by Traci Chee
“A good question, Lady Dinah,” Arcadimon said, drawing up to them with a smile. He had a wide range of smiles, and this one dimpled his cheeks but didn’t reach his eyes. “You’ve got heirs, haven’t you? Old enough to be wed, I believe.”
Dinah’s face went white beneath its layers of powder and rouge.
As if to greet her, he took Lady Dinah’s hand. Her flesh gave slightly under his fingers like an overripe plum.
With a flustered farewell, Dinah slunk away.
“Insufferable woman,” Arc muttered.
Ed rubbed his eyes. “Thanks for saving me.”
“It’s nothing.”
The king caught his arm. “It’s everything. I know I’m getting worse, Arc. I know it’s only a matter of time before . . . I know you’ll always save me.”
Arcadimon tried to smile, but this one faltered and died on his lips like an injured butterfly. Saving Ed would be flinging the flask of poison far into the Lake of Sky. Saving Ed would be taking him by the hand and running back to their horses, riding side by side until they reached the coast, where they’d catch a ship and go sailing into the wild blue sea.
Sentiment, he cautioned himself. Sentiment would get them both killed.
Ed licked his lips. “Do you have the medicine on you?”
The request brought the carefully cultivated smile back to Arcadimon’s face. “Of course,” he said, escorting the king to the edge of the stone terrace, near Roco’s body.
The corpse was wrapped in white, floating like a cloud among the blue-and-yellow forget-me-nots. A copper incense bowl sat on his chest, and scribbles of smoke spiraled from the tips of the incense sticks, dissolving into the thin mountain air.
But his face was bare. He looked young, younger than Arcadimon remembered, more like the boy he’d grown up with than the Lord of Shinjai, and at the same time, he didn’t look young at all. His flesh had sunken in on itself, like a mask stretched over a scaffolding of bone.
“He always said his weak heart would do him in,” Ed murmured with a glance at Arcadimon.
Arc allowed tears to form in his eyes. “I’m sorry he’s gone,” he said, and to his surprise, it wasn’t a lie.
Ed smiled sadly.
Slipping his hand into his vest pocket, Arcadimon withdrew the silver flask. Instead of passing it to the king, however, he hesitated.
“I suppose now’s as good a time as any to start drinking,” Lady Abiye declared, sweeping up to them in white silk and black obsidian. The leader of Gorman Province, she was old enough to be Arcadimon’s grandmother, with a shrewd, strategic nature that had only grown more formidable with age. He’d already secured the allegiance of two of the four provincial leaders. After the election of Roco’s successor, only Abiye would be left.
Her silks rustled as she withdrew a carved flask from her robe. “You know what they say: There’s no funeral as long as a noble funeral.”
“You’re a wise woman, my lady,” Arcadimon said.
“‘Old’ is the word you’re looking for. But your flattery is noted.” She winked and took a long pull, then gestured to the silver flask as he slid it into his pocket. “Well, don’t let me stop you.”
“No,” he said. “I shouldn’t.” As the words fell, unbidden, from his mouth, he put a hand to his lips.
Eduoar caught his eye and mouthed, Later?
I shouldn’t. Arcadimon blinked. Again, it was true. He knew it from the sweetness on his tongue, like springwater. It was his duty to the Guard to continue poisoning the king, but he shouldn’t.
And more importantly, he no longer wanted to.
What he wanted was to sweep Ed into his arms. What he wanted was to run his fingers through his hair. What he wanted—
Swaying a little on his feet, Eduoar reached for the edge of the floating bier to steady himself, but before he touched it, his eyes rolled back in his head. His face went slack.
Lady Abiye let out a startled cry as the king pitched forward—right into Arcadimon’s waiting arms.
The mourners swarmed them like sharks.
Cradling the king to his chest, Arc sank onto the cool marble. In sleep, Eduoar’s face seemed smoother, somehow, free of cares.
And in that instant Arc finally understood: For all his preparation, for all his masks, he’d been claimed by sentiment.
He didn’t know how he hadn’t recognized it before, but there it was, like a weed that had taken root in his heart, growing unnoticed in the shadow of all his cunning and all his plans, until it burst into bloom, bright as a star, sudden as an attack.
He loved Eduoar.
He loved the boy he was sworn to kill.
Account of the Lion Tamer
Dear Director,
Auothor report from the messengers, who have procured additional accounts of our book thieves. Attached are transcripts from interviews with members of Lady Carmine’s Traveling Show, which had been attacked by bandits in the Delienean Heartland when Sefia and the boy showed up. Looks like they’ve been busy since they turned in the impressors & trackers. Will keep an ear to the ground.
Ever your Apprentice, A.D.
Yeah, I saw them. They saved us—Lady Carmine and the rest of the Traveling Show—the ones the bandits hadn’t already killed, anyway.
I don’t think I would’ve believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. The storytellers are already fixing to add it to their repertoire—you should talk to them if you haven’t already—to let people know what’s out there . . . You ever been to a bloodletter, friend? A butcher, maybe? If you have, you can imagine what it was like that day.
They were fast, ruthless—one second, the bandits are threatening to remove the sharpshooter’s fingers if anyone else tries to be a hero, and the next, these kids are all around us—shooting, fighting, gutting these men, these rugged, rough-and-tumble criminals, like they’re sheep at slaughter. It couldn’t have been more than a few minutes before the whole mess was over, and we got a good look at the kids that had saved us.
Boys, most of them, maybe a couple girls. They had those burns you were asking about, like collars. And their leader, he had these golden eyes. Like this cat I saw once, huge, scarred in dozens of places. Maybe someone else had tried to capture him when he was a cub, but that cat was a man-eater waiting to happen. I could see it in his eyes. Put a cat like that in a cage and one day he’ll get loose, and then he’ll kill you . . . and anybody else in his way.
Best leave a cat like that alone, if you know what’s good for you.
CHAPTER 11
To Pass on a Secret
Wielding the Book proved even more difficult than Sefia had expected; the amount of information was so massive and so little of it was what she needed. But she would not be deterred. She began scavenging scraps of paper from their supplies, filling the pages with names, numbers, details, dates. She kept a record of previous crews, how many candidates they’d captured, which boys were killed and by whom.
The impressors had started out small over twenty years ago, kidnapping a boy here or there, leaving their branded bodies to be found rotting in the mulch halfway across the kingdom. Since then, however, they’d gotten organized, and grown in size—hundreds of boys dead, bystanders executed, loved ones filled with grief and guilt—until impressors had become a word you used to threaten misbehaving little boys. The damage they’d done in Deliene alone was vast, and every story she read was another reminder of what she owed to Archer, Frey, and the boys, for what her parents had done.
Soon after their run-in with the bandits at the traveling show, Sefia was sketching a rough map of the Northern Kingdom when Versil came to peer over her shoulder. “What’s this?” Without waiting for an answer, he shook his head. “No, no, no, you need my brother. Our pop was a mapmaker, did you know that? Aljan was his apprentice. Hang on, lemme get him—Aljan! Aljan!”
As they waited for Aljan to arrive, Versil flashed her a grin. “Pop used to say he was born with a brush in his hand. You know, he was painting before he ever said a word? When we were little, I used to talk for him. ‘Aljan wants another candy.’ ‘Aljan hates asparagus.’ Stuff like that. You couldn’t blame him, though. Who likes asparagus . . .” His voice trailed off until it went completely silent. Then: “Oh, hey, Aljan.” For a moment, Versil looked confused and embarrassed, like he knew he’d forgotten something but didn’t know what. “We were just talking about you.”
Aljan tried to smile, but it was like he was trying to lift something too heavy for him to carry. “You wanted something?”
“Oh, right. The sorcerer needs your help.” Lightly, Versil bounded off again, leaving his brother looking dully after him.
When Aljan remained still, Sefia studied him for a moment. Unlike his twin, he was strangely subdued, like a rabbit awaiting the approach of the fox.
Tapping him on the arm to get his attention, Sefia extended her paintbrush. “I heard you were a mapmaker.”
He took it from her, testing its weight and balance with the same quiet care he’d used with the Book the night of the ambush. His resigned expression showed a flicker of life. Then he dipped the brush . . . and everything changed. His eyes brightened. His movements sharpened. A smile tinged his lips.
Without much prompting, he soon began sketching out a map of Deliene. The paintbrush flew across the paper, creating shorelines curling with whitecaps, mountains splashed with shadow, provincial crests exquisitely detailed with miniature bears, harpoons, bulls, and sheaves of wheat. The act of painting so transformed him that Sefia felt like she was seeing a part of Aljan she hadn’t known existed.
“This is beautiful,” she said.
The boy glanced at her with a hesitant smile, as if he were just remembering his sense of humor. “Paper and ink are my weapons too,” he said.
The next morning, after writing down the names and last known locations of the three crews currently in operation, she asked for Aljan’s help with the map again. He seemed entranced with her notations, his gaze roving over them with such intense fascination he’d forget he was drawing, until the map was stained here and there by small pools of ink.
“These were in the Book too,” he said, tracing the W in one of the impressors’ names. “What are they?”
“They’re letters.” Her face twisted as she took the brush from him, rinsing it in a cup of water. That was how the Guard had found her before, by following the scribblings she’d left all over Oxscini like breadcrumbs. She’d been so foolish. But she hadn’t known.
“Are they the source of your power?”
“No.” She’d been able to sense the Illuminated world long before she’d learned to read. But reading and writing had sharpened her gift, turned it into a tool she could use. “But they’re powerful on their own. That’s why Serakeen’s kept them a secret all these years.”
Thoughtfully, Aljan traced a W on the edge of the cart where they were sitting, embellishing it with swoops and dashes that made the letter almost unrecognizable. “Would you share that secret with me?” he asked softly.
Sefia hesitated. Sometimes it felt like her whole life had been a secret: her room in the house on the hill, the Book she’d carried on her back for years, the past Archer was still keeping from her. Secrets were as familiar to her as her own reflection.
But they were her parents’ secrets—the Guard’s secrets—and they’d already caused so much pain.
Bitterly, she smiled, knowing her father would have said it wasn’t safe, knowing Tanin would be furious if she found out. But this was Sefia’s secret now, her weapon to wield, and she would use it to defy the Guard and everything they stood for.
“Yes,” she said. “I’ll do it.”
• • •
When they began moving again, Sefia sat beside Aljan on one of the carts and explained the alphabet while he drove. Every so often, she wrote a letter on a scrap of paper and held it up for him to study, the wet ink dripping, and he’d trace them over and over on the seat of the cart: the Ħs, the Ās.
Occasionally, some of the others would ride alongside them, asking about the markings, but for the most part she and Aljan were left alone.
That night, they sat by the fire and began their work in earnest: their pen, a sharpened stick; their blank page, the dirt at their feet.
By the firelight, she passed him one letter after another like plates of delicacies, and he sampled them all, the Ts and Is, the Ss and Ẅs.
He’d string together letter after letter in nonsensical combinations—Ř, I, T—until the whole ring of the campfire was encircled by a complex tapestry Sefia could never have imagined. They were meaningless, as far as words went, but they were enthralling—these explosions of serifs and swashes and versals, like fireworks, full of joy and wonder.
As he wrote, he seemed to come into focus, gaining definition, color, detail, as if he’d finally found a part of himself he’d been missing his whole life and only now—through writing—was he complete.
“Where’d you learn this?” he asked, his wide-set eyes gleaming.
Sefia bit her lip, remembering her mother spelling out her name in wooden blocks. Her mother, who’d taught the impressors to sniff out killers like bloodhounds. “I kind of . . . taught myself.”
A half-truth, at best. But she couldn’t bring herself to tell him the rest. She didn’t know how, without hurting him.
If Aljan suspected her of keeping something from him, he didn’t show it. He beamed at her and twirled their stick once before offering it to her. “Can we try the kay again?”
The next day, they continued their lessons while Sefia worked on the map, until a sudden wind whipped the paper out from under their hands and sent it, flapping like an injured bird, across the campsite.
Crying out, Sefia darted after the map with Aljan on her heels, but before either of them could reach it, Frey looked up from where she was practicing with her switchblade and, with the smooth striking movement of a rattlesnake, snatched the paper out of the air.
“Nice catch!” Sefia cried.
Frey flicked her blade closed. “You learn to be fast when you’ve got three older brothers.”
Aljan averted his eyes, like the girl was too bright to look directly at.
“I don’t have any siblings,” Sefia said, taking the map.
“They’re a real pain, but I wouldn’t trade them in for anything. Right, Aljan?”
The mapmaker smiled shyly.
Frey sighed, tucking an errant lock of hair behind her ear. “I’m going to get you to talk to me one of these days, if it’s the last thing I do.”
He just gave her another of those little smiles.
As he and Sefia returned to work, she asked, “You’ve never talked to Frey? Not even once?”
Aljan shrugged. “No words ever seemed good enough.”
• • •
Every night, after lessons with Aljan and searching the Book for the impressors, Sefia looked for Lon and Mareah. Sometimes she even read passages aloud to Archer, stories of her father’s life as a fortune-teller in Corabel and of her mother’s time in Everica, before she was inducted into the Guard.
“My mother’s parents were doctors,” she said once. “My grandparents were doctors. I didn’t . . . It never occurred to me that I might still have family out there.”
Archer’s fingers trailed up and down her arm, sending ripples of heat over her skin, but he said nothing.
He’d told her more, now, about his two years with Hatchet. He’d told her about Oriyah and Argo and other boys he’d known and fought and killed. But he hadn’t said a word about who he was before the impressors. Or why he didn’t want to go home.
“If you did have family out there,” Archer said quietly, “would you want to find
them?”
Sefia shrugged. “They wouldn’t know me from a stranger on the street.”
Archer touched the count the impressors had given him. “After all this,” he murmured, “I don’t think they’d want to know me.”
Reaching up, Sefia traced the furrowed line of his brow. “I want to know you,” she said.
His golden eyes glimmered, and for a moment she thought he’d kiss her again, the way he had two weeks ago, on the water. She leaned toward him, willing him to close the last bit of distance between them.
But he pulled away.
As Archer got up to patrol the clearing, Sefia tried to hide her disappointment, looking down at the Book again, blinking to bring the words into focus.
She’d been reading about a crew of impressors led by Obiyagi, a woman with unruly white hair and a toad-like face. They’d been somewhere to the south in Corabelli Land with seven boys, but recently they’d turned north, traversing the mountain passes of the Ridgeline. If Sefia could find out where they were, or where they would be soon, Archer and the others might be able to intercept them.
Consulting her map, Sefia flipped through the pages of the Book, skimming them for landmarks that would tell her where and constellations that would tell her when.
She wasn’t as powerful as her parents had been. She wasn’t as skilled or prepared. But with the Book, she could repair some of the damage they’d done to the world. To Aljan. To Archer. And to their daughter.
Then she looked up, searching the sky for the moon—a waning crescent among the sugar-fine stars.
A triumphant smile crossed her face. She could use the Book against the Guard. She could help Archer. And maybe if she did that, he would no longer pull away.
Tilting his head, Archer put his fingers to his temple. What?
“I found them,” she said.
CHAPTER 12
Ambush at the Rock Eater