by Heidi Heilig
“Very lightly,” she murmurs. “I heard you need to borrow fantouches for your upcoming performance.”
I frown, trying to tame my tangled hair with my fingers. “Is there nothing the court doesn’t gossip about?”
“Any shadow player knows that the only thing worse than an audience is no audience at all,” she says wryly, and the claim brings me up short.
“You’re a shadow player?” I say, but of course she is. I had been too distracted to recognize it before.
The woman only smiles, reaching out to take my hand. At first, I think she means to shake it, Aquitan style, but instead, she turns my palm up, placing her own beside it. “I always look at hands,” she says softly. White scars shine on her own skin, so similar to mine, though she must have gotten all of hers by working with leather—making fantouches. “Art always leaves its mark. I’m Ayla,” she says then, releasing me. “Of the Ros Sook.”
“The Ros Sook!” My eyes widen, I can’t help but bow. The troupe had been famous when I was a girl, but I hadn’t heard of them in years. Of course—they’d won recognition at the Fêtes des Ombres and went off to Aquitan, never to return. “It’s an honor to meet you,” I say at last. “I’m Jetta of the Ros Nai.”
“The honor is mine,” she says warmly. “I’ve never heard of a one-woman troupe.”
“I usually perform with my family,” I tell her, trying to ignore the pang in my heart. “But they’re still in Chakrana.”
“Ah,” she says, her expression turning sympathetic, her eyes lost in memory. “When my own troupe first traveled to Aquitan, it took me years to save enough to bring the rest of my family here. It seems much harder to do it all alone. If you ever need help, I’d be happy to give it.”
“Thank you, jie jie,” I say—the offer is a kind one, and if I were to stay, if I had more time, I would love to take her up on it. What stories could she tell? “But I plan to return to Chakrana as soon as the show is over.”
“What?” Her face is a cascade of emotions—shock, worry, confusion. “Why?”
I stare at her, taken aback. It is one thing to hear such a question from the king, but quite another to hear it from a Chakran. “Chakrana is my home,” I say—hadn’t she just said the same?
The look she gives me reminds me once more of Maman, so much it makes my heart ache. “A home is hard to defend, with war and hunger knocking at the door. Not to mention Le Trépas,” she adds with a shudder. “He’s on the loose once again, I hear.”
My face falls; my back stiffens. Guilt floods in. “Le Trépas will be stopped,” I say firmly. “The war will end, and Chakrana will be stronger than ever.”
“But how long will that take?” She shakes her head sadly, and anger pushes the guilt aside. I glance pointedly at her Aquitan dress.
“It would certainly be faster if our best hadn’t fled to Aquitan.”
Ayla only raises an eyebrow. “Do you think no one suffered in Chakrana before the Aquitans came? There are rich and poor in every country. The real enemy is want,” she adds, but Le Trépas’s words echo in my head. Know your enemy. “Here in Aquitan, you can defeat it.”
“That’s wonderful for the Aquitans,” I say. “What about the Chakrans who can’t leave?”
“You and I are artists,” she says. “Not fighters. Not saviors.”
“Why not all three?” I say. Know yourself.
“If you want to excel, you must choose . . . especially here.” The advice is not so strange, but the look on her face is. As though she is afraid—not of me, but for me.
“Why?” I ask, narrowing my eyes. “What’s so different about Aquitan?”
She wrings her hands, her knuckles pale and taut. Where is her poise now? “There have been artists who tried to fight,” she says at last. “To bring politics into the theater. But Le Roi doesn’t only reward the people who please him. He will punish the ones who don’t.”
Despite the fire in the hearth, a chill goes through me. But before I can ask what punishment she means, a firm knock echoes through the room. Without waiting for an answer, a servant opens the door, and behind him, I catch sight of a gaggle of courtiers in the hall.
For a moment, I fear Le Roi had somehow heard us talking about him, and that the courtiers have come to see me arrested, or worse. But the servant bows so low that his lips nearly brush his knee. “Mademoiselle Chantray,” he murmurs to the carpet. “Le Roi requests your company.”
The request itself is a mere formality—the servant is barely done speaking when the king himself breezes through the door. Though his smile is warm and bright, it does nothing to dispel the cold feeling in my chest. But Ayla’s poise has returned; she bows, and I do the same, smoothing my features into a smile. “Your Majesty.”
“Good morning, Jetta,” Le Roi says, inclining his head to us both. “And Ayla. I shouldn’t be surprised to see you here. Ayla makes a habit of welcoming all newcomers from Chakrana.”
“I appreciate the visit,” I say softly. “It’s always good to know more about my audience.”
“After all these years, she is still one of my most prized players,” the king says fondly. “You would do well to learn from her.”
Ayla’s smile deepens at the praise—just so—and she presses a hand to her heart, moving so deliberately that she might as well have been a puppet herself. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”
“Speaking of shadow plays,” the king says, turning back to me. “It is time to choose your fantouches. Allow me to show you the Salon des Merveilles.”
Outside, the courtiers echo his words in a susurration of whispers. I am reluctant to leave, but when I turn back to Ayla, her smile hasn’t budged. “A pleasure,” I say. “I hope we meet again.”
“So do I,” she says, but despite the pleasant look on her face, the words feel ominous. As I hurry to the king’s side, the crowd parts around us, and Ayla’s whispered warning seems to follow.
I wish Theodora was here. I am ill at ease in the king’s company, especially without her. I glance back over my shoulder, but she is nowhere to be seen among the following courtiers. “Is La Fleur waiting for us in the salon?”
“Alas,” the king says. “My dear niece is . . . otherwise occupied.”
The tone of his voice gives me pause, but I can’t imagine a single thing that would keep Theodora from the Book of Knowledge. “With what?”
“Her health, I’m afraid.” The king shakes his head sadly. “I have long heard stories of the madness brought about by the jungle, but I had hoped Theodora’s strong mind would resist it.”
“Madness?” I stare at the king, sure for a moment I am misunderstanding his Aquitan. “Theodora?”
“You heard her last night, talking about dark forces and evil influences. And of course, her request for the elixir,” he adds with a pointed look. The marble floor seems to shift beneath my feet. The flask is heavy in my own pocket; I’m sure the king had heard her say it was for me. But the courtiers hadn’t—they’d only known a bottle was being sent to our rooms. The king sighs heavily, loud enough for them to hear. “But don’t worry. At Les Chanceux, she has the best docteurs, and excellent care.”
“She’s at the springs?” I say, my heart racing. “When will she be back?”
“Not the springs,” the king says, stopping briefly before a wide doorway. The servants rush ahead to open it, and late-morning light spills through. Outside, a carriage waits in the square, and the king glides blithely toward it. “I had a sanatorium built there years ago,” he says over his shoulder as I rush to catch up. “Sanatorium—do you know the word? Less educated people might call it a madhouse.”
Act 2,
Scene 13
Back at the Royal Opera House. TIA and ELLISIA sit cross-legged on the stage, playing a card game. There is a small stack of Aquitan bills between them, as well as a much larger stack in front of Ellisia.
ELLISIA: I win again.
She puts down her cards with a flourish and adds the smaller stack of mo
ney to her own.
I’d say we should play double or nothing, but we’re already there.
TIA: It was your money in the first place.
ELLISIA laughs, handing the entire stack of bills back to TIA.
ELLISIA: Aquitan money. It’s worth as much as you paid for it, these days. At least winning it back passes the time.
TIA: I’m definitely grateful for that.
Chewing her lip, TIA glances at the door, the way she has two dozen times over the last few hours. With a sigh, she takes the deck of cards to reshuffle. She is dealing when she hears the creak of the stage door. Cards scatter as she springs to her feet.
Oh, thank the gods. There are only so many times I can lose at cards.
CAMREON and CHEEKY slip inside the theater, followed by AKRA. He shuts the door behind them, leaning heavily against it, his hand over the wound at his side. CHEEKY sinks down into the nearest velvet chair, drawing her knees up and wrapping her arms around them. But TIA looks at the door, then back to CHEEKY.
TIA: Where’s Leo?
AKRA: He’s caught up in the cordon with the rest of the Aquitans.
TIA: You left him behind?
CAMREON: He wasn’t supposed to be there in the first place!
CAMREON stalks down the aisle as CHEEKY glares at his back.
CHEEKY: He needed to find Xavier.
AKRA: We found him, all right.
AKRA pushes off the door, wincing, then follows CAMREON to the stage.
Can I borrow your knife? I have to get this bullet out.
CAMREON hands over the blade, and AKRA climbs the steps toward the stage. CHEEKY’s expression shifts from frustration to worry.
CHEEKY: Do you need help?
AKRA: I can take care of it. There’s a needle and thread in the costume shop.
He vanishes into the shadows in the wings. Meanwhile, CAMREON starts to pace. TIA glances from him to CHEEKY, wide-eyed.
TIA: What happened out there?
CAMREON: My brother isn’t dead.
ELLISIA: You sound surprised.
CAMREON grits his teeth.
CAMREON: I thought he’d been brought back to life by Le Trépas. But it turns out he’s in the grip of something worse.
TIA: What?
CAMREON: Jealousy.
He sits on his heels, running a hand over his face.
ELLISIA: Well, I could have told you that.
Looking up, CAMREON glares.
CAMREON: I’m all ears.
ELLISIA: What about my concert?
CHEEKY stands, incensed.
CHEEKY: They have Leo! Anything you know could help us get him back!
ELLISIA: My livelihood is made selling what I have. Leo would respect that. So should you.
TIA: What about collateral, then?
She reaches for the violin case, but CHEEKY snatches it away, glaring at ELLISIA.
Cheeky.
CHEEKY holds the violin close for another moment, but ELLISIA raises an eyebrow.
ELLISIA: You’re Cheeky? Raik has plenty to say about you, as well.
CHEEKY wavers, then looks at CAM.
CHEEKY: You better be ready with the treasury the minute you’re on that throne.
At his nod, CHEEKY slides the violin case across the floor, and ELLISIA stops it with her hand. Then she sighs, patting the leather of the case.
ELLISIA: In all honesty, I don’t think Raik realized what life was like outside of Nokhor Khat—or even outside the palace. Before he left to join the rebellion, he was so sure of himself. But when he saw the rest of his country—the work and the sacrifice of everyday life—he felt out of place. Then, of course, you both betrayed him.
CHEEKY: I never—
ELLISIA: His words, not mine. You were the girl he couldn’t have.
She gestures at CAMREON.
And you were the leader he couldn’t be. But if he can’t be loved, Le Trépas can make him feared.
CAMREON: He told you all of this?
ELLISIA: There are lots of ways to make someone feel good. Listening is one of them.
CAMREON: I see.
The Tiger folds his arms, frowning at ELLISIA as he considers his next move.
How often does Raik send for you?
ELLISIA: Almost every night—like I said, he’s a long-standing client. Not that I always come when called.
TIA snorts.
The inn keeps me busier than I’d like, and to be honest, the palace is . . . not what it was.
CAMREON: How so?
ELLISIA: The servants are gone. The whole place is empty. And it stinks. Most of the time I send some of my girls to take care of business. Before you ask, we’re not going to poison him for you. Even if you could afford it. I won’t take the risk.
CAMREON: I wasn’t going to ask. I don’t want him dead.
From the shadows backstage, AKRA reappears, his wound bandaged. There is a bitter smile on his face.
AKRA: Because he’s your brother?
CAMREON: Because I should have known.
He sits on his heels, rubbing his forehead.
I thought he just needed time to adjust. That seeing life outside the capital would help him be a better king.
TIA: Maybe he didn’t want to be a better king.
CHEEKY: I don’t think he wanted to be a king at all.
She chews her lip as she turns to CAMREON.
When you left him in charge of the rebels, he was more worried about how to get champagne shipped to the jungle than about how to get the armée out of Nokhor Khat.
AKRA only shakes his head, looking at CAMREON.
AKRA: The Tiger would kill him for aligning himself with Le Trépas.
CAMREON: I’m not the Tiger anymore, remember? I’m the rightful king. What will Chakrana see in me if I start my reign with my brother’s blood on my hands?
ELLISIA: They’ll see Le Trépas, and La Victoire, when your own parents were killed.
CAMREON swallows. The memory is a very old wound, but that only makes the pain more surprising.
CAMREON: Yes.
AKRA: Do you really think you can convince him to step aside? Let you take over?
The Tiger hesitates, sharing a look with CHEEKY.
CAMREON: It depends on who asks.
AKRA’s mocking smile falls away.
AKRA: Not Cheeky.
CHEEKY: Yes Cheeky. He said he wanted me alive.
AKRA: So he could kill you himself.
CHEEKY: Not if I play my cards right. What are we offering?
CAMREON: A life of luxury, funded by the treasury. No responsibilities. And you.
CHEEKY: Also funded by the treasury, I presume.
AKRA: Cheeky!
At his cry, she turns to him, but the anguish on his face gives her pause; it is much worse than the pain he’d shown over the bullet. She goes to him, gathering his bloody hands in her own.
CHEEKY: Akra . . . it’s just a job. My livelihood, like Ellisia said—
AKRA: I know. But I’m . . .
He hesitates, glancing at the others, then lowering his voice to a whisper.
Afraid.
CHEEKY: So you can face danger, but I can’t?
AKRA: Yes, exactly.
CHEEKY laughs, but TIA comes to her side, reassuring.
TIA: I’ll go with her and keep her safe.
AKRA: I thought you were a lover, not a fighter.
TIA: It’s wartime. There’s rationing. We all have to make do.
CAMREON: I’m coming too.
AKRA: After your performance on the palace steps? I doubt you’ll get past the door.
CAMREON: I’ll be in disguise.
AKRA: They’re bound to check for weapons.
CAMREON: Anything can be a weapon, if I need one. You heard Tia. We’ll make do.
Outnumbered, AKRA turns back to CHEEKY.
AKRA: Even if they can keep you safe, I’m supposed to just let you go?
CHEEKY: I won’t be gone long. Raik only wants me b
ecause I rejected him. If I come crawling back, he’ll be bored of me in a couple of weeks.
AKRA: What if he isn’t?
CHEEKY: Well. If all else fails, I don’t have a problem poisoning him. Ellisia—can you help us get into the palace? I’m sure Raik would pay extra for the girl he couldn’t have.
ELLISIA considers as she turns to CAMREON.
ELLISIA: And you plan to lift the deportation decree?
CAMREON: I do. In fact, I plan to send Akra to stop the Prix de Guerre from leaving the harbor.
ELLISIA: It’s a deal. I wasn’t made to be an innkeeper.
AKRA spreads his bloody hands in a disbelieving gesture.
AKRA: Am I supposed to stop the ship by myself?
CAMREON: You’re the best suited for it. After all, Le Trépas can’t steal your soul. And I’ll order the dragon to obey you. Can you do it?
AKRA narrows his eyes, then turns back to CHEEKY.
AKRA: Depends on who’s asking.
CHEEKY: Please, Akra.
She leans into him, her head against his chest.
Leo is on that ship.
AKRA wraps his arms around her tightly—fiercely.
AKRA: If you swear you’re coming back to me as soon as you can.
CHEEKY: Of course I’m coming back.
She pulls back, giving him a pointed look.
Cam’s not the only one who owes me.
AKRA: What do I owe you?
CHEEKY: This.
She rises up on her tiptoes to kiss him, and he holds her for a long time before he lets go.
Chapter Fourteen
The madhouse.
I feel it in my throat—a rising heat, like fire, like bile—a scream, building with my rage. Looking into the king’s guileless eyes, I would bet my life that he knows Theodora doesn’t belong there.
Was this a punishment, like Ayla said? The king had been displeased by his dear niece’s attempt at public humiliation, and he is in full control of the audience as we cross the plaza to the carriage. The courtiers are following, watching, whispering. Not to mention the guards at the door, and the footman approaching to help me up the step. Le Roi Fou has staged all of this with impeccable timing. Moreover, he knows I’m the one who really needed the elixir. If I protest too much, too loudly, it would be only too easy for him to whisk me away to the sanatorium as well.