by Heidi Heilig
But now, when Davri joins in, he sings in Aquitan. I have translated the words with care, because I want to be sure the audience finally knows the real story.
“In the days when our ancestors were young,” he begins, his voice like a deep river. I can feel the air move through the theater as the audience gasps at the sound. “There was a brave shepherd who tended his flock.”
My heart beating in time with the rhythm, I raise my first fantouche: not a shepherd, nor a swineherd, but a king.
The skeleton stands on the stage before me, bare but for a crown of brass and glass. On the other side of the scrim, the audience cannot see the stark expression of the skull, nor hear the rattle of his bones over the music. Still, I can sense their sudden unease. These shadows are nothing like what they expected.
“Under his eye, his flock grew and grew. . . .”
Another skeleton rises, and another, each bowing deeply to the king. These, we have dressed in costume—a gown, a suit, a hat, a parasol. But I keep them in profile, so the firelight outlines the disturbing silhouette of their noseless faces. Now I can hear the audience shifting in their seats.
“Until the day a tiger came prowling—”
I raise another fantouche, this one crafted in the traditional style. Painted leather scraped so thin the light shines through, delicate joints that make the graceful movements almost lifelike . . . but not the tiger puppet they expect. The tiger I had borrowed from the king is still in the silk bag backstage. Instead, I have borrowed Ayla’s version of the King of Death. I would swear she crafted him after Le Trépas, down to the scraped lines of scars over where his heart would be.
“To devour them one by one.”
The King of Death extends a graceful hand, lifting the king’s subjects to their feet. Then the skeletons bow to him, and they do not get up again.
Now, the two kings face each other alone in silhouette, as would the Tiger and the Shepherd, if I were actually telling that story. But instead of the battle that would normally ensue, the music stops suddenly, and my own voice rings out as the skeletal king bows too, prostrating himself on the ground.
“And the shepherd did nothing.”
The crowd erupts at the insult, gasping and jeering, but I cannot see their reaction from behind the scrim. They cannot see my fantouches either—not the way they should. So I step forward into the light, my own silhouette looming, and lift my hand. The long shadows of my fingertips reach for the top of the scrim, and I murmur to the soul I’d put into the silk as my shadow tears it down.
Obligingly, the silk drape falls in a rippling heap, leaving me face-to-face with the startled audience. Their wide eyes reflect the firelight as they look from me to the fantouche of the King of Death, held up without stick or string.
I can see the questions in their faces. How is it done? What is the trick?
And other questions too. How dare she? Is this supposed to happen?
They do not know how to respond, so they wait, breathless, for a cue from Le Roi. On his face is an expression of disdain, barely concealing the anger underneath. “What is the meaning of this?” he says.
I had thought the crowd was silent before, but as they wait for my answer, it’s as though they’ve stopped breathing. “I promised you a show like you’ve never seen,” I reply. “So I decided to show you who you are.”
“This is not a show,” Le Roi replies, standing to leave. “It’s a snub.”
“You haven’t seen the finale,” I call after him, but the king doesn’t turn back. The audience too stands, following his lead, but the show is far from over. So I send the fantouche of the King of Death down the steps and into the aisle to intercept Le Roi.
The audience murmurs again, louder now, but if Le Roi is wondering how my fantouche works, he hides it well. Reaching out, he snatches the leather puppet from its feet and tosses it aside. But I am done with the leather fantouches. Instead I call to the next: my false shepherd, my skeleton king.
In a rattle of bones, it rises, the glass jewel of the wire crown shining in the light of the fire. The gossamer robes we had fashioned to dress him shimmer over the old bones, and the audience gasps again, this time in horror. Le Roi turns back at the sound, and I see the look in his eyes as I raise another fantouche, and another. There is awe on his face—and fear—as he watches the fourth skeleton rise, then the fifth.
The others join them—my whole cast, ready for their turn on stage. The word is rippling through the audience again—nécromancien, nécromancien—but the condescension has been replaced with desperation. Still, they turn to the king for a cue, but it is no longer his show.
“Direct from Chakrana,” I say, pitching my voice to carry, and in the silence of the living, I can hear the clacking bones of the dead. “Never before seen in Aquitan. And if you give me my payment, Theodora and I will be on our way home and you’ll never have to see them again.”
Le Roi glances from me to my cast, weighing his options—still hoping, perhaps, that this is all some charlatan’s trick. Or does he hope to trick me? “Come then,” he says. “Let me take you to the salon to claim your reward.”
“No need,” I say. “It’s waiting outside.”
He raises an eyebrow. But I only step down from the stage to join him in the aisle, followed by my cast of skeletons, and he has to hurry to join me. Behind my entourage, the audience rushes into the aisles to follow.
Leading the impromptu parade into the lobby, I throw the doors open to the night. There, on the wide stone stairs, the skeleton of the griffin is waiting. I had summoned the creature just before the show started, in case I needed to make a quick exit. Now, the beast cocks his head as I approach, the book held lightly in his curved beak.
Le Roi stops on the steps when he sees the creature, and now the anger on his face falls away. “The avions,” he says quietly. “It isn’t engineering that makes them fly.”
“No, Your Majesty,” I confirm. Turning to give him a little bow, I see what looks like the entire audience on the steps behind us. But it is whispers that ring in their ears, instead of music—nécromancien, nécromancien—and the terror has been replaced with awe. I take a breath, looking back at the king: perhaps a private conversation is in order. “Will you join me at Les Chanceux?”
I hold out my hand, aware of the audience. After a moment, Le Roi takes it.
I pull him up after me on the back of the griffin, and we spring into the air as the crowd gasps. Then, as we wheel away from the theater, applause breaks out behind us.
The evening streets are not crowded, but neither are they empty, and as we soar higher and higher over Lephare, passersby gawk. But I wish I could see Le Roi’s face—try to read his expression. Does the griffin delight him, or is he only afraid of falling to the hard earth below? When he speaks at last, his voice is carefully soft, even over the rushing wind. “You were right,” he says. “You should stay in Aquitan.”
“I am needed in Chakrana, Your Majesty,” I say. “As is Theodora.”
“Whatever they pay,” the king says quickly. “I’ll double it.”
I can’t help but laugh; rebellion pays even worse than art, but I can’t tell the king that. “The wealth you offer is stolen.”
To my surprise, he thrusts something out. The crown—gleaming gold and sapphire blue. “Take it,” the king insists, pressing it into my hands. “Anything else. Everything else. The contents of the jewel room if you stay to work for me.”
I look down at the crown in my hands. It is so heavy. How can he bear the weight? The jewel seems to wink at me, the color of vengeance. Le Roi has taken so much, and yet he has nothing to offer that can truly tempt me. Shaking my head, I hand the crown back. “I can’t stay,” I say. “But my fantouches will.”
“The skeletons?” Le Roi shifts behind me, and his voice takes on a hint of uncertainty. “And . . . what will they do?”
“Nothing, Your Majesty,” I say mildly. “Unless I order otherwise. Of course you could always send
them to Chakrana aboard a ship, along with any other Chakrans who wish to come home.”
“A ship,” the king repeats dully. “I see.”
“Don’t worry, Your Majesty. We’ll send it back with any refugees that may wish to return to Aquitan. It is a good start to the new alliance between our countries.”
“Indeed,” Le Roi says. “With the rebel king, I suppose.”
“And the nécromancien,” I say as the griffin begins to circle lower. Have we reached the springs already? “But I’ll leave it to Theodora to discuss the details. She’s always been a better diplomat than me.”
“I’m very much looking forward to those discussions,” the king lies, but I hardly hear him. Instead, I am scanning the ground below.
Despite having the Keeper’s book and the king’s offers, there is a deeper thrill at the thought of seeing Les Chanceux. The spring is the source for the treatment of my malheur—the inspiration for my desire to come to Aquitan in the first place. With the wind in my hair, I wait for my first glimpse of the hazy blue water and the craggy limestone rocks. I half imagine the women in the painting will still be there, bathing. But all I see as we descend is a circular courtyard before a tall limestone building.
“Where is Les Chanceux?” I murmur to the king, but he nods down at the sanatorium.
“If you set down in the courtyard, I’ll have Theodora brought out,” he says.
“Bien,” I say as we circle lower, still scanning the terrain, but there is no sign of the pool in the painting.
The griffin touches down on the wide cobbled court, and the king dismounts on his own. Without his servants and his audience to see, he doesn’t bother with fanfare as he strides up the steps. I do not follow him; part of me still fears a trick, or that I will be locked inside if I get too close.
The other part of me still wonders where the spring is hidden. I turn the griffin in a slow circle, her claws clacking on the stones. Then I see it, dead center—and it is nothing like I expected. The craggy stone pool has been cleared and tamed, replaced by a carved limestone basin with a little font inside. Something gleams in the lamplight . . . a little brass plaque set into the rim. Nudging my mount closer, I can just make it out: LES CHANCEUX.
What has become of the springs in the painting? The blue waters, the hazy air, the languid bathers—had they ever existed outside the frame, or was it all an artist’s vision? Putting my hand beneath the trickle of water, I lift my cupped palms to my lips, tasting the bitter tang of the minerals inside. That, at least, is the same.
“Jetta?”
Turning, I see Theodora flying down the steps, her blond curls disheveled. Her uncle walks behind her, but for a moment, I see not Le Roi, but his own half-brother—Theodora’s father, the Shepherd of Chakrana, a country with no sheep.
He stops halfway through the courtyard, as if he is not eager to continue our negotiations, and I don’t blame him. As Theodora approaches, I can see the pink spots on her cheeks that always appear when she is furious, and I wonder what she said to him inside. But when she reaches my side, the anger on her face fades into relief. “You have no idea how glad I am to see you,” she says fervently. Then she hesitates, looking at the griffin. Her eyes widen when she sees the book still clamped in his beak. “Is that . . . ?”
“It is,” I say as she reaches for the book. Gently, the griffin releases it. Clutching the book tightly, she climbs up behind me. “I have the elixir too,” I add; the flask is still heavy in my pocket. “And your uncle should be sending a ship soon enough.”
“Then let’s go home.” Theodora says, and the word makes my own heart ache. Beneath us, the griffin crouches, ready to fly, but before I can give the order, something flits past my cheek.
A night moth? No—a note. It flutters back, a folded piece of paper like the one I’d sent to Ayla. But I had burned that letter in the lobby of the theater. Where did this one come from? Camreon? Leo? But why hadn’t they just asked Akra to speak to me? Shame grows in my breast as I remember our argument. Taking the letter, I unfold it, dreading the contents, but they are even worse than I could have imagined.
Cursing, I stuff the letter in my pocket and push the griffin into the sky. The bone wings beat, made frantic by my own fear. “What is it?” Theodora says.
I brace myself to say the words, to make them alarmingly real. “Le Trépas has Leo.”
* * *
If you will not come for your elixir, come for your moitié, or I will send him after you.
* * *
Act 3,
Scene 25
In the cabin of the Prix de Guerre. LEO still sits, cross-legged, as AKRA paces across the floor, thinking.
LEO: It’s strange. I don’t even remember dying.
AKRA: Be glad of that.
AKRA shudders at his own memories.
Why would you be so reckless?
LEO: Le Trépas took Jetta’s blood from me. I had to get it back.
AKRA glances at the mark on LEO’s wrist.
AKRA: And so you did.
LEO: He was going to use it to get us to Aquitan faster.
AKRA: So?
LEO: When we get there, he’s going to turn the Aquitans belowdecks into an armée of the dead. I saved their lives, Akra.
AKRA: You bought them some time.
LEO: That’s all any of us have. Time.
LEO looks back at the bloody mark on his wrist.
Some of it stolen.
He sighs, then runs a hand over the carvings on the floor.
At least I finished her song.
AKRA (gruffly): Well. That’s something.
AKRA looks down at the carvings as well, then looks away, embarrassed.
Did Le Trépas give you any other orders?
LEO: No. Just to stay. Like a dog. I hate it.
AKRA: Tell me about it.
LEO: Does Jetta do this to you?
AKRA: No.
He hesitates.
For the most part. All right . . .
Reluctantly, he picks up the frayed rope from the floor, but LEO takes it eagerly.
New plan. Tie your feet and hands, just in case the monk gets any ideas. Then when Jetta gets here, she can . . .
He trails off, waves his hands vaguely. LEO quirks an eyebrow as he wraps the rope around his own ankles.
LEO: Kill me?
AKRA: Bring you back.
LEO: Ha. No. Not again.
He shakes his head.
I’m sorry. I . . . I don’t know how you do it.
AKRA: You get used to anything, if it’s a matter of life or death.
LEO: But death is just a part of life.
AKRA starts pacing again, as though his own memories are chasing after him: the way it felt when his soul returned to his empty body, like coming home to find the front door hanging open and a cold wind sweeping leaves across the floor.
AKRA: Take it up with Jetta.
LEO grits his teeth, then double knots the ropes at his feet. Then he starts on his wrists, frowning.
LEO: A little help?
But AKRA has stopped to look through the rear window. A wide silver wake churns behind the ship.
AKRA: That’s strange.
LEO: What is it?
AKRA: We’re moving faster now.
AKRA cocks his head, but the sound of the boiler is no louder than it was. Crossing the cabin, AKRA approaches the door, peering through the tiny window. Where hundreds of soldiers had stood on the deck, there are only a few dozen remaining. At their feet, coils of rope lie in puddles of salt spray and old blood. As he watches, the soldiers tie themselves into harnesses attached at various points to the bow, then climb in silence over the edge to drop into the dark water below.
AKRA: Le Trépas has his soldiers pulling the ship. Why does he need to go so fast?
LEO: To find Jetta?
AKRA: Or to protect the book.
LEO: How fast can the dead really swim?
AKRA: Fast enough.
AK
RA’s stomach sinks as two soldiers appear, dragging a living prisoner between them.
Especially if they’re still alive when they go into the water.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Speeding over the Hundred Days Sea on the bone wings of the griffin, I scan the horizon for the first glimpse of land. We’ve been flying for hours, but the ocean is as wide as the night is long. Below, the dark water swirls with souls like stars, and my own stomach churns with worry over Leo.
“Any word from your brother?” Theodora asks, as she has at least twice an hour since we got Le Trépas’s note.
I shake my head. “Not yet.”
“Maybe we should have stopped for a pen,” Theodora says—also not for the first time. Her hand goes to her own pocket; she’s put the Book of Knowledge there for safekeeping. I explained to her how it works, but there is no way to get ink now that we’re far out over the Hundred Days Sea. I focus on the horizon instead as Theodora shifts behind me. “Still no word from your brother?” she asks again.
“I’ve tried calling out for him,” I say, exasperated. “But he can’t hear me unless he’s already listening.”
“What if you order him to respond?”
“What? No,” I say quickly. “I . . . can’t do that.”
“These are extenuating circumstances,” Theodora says. “He needs to know we’re coming. And we need to know they’re both still alive.”
I stiffen at the thought—in my fear over Leo, I hadn’t considered that Akra too was at risk. He had survived a storm of bullets, a shot to the heart—but my blood could still kill him, and by his letter, I know that Le Trépas has my blood at his fingertips. If the old monk pulled Akra’s soul from his body, I would never see my brother alive again. I stare down at the swirling sea, then take a breath to speak. “Akra,” I say, as soft as an apology. “Talk to me. Please.”
For a moment, the only sound is the wind in my ears. Then his voice comes, and the first word is a curse. “What do you want?”