Blood, Ink & Fire

by Ashley Mansour

  “Yes.” My stomach lurches. What have I done? Was this really the best way? But there’s no going back now. It’s this, or I go with Fell now and let my grandfather, Ledger, and Ros face John’s fate. “You will have your nine volumes,” I say. “And you will have me, too.”

  “Good.” Scythe holds his ear as his eyes bore right into me. “Then Mr. Cadge says we have a deal.”

  *

  Obe and his men escort us back to the RV. They leave us alone in the middle of the road, under the heat of the sun.

  “I don’t know about y’all, but I’m just about dying to get as far away from this nutjob of a place as possible,” Ros says once we’re inside the RV.

  “Right,” my grandfather says. “Ros, you can drive us, if you feel up to it.”

  That seems to delight Ros, who bolts into the driver’s seat and starts the engine.

  Ledger is quiet as we reverse toward the highway and then take off full speed, leaving Fort Numb behind. When we’re heading northeast toward Killem, I head into the bedroom. I lie on the bed, staring at the ceiling. So much has happened, I can scarcely take a deep breath without my heart feeling like it might explode. I inhale deeply, hoping to let go for just a second, to be able to close my eyes and see something else besides pain, fire, and disaster.

  But I can’t. All the Forgetsum in the world can’t erase what I know. The stories that found a way inside me mix with the deeprooted dread hanging over me.

  Something terrible is coming for me, I think as sleep taps me on the shoulder. I turn, letting it wrap me in its deadening embrace.

  NOELLE

  THIRTY-ONE

  A storm of burning ashes chases me. I’m running, but no matter how fast I try to move, I can’t escape it. The ash-filled wind circles my feet and bites at my ankles. I’m on fire, about to feel what it’s like to disappear inside it. Just like the pages. Just like the books. Just like G.

  I run faster to escape them, but it’s no use. The ashes turn to embers that eat through my shoes, my socks, my clothes. There’s nothing but my bare flesh to meet the flames. I raise my arms to the wind, surrendering myself to the raging heat. If I let go, if I try to die, maybe that will be it, and I can wake from this nightmare. But the wind denies me that comfort. I’m rising now on the back of the breeze, flying vertically over the flames as they sear my flesh. Higher! Higher! Please let me escape! I look up to the sky. Above me is a single star. If I could just reach it. If I could just hang on to it, I might be able to escape this torturous heat.

  As I’m climbing higher into the sky, the wind shifts. I fall into the sea of fire that seems to have engulfed the world below. There’s nothing but fire now, ebbing and flowing for miles. Flames for infinity. This is where I’ll die.

  And then I wake up.

  The sweat of the dream drips across my forehead. I roll onto my side, reaching for the light, but it isn’t there. Panicked, I sit up and stare at my surroundings. I’m alone, inside a huge gray room, in the center of an enormous bed. A chandelier hangs from the ceiling above me. There are several gray sitting chairs, a rounded glass table, a vase of pale roses in the corner. I swing my feet to the floor and shriek. A massive bear head faces me, its teeth clenched, its eyes alive, its body splayed out into a carpet. I scream.

  I tiptoe across several more rugs, careful not to step on any of the bear heads as I make my way to the door. It’s locked. I press my ear to the wood and listen. I hear the tinkle of glasses and silverware, the low hum of voices. Laughter. I spot a note card on the table and a small key next to it. My name has been written by hand across the crisp white paper.

  Dearest Reader,

  I have not written a note in nearly fifty years. It pleases me to write this one. Welcome to the great house of our humble Sovereign. There is a change of clothes in the wardrobe for you. Use the key to free yourself. Our rooms lock from the inside only. Sorry in advance for the skins.

  Warmly,

  Lady M

  Lady M! I’m in Killem. I fling open the wardrobe and gasp. Everything inside is gray. There are stacks of gray towels, robes, shirts, and blankets. In front I find a dress that has been hung up for me. It’s gray, too, except the waist ties with a black ribbon. We don’t have clothes like this in the Vale, so I quickly dump my soiled shirt and shorts and step into it, feeling shabby in my own skin next to the perfect, soft fabric. On the table, I find a brush and run it through my hair. I shut the wardrobe and examine myself in the mirror. My eyes have the sparkle of the well rested, and my cheeks are a little flushed with sleep. I head out of the room with the letter tucked into my dress.

  Leading me down to the bottom floor is a winding staircase, its balusters black marble, its carpet a soft, downy gray. I follow the noise through a candlelit hallway into a vast central room. Stone walls rise to stained-glass windows on all sides. Sconces grace the walls, lighting up half-restored paintings, fragments of sculptures, and pieces of rescued art from long ago. At the front of the room, I see a banquet table full of people, eating, drinking, laughing. For a moment I can’t quite believe it.

  “Elle?” Ledger sees me and stands immediately. He rushes over and makes as if to take my hand, then stops himself. “You look . . .” He coughs. “You are . . .”

  “Beautiful,” says my grandfather.

  “Thanks,” I say, smiling.

  “Miss Hartley.” A tall bearded man comes toward me and extends his hand. “An honor and a pleasure. I am Macbeth the Second.”

  “Nice to meet you.”

  Macbeth offers his arm and escorts me to the table, where everyone is sitting. My eyes start to water at the sight of Ros, Ledger, and my grandfather here. Together. Alive.

  “Please, sit.” Macbeth pulls out my chair. I take a seat next to Ledger at the oversized table. Macbeth sits at the head of the table. I notice the chair at the other end is empty. “Sorry about locking you in. We like our protection here. Locked doors are just part of that. No one gets in unless you want them to.”

  “That’s fine,” I say. “It was the bear rug that gave me a fright.”

  “Oh, Albert never hurt a fly.” Macbeth laughs. “Except, that is, when I killed him! Nearly took my head off!”

  “Thought we’d let you sleep,” Ros says. “You sure as hell needed it.”

  “Now, there shall be no cursing at my table,” Macbeth says. “After all, this is a banquet we are about to enjoy together. An Eve Feast, to be exact.”

  “Eve Feast? Eve of what?” Ros asks.

  “The eve of our new beginning. Tomorrow, when the sun rises, it will be different here in Killem because you will be with us. We have been waiting for you. Ever since the news from Pedanta.”

  “Oh, we have been waiting much longer than that.” A voice sings from the top of the stairs. I follow it to see an elderly, regal woman in black. She descends the steps one at a time.

  Macbeth stands in her presence. “Mother. I didn’t know you were well enough to join us.”

  “My health be damned. I have waited too long,” she says, descending. “I shall not miss this night.”

  She catches sight of me and holds my gaze, stopping halfway down the stairs. She points to me, a ring as large as my eye on her index finger. “Is this her?” she says to no one in particular. “Is this our reader?”

  Macbeth is about to answer. But she holds up her hand. “It is. I can feel it.” She clutches her breast as she moves toward us. “This is the one whom Prospero foretold.”

  She comes to me, taking my hand between hers. I stare at her face, at her deep eyes and strong, aquiline nose. Her salt-and-pepper hair is braided and twisted into a tight bun. Once, long ago, it must have been dark as night. I have seen her before, though not in the flesh. “You’re Lady M,” I say, amazed. “It is an honor to meet you.”

  A smile washes over her. “The honor is mine, my dear. You see, I have waited a very long time to see whether Prospero’s vision for our future could be possible in my lifetime. And you are the proof that it
is.”

  “I don’t think I am,” I say, unsure.

  “Nonsense. You are the reader, are you not?”

  I look at Ledger, who nods reassuringly, and then at Grandpa with his worried eyes. But I cannot deny it anymore. “Yes, I am the reader.”

  “Very well, then. All will be right. We have not survived so very long to fail now. Not when the dawn of the new Rising is before us. And you, my dear,” she says, lifting my chin, “you have come to see us through it.”

  My insides feel like they are going to explode. My blood is boiling, my heart racing. The pressure is too much. Because I’m not the one who’s going to see them through the new Rising. When I give the books to Fell and turn myself over to their control, there will be no new Rising. Except I can’t tell anyone this. None of us can.

  Two young boys dressed all in white carry out platters of gorgeous food, then take their seats at the table. “These are my grandchildren,” Lady M says to me.

  “Thank you, sons,” Macbeth says. “Now be good lads and introduce yourselves to our guests.”

  The younger of the two raises his hand. “I am Duncan.” I’m sure he’s no more than six or seven.

  Then the older one sits up on his chair and leans across the table. “I’m Banquo. It’s nice to meet you. Papa says you’re here to help us?”

  “I’m going to try,” I say quietly.

  “That’s good,” Banquo says. “Because I’m tired of always having to be the one in charge around here.” He leans toward me to whisper. “Duncan is too young to understand, so I mostly have to do everything, since mother is gone, you know.”

  “Oh,” I say, surprised. “So you are the eldest, then, Banquo?”

  Banquo eyes his father. “My brother Mac is the oldest. But he’s never around.”

  “You may explain to our guests why that is,” Macbeth says.

  Banquo clears his throat. “Because Mac has a very important role to do that will help ensure our survival.”

  “And?” Lady M nudges him.

  “And survival is the most important thing.”

  “What role might that be?” Grandpa asks.

  “Mac the Third, my grandson, will become our army general,” says Lady M, beaming. “He is training to take over from my son.”

  “Yes, Mac has a way to go yet. And I have a way to go still before matching the mettle of my father, Macbeth the First. There are three generations here around this table, and there will be many more to come after the new Rising takes hold once more. We will ensure the survival of the human race as it was intended. For the greatest good of all people. And that,” Macbeth says, stabbing a piece of meat with his fork, “is the most important thing.”

  Survival. The word reminds me of what I’ve done to ensure our survival. But not gallant survival in the way Macbeth talks about it. When it comes to life or death, I thought only of myself and my loved ones. For them, I betrayed the books. I look across the table at Macbeth, at Lady M, at the banquet they have set out for us to celebrate the resurgence of this movement. How many others like this have there been over the years as they waited for this day to come? I squirm in my chair, unsure what to do or say. Should I tell them about the deal with Fell? Should I keep it a secret as I promised? Will telling them change anything that is already in motion?

  “What kind of army are you raising?” Grandpa asks.

  “The strongest kind,” Macbeth says. “The kind that knows how to prepare for a battle against an enemy that does not respect human life.”

  Grandpa leans forward. “Let me ask you something. How well do you think you know this enemy?”

  Macbeth smiles. “I suspect you know the enemy better, William. I will give you that.”

  “Maybe so. But for us to ensure our survival, everyone needs to know Fell as well as I do. What do you think they want from us? From the Rising?”

  “Control,” Macbeth says. “It has and will always be control.”

  Grandfather nods. “Control is how they achieve their end. But it is not the end itself.”

  “They want our freedom,” Lady M says. “They want to own us, the way they have owned Valers for decades. No offense.”

  “None taken. But you must understand. It is about so much more than freedom.”

  “Then enlighten us, William,” Macbeth says. He holds up his glass. “I think we could all use a little enlightening.”

  “Very well. We are a threat to their existence.” He plays with his napkin, clearly dissatisfied. “More than that, the by-product of what we are is a threat to their existence. Their ‘progress.’”

  “And what are we?” Lady M asks.

  “We are the last remnants of a history that nullifies them. We are primal. Illusory. We are uncontrollable because we create. With words. With stories. We imagine an alternative, and we are fully capable of bringing that alternative to life and living it as a new reality. We are dreamers who dream outside of sleep. And we do it impossibly, dangerously well. We are readers.”

  I marvel at the way Grandpa forms the words, holding everyone’s attention with his voice alone.

  “We see through their illusions and, at the same time, see the truth of what they really are: meaningless. There can be none of our kind in Fell. Not if they themselves want to survive. They fear us because they themselves no longer understand it. Therefore, they must unmake us so their pallid, monotone, unimaginable future can be guaranteed. We are the last threat to their brave new world. It is our job to remind them that they cannot fully erase what we once were, nor fully take away our right to imagine. To live. Books give us life, just as we give life to them. Stories give us understanding of that life. Without them, we are empty. We are vessels signifying nothing.”

  There’s a long, silent pause. His napkin falls to the table like a flag waving surrender. “And that is why they wish to control us.”

  The realization of what he said sits heavily above us. Lady M is the first to break the silence. “And that is the reason why Fell will not stop, will not let the Rising or the books, or any of us, live on,” she says solemnly.

  Macbeth slams his fist on the table. “It is why we must go to war.”

  “You cannot fight a belief system with war,” Grandpa says. “You cannot change someone’s mind by lighting fires, burning their history, and persecuting their people. That will only push them further into extremism. After all, it created the Rising, didn’t it? If we fight Fell with their own fire, it will only push them to become more militant.”

  “Well, what exactly do you suggest, William?” Macbeth says.

  “I suggest a more diplomatic approach.”

  “So we should stand by and do nothing? They are already becoming more militant, with or without our help. No. No!” Macbeth shouts. “It is too late for diplomacy.”

  Ledger looks up. “It is never too late for diplomacy. We can still stop this.”

  Macbeth grunts in frustration.

  “Wait? Stop what?” I ask. “What’s going on?”

  “We received a simulcast before you arrived,” Macbeth admits. “Fell is about to attack.”

  “Attack?” Ros shouts. “You mean this is a prebattle meal?”

  “They can’t be!” I blurt.

  “I assure you they can,” Macbeth says. “We received a message directly from Pedanta. They are being occupied, as you know, and Fell is sending a fleet to attack us. We estimate they’ll be here by nightfall tomorrow.”

  “Then we’ll be ready,” Ros says.

  “No, you don’t understand! We’re not supposed to fight. None of us is supposed to fight.”

  Lady M eyes me curiously.

  “We don’t have to wait here for them like sitting ducks,” Ledger says. “We can get out of here. All of us.”

  “We’re not running from Fell,” Macbeth says. “If they want to test the strength of our army with a fight, that’s what we’ll give them.”

  I cannot believe what I’m hearing. There shouldn’t be any more fightin
g, any more lives in danger. I thought the deal was clear. I would deliver the volumes in exchange for our lives. In exchange for peace. “This isn’t the way it’s supposed to happen,” I manage to say.

  “My dear, what exactly is supposed to happen? This is Fell, after all . . .”

  “No, you don’t understand! Fell is not supposed to come here!” I feel myself shouting now. My voice, unstopped, explodes from inside of me. The panic in my chest is unbearable. “I made a deal with them! That’s how we got out of Fort Numb alive. Because I promised them I would give up the volumes. And I promised I would give up myself, too.”

  Lady M gasps and covers her mouth. “Oh!” she whispers, horrified. Had I just murdered Banquo and Duncan with my bare hands, her expression could not be more eloquent. “What have you done?”

  My vision blurs with tears. “I didn’t have a choice! They had me. They had us all. Oberon sold us out to Fell in exchange for Forgetsum. I did what I had to do.” I look away, unable to face the shame. My gut sickens as my deed gnaws at every part of me. I’m not the reader. How can I be? What kind of reader would give up nine precious, irreplaceable books?

  My grandfather places his hand on top of mine. I expect to see disappointment in his eyes, but it’s not there. He smiles weakly. There’s something behind it. What is he holding back from me? “You did the right thing,” he says finally. “You saved our lives. And you bought us time to make it right.”

  All I did was delay the inevitable. And now everyone is in danger again because of me.

  Macbeth shoves his chair back from the table. He stands, pacing the floor, his heavy boots the only sound in my ears apart from my thudding heartbeat. He turns, whipping his hand across the table, dishes smashing to the ground. “You have ruined us!” he cries.

  Ledger bolts to his feet. “Take it easy, Macbeth,” he says, his expression smoldering. “Just calm down.”