch for miles and miles. “How did you find the lytheum in the first place?”
“Luck and legend, put together,” Theodora replies, and the gleam is back in her eye. “Which doesn’t sound very scientific, unless you know anything about science. Lytheum salts are often found in ashstone and other pyroxenes. So I knew to look near volcanic activity . . . but of course in Chakrana, that’s almost everywhere. You’re laughing at me.”
“What? No!” I try to press my lips flat, but she’s caught me off guard. Or maybe it’s the height making me giddy. “I just . . . haven’t seen you this happy in a while. Talking about . . . pyroxenes.”
She gives me a sidelong look. “I prefer them to politics.”
“So do I,” I insist. “Go on.”
Theodora frowns, but she can’t resist. “Well. By chance, I overheard a story from one of my father’s lieutenants about a village nearby called Kwai Goo. The Chakran name translates to Happy Valley, and that made me start thinking. You’re still laughing.”
“I’m smiling,” I say, and then I do laugh. “Only because you’re always thinking. That’s not a bad thing!”
“Know your enemy and know yourself, and you’ll have nothing to fear,” she says archly. “But if you know everything, you’ll have a hundred new questions by morning. Xavier used to say that to me,” she adds, more quietly now. Then she scrubs a hand down over her face. “Anyway, with some research, I found that the water source for the village ran through these tunnels. I had some of my engineers trace the river back till they found a band of ashstone.”
“Kwai Goo.” I look out over the dark jungle, fascinated. “What’s it like?”
“What do you mean?”
“Are they really happy there?”
“They might have been,” Theodora says. Her shoulders rise and fall, but her sigh is lost in the sound of the wind. “Before the armée came through.”
Rage flickers through me, ugly, familiar as the ache of my oldest scars. But Theodora carries the same pain, doesn’t she? So do Leo, and Akra . . . even Le Trépas. The country is steeped in it: the pain of choosing between vengeance and forgiveness. Sometimes I envy the dead—after all, souls move on after three days. Then again, they never have a chance to change their minds.
“There it is,” Theodora says then. “The cave.”
As we bank toward the cliff face, a shadow resolves into the deep mouth of a black cavern. The avion dips, the gleaming waves racing up as though to swallow us. At the last minute, the warbird turns, slipping through a cleft in the sea-swept rocks. If the tide was higher, I’m not sure we would have found it.
We land with a heavy crunch on the broken floor of the cave. Salt air wraps around us; above, a slice of sky gleams through a crack in the earth. The shadows shift as the waves roll in and out, filling tide pools, then sucking them dry, and black crabs and golden souls skitter over the rocks.
Theodora slides from the avion, feet plashing in the shallows. I follow more slowly, my ribs twinging as I find my footing on the slick stone. Opening the storage space at the front of the avion, Theodora pulls out a pack covered in rubber tubing. She slips it onto her back, taking hold of a metal wand attached to the end of the slim tube.
“What is that?” I ask.
“Flamethrower,” she says softly, checking the nozzle. I glance around the cavern; the souls are thick around us, but of course Le Trépas is not all we have to fear.
“Do you think there are revenants here?”
With a smile, she flicks the trigger. A burst of fire blooms and fades in the dark. “I hope so. Can you get the other pack, or is it too much to carry?”
Reaching into the belly of the avion, I fish out a canvas bag that clinks gently as I lift it. The handle of a miner’s pick sticks out the top. It isn’t heavy, but my side aches when I sling it over my shoulders. Still, I’m not about to complain when the wound is a result of my own actions.
The path twists upward from the pools in a steep set of stairs. I follow Theodora, keeping my eyes on the worn steps. Had the villagers from Kwai Goo carved them to visit the tide pools, gathering seaweed and prying limpets from the rock? No . . . not the villagers. I stop at a switchback, scraping at the algae with the tip of my toe. Carved symbols dance before my eyes, half covered by mud and shadows: the graceful twisting characters of Old Chakran. It was monks who used to carve stories into stone.
“I think there’s a temple nearby,” I say, my voice echoing in the cavern.
“Temple Fourteen,” Theodora replies. “Dedicated to the Keeper of Knowledge.”
I stare at her back, but she only continues up the steps. “How do you know that?”
“Luck and legend,” she calls back over her shoulder, and I can hear the smile in her voice. “Though this time, the story is Monsieur Audrinne’s.”
“This is where Le Trépas found the Book of Knowledge?” I narrow my eyes, peering at the carvings, then up at Theodora. “We aren’t really here for the lytheum, are we?”
“Of course we are,” she says. “Le Trépas looted the temple almost two decades ago. Anything he didn’t take, the armée certainly destroyed. Still, it’s interesting. Maybe when this is over, we’ll have time to look for the book. To put it back where it belongs and restore what was lost. Come along!”
“When this is over,” I repeat, my eyes on my feet as I continue upward. I hadn’t given much thought to what would happen after the fight—at least, not in practical terms. My dreams of the future are more like memories of the past: performing with my family, dinners in the comfort of a home that’s long gone. What will Chakrana be like when the war is done? What will I be like? Theodora’s plan to restore the country is a grand vision, but in my mind’s eye, all I can see is o
ur old roulotte, our collection of fantouches, and my family preparing for a show. Will I ever be Jetta of the Ros Nai again, or am I now only a nécromancien?
“Know your enemy,” Le Trépas had written, but suddenly I fear I do not know myself as well as I should. I chew my lip, staring at my feet as we climb. The farther we get from the water, the less algae there is on the steps, and the clearer the lettering becomes. Here and there, I can pick out words. Knowledge, of course, and life, and death. Others take more time to puzzle out—love, truth, and fear—after all, I am still a novice in my studies of old Chakran. But as I stand on the steps, another memory comes: the flicker of firelight, the sound of the drum, and shadows dancing on a scrim. “I know this story,” I mutter, but Theodora’s voice echoes back.
“What was that?”
“I know this story!” I say again, louder this time. But why am I surprised? When the old ways were forbidden, the stories of the gods found new life in the theater. Most shadow plays are versions of myths. “The Keeper and the Liar is carved into the steps!”
“You’ll have to tell me sometime,” she calls. “For now, save your breath for climbing!”
I look up, and curse. How has she already reached the top? I hurry after her, but the steps seem to multiply as I climb. Soon I am sweating from the exertion as well as the pain in my side. I put my hand against my ribs and press onward, but when I finally catch up, I drop the miner’s pack so I can breathe.
Theodora’s brow furrows. “Are you all right?”
“It’s only a stitch,” I say, waving away her concern. My gesture disturbs the souls that have drifted near. The dead are drawn to my blood; the wound must be bleeding again under the bandage. Theodora gives me a look, but she doesn’t bother arguing with me. She takes out her map, pretending to study it while I rest, even though there is only one path ahead.
As my heart slows, a distant sound rises and falls on the breeze. The crash of the waves? The ringing in my ears? No—if I listen close, I can almost pick out a melody. “Do you hear that sound?”
“Over your breathing?” Theodora smiles. “The old stories claim it’s the souls whispering their lives to the Keeper of Knowledge, but I’m fairly sure it’s just the wind in the lava tunnels.”
I return her smile, shaking my head. “How do you know all this?”
“You love performing, but I love learning.” She cocks her head as though to listen to the wind. “Wouldn’t it be something, to listen to everything everyone has ever known?”
The wind rises, as though to answer her question. The hollow song reminds me of the holy chants Papa used to sing sometimes. He’d learned them in his youth, with the other village children who spent the rainy seasons in the monastery, working the fields and learning to read. When I used to imagine the sound of a hundred voices joining his in harmony, it sounded something like the wind does now.
Had the monks carved the tunnels deeper as well, to catch the wind just so? Or had they heard the song in the wild like a miracle and known this was the place to build their temple? And what had drawn Le Trépas here, two decades ago?
Suddenly I have to see it: the temple dedicated to the Keeper of Knowledge. Knowledge, like the message on the dead man’s chest. Grabbing the pack again, I start down the hall, and now it is Theodora hurrying after. “Wait for me!”
We are so close to the surface that the tunnel is more like a rift in the earth, pried open by the water and the wind over the years. Roots and ferns slip through the crack, bringing with them the green, humid scent of the jungle above. By the way the soullight grows steadily brighter, I can tell we’re getting close to the temple. Soon enough, I see the broken remains of a carved lintel, with spirits spilling through the doorway like a beacon. I press forward, eager, but Theodora has fallen behind, looking again at her map. “Come back, Jetta!”
Reluctantly, I turn back to see her standing by a branch in the tunnel, the opening as wide as a hungry mouth. How had I missed it?
“The ashstone is just down this hall,” she says, but I hesitate. The temple is in the other direction.
I press my hand to my ribs again, pretending the stitch is back, though I can hardly feel the pain anymore. “Go on ahead,” I say. “I’ll be right behind you.”
The concern in Theodora’s face almost makes me drop the act. “I can wait.”
“It’s all right,” I say quickly. Then I shrug off the miner’s pack. “I just need a minute. The pack is so heavy.”
“I can carry it for you—”
“No need,” I say, leaning against the wall. “I’ll be right behind you.”
Theodora frowns, but after a moment, she starts down the tunnel. As soon as she’s out of view, I straighten up, jogging lightly back toward the golden doorway.
The light draws me like a moth to a flame. No—not just the light. The temple itself. Le Trépas came here seeking knowledge. I can’t shake the feeling that I should do the same—to look for what he had taken, or what he had left behind.
But when I step through the doorway, thoughts of the monk fade. The temple has been carved into a grand cavern in the earth, wider than a paddy, taller than a kapok tree. But roots grow down through the ceiling, and the cracked floor is covered in leaves and rubble. Still, the souls remember that this is a holy place. They soar through the room and scurry over the rubble. The song is louder here as the wind rushes through the chamber like the whispers of the spirits.
Then the skin on the back of my neck prickles, and I whirl. But there is no one else here—no one but the souls. Their glowing light flickers across the high stone walls, illuminating the carvings. Not the usual figures from our stories, nor the stories themselves. Instead, the walls have been chipped into rows and rows of hollows, too regular to be caused by destruction. As I watch the souls duck in and out of the holes, I realize they are empty shelves.
What had been stored here? Offerings? Incense? Knowledge? I remember some of the stories about La Victoire—that the armée had burned thousands of old scrolls. But was it the armée, or Le Trépas?
The skin on the back of my neck crawls again—I feel eyes, I’m sure of it. Turning slowly this time, I scan the room, but I am the only person here. Still, the flickering light casts strange shadows in the rubble. Then I see them—eyes in the carvings on the broken altar. Faces too, or the remains of faces—an ear here, a nose there, the curve of a jawline, the rippled lines of long hair . . . the hundred forms of the Keeper, in their many human lives.
The faces go all the way around the rectangular block of stone. They’ve been marred with chisels, by the armée or by Le Trépas, and the gems have been pried from their eyes, but I know enough about the Keeper to imagine what used to be. The carvings would have watched the worshippers approach, and listened to their secrets and their dreams. There would have been a bigger statue too, there, behind the altar, though it must have been torn down long ago.
The altar itself is still mostly intact, and though the few others I’ve seen have been solid, this one is hollow, like a trough . . . or a coffin. There is even a lid, though it has been pushed sideways, exposing whatever was inside. Or is inside.
Is this where the Keeper’s book had been? A few quick steps brings me to the altar, but it is only full of dirty water. Disappointed, I trace the carvings on the lip. Life, knowledge, death, repeated all the way around the rim. Over the smell of the leaves turning slowly to humus, there is still a hint of incense in the air, and flower petals stir on the stone. Even before the armée’s defeat, there had been monks who’d come in secret to the temples; shadow plays aren’t the only way the old ways have survived. Theodora’s words come back to me: perhaps in time, we can restore what was lost.
Theodora . . . how long since I left her in the tunnel? Turning, I start toward the door, then stop short, startled by the glow of an akela standing there.
It shimmers like a column of flame—the soul of a person. I shouldn’t be surprised. Souls are drawn to temples, and death, like life, h
appens every day. But I had not known there were any other people nearby. Just me . . . and Theodora.
My stomach sinks, but then a scream echoes through the tunnels. Her voice. She’s alive. “Theodora!”
Breaking into a run, I pelt back the way I’d come. Souls tumble out of my way as I careen down the hall toward the yawning mouth of the tunnel. “Theodora?”
“Jetta! Stay back!” As I start into the darkness, a gout of flame punctuates her shout, bursting from what seems like a crack in the stone. In the sudden brightness, I see another figure standing there. A monk, robed in red, just out of reach of the flames. The firelight shines on the monk’s silver hair, but her eyes are sapphire blue.
A n’akela? No—when she sees me, she lifts a gun in her gnarled hand, and despite my many sins, I know I have never done anything to warrant vengeance from this monk. I don’t even recognize her. But she recognizes me. “Hello, mei mei,” she says. Little sister. “It’s good to see you again.”
THE KEEPER AND THE LIAR
In the days when our ancestors were young, the three gods walked among them. The Maiden coaxed new babies to open their eyes, the King collected souls from the dying, and the Keeper gathered all the great and small moments in between, so that no life, no matter how brief, would ever be forgotten.
Then one day, the Keeper met the soul of a liar.
The soul was eager to tell her story: magnificent adventures, endless wealth, true love, and the many grieving children and grandchildren she had left behind. The Keeper listened raptly, but as the hours passed, the King of Death kept tut-tutting, and the Maiden sighed, shaking her head. Annoyed with the interruptions, the Keeper turned to them, curious. “Why do you scoff at her story?”
“Because there was no wealth or love, nor children or grandchildren,” the Maiden replied.
The King nodded. “This girl died in her mother’s womb.”
The Keeper was taken aback, inspecting the soul with new eyes. “Why do you tell me things that aren’t true?”