by Heidi Heilig
“The Shepherd and the Tiger.” As the words tumble out, they seem so right, but the king’s eyebrows go up.
“I thought I knew all of the old stories,” he says. “But I must admit, I’ve never heard that one.”
“It’s the show we’d meant to perform at the Fêtes des Ombres,” I say. “Adapted from the story of the swineherd.”
“Ahh.” The curiosity on the king’s face shades into recognition—and something more. Reminiscence. “My late brother was sometimes called the Shepherd of Chakrana.”
“He was the inspiration,” I say, remembering the man who called himself a shepherd, despite the fact that my country had no sheep. I hadn’t understood it back then—the way the general had looked at us as though we were mindless animals in need of protecting. But I have seen it in the king’s eyes, in the way he dismisses both our fears and our power as mere superstition.
Still, I know enough to keep my thoughts out of my own expression, and the king’s smile deepens. “I look forward to the performance,” he says. Then he gestures to the pile of fantouches at my feet. “I’ll have the servants gather these up and bring them to the opera house. Let me show you the space, so you can prepare.”
“One more thing, Your Majesty,” I say, feeling bold. Is it my malheur, or only that I finally know my role? The king turns back, a waiting audience. “I’ve been thinking about the ship you promised,” I tell him. “I’m not sure I’ll need it.”
“But how will you return to Chakrana?” he asks, his words an echo of my own. Is he trying to mock me? His expression is innocent, but I know better. Never underestimate him, Theodora had said. Know your enemy.
“You were right,” I say, dropping my eyes so he can’t see the truth in them. “There is much more for me here than there ever was in Chakrana.”
“Indeed,” the king agrees. Rage flares in my chest; I turn away quickly to cover.
“Can I make another admission?” I say, picking up the book with a gesture I hope looks casual. “In return for my performance, I’d much rather have this.”
“A blank book?” In the light of the souls, the king’s eyes seem to glitter. “Why?”
I wet my lips, my mouth suddenly dry, but the truth gives me my lines. “There is a legend in my country,” I say, my voice low enough he has to hold his breath to listen. “About a priceless relic, kept safe in a temple for centuries. One day, Le Trépas stole it and brought it to Aquitan. A Book of Knowledge,” I add, offering it to the king. “Said to hold all the secrets of the dead.”
The king cocks his head, then glances down at the book. There is a strange look on his face, almost hesitant, as he takes it from me. As though here, under the earth, surrounded by the dead he cannot see, he himself feels the pull of what he calls superstition. Does his hand tremble as he opens the book? But when he sees the blank page, he throws his head back and laughs.
“The knowledge of the dead! Of course,” he says, still chuckling. “Very amusing. I can imagine your own disappointment.”
“The book taught me a valuable lesson,” I counter, with a small smile—just so. “I would like to keep it as a reminder of all the things I leave behind me.”
“Bien,” the king says, closing the book and tossing it carelessly back on the shelf. “It’s all yours after the show, though I think you’re a bigger fool than I am not to ask for something else! Now come,” he adds, wiping tears of laughter from the corners of his eyes. “Let’s go see the opera house.”
Act 2,
Scene 18
Night in Nokhor Khat. Flowering vines hang in bowers over the path, and night moths flit through the perfumed air. On the narrow path, ELLISIA leads CHEEKY, TIA, and CAM to the garden gate of the Ruby Palace. Surreptitiously, CHEEKY adjusts her dress.
ELLISIA: Are you uncomfortable in the dress, or uncomfortable with the plan?
CHEEKY: The plan is fine.
She plucks at the waist of her lavender gown, then looks sidelong at CAM.
I should have chosen the green sarong.
ELLISIA: Raik prefers a more Aquitan style. Besides, the green is better on Camreon.
CAMREON makes a face as CHEEKY adjusts her dress again.
CAMREON: Thanks.
TIA nudges him with a gentle smile.
TIA: Are you all right?
CAMREON: You tell me.
He gives her a bitter smile.
It was . . . difficult to look at myself in the mirror.
TIA: You look—
CAMREON: Don’t say “beautiful.”
TIA: I would never. But you are well disguised.
CAMREON: I suppose that’s something.
ELLISIA: We can still go back.
She hesitates, looking at CHEEKY particularly.
We can all still go back.
CHEEKY: With all the money you stand to make?
ELLISIA: I’m a madame, not a monster. I’ll wipe the books if you want to turn around.
The look on ELLISIA’s face is genuine, but CHEEKY is resolute.
CHEEKY: No. We can do this.
Raising her chin, she smooths her gown one more time, then folds her hands demurely and continues on to the palace.
Outside the entrance, two Chakran men stand guard—both apparently alive. Not so the dog chained between them. The slavering creature stands as ELLISIA leads CAM, CHEEKY, and TIA to the gate. The guard on the right, TAMAR, narrows his eyes.
TAMAR: Four of you?
TIA: Variety is the spice of life, they say.
ELLISIA: Only three tonight, Tamar. I have business at the inn, but the ladies can keep Raik good company. Especially Cheeky.
ELLISIA nods at the showgirl.
I heard Raik has been looking for her.
TAMAR stares as the other soldier reaches for CHEEKY’s arm. ELLISIA slaps his hand away.
Look with your eyes, Soro!
SORO rubs his hand, off balance, looking to TAMAR.
TAMAR: I don’t think the king will be interested in the others.
ELLISIA: I don’t think you know him like I do.
She gives the guard an arch look, but he doesn’t move. The easy smile falls from her face.
They come as a set or not at all. Unless you want to get the king out of bed to tell me otherwise.
SORO still hesitates, but TAMAR waves them forward at last.
TAMAR: Come on then.
CAMREON hesitates, looking at the dog.
CAMREON: Does he bite?
TAMAR: Not if you’re unarmed.
TAMAR eyes the rebels with a slow grin.
You’re not hiding anything under those gowns, are you?
CAMREON musters his best smile, which is more like a grimace, but TIA winks, stepping forward.
TIA: Down, boy.
Her saucy smile barely falters when the dog stalks closer, but the soldier was right. The beast only sniffs wetly at her hands, then sits back down on sagging haunches. TAMAR gives them a mocking bow as SORO opens the gate.
TAMAR: Welcome to the palace.
Chapter Nineteen
When I was a girl, I had dreamed of seeing the Royal Opera House of Lephare, but as the carriage rolls through the streets, I am afraid to watch for it out the window. Like all things in Aquitan, I fear it will disappoint me . . . betray me. That the reality cannot compete with my childhood imagination—or even worse, that the king’s smugness will spoil my awe. But when I catch sight of the theater out the window, those worries vanish.
It is a grand building, taking up an entire city block, and the front is lined with rows of columns topped with gilded arches. Tucked into each alcove are tall marble figures holding musical instruments. It looks like a temple dedicated to some god of the arts, though in the fading light of the afternoon, the marquee is lit with gas lamps, not soullight.
I have seen the imitation in Nokhor Khat, but this version is grander somehow—taller, I think. Or is it only that here, in Lephare, the style of the building is less out of place?
As w
e pull up by the wide steps, I don’t bother waiting for the footman to help me out of the carriage. Le Roi climbs down at a much more stately pace, and we walk side by side up the wide steps. The footman hurries ahead to open one of the many arched doorways; at the end of a performance, every door would be flung open to the evening air, the audience spilling excitedly down the steps with music still echoing in their ears. I can almost hear it myself—the strains of a song—as we enter the lobby.
Stepping into the opera house is like walking into a jewel box. Overhead, deep coffers frame painted scenes that decorate the ceiling. The detailed walls shine gold in the light of a thousand candles. The gas lamps make them unnecessary; the chandeliers are only for show. Had the servants lit them all just for the king’s visit? But even after such a display, stepping into the theater itself takes my breath away.
A sea of seats in gold and red sweeps down toward a massive stage, framed in columns so high they look like they’re holding up the ceiling. Between them hangs a silken scrim big enough to shelter the entire population of my old village in sudden rain. It is woven as a single sheet of fabric, so no seams would mar the view of the performance. Above my head, tier after tier of balcony seats rise like the layers of a fanciful cake, and along the walls, gilded boxes lean toward the stage to get a better view.
“What do you think?” Le Roi asks. I search his face, knowing he can see the answer on my own. Does he only want me to say it aloud so he can gloat? But it would be foolish to deny the truth.
“It’s . . . beautiful.” The song in my imagination is louder here, echoing in my ears, with low drums like Maman used to play. I hold my breath, concentrating, and Papa’s voice joins the drumming: a Chakran song, here in the heart of Lephare. But I’m the only one who can hear it—at least, for now. “I wish my family could see it too.”
“I give my best players a pension. Many of them have used their pay to bring their relatives from Chakrana.” The king shrugs, as though the custom is a strange one, but I am well acquainted with it. “If you’re as good as you say you are, you can earn much more than an old book.”
“I am the best,” I murmur as shadows flicker in the corner of my eye. Not the story of the Shepherd and the Tiger, but one I haven’t yet told.
In it, a family steps from a pier onto a boat. The shadow of the vessel cuts a trim line across the swirling blue waves of the wild sea, until a gleaming city rises out of the water: Lephare. I can see the skyline in my head, oddly familiar by now—the spire of the great cathedral, and the lines of the grand palais. The song in my head swells, followed by a storm of applause.
What would my life have been like had the rebels not attacked at the Fêtes des Ombres?
When the king speaks, his voice makes me jump. “Tomorrow night, I will see for myself.”
“Tomorrow,” I repeat, chewing my lip, but as the word sinks in, the echoes of applause fade. Suddenly I am filled with dread. The stage is the biggest I’ve ever seen, and there are thousands of seats to fill—thousands of people to cheer my success, or to jeer at my failure.
“The maestro should be by shortly to discuss your choice of music,” the king adds. “Ah! And here are your fantouches.”
From the lobby, a line of servants appears, silk bags slung over their backs. Horror grows in my chest as they deposit the bags at the foot of the stage: I can’t even remember which fantouches are inside. The King of Death, the tiger . . . but was there anything I could use for a shepherd or sheep? Peeking into one of the bags, I see the scales of a stray dragon. Panic wraps cold fingers around my throat. There is no dragon in the story of the Shepherd and the Tiger.
Where is the confidence I felt in the Salon des Merveilles? The grand visions, the certainty of success? It has all vanished like a charlatan’s trick—and my malheur is behind it.
The king is unaware of my mounting reservations as he breezes up the aisle. “I’ll leave my footman in the lobby, in case you need anything else for the show,” he calls over his shoulder.
Should I hurry after him? Tell him I’d made a mistake, that I need to return to the Salon? No—bad enough I have lost my own confidence. If I lose his now, I might never get it back.
Instead I turn to the stage, but now the music in my head has vanished, along with the visions of the shadows on the scrim. Where are the ideas that had bubbled over one another in the salon? My mind is blank, like the pages of the Keeper’s book.
With difficulty, I try to summon the story in my head. “In the days when our ancestors were young,” I murmur, trying to recall the song, but without Maman’s music, the rhythm is elusive. “There was a brave swineherd who tended well to his . . . No. There was a brave shepherd.” The words sound wrong in my voice: Papa had always been the one to sing the stories. Still, I should know the new words—I was the one who had written them! But that show had been meant to flatter a man I had later killed. . . . Is that why it escapes me now?
I had been a different person then. I hadn’t known what I know now. I cannot tell that story.
So what story can I tell?
I don’t want to flatter Le Roi. I want to tell him the truth about power, and the truth is that he has never tended well to anyone but himself.
But even if I told that story, would he listen? Ayla’s words come back to me—other shadow players have tried before. Then again, other shadow players didn’t have all the skills I do.
Standing in the audience before the grandest stage I have ever seen, a new idea sparks in my head. A show like no one has ever seen, including me. But for this performance, I will need different fantouches.
I’ll need help too, and I know who to ask. Returning to the lobby, I send the footman for pen and paper. When he returns, I dismiss him with my thanks, citing the need for privacy to focus. Only when the door shuts behind him do I start my letter. Words, so elusive before, seem to spill onto the page. When I finish, I fold the note so it has wings like a bird, and sign it—not with ink, but a drop of blood.
“Find Ayla of the Ros Sook,” I say to the soul that creeps inside, and I watch the letter flutter up to the gilded ceiling and wheel away into the night.
* * *
Fighter . . . artist . . . savior. I told you this morning that I cannot choose, and so I cannot stay in Aquitan. Before I go, I will put on a show the likes of which no one has ever seen, for I am not only a fighter, or an artist, or a savior. I am also a nécromancien. But although I have the dead to help me, I need your help as well. Please meet me at the opera house as soon as you can.
* * *
Act 2,
Scene 20
In the stateroom of the Prix de Guerre. LEO struggles on the fine wool carpet, tied hand and foot. He has managed to wriggle his way toward the stern, where a broken latch protrudes below the sill. Working desperately, he saws the rope against the rough edge of the metal, working until his shoulders ache and his wrists are numb. But at last the rope loosens, and he shrugs off the bindings to start untying the ones on his ankles.
Just as he manages to free himself, the cabin door begins to creak open. Hurriedly, LEO shoves his hands behind his back and tucks his feet beneath him, as though he is still bound.
LE TRÉPAS enters the room, carrying a birdcage in one hand and a stained burlap sack in the other. A frightened bird sings from the cage, but LEO’s eyes are fixed on the bag: from the rounded shape and the rust-red stain spreading on the burlap, it is not rice inside.
Setting the birdcage down on the deck, the monk turns back to LEO, a smile on his face.
LE TRÉPAS: Where is Jetta?
When LEO doesn’t respond, LE TRÉPAS lifts the bag.
Perhaps you’ll answer if your brother asks?
LEO: Xavier’s soul is long gone.
LE TRÉPAS: All I need is a drop of blood to bring it back.
LEO turns his face away.
LEO: If you’re so all-powerful, what do you need Jetta for?
LE TRÉPAS: Isn’t it obvious?
LE
TRÉPAS throws the bag down at LEO’s feet, where it bounces with a dull thud, landing near his knees. LEO shrinks back.
The dead rot. A living armée is much more reliable.
LEO: She’d die before giving you an armée.
LE TRÉPAS: But will she let you die?
LEO growls, but the monk only goes to the desk, rummaging in the drawers until he finds a piece of paper and a pen—this one full of ink.
LEO: Why do you need an armée? You’ve gotten what you wanted. The Aquitans are leaving Chakrana!
LE TRÉPAS looks up from his writing, raising an eyebrow in surprise.
LE TRÉPAS: Do you really think I’d go through all this trouble just to send a few hundred Aquitans home? Better to teach the rest of them never to come back. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a letter to send.
Tossing the pen to the desk, he pulls out the other one, the one full of Jetta’s blood, and marks the letter with the symbol of life. Of course, nothing happens—souls flee Le Trépas. The monk only turns to the birdcage, opening the door to reach inside. As he wraps his fist around the feathered body, the bird flaps frantically, then stops.
LEO looks away, but soon enough, the fluttering sound returns, this time from paper wings. The monk follows the note to the window at the stern, watching it fly away—not inland, but across the water.
LE TRÉPAS: She’s in Aquitan?
LEO looks up, startled.
LEO: She is?
LE TRÉPAS: Why? Why did she go there?
For the first time, the monk looks troubled—almost frightened. He rushes toward LEO, wrapping his bloody fingers around LEO’s wrist.
LEO: She was looking for her elixir! That’s all I know!
The monk narrows his eyes, but LEO’s face—and his fear—are genuine. LE TRÉPAS releases the boy’s wrist.
LE TRÉPAS: No matter. We’re going there anyway. But if she can’t give me a living armée before I arrive, I might as well get started on a dead one.