by Heidi Heilig
No. I know better. I flip the lighter shut and hand it back to my brother. “The girls you spoke to—they’re my friends, and Leo’s too. If they weren’t trying to help us, they would have burned that note with all the rest.”
“Fine,” Akra says. “Maybe your boy hadn’t seen it yet. Maybe he is negotiating in good faith. But do you really think the rebels will?”
“I don’t know,” I say truthfully. Then again, no matter what the king might offer, nothing was more valuable than what Legarde had—not to me. We had to take his deal. Then I frown. “What about Maman? If we leave now, we’re just exchanging a hostage with Legarde for one with the rebels.”
“I can try to sneak her out of the sick house tonight,” Akra says. “We could all escape on the bird.”
“Not all the way to Aquitan. Not without food and water. And that’s assuming we don’t crash again.” I chew my lip. “Legarde is Le Roi Fou’s brother. And he has control of the capital . . . of the docks. Of the ships.”
Akra looks at me with a level eye. “You think he’ll give us passage and Papa too?”
“I can ask.”
“And how will you convince Leo to turn himself over to Legarde?”
My eyes widen. “I won’t!”
“Not even for Papa?” Akra folds his arms. “How else will Legarde give him over?”
“Because if he doesn’t, I’ll kill him.” The threat falls out of my mouth and buzzes in the air—unexpected, but when I say it aloud, I know it’s true. My heart beats in my ears—the rush of my blood, red and deadly.
Akra raises an eyebrow. Is he impressed, or is it mockery? But he doesn’t say, either way. “And how will we find the bird? Can you just . . . call it?”
“I don’t think so. She was bound when they brought her to the camp. We have to figure out where they put her. See how she’s guarded.”
“They took my gun,” Akra says. “I doubt I can get another. But maybe I can pick up a knife in the kitchens. That might be better, depending on how many guards there are. Quieter.”
I make a face. I don’t want to watch my brother kill again, but we may not have many options. “So we locate the bird and cut her free. Then we get Maman from the hôpital and escape?”
Akra shakes his head a little. “It’s got a lot of holes.”
“The alternative is walking back to Nokhor Khat on foot. And there are a lot of soldiers between here and there.”
“And rebels,” he says. “They’ll be looking for you once they know you’re gone.”
I chew my lip. Despite my words, I’m worried too—cautious, after how poorly my last plan had gone. But no other options present themselves. Beside me, Akra shifts his weight on the vine.
“Do you think your moitié will be suspicious when we don’t come back to camp?”
Annoyed, I turn to my brother. “Why do you call him that?”
“Why do you care?”
“Because it’s wrong.”
His smile is bitter, dismissive. “I’ve done worse.”
“So have I,” I snap. “But the smaller the evil, the easier it is to correct.”
He tilts his head back, a strange expression in his eyes. “What have you been up to while I was gone, lailee?”
“I could ask you the same question,” I mutter, and for a while, we are quiet. The sounds of the jungle creep in. Souls glitter in the leaves around us, little embers. “Why did you shoot that man on the dock?”
My brother’s face goes smooth, impassive. “I had orders.”
“And the village you burned? That was just orders too?”
“You don’t understand.”
“Then explain!”
“You can’t understand.” Akra clenches his jaw, the scar twisting like a snake. “You weren’t there, Jetta. You don’t know. They hang us out like targets, did you know that? The Aquitans. They toss us in harm’s way, they pit us against our own people. And the Chakrans don’t trust us either. Not that we can trust them, when any one of them could be part of the rebellion. You have to decide very quickly whether to kill or to die.”
“And you decided to kill,” I say, softer now.
“Do you wish I’d made the other choice?”
I wet my lips, thinking of my own choices. “No.”
“Neither do I.”
“Did you ever enjoy it?” I blurt out, the words falling from my mouth unbidden.
Now he turns his head, his eyes sharp. “The killing?”
“The power.”
“There’s no power in it,” he says, his lip curling. At my side, my fists clench as the memories play across the scrim of my mind. Dar Som, the rope around Jian’s neck . . . my anger that I hadn’t killed him when I’d had the chance. Is Akra lying, or am I more monstrous than I imagined? Either way, who I am to judge?
Sighing, I pick up the dirty uniform—I had carried it all this way, into the brush. I might as well get some use of it. Running my hands over the fabric, I search for a tear or a loose thread. A place to rip, to unravel. But my hands still at the crinkle of paper in the pocket: the little folded butterfly with the soul of the hummingbird. I pull it out, considering . . . but no. Best to use a soul that remembers Nokhor Khat as home.
So I tuck the butterfly down the front of my dress, inside the band of silk that covers my breasts. It ruins the lines of the fabric, but better ruined lines than lost souls.
Then I turn from the uniform and start searching the ground. Akra is watching me. “What are you doing?”
“I need to let Legarde know we’re coming. I want to make sure he keeps Papa well.” Finding a sharp stone takes some time, especially in the dark, but when I do, I use it to slice through the edge of the uniform sleeve, working the stone against the weave of the fabric until it starts to fray. Finally, there is a tear wide enough for me to rip the rest of the way down, leaving me with a square of fabric the size of a handkerchief.
Next, I use Akra’s lighter to burn a few leaves to ash. Once they’ve cooled, I press the soot into the fabric in roughly formed letters—just one word: TONIGHT.
Akra frowns at me as I fold the fabric lengthwise and knot it in the center. “How will you get it to him?”
“The same way he got his note to me,” I say. Then I grit my teeth and ball my fist and nick my knuckle with the stone. The cut stings, the blood wells—but Akra puts his hand on mine.
“Is this wise?” he says. “To let Legarde know what you can do?”
“I think the time for secrets is over,” I say. “Theodora saw us take wing on a bird with no feathers. She will have told her father.”
Akra only grunts. But a chill has settled over me that has nothing to do with the cold night air. What if Legarde wasn’t really after Leo? What if he only wants to put me back in prison, in a cell beside Le Trépas, forever in the dark?
But if I don’t go back, aren’t I dooming Papa to that same fate?
There is no clear path, but I have already chosen my route. And all around me, the souls are gathering. First the vana—but there are always some close by. The flies and worms, the mosquitoes and the gnats. Their souls swarm in glittering constellations around my head.
Next the arvana creep in. The spirit of a rat skitters down the liana vine; the soul of a songbird perches on a branch overhead. Still I wait, clenching and unclenching my fist, letting the blood run down my finger. The soul of a civet creeps through the underbrush, watching me with fiery eyes, and the spirit of an owl glides in on silent wings.
It takes some time, but I am patient, and soon enough, I see the one I’m waiting for—no, two of them, drifting from tree to tree from the direction of the camp kitchens: the souls of the messenger pigeons.
I call one close; she comes to rest on my hand. It’s the matter of a moment to put her soul into the rough body I have fashioned. “Go to Legarde,” I tell her, and with a rustle of her new cloth wings, she lifts into the air and flutters off through the night jungle.
Akra watches the message fly, his
expression caught between fear and awe. “What are they like?” he says softly. “The souls?”
Pressing my thumb to the wound on my finger, I gaze at the bright spirits around me—dancing, glowing, lighting the night. All the burning longing of the dead to live again. “Beautiful,” I say. “And terrible too.”
Akra only nods; he has no more questions for me. Instead, he settles next to me on the loop of liana. As the souls start to scatter again, living mosquitoes whine past my ears, so I take Cheeky’s towel and tuck it around my knees. Nearby, the river burbles over the stones. A nightjar starts her trilling call; in the brush, something small rustles. I listen for an alarm to be raised, for someone to come after us. For footsteps in the dark. But no one seems to notice that we haven’t come back.
From the camp, very distantly, I hear the sound of music, the distant strains of the violin. And is that Tia’s voice? Smoke and brass. I close my eyes and remember her song, the night at La Perl. J’errais avec les fous . . .
As the song rises and falls, I relax against my brother’s shoulder. Only when he stirs do I realize I’ve dozed off. The music has faded, the fires burned low. The silvery moon has leaped into the indigo shell of the sky. I run a hand over my face. “Is it time?”
“It is.”
Slowly we make our way upriver, past the baths, through the sweet breath of the honeysuckle, back to the sleeping camp. And as we pass through the quiet village, I can already see the bird, bound and laid out close to the water, out of reach of the stray embers of the campfires.
A makeshift tent has been erected above her—two smaller tents, lapped over an open framework of bamboo. Enough to keep the rain from her wings. And sitting on a barrel beside the tent, a single guard. I recognize him even at a distance, and it’s only another moment before he recognizes me.
Leo stands slowly as we approach. The moonlight catches the gleam of his pistol, still at his waist—and for a moment, I want to run, but where would we go? He doesn’t shout or draw his gun. He only waits for us, as though we were expected. So I step close enough to whisper. “Cheeky told you about the note,” I guess, and he nods.
“As soon as I got back. It took me half a minute to realize what you’d choose. So I told the king you were tired tonight. And I volunteered to guard the bird.”
“Why would you help us?” Akra says, his tone mocking. “Do you think you’re in love?”
“It matters less what I think than what I do.”
“Give her your gun, then,” Akra says. “Jetta, you guard him while I get Maman.”
“I already spoke to her,” Leo says mildly. “If you’re going to the temple, she’s not coming with you. She’d only be a liability. Besides, there won’t be room for all of us in the bird.”
My brother’s eyebrows shoot upward. “You’re coming?”
“Didn’t I tell you I’d help you? And maybe in return, you can help them.” Leo jerks his chin toward the camp and I whirl, suddenly afraid, but there is no one creeping up on us in the night. Nothing but the rows of huts and tents, the rebels sleeping alongside the villagers, and Cheeky and Tia somewhere among them. “Come back to the camp after your meeting. The king will still value your help,” he says softly. Then his tone turns grim. “Your father can heal here. He might need a good docteur.”
“Why would you turn yourself in to Legarde?” Akra turns to me. “I don’t trust him, Jetta. I do not trust a word he says.”
“You don’t have to,” I say quietly. “We only have to have no other options.”
“There is always another option, Jetta.” Akra’s eyes gleam, but I shake my head. Still, I am curious, and I turn to Leo now.
“What do you think Legarde wants with you?”
“I don’t know, but I want to find out.” Then he gives me a heartbreaking smile. “Do you know, that note is the first time he’s ever called me his son?” Turning toward the bird, he pulls a knife from his belt and slices through the bindings on her wings. Together, we lead her out into the bright moonlight.
The rebels have made some repairs—rudimentary, to be sure, little more than a strip of silk holding a bamboo splint to the broken wing. She is still battered, still broken, but it is enough. Souls are so strong. And when we climb aboard, the skeletal wings of the hawk tear at the air. Slowly, awkwardly, we lift into the darkness above the rebel camp—back toward Nokhor Khat, back toward Papa. For a moment I feel weightless. Free. Like the boundless sky goes on forever and so could we. But when we rise above the tree line, I see it—a blot of smoke above the lip of the caldera, billowing gray in the moonlight, lit from beneath with the dim glow of the dying flames.
“Nokhor Khat is burning,” I call back over the wind.
“Not surprising,” Akra says, his voice grim. His knuckles are white as he grips the frame of the bird. “Tensions were high even before Le Rêve.”
“Were the rebels behind the riots too?” I ask, turning to Leo—remembering my suspicions over their timing. “The attack on the docks?”
But Leo shakes his head. “That was all Pique’s fault.”
At this, Akra looks up. Disgust cuts through the fear on his face. “Pique? He’s not in Nokhor Khat.”
“No. But he’s rampaging through the north, exacting revenge. People flee south, leaving everything behind, only to see their king drinking champagne with Aquitans.”
I frown. I don’t know Pique, not the way Leo and Akra seem to. But I know he’s the man behind the death in Dar Som. What could make a man seek that kind of vengeance? “What happened to him?”
Both Akra and I look at Leo, but he raises an eyebrow. “The rebellion.”
“They hurt him? Tortured him? What?”
“Nothing like that.” Leo sighs. “But he’s been trying to pacify Chakrana since before I was born. And the rebels are difficult to quell. For men like him, that’s enough.”
As we struggle upward over the ridge, the pall of smoke widens—it hangs in a gauzy curtain over most of the city, silvered by the first hint of dawn. From the gates to the docks, coals glow in the ruins of gutted buildings. It looks like the capital has fallen ill, covered in ashy pocks like an infection. Through the haze, souls gleam like scattered embers in the streets. I am grateful for the darkness; at least we do not see the fallen bodies of the dead.
But even through the wisps and wafting clouds of smoke, the temple rises proud and solid, resolute and implacable as death itself—a stepped building of black stone, flanked by two long, low platforms: the rooftops of the cells below.
“Where shall we land?” I say, but Leo points. Before the pavilion, a wash of light covers the wide stone stairs leading up to the arched door. At first I mistake it for a cluster of souls, but even as they fill the streets, the spirits avoid Hell’s Court. No . . . as we near the temple, the glow resolves into a row of lanterns, set on the plaza and along the steps, as if to lead us inside. There is a gaunt man waiting at the top of the stair. For a moment, I am sure it is the King of Death, and a cold premonition seizes me, but then I see the light gleaming on the epaulets, and on the gold mane of his hair. Legarde got my note.
The hawk banks toward the temple on a draft of shifting smoke. The air is gritty, sour; I breathe through my teeth as I scan the territory. I expected Legarde to bring soldiers, but he is alone. Of course, Papa is not there either. Where has Legarde hidden him? As we drop nearer to the temple, Akra leans in. “Don’t land on the plaza.”
“Why not?”
“Because that’s where he wants you to land. Set down on the roof, there,” he says, pointing to the flat stone platform atop the cells. “We’ll have high ground and a little bit of cover. Last chance to shoot him,” Akra adds, turning to Leo.
Leo only laughs, his voice bitter. “There was never a chance of that.”
“Give me your gun and I’ll do it,” Akra says, but Leo shakes his head.
“I haven’t come all this way to leave without an answer.”
“Then give me your knife,” I murmur.
“To protect myself.”
Without a word, Leo hands it over, and I slip it through the shawl I’ve belted around my waist. Guiding the bird around again, we bank toward the rooftop platform.
It is a long, narrow causeway surrounded by a low parapet carved with leering demons—a little cover, as Akra had said, but not much. Still, it is better than being on the plaza below, surrounded by the overgrown tangle of the garden. Anyone could be hiding in those shadows. A chill skitters across my skin; something tells me to turn around, to pull up into the wide sky, to glide back to the jungle, back to the camp. I push that voice down into the pit of my stomach and bury it in bile. I will not leave without Papa. There is no turning back now.
As the bird settles awkwardly to the roof, I whisper to her spirit—be still, be still. She folds her broken wings and I slide down to the platform. My bare feet are warm against the cold stone. The boys follow—Akra, stiff and proud, his posture concealing his healing ribs, and Leo, who cocks his head and shifts his weight to one foot, so casual. Acting.
I walk to the parapet, looking down on the plaza below, flanked by the two of them. Legarde has come to the base of the narrow stairs, tilting his head up to look at me.
“Sava, Jetta,” the general calls, his voice cutting through the smoky wind. “Quite an entrance. I see you have a flare for the dramatic.”
He smiles, but there is no joy in it; nor is there any in my short, mocking bow. But in the back of my mind, I wonder . . . why he would greet me before his own son? “Bring me my father, Legarde, and I’ll be just as happy to make an exit.”
“He’s inside,” Legarde says, gesturing back toward the arched doorway of the temple prison, where the altar sits at the feet of the old stone god. Is Papa still in the cell, waiting in the dark? I clench my fists and start down the stair, but Akra puts his hand on my shoulder.
“Bring him out, general!” he shouts, and Legarde raises an eyebrow.
“My erstwhile capitaine. I suppose a salute is not forthcoming. Very well. I’ll bring him out in a moment. But first I’d like to make you another offer.”
“You haven’t kept the first yet!”