by Heidi Heilig
LEGARDE: I plan to get the living to the ship.
AUDRINNE sags, all bluster gone, and turns back to RAIK.
AUDRINNE: Are you sure she’s dead?
CAMREON: He’s sure.
The pen hidden by his hand, the Tiger steps lightly up the stairs, approaching the Boy King.
Le Trépas likely told him. Didn’t he, Raik?
RAIK only stares at CAM, his eyes wide. The crowd rumbles, uncertain, but AUDRINNE lashes out.
AUDRINNE: Who the hell are you?
CAMREON: I’m Camreon Alendra. The rightful king. And I’m sorry to say that Le Trépas killed your wife, like he killed my brother.
Suddenly CAMREON lunges, grabbing RAIK by the arm. It takes just a moment to make the mark—death—but the Boy King doesn’t fall. Instead, he rips the pen from CAMREON’s hand as the crowd gasps. RAIK looks down at the mark on his hand, then up at his brother.
RAIK: You’ve always thought I was a puppet king. These are my only strings now.
Pulling aside the neck of his robe, he reveals the puckered scar on his throat, surrounded by the healed marks of ugly stitching. CAMREON’s mouth opens—closes. For the first time in a long time, the Tiger looks lost.
CAMREON: You were dead.
RAIK: You only wished I was. Guards!
The shout jolts CAMREON into action. He bounds down the stairs and plunges into the crowd as the palace door swings open again and more Aquitan soldiers pour through the door.
Bring me the Tiger. Show the rest of them to the docks.
As the soldiers swarm toward the crowd, the Aquitans at the front recoil, while those in the back push closer to see what’s going on. Those in the middle cry out in the crush. But AUDRINNE is not ready to give up.
AUDRINNE: Aquitan soldiers obey the Aquitan general!
LEGARDE: You heard him. Bring them all to the docks.
Furious, AUDRINNE raises his gun. LEGARDE’s hand darts out to grab his wrist. AUDRINNE gasps as his bones creak in the general’s grip.
I’ve given you a lawful order. For your safety, and your son’s, I suggest you obey.
He pushes AUDRINNE back toward his carriage, and the man stumbles down the stairs. The soldiers follow him, fanning out before the palace steps to push the Aquitans back. On the other side of the plaza, CHEEKY yelps as someone grabs her hand, but it’s only AKRA.
AKRA: Time to go.
LEO: Thank the gods you’re here. Get her back safely, will you?
Before AKRA can reply, LEO disappears into the swirling crowd toward the palace—toward LEGARDE.
CHEEKY: Leo! Come back!
She cannot follow; AKRA holds her tightly. But at the sound of CHEEKY’s shout, RAIK’s head turns.
RAIK: Cheeky?
Their eyes meet over the heads of the crowd. Then the king points, calling to his armée.
The Chakran girl! Bring her to me unharmed!
The soldiers turn to look at her, and finally CHEEKY lets AKRA pull her away. The crowd flees with them, trying to escape the plaza. As they careen toward the side street, they meet another line of soldiers standing side by side in a blockade.
The men are nervous—never before have they faced their own people. But they are here on the general’s orders, and so they press forward, funneling the Aquitans toward the sea.
AKRA doesn’t stop, and the crowd parts around him, repelled by his uniform. When they reach the cordon, a young soldat stands in their way. He glances nervously at CHEEKY, then back at AKRA.
SOLDAT: Orders are to bring everyone to the docks.
AKRA lifts his chin with all the condescending authority he developed when he was a real capitaine.
AKRA: She’s Chakran, not Aquitan.
The young soldat narrows his eyes, unsure, but finally he nods, stepping back. Then, over the crowd, RAIK shouts.
RAIK: There she is! Don’t let her go!
The soldat jumps at the king’s orders. Then he draws his gun with shaking hands. Before he can point it at CHEEKY, AKRA grabs the weapon, jerking it sideways as the soldier fires. At the sound of the shot, the crowd screams. AKRA grunts at the pain of the bullet. Then he punches the soldier once, twice, thrice, until the man reels away.
Blood streaming down his side, AKRA pushes CHEEKY toward the safety of the alley. Behind them, the crush has turned into a riot. Men in the crowd have drawn their guns on the soldiers, and the soldiers shoot back. Slowly, the “Chakratans” are herded to the docks, LEO along with them.
Chapter Twelve
Theodora and I follow the servant through the glittering maze of the palais, passing massive friezes, marble statues, fine porcelain, and framed paintings. The endless carpet underfoot is soft as fur, though it’s been woven with such intricate care that it feels like a shame to step on it.
Beside me, Theodora seems unaffected by the grandeur; her brow is furrowed and her eyes faraway. “A ship for a shadow play,” she murmurs, speaking in Chakran. “Can you do it?”
“How big a ship?” I try to laugh, but I had heard the stories of Le Roi Fou’s generosity. How he had given a favored shadow player her weight in gold, or offered his own throne for kindling when a fire ran too low for a third encore. Like all my dreams of Aquitan, my trust in those tales has faded. But walking through the fine halls, with my dirty feet on the priceless carpet, they seem a lot more real. “They say your uncle is mad for fantouches, but I didn’t realize how bad his malheur really is.”
“Shh.” Theodora flicks her eyes toward the servant, then back. “Don’t assume he doesn’t know what he’s doing.”
“What’s he doing, then?”
“I’m not sure,” she admits. “It might have something to do with public opinion of the occupation. The last thing my uncle needs is a rebellion on his own soil, and spending more money on a failed war looks different than spending money on popular art.”
“What about spending money to save Aquitan lives?” It is difficult for me to keep my voice to a whisper. “How can he believe Le Trépas is harmless?”
“Could he afford to believe otherwise?” Theodora’s own face is troubled. “If Aquitan knew the monk’s true abilities, no one would ever have come to live or work in Chakrana. Not to mention fight,” she adds. “Safer to paint Chakrans as victims of their own superstitions. After all, you have to admit, harnessing souls sounds . . .”
“Crazy?” I say with a bitter smile, but she shrugs a shoulder.
“Improbable.”
“You believed,” I say.
“I grew up in Chakrana,” she counters. “And I saw what you did with the first avion. Remember, I’d been trying for weeks to get that machine airborne. I knew it was something more than science. It’s probably for the best my uncle is skeptical,” she adds with a familiar gleam in her eye. “Or he might be more protective over the Keeper’s book.”
“Le Roi said the book was blank,” I remind her.
“And I can’t see the souls in this hallway,” she replies. “That doesn’t mean they aren’t there for someone who knows how to look.”
Automatically, my eyes flick across the little lights drifting in the air. She’s right, of course, but before I can tell her so, I realize that the servant ahead is watching us with the blank expression servants here seem to cultivate. He stands beside a door carved with leafy patterns reminiscent of bromeliads, opening it with a flourish as we approach. “Your rooms. There are refreshments laid out on the buffet, and chemises on the beds.”
Theodora thanks him, but any reply I might have made flies out of my head when I step inside. The Chakran suites, the king had said, though it is less Chakran than the idea of Chakrana.
Silk in bold colors has replaced the ubiquitous velvet on the Aquitan-style couches, and orchids in full bloom are displayed atop the marble mantel of a grand fireplace—at home, fire is only made for cooking or shadow plays. The plasterwork continues the leafy motifs, as do the gilt frames of the art on the walls. There are fantouches here, finely wrought and lovingl
y painted, but each one is pressed useless—lifeless—under glass. The paintings themselves feature Chakran scenes as well, though with that strangeness that comes from the distance between knowledge and imagination. In one, villagers work in pastoral sugar fields, where the sun is mild, the humidity low, and the serrated leaves of the cane never meet bare skin. In another, half-dressed girls splash in a jungle pool, completely unconcerned about mosquitoes.
It is a uniquely Aquitan understanding of Chakrana—all surface, no substance. No soul. If anything, the room is even more foreign than the rest of the palace.
At least the food looks delicious. There is an entire tray of those little flaky pastries on the table, along with more fruit and cheese, and something unidentifiable that smells like meat but resembles paste. As I reach for a tiny pie, I see a silver flask beside the platter. Picking it up, I uncork the bottle. The contents look like water, but I know better.
“The elixir,” I say, weighing the flask in my hand—so heavy. Not even the promise of a ship seems as extravagant. “There’s enough for weeks in here. Maybe months!”
Theodora only smiles as I tip a dose into the cap and drink it down. “We should get some rest,” she says, taking a handful of fruit and turning toward a bedroom. “It’s been a long day.”
“Good night,” I say as she closes the door softly behind her. The thought of bed is tempting. Then again, so are the pastries. I stand over the table and eat three in rapid succession. Then I pick up a fourth and find my own room.
The spacious chamber has yet another fireplace to ward off the chill in the air, and the bed is a mountain of pillows and blankets, framed with carved mahogany posts thicker than roof poles. Luxurious curtains of gold velvet hang in swags—much heavier than the mosquito nets I’m used to, though there are no mosquitoes here.
There is a long white nightgown laid across the foot of it, clean and soft as morning mist, but suddenly I am too tired to undo the buttons on my borrowed dress. Instead, I fall face-first into the feather bed, still clutching the flask of elixir. But when I close my eyes, I can see the gleam of the monk’s dark smile.
Thankfully, sleep comes for me quickly, and it seems only a moment before golden light pries my eyes open again. Struggling out of the mound of bedding, I squint at the bright sun through the glass windows; now I understand the purpose of the heavy velvet curtains lining the bed.
I had dreamed of lights—not the morning sunlight or the gleam of souls, but the flicker of flames at my back, and dark shadows dancing on the scrim. Though I hadn’t seen him in my dream, I’m fairly sure the king was in the audience. My brother had been there too, hadn’t he? I lie in bed, trying to remember what show we had been performing, when his voice comes again, knocking the shreds of the dream out of my head. “Jetta?”
“Akra?” I sit up, bleary-eyed, and he snorts.
“Are you still sleeping? It’s mid-afternoon!”
“Really?” I glance back through the window. Outside, the sun is at a gentle angle in the sky. “I think it’s still morning here.”
“Here?” I can hear the puzzlement in his voice. “Where are you, exactly?”
I hesitate. “In Aquitan.”
“Aquitan? I thought you were going to get the elixir!”
“I did . . .” Frowning, I paw through the pillows until I find the flask again. It is still warm from my hands. “I have it. But the Keeper’s Book of Knowledge is here too, and it may help us stop Le Trépas.”
“Cam mentioned that,” Akra says slowly. “But he didn’t say anything about the two of you going after it now.”
“It was a last-minute decision,” I say.
“It often is, with you. But it’s probably for the best you’re so far away.”
“Why?” He doesn’t answer immediately, and I’m suddenly very awake. “How are things in Nokhor Khat?”
“There’s good news and bad news,” Akra says cautiously.
“Good news first.”
“Well,” he says slowly. “I’m pretty sure we’re all still alive.”
“That’s the good news?” My mouth goes dry. “What’s the bad news?”
“Raik is still alive too,” Akra replies. “Your blood didn’t work on him.”
I clutch the flask tighter. “So . . . he wasn’t dead when Cam found him during the battle at the temple?”
My brother sighs. “It was dark. There was a fight raging outside. And the scar looks fairly bad,” he adds. I can imagine the bitter smile on his own scarred face. “It would have been an easy mistake to make.”
“But . . .” I shake my head—it makes no sense. “Why would Raik work with Le Trépas willingly?”
“We didn’t exactly get a chance to ask him,” Akra says. “But my guess is for the power he can offer.”
“Power?” An uneasy feeling bubbles up in my stomach—Le Trépas had offered me the same thing. “But Raik is a king.”
“He knows Camreon belongs on the throne,” my brother says with a scoff. “We all know. And there are two ways someone can react when their sibling is more powerful than they are: pride, or envy.”
The uneasiness grows, but I try to laugh it off. “Are you proud of me then, Akra?”
“I was just about to ask you the same question,” he replies, and I laugh again, for real this time. But he doesn’t laugh along. “That isn’t all the bad news.”
My smile falls away as quickly as it came. I look once more to the window, facing east. The city hides the sea, which in turn hides my country. My family. My friends. “What is it, Akra?”
“Leo went after Xavier. We’re going to bring him back,” he adds quickly, but I’m still trying to make sense of the words. “I almost didn’t tell you, but—”
“What do you mean, bring him back?” My heart is pounding. “Where is he?”
“He’s at the dock with the rest of the Aquitans,” Akra says. “But the Prix de Guerre doesn’t leave for two days yet.”
“The Prix de Guerre?” My stomach flips—deportation would be the least of Leo’s worries. “What if Xavier kills him—or Le Trépas finds him first?”
“Believe me, I wish he’d thought of that before running off,” my brother replies, but I’m already scrambling out of bed. Forget the Book of Knowledge, forget the ship. I already have the elixir. I need to wake Theodora and get back to Chakrana.
“I’ll be there by tonight,” I say, wrenching the door open. Then I freeze at the sight of a Chakran woman in the sitting room.
For a moment, I am certain it’s Maman—but how could she have gotten here, to Aquitan? And although this woman is about the same age, she is plumper—well fed—and much more comfortable in an Aquitan gown than Maman would ever be.
The woman stares back at me, a cautious look on her face. Then her eyes flick to the empty room behind me. Had she heard me talking—shouting? I shut the door again quickly as my brother’s voice echoes in my head. “No,” Akra says firmly. “Stay where you are. I don’t want to have to worry about you running off too.”
“Akra—”
“You need to find that book,” he says. “Le Trépas might not have raised the Boy King, but he’s still the one in control. Stopping him is the best way to end all of this.”
“Yes, but—”
“Know your role, Jetta. And let me play mine.”
I grit my teeth—it’s something he always says. But my role isn’t to sit by while Leo is in danger. Still, it’s no use arguing with my brother about it. “If you don’t want me to give you orders, you should give me the same courtesy,” I hiss, but his only response is silence, and I know in an instant that I’ve gone too far.
My fingers curl around the neck of the flask—of course his orders to me are different from mine to him. He had told me once how it felt: the pressure like a hand around his heart, the sensation of the air being pressed from his lungs if he did not leap to obey. It is the last thing I should threaten him with. But before I can form an apology, a knock at the door makes me jump.
The Chakran woman’s tentative voice drifts into the room. “Mei mei?” Younger sister. When was the last time Akra called me that?
“Just a minute,” I call back through the door, but my brother’s presence is already fading from my head. “Akra?”
There is no answer. With a sigh, I rest my forehead against the gilded panels. I’ll have to apologize in person. But no matter—I’ll be there soon enough.
Gathering my composure, I pull the door open. The Chakran woman is standing just outside. “Pardon the intrusion,” she says, and now I can tell what reminded me so much of Maman. It is her poise. Her posture is impeccable, her hands folded neatly in front of her, and she wears a friendly smile like an accessory. This is a woman used to being watched. “Court is abuzz with news of the latest shadow player,” she continues. “And possibly the last. I had hoped to introduce myself and hear some news from home.”
The word—home—is rich in her mouth, and looking at her in her Aquitan gown, I can imagine how much it might mean to her to sit and talk about Chakrana. But I need to get home myself. “I’m sorry, jie jie,” I say—older sister—and her eyes crinkle as her smile broadens. “But Theodora must be waiting.”
“You mean Mademoiselle La Fleur?” The woman turns, glancing across the sitting room to the open door of Theodora’s bedroom. “I heard that the king summoned her early this morning.”
“She didn’t wait for me?” I cross the sitting room, peering into Theodora’s bedroom, but the room is empty, the bed already made. I frown, glancing out the window once more. Perhaps it is later than it seems. Or maybe Theodora was only eager to see the book.
I return to the sitting room, unmoored. Suddenly I realize I do not know how to deal with the king without her help. Am I expected to wait for my own summons, or can I go to him myself? But I can’t let local customs stand in my way. “I should go find them,” I say, with more certainty than I feel.
The woman’s smile freezes. “Dressed like that?”
I falter on my way to the door, looking down at my gown. It was bad enough last night, travel stained and oversized, but now, rumpled from sleep, it’s even worse. “I don’t have many options,” I say, trying to smooth out the wrinkles. “I had to pack lightly aboard the avion.”