The Speaker

by Traci Chee

  Sefia shot him a glare.

  “What is written comes to pass,” Aljan murmured.

  Archer could feel the battle racing toward him, dark and furious, so close he could almost taste it.

  He wanted it. He needed it. If he didn’t get it, he’d explode.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  Squads of bloodletters split off and went stalking into the dark, fanning out among the cabins as Archer led the rest of them toward the canteen.

  Creeping up the steps, he glanced around. The others were in place. Everyone was ready.

  As he reached for the doorknob, a single snowflake fluttered down, landing on his wrist—perfect, fragile, fleeting. Flurries of white spiraled out of the sky as if by magic.

  The first snow of the season.

  The first snow of his life.

  The camp went deathly quiet.

  He thrust open the door. Gunfire skittered through the air like chips of ice on a hot stove.

  It had been less than two days since their battle at the ranch, but to Archer fighting felt like a long drink after a week in the desert. He slit throats, punctured skulls, cut tendons, and wrenched bones from their sockets. Every movement was crisp, clean, like silk rippling in water.

  It felt good.

  It felt right.

  The bloodletters fought with the same vicious abandon. Anything to do the most damage. Anything to inflict the most pain. Nothing could withstand them.

  All of a sudden, Kaito was there too—roaring, slashing, venting his fury on any impressor who crossed his path.

  Archer scanned the room: corpses, mangled bodies. No Sefia. He grabbed Kaito by the elbow. “Where is she?”

  The boy shook him off. “She’s fine!” Pulling his revolver, he shot someone behind Archer. Blood spattered the back of his neck.

  In that moment, Archer knew he could have left. He could have let Kaito finish the battle in the canteen to make sure Sefia was safe.

  He didn’t. He chose the fight instead.

  Kaito grinned.

  In the heat of battle it was like nothing had changed between them. They were together again, and it was joyous, comforting, perfect—they were home. They moved through the canteen with ruthless efficiency, their movements so well-timed it was as if they shared the same violent heartbeat. In and out, they ducked and dodged, feinted and fired. Around them the bloodletters danced like marionettes in a theater, perfectly choreographed, always deadly.

  And then—too soon, it seemed—it was over. There was blood everywhere, splashed on his jaw, slicked across the floor. Frey and Scarza returned with their squads to let him know: All the bloodletters had survived.

  Sefia appeared in the doorway. Her clothing was torn, her hair coming loose from its ties, and there was a bruise forming on one of her cheeks.

  Guilt split Archer’s insides. He should’ve gone to her. He should’ve left the fight to help her. He could’ve lost her.

  Catching him staring, she held up three fingers.

  Three down.

  Trembling, Archer raised his trigger finger.

  One to go.

  • • •

  Night fell as celebrations began in the canteen. Finishing up bowls of Griegi’s fish stew, the bloodletters sang and drank their pilfered barley wine and told stories to remember the boys who hadn’t made it to freedom. They looked so happy, Archer would have liked to join them.

  But then Kaito raised his cup and declared, “We were dead, but now we rise!”

  The others stood too, their benches scraping against the newly scrubbed floor. “We were dead, but now we rise!” As one, they drank.

  And Archer knew—maybe he wasn’t free either.

  The noise in the canteen swelled. They sang their victory songs and recounted their battles. Frey pushed Aljan into a corner, one hand on his chest, and there, with the old fishing nets dangling from the rafters like wisteria, she kissed him. His arms went around her, hesitantly, like he couldn’t quite believe she was real. The food and the liquor and the heat of all their bodies made the room feel cramped, until Archer felt like rushing to the shuttered windows and flinging them open for a breath of fresh air.

  Sefia found him by himself, hunched over an empty mug. “Want to get out of here?” she asked, extending her hand. The skin under her left eye was swollen and purple.

  Faintly, he nodded.

  They’d almost made it to the door when someone grabbed Archer’s shoulder.

  Kaito. His cheeks were red with drink and he was smiling, but he looked more cross than cheerful, more desperate than drunk.

  “Hey, the party’s just getting started,” he said.

  Archer shrugged on his cold-weather gear. “I just need some air.”

  The Gormani boy looked from him to Sefia and back again. His eyes were unfocused. “C’mon, brother, you’re our leader. You’re one of us. Stay.”

  Archer hesitated. He could’ve stayed to drink with Kaito and sing his songs and be his friend and brother. But then he remembered the ranchers’ screaming. He remembered the bruises on Sefia’s face. He liked Kaito, but he didn’t want to be like him.

  “Sorry,” he said, pulling up his hood. “Not tonight.”

  “You could be great, you know?” the Gormani boy called, his expression contorted by hurt and betrayal and anger. “If you weren’t such a coward.”

  Archer cringed at the words as he stumbled down the steps into the yard. The fallen snow glinted sharply on the frozen ground.

  “He’s just drunk,” Sefia said. “He didn’t mean it.”

  “I know,” Archer answered. But it’s true. He was at war inside himself, daily, sometimes moment by moment, and he was too afraid to choose: the weakling who’d gotten himself kidnapped, the animal, the chief . . .

  They crossed to the nearest cabin, where Sefia peeled off her coat and sat down on a cot. “So,” she said, tracing the weave of the blanket. “One crew left.”

  Archer couldn’t figure out what to do with his arms, so he settled for crossing them over his chest as he leaned against one of the support beams. “Yeah,” he murmured. “One.”

  “And then?” She tilted her head. “D’you think we’ll continue? To stop the rest of the impressors in Kelanna?”

  He closed his eyes. As if on command, the faces of the men he’d just killed flashed before him. They went by so quickly they soon became unrecognizable, muddled combinations of eyes and mouths and broken noses, bruises, cuts, and bullet wounds.

  Nightmares or dreams. Fears or desires. He couldn’t tell anymore.

  “I don’t know,” he said, opening his eyes again.

  Sefia bit her lip. “Do you want to?”

  “Yes.” Archer sat beside her, feeling the cot shift beneath them. “But I’m afraid.” He lifted his hand, sweeping her hair behind her ear. As his fingers grazed her bruise, she winced. “Of this,” he whispered. Of hurting you. Of losing you.

  “You should see the other guy.” She attempted a smile, but at the look on his face, she frowned. “I’m fine, really.”

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

  Cradling the sides of his face, she kissed him. “One day, all of this will be over. One day, we’re going to be free.”

  She tasted like salt and sweetgrass and a hint of the wine she’d drunk in the canteen, and for a moment he forgot about the mission. For a moment all that mattered was the way Sefia pulled him toward her; the way she sighed as his lips found the hollow of her throat and she fumbled with the buttons of her shirt, exposing her collarbones, her chest; the way she looked at him with such trust as they lay back on the cot, half-undressed, and kissed each other until their lips grew tender and he forgot everything else but her.

  • • •

  Cruel dreams, filled with jeering and shouting, startled Archer awake, but th
e sounds of his nightmares did not fade. Sometime during the night, the celebration in the canteen had become pure noise—hollering and laughing and the rhythm of fists on tables.

  Sefia bolted upright beside him, her eyes unfocused, her cheek creased by the pillow. “What is it?” she asked, sliding back into her shirt.

  “I don’t know.” Archer shook his head. “But I don’t think it’s anything good.”

  Struggling into their outerwear, they flung open the door.

  The cold bit, stinging Archer’s lips, reminding him of the push and pull of Sefia’s mouth on his own.

  When they reached the canteen, they were swamped with light and heat, the smell of medicinal alcohol and warm bodies and iron. Strewn along the dining tables were needles, candles, rags spotted with ink, and empty cups. Seeing Archer and Sefia, a few of the boys jumped up, cheering.

  “Archer!” Kaito greeted him with open arms. Sweat dampened his hairline, and his green eyes shone bright as stars. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry. You are my chief, and you are my brother, and one day I will prove I am good enough for you.”

  Archer didn’t move, transfixed by the tattoos that coiled around Kaito’s forearms. They had the thick swooping slashes of Aljan’s work—a fine mesh of lines and barbed stars.

  Writing.

  One by one, the others stood and crossed their arms. Even the newest bloodletters wore the marks.

  Kaito beamed at him expectantly.

  “‘We were dead, but now we rise,’” Sefia read, turning his left arm. And the right, “‘What is written comes to pass.’” With each word, her voice grew heavier, and softer.

  The boys had quieted now. Archer stared at them—at their flushed, fervent expressions—and at Kaito, who looked at him like an eager dog that doesn’t know it’s about to be kicked.

  “Why would you do this?” Archer asked.

  Kaito tried to smile, but it came out half-formed. “Because we’re bloodletters. We’re your bloodletters,” he said, sounding confused and hurt. He glanced around. Then, as if he didn’t know what else to do, he bowed his head and crossed his arms. “We offer you our allegiance.”

  In that moment the tattoos seemed to blaze like black flames. Frey and the boys looked like warriors from some far-off battlefield, from some far-off myth. And Archer was their great leader.

  At last, it hit him, really hit him: the following he was building, his gift for killing, the way destiny seemed to guide their blades.

  What is written comes to pass.

  Was it him? Was he the boy with the scar? What if, all this time, they’d thought they were fighting the Guard, when in reality they’d been doing exactly as fate had prescribed? As the Book had prescribed?

  “Brother.” Kaito’s voice was soft, high, the voice of a scared little boy. “Are you with us?”

  Shaking his head, Archer took a step back. “No.” It can’t be me.

  And Kaito, thinking he was being rejected, for all his service, for all his loyalty, shot Archer a look so black it could have curdled darkness.

  Archer fled. Over the threshold and down the steps, he stumbled into the yard, feeling the lamplight on his heels and destiny breathing down his neck.

  “Chief!”

  “Come back!”

  But he didn’t go back.

  He reached the edge of the bay, where his feet slipped on the icy stones. He pitched forward.

  Then Sefia was there beside him, her breath warm against his cheek. “I’ve got you. It’s okay.”

  But nothing was okay, and he finally admitted it.

  He clutched her to him, burying his face in her hood. Her mittened hands cradled the small of his back, her touch muted by their fur-lined coats.

  “Is it me?” he whispered.

  His next questions came to him before he could stop them: How many do I kill in the war? And: Why do I die alone?

  Out on the water, the moonlight shifted over the whitecaps.

  “I don’t want it to be you,” Sefia said, but her voice was filled with doubt.

  Inside, he crumpled.

  He should have run away with Sefia when they’d had the chance, before they’d ever met Kaito or Scarza or any of the others. They should have picked a direction and kept going, over the ocean, until they hit some foreign land where they could have started fresh.

  Alone. Uncomplicated. Free.

  But he wasn’t free.

  Maybe he’d never been free in his life.

  Because even now, knowing what he was becoming, what his thirst for violence was turning him into, he couldn’t stop. Not now, with only one crew of impressors to go.

  Maybe never.

  REMEMBER

  YOUR

  CHAPTER 23

  Once Damaged

  On the stony beach, Archer and Sefia watched as Kaito came staggering after them. In his hurry he’d left his coat, and his tattoos stood out on his pale skin like charcoal in snow. “You think you’re so much better than us, don’t you?” He shoved Archer, hard, in the chest.

  Archer shrugged him off. “Leave me alone, Kaito.”

  “No.” The Gormani boy grabbed his arm. “You don’t get to walk away from this. You don’t get to walk away from us.”

  Archer almost broke his grip. They almost fought, punching, grappling, pushing each other into the frigid water of the bay.

  But before either of them could move, an invisible force thrust them apart. Sefia. “Stop it,” she said.

  “You chose this, remember?” Kaito shouted, struggling against her magic. “When you asked us to follow you.”

  Ducking Sefia’s grasp, Archer started toward him. “I wanted to help people! I wanted to do something good—”

  Kaito laughed, loud and bitter. “You wanted to kill people, same as me. I’ve seen you, Archer. I know what’s inside of you. You’re not a savior. You’re a cold-blooded killer, just like the rest of us.”

  “That’s just it. I’m not like the rest of you.” Archer tried to explain. I’m a leader. I have a following. What if I’m the boy the Guard wants? “I’m—”

  “No. You’re worse.” Kaito’s eyes flashed like the last light at sunset. “You’re a killer and a coward, and you’ve got no right to be chief.”

  “I didn’t ask to be chief!” Archer cried, grabbing Kaito by the shoulders, hoping the fear in his eyes would say what he couldn’t. “I didn’t ask for any of this!”

  The Gormani boy sneered. “No, you got lucky.”

  Archer’s grip loosened. “Lucky?” After the kidnapping, the abuse, the blood on his hands? After being broken and piecing himself together and still feeling the cracks? He almost laughed. Almost cried.

  Coldly, Kaito jerked his head at Sefia. “Because of her. She’s the reason they follow you. She’s what makes you special.”

  For a second, Archer met Sefia’s gaze. Was she what made him special? Would things have been different if, when she’d pried open that crate three and a half months ago, she’d found Kaito, or Scarza, instead of Archer? Would one of them be leading the bloodletters now, becoming the boy the Guard wanted?

  Kaito pushed him away. “You didn’t ask for her either, I bet. You didn’t ask for any of this.” His voice dripped scorn. “But I don’t see you giving any of it up.”

  Archer balled his fists. He’d had enough of Kaito’s derision and jealousy. His anger, his disappointment, his always goading Archer to be a warrior, a killer, a boy from a legend. “What do you want from me?” Archer’s knuckles burned. His limbs tingled with the urge to fight. “The bloodletters? Take them. Be their chief. Kill as many innocent people as you like. I’m done with you.”

  For a moment it looked like the Gormani boy might lunge at him. Archer half-hoped he would. They’d fight, and all their frustration with each other would be pulverized under their feet, elbows, fists. Then the
y’d laugh and embrace, and in the morning they’d be friends, brothers again.

  When Kaito finally spoke, his words were quiet and sharp, like a knife between the ribs. “I know what you are, Archer. You can’t be done with us.” With a last spiteful glare, he prowled back to the canteen.

  The distance between them pulled, achingly, at Archer’s chest. He was tempted to run to him, like he was a shard of iron and Kaito was his lodestone. But he did not move.

  The gravel crunched as Sefia found her way to Archer’s side. “Should you go after him?” she asked.

  Archer slipped his hand into hers. “No,” he said shakily. “We’ll be fine.”

  But they weren’t fine.

  • • •

  Massive storms struck the camp the next morning, bringing biting downpours of snow and sleet that rattled the cabins and iced the yard. As Archer entered the canteen, shaking slush out of his collar, some of the boys saluted with their tattooed arms.

  He nodded at them uncomfortably as he made his way toward the kitchen, where Aljan was talking with Griegi over the pot of coffee.

  As Archer approached, the cook let out a little yelp and scurried back to the stove, where he hastily began stoking the coals. Nervously, Aljan poured another cup of coffee and offered it to Archer.

  “Chief.” The boy’s face was swollen with bruises and lack of sleep. “I—I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  The mapmaker gestured wearily to his wrists, black with ink. “I don’t know if it was my idea or Kaito’s, but I’m the one who taught everyone else how to do it. I thought it’d be—I thought you’d like it.”

  Archer stared at the tattoos, like knife cuts or bullet wounds, trying to make sense of them. Is it me?

  “But then you ran,” Aljan said.

  Through his mug, Archer could feel the heat of the coffee begin to scald his fingers. “Do you believe the legends, Aljan, about the boy with the scar?”

  The mapmaker touched his right arm—What is written comes to pass. “I don’t know. But I know you’d never help the Guard, and that means it can’t be you.”