by Heidi Heilig
Swallowing my anger, I take a breath, searching for the right lines on this impromptu stage. “This is shocking news,” I say slowly as the footman offers me his hand. I take it reluctantly—in the carriage, I lose the audience. “Theodora Legarde is the sanest person I know.”
“She’s been under incredible strain,” the king replies. “The loss of her father . . . the embarrassment of her brother. But time heals many wounds.”
“Surely a visitor would help,” I say over my shoulder as I step into the carriage. “I’m one of her closest friends.”
“Perhaps once the worst is over,” the king replies smoothly as I settle into the velvet seat. “Unfortunately, her delusions center around Chakran superstitions. I’m not sure she’d be well served by seeing someone who shares them.”
His voice rings over the square—only when he is finished does he follow me into the carriage, leaving the whispering courtiers behind. I grit my teeth as the carriage starts across the cobbled square.
Nécromancy is far from superstition. I want to prove it—to raise a fantouche here and now. To tuck the soul of a butterfly into his silk handkerchief, or the spirit of a frog into one of his shoes. But looking at Le Roi Fou’s hawklike face, I remember when I had tried to impress his half-brother with my power. Maman had explained it all away with lies: hidden strings, a trick of the light. If I am to prove myself to the king, I need something unmistakable—inexplicable except by the truth.
Then again, do I want him to know the extent of my powers? My hand goes again to the little scar in the crook of my elbow, where the armée stole my blood and then used it against me—against my country. I have to be very careful when facing the king. And I have to do it without Theodora’s help.
My mind is spinning faster than the carriage wheels, the way it always does under strain. Can the king tell? Does his own malheur do the same?
“In happier news, the court is very much looking forward to your performance,” he says. “The theater is ready as soon as you are, and I have a very capable orchestra to place at your disposal.”
“An orchestra,” I say, and I no longer want to scream, but laugh. Half a year ago, I was ready to leave Chakrana for this chance. But now the same price seems much too high. And yet . . . an idea begins to form. Know your role, Akra had told me. If I need to convince the king of anything, where better to do so than on a stage? “And fantouches, you said?”
“In the salon,” the king says, gesturing out the window. “Here we are.”
The carriage rolls to a stop, and when the footman opens the door, I see we haven’t gone far. Stepping down from the carriage, the great cathedral of Lephare looms over me, the soullight brighter than the morning sun.
Up close, the building itself is even more impressive: taller than the kapok trees that rise above the rest of the jungle, and carved as richly as our own temples are—or at least, as they were. Grotesque creatures and lovely faces peer from the corners and the lintels, though I don’t recognize the stories they must represent. Even stranger: the arched doors of the church are flung open, and people drift in and out as freely as the souls. Is this how our temples had been—how they could be again?
But when the king descends from the carriage, he starts along the side of the building, away from the main doors. “Where are we going, Your Majesty?”
“The Salon des Merveilles is beneath the cathedral,” he says again, lifting a hand. The footman races to his side, holding out an embroidered kerchief. The king puts the perfumed fabric to his nose, and even I can smell the spicy scent it carries—cinnamon and sandalwood. But on the wind, there is a more familiar smell. Death. “The entrance is unfortunately close to the churchyards,” Le Roi adds, his voice muffled through the cloth. “The smell is usually much reduced in the cooler of autumn weather, but we wanted the work completed before the ground freezes, and so quite a few of the graves are open.”
As we approach, I understand his meaning. At the edge of the plaza, behind a low stone wall mottled with moss and lichen, a small armée of men turns the muddy soil. With their shovels and their carts, they could almost be farmers, but their harvest is bitter: piles and piles of pale bones, plucked from the earth and stacked neatly into the backs of the carts.
The sight wakes a memory: my brother and me, playing in the jungle beyond the fields and paddies. We’d been gathering sticks and vines to build a stage for shadow plays when I’d pulled a dirty leg bone from the leaf mold. Akra and some of the other village children went hunting for the skull, but the first one he found was much too small to belong to the same body as the femur. We ended up finding half a dozen skulls before it started to get dark; most of them had holes in the backs, and one even had a brass armée bullet rattling inside.
We had told our parents, but what could they do? Our makeshift stage in the jungle was not the only place where bodies had fallen. I watch as the men sift vertebrae from the churchyard muck—Chakran men, I realize, and men from the Lion Lands. Their features are obscured by the cloths tied around their mouths and noses, but I can see the rich shades of their skin.
Why am I surprised? Chakran shadow players weren’t the only foreigners who came to Aquitan—anyone could, if they were brave enough to leave and could save enough to buy a ticket. But in my country, foreigners got the best jobs. Here, it seems most of us are offered the worst. Except for the lucky few: the artists, like me. Like Ayla. But only as long as we didn’t displease the king.
As I watch the men working, one of them stands, pressing his filthy hands to the small of his back. Hurriedly, I look down, so he doesn’t catch me staring—so he doesn’t see my face, or recognize my features. I’m ashamed to be walking into the treasury at the king’s side, instead of standing in the muck with my own people.
Le Roi continues to the back of the cathedral, where a pair of guards stands by a plain wooden door. They wear ceremonial swords on one side and more utilitarian guns on the other, but they step aside when they see us approaching. Le Roi pushes the door open without needing a key, and cold air rushes out of the spiraling stone stairwell.
The footman races ahead, lighting the lamps on the way down, but the souls are even brighter than the flame. They cluster so thickly here beneath the cathedral, spiraling through the air, racing up and down the steps, flickering like embers in the corners. I don’t realize I am staring until the king calls back over his shoulder. “Is something wrong?”
“No,” I say quickly, hurrying to catch up. “I’m only surprised to see a treasury beneath a temple.”
“The jewel room and the gold vault are in the palace itself.” The king’s voice echoes up the stairwell. “But Le Trépas is not the only dignitary who has honored me with strange gifts. We need a place to store them.”
“Strange gifts?” As the stairs spill us out into a stone room the size of a warehouse, I can see what he means. Wooden shelves line the walls all the way to the vaulted ceilings, and each one is covered in valuables—from stringed instruments, to blown-glass vases, to architectural models, to an enormous boat carved of a single knotted trunk. When I catch sight of a beast lurking in the corner, my heart leaps into my throat before I realize it’s stuffed. The creature is three times as large as a water buffalo, with armored plates instead of fur and a single horn sprouting from the wide nose.
“The people of the Lion Lands call it a rhinoceros,” the king says when he sees me staring. Then he points to the ceiling, where the articulated bones of another creature hang: a strange amalgamation of animals, with great wings and an eagle’s beak, but four paws like a cat. “And they claim those are the bones of a griffin, though I’m fairly certain it’s only spare parts, strung together by a charlatan. Speaking of which, there is the book Le Trépas brought,” he adds, nodding.
“Ah.” The implication is a needle in my side, but this is not the time or place to argue with Le Roi about power and trickery. Instead, I follow his gaze to the dusty shelf. I had expected a thick tome, but the Book of Knowledge
is surprisingly slim.
Before I can pick it up to look inside, Le Roi beckons me farther into the salon. “These will be more interesting to you,” he says.
Reluctantly, I tear my eyes from the book, but when I come to his side, the sight takes my breath away. The shelves on the far wall are covered in fantouches, and each one is a marvel: gorgeously painted, richly dyed, finely tooled and scraped, gilded and studded with sparkling gems. Thoughts of the book fly out of my head, and my fingers reach out, almost involuntarily. “There must be hundreds,” I whisper.
“Thousands,” Le Roi corrects me, and I can’t summon a reply. How much work did this collection represent? To see them gathering dust on the shelves makes my heart ache. I run my hand over the fantouche of a tiger. The stripes are like flames, and gold rivets articulate at least twelve joints in the tail. There is another beneath it—a dragon with ruby eyes, each scale dyed a slightly different shade of shimmering red. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Le Roi smile. “I was hoping you might perform as soon as tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” I turn to him, my mouth dry. Even with an orchestra at my disposal and a thousand fantouches to choose from, it is soon—too soon. I’d need at least a week to truly impress the court; I don’t even know which show to perform. I am about to tell him so when I remember that I never meant to stay. “Tomorrow,” I say again, returning to my study of the fantouches. “Yes. But I need some time to look through your collection.” I need time to read the book as well.
“Bien.” The king goes to the stairs, where the footman waits. “I myself need to visit the engineers’ corps to check progress on the avion. I’ll come back this afternoon to show you the theater.”
I am admiring another fantouche—the elegant coils of a sinuous serpent—and the words take a moment to hit my ear. I frown. “The . . . avion?”
“Yes,” the king says over his shoulder. “The one you arrived in, so dramatically. I’ve set my engineers to disassembling it.”
“Our avion?” I drop the fantouche to stare at the king, but he only cocks his head.
“My avion,” he corrects me. “My own engineers built them, all to Theodora’s specifications. Strangely, we were never able to get them aloft. But Theodora did,” he says, his eyes glittering in the light of the souls. “Since she’s too indisposed to tell me how, I’ve asked my engineers to figure it out.”
I stare at the king, wide-eyed. Now I know why he has put her under guard in the sanatorium—she would not explain how the avions functioned. I had seen the king’s letter to Theodora, the one that had urged her to come home. He had long trusted—even coveted—her knowledge. Her genius. Now he’s found a way to claim it for himself.
The accusation is on my lips, but it is likely only because Theodora hasn’t told him the truth that I am not a prisoner myself. Here in the vault, with no audience but the footman, I have little doubt that could change in a moment. Quickly, I smooth my expression, reaching for calm—I have always been a good actor. “How am I expected to get back to Chakrana, Your Majesty?”
“Chakrana?” Le Roi chuckles a little, as though disbelieving. “I still can’t understand why you’d want to go back. But remember, I promised you a ship in exchange for a show.” He sweeps up the stairs, the footman following. “Best make it good.”
Act 2,
Scene 15
Night has fallen at the docks in Nokhor Khat. The Aquitan refugees are clustered along the water’s edge as the armée guards the side streets. Those nearest the cordon argue and plead with the soldiers, but their response is by rote: the general is coming, take it up with him.
BERTRAND AUDRINNE has retreated into his carriage with his son. He has lit the lamp that hangs on the side of the carriage; his son has always been afraid of the dark. LEO, on the other hand, uses nightfall to his advantage. He has picked up an Aquitan hat, tilting the brim down to obscure his features as he searches for his brother. He had lost sight of XAVIER in the scrum, but the soldiers seem sure he’s on the way.
On the west side of the docks, the refugees stir as the cordon opens for a cart pulled by a skittish water buffalo. Bodies are stacked in the back—those who had been trampled or shot in the riot. The crowd draws back quickly as the Chakran driver steers toward the pier; not even in death are Aquitans allowed to remain in Chakrana. Behind the wagon marches a line of stone-faced soldiers. The general leads them, and when the crowd sees XAVIER LEGARDE, they rush back, clutching at the sleeves of his uniform. They call to him, demanding help, action, salvation, but the general only raises a hand in a gesture meant to be calming as he continues toward the ship. His soldiers follow in silence, looking straight ahead.
LEO hears the general’s name long before he sees him over the heads of the crowd. Reaching AUDRINNE’s carriage, he clambers up on the back wheel, trying to find a path forward. Better to head to the Prix de Guerre than to try to fight his way through the knot of people clustered around his brother—or rather, his brother’s body.
LEO’s hand goes to the gold necklace he wears under his shirt: the circular symbol of the Aquitan god. His brother had worn it until the day he’d died. His other hand goes to his breast pocket, where the pen holding Jetta’s blood is tucked away. Then he jumps at the sound of AUDRINNE’s voice.
AUDRINNE: What are you doing, boy?
LEO: Désolée, monsieur—
AUDRINNE: Get off my carriage or I’ll shoot!
AUDRINNE fumbles at his waistcoat, but LEO drops back quickly into the crowd.
LEO: I would save my bullets if I were you.
LEO picks his way toward the pier, reaching the ship just as the wagon arrives. The soldiers start to unload the bodies, carrying them up the gangplank while the general steps onto the wagon seat beside the Chakran driver.
Immediately, the Aquitans fall quiet. The general looks out over the crowd, sympathy in his eyes. LEO, in the front of the crowd, pulls his hat lower so the general won’t recognize him, though part of him hopes his brother could.
LEGARDE: My fellow Aquitans. I regret it’s come to this. But perhaps it was foolish to think our fight in Chakrana would ever end peacefully. Regardless, it is over. Our future lies across the sea. It’s time to go home.
The crowd stirs at the speech—it isn’t much, but they are desperate to hold on to something. And hearing the words in his brother’s voice brings tears to LEO’s eyes. If he hadn’t been there . . . hadn’t watched him die . . . hadn’t held the gun himself . . . LEO might not think twice about the fact that the general’s speech to the Aquitans was given entirely in Chakran.
As his soldiers take the last body from the wagon, the general beckons to the crowd.
LEGARDE: Come, then. Let us leave with dignity and arrive in Aquitan in order. Leave your weapons and any luggage here on the docks. My men will stow each item safely. Le Roi Fou has asked me personally to take note of any valuables you had to abandon in your homes. He plans to make full restitution upon your arrival.
The crowd stirs again, this time more hopefully. As the general steps down from the wagon, a line of Aquitans follows. Not all are so easily convinced, but the cordon of soldiers still block the side streets, and the line is only growing.
LEO himself has snuck in third, and he waits patiently as the two men before him detail their plantations, their wealth, their riches left behind. By the looks of their suits, the descriptions are only wishful thinking—then again, so is the promise of restitution.
As the second man finally moves up the gangplank, LEO steps forward, the pen clutched in his hand, but the general puts his own hand up.
LEGARDE: Stop.
LEO freezes, sweat rolling down his face under the brim of his hat. He glances at the water, gauging his distance to the edge of the pier. But the general only jerks his chin toward the wagon bed where the men before him have left their pistols.
LEGARDE: Surrender your gun.
LEO wets his lips, but the question comes out like a croak.
LEO: Why?
LEGARDE: Safety. Quarters will be cramped, and tensions high. We don’t want a repeat of what happened at the plaza. Don’t worry. My men and I will keep the peace.
With his free hand, LEO pulls out his gun and tosses it into the cart. The general beckons him forward, turning to the booklet in his hand.
LEGARDE: Name?
LEO braces himself.
LEO: Leo—Leonin.
There is no recognition in the general’s eyes as he writes the names, as though they’re first and last.
LEGARDE: Leo Leonin. And what have you had to leave behind?
LEO’s shoulders fall.
LEO: My brother. Xavier Legarde.
Now the general looks up, surprised, but LEO is ready. His hand darts out, making the mark of death on the back of the general’s hand. He cannot see the soul that springs out—or the way it flees, as though afraid—but his brother’s body falls in a heap on the pier.
A cry goes up from the crowd, but LEO doesn’t stop to watch the panic spread. Spinning on his heel, he bolts for the water, but before he can dive in, a strong hand pulls him back. Not the soldiers—but the Chakran driver of the cart. The man smiles at LEO from under the broad brim of his own wide hat.
LEO has found LE TRÉPAS.
LE TRÉPAS: You know there are crocodiles in the water.
LEO struggles to break free, but the soldiers have reached him by now. As they haul him to his feet, LE TRÉPAS plucks the pen out of LEO’s hand and smiles.
Bring him aboard!
To LEO’s surprise, the soldiers obey.
LEO: What are you doing? Don’t listen to him! That’s Le Trépas!
Ignoring his cries, the soldiers drag him up the gangplank. Desperate, LEO headbutts one of them hard enough that he hears the crunch of the soldier’s nose. The man only grunts as blood seeps from the break in sluggish brown clots—LEO recoils as he realizes these soldiers are already dead.