The Speaker

by Traci Chee

  It can’t be me. Archer clung to the words.

  “They were supposed to be beautiful. They were supposed to bring us closer together.” Miserably, Aljan hung his head. “I’m sorry I ever made them.”

  Archer gripped his shoulder, knowing he should say something comforting, but he didn’t know what.

  As they sat down to eat, Kaito climbed onto one of the tables, kicking aside an empty bowl. “You’d better get comfortable,” he announced, “because with the weather as it is, we’re gonna be stuck here for a while, until the roads are safe to travel again.”

  Some of the others groaned.

  Kaito ignored them, staring Archer down. “That all right with you, chief?”

  Chief.

  Not brother.

  Not Archer.

  Chief.

  Archer swallowed painfully. “Whatever you think is best,” he said.

  The answer must not have satisfied Kaito, because he leapt down from the table and stalked to the door, which he threw open and slammed behind him again. The walls of the canteen shuddered.

  Archer cringed.

  “Looks like Dad and Dad are still fighting,” Versil said.

  No one laughed.

  Without impressors to hunt, the bloodletters grew restless. There were only so many stories they could tell, so many rounds of Ship of Fools they could play, before their boredom drove them to more violent pursuits. They began sparring more often, testing their quickness and strength.

  Whenever it was Archer’s turn to fight, Kaito volunteered.

  Maybe it was his way of apologizing, as if they’d find their friendship where they’d always found it before.

  Maybe he felt like he had something to prove.

  Archer welcomed it. Because fighting was the only way he forgot the dead who haunted his nightmares. It was the only way he could escape his past, his fears about the future, his problems with Kaito. It was the only thing that made him feel normal. He hated that about himself. But fighting helped him forget that too, at least for a while.

  And Kaito was there. Almost as if he knew. Almost as if he had the same need for it.

  They fought nearly every night, in the mud and sleet, and neither of them pulled their punches. They left their fights battered and bleeding and gasping for air.

  But fighting didn’t help. They didn’t laugh when it was over or recount their favorite strikes. In fact, they barely said a word to each other, barely touched.

  Every time, after they fought, the Gormani boy held out his hand and said, “Well fought, chief.”

  Every time, the title was a dart, an arrow, a wound. A reminder of their broken friendship, dangling, limp and festering, in the space between them.

  “My brothers used to fight like this,” Frey said, practicing with her switchblade while Sefia read and Archer changed his bandages. “They’d beat the piss out of each other. Tried to get me to join them.”

  “But you didn’t?” Sefia asked. Since the battle at the ranch, she and Frey had been mending their friendship, little by little, exchanging a few words, bringing each other pastries filched from Griegi’s stores. Now they were sharing a cabin again, and things between them were almost as they had been.

  Archer longed for that with Kaito, but every time he considered apologizing, he thought of Kaito’s stubbornness, his wrath, and it made him more determined not to be the one to break first.

  “Nah.” Frey twirled her knife with a flourish. “A lady solves her problems in more civilized ways.”

  “Did they ever stop?” Archer asked.

  “Not until they grew up.”

  “Ha.” He wound a scrap of cloth over his knuckles. “Tell me what you really think.”

  Frey’s smile flattened. “You’re our leader, Archer. You’re the one everyone else looks up to. Fix this.”

  But he didn’t know how. Kaito didn’t even set foot in their cabin anymore. For all Archer knew, he slept in the snow. Or in the stables with the horses. The Gormani boy seemed to go out of his way to avoid him, except when it was time to fight.

  So they kept fighting, and the rest of the bloodletters grew more and more uneasy.

  At dusk one evening, Archer and Scarza lay downwind of a game trail, waiting with their rifles at their shoulders. The snow was falling heavily when the rifleman spoke up. “I’m not saying he’s right.”

  Archer jumped at the soft scrape of his voice. The boy hadn’t said a word since they left camp.

  “But he’s stubborn, and in his mind, that’s as good as being right.”

  “Kaito?” Archer asked.

  “But he loves you. And we love him.”

  Archer traced his rifle stock with his thumb. There was dried blood under his fingernail.

  “If you don’t work this out, it’s going to tear the rest of us apart.” A branch creaked. The wind whispered in the trees. Scarza lifted the barrel of his rifle with his short arm, searching the shadows. After a moment, he relaxed again. “Don’t make us choose, Archer.”

  As the sun set, the silver-haired boy shouldered his rifle and began heading back. As they reached the cabins, Archer halted. “Hey,” he said, “have you talked to Kaito about this?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’d you say?”

  A wisp of a smile crossed Scarza’s face. “That you’re stubborn. But you love him.”

  • • •

  Except you keep doing this to each other,” Sefia said later that night, after he’d fought Kaito yet again. “He’s not the one you want to be fighting.”

  He watched her daub his cuts with a cloth. She was right. He loved Kaito. He missed him. But the people he wanted to be fighting—the impressors, Serakeen, the Guard—weren’t here. And Kaito was.

  “Any luck finding the next crew?” he asked.

  Sefia sat back suddenly. “No, I—I assumed we were done.”

  “But there’s one more crew of impressors in Deliene.”

  “I thought you were worried about being—”

  “I am.”

  “Then why—”

  “Because there are more boys we could save.”

  She looked up at him fiercely. “There’s only one boy I care about saving right now.”

  Taking her hand, Archer kissed the crown of her head. “I’ll be all right, Sef.”

  “Not if you’re the boy the Guard wants.”

  But it couldn’t be him, could it? Despite his talent for bloodshed, his following of bloodletters? Because Aljan had been right—he’d never fight for the Guard. And they had a way to prove it. “Ask,” Archer said suddenly. “Ask the Book if it’s me. Then we’ll know for sure.”

  Sefia shook her head. “Will we? Tanin thought she was going to get the Book back. It was written. And look how wrong she was.”

  “Tanin had one page. You have the whole Book. You’ve never been wrong, not once.”

  “And what if it is you?” she whispered. “What if you are building your army?”

  “We’ll stop,” he lied. He couldn’t stop until he’d finished what he’d started, until the impressors were nothing but a story meant to frighten Delienean children. “But if it’s not me, we have to save those boys.”

  She narrowed her eyes, and he wondered if she could see the truth lurking somewhere deep inside him. But she just sighed and said, “Okay.”

  The Book lay on the table, stuffed with scraps of paper and scribbled markings, bookmarks made of leaves and twine and blades of grass from the Heartland. Among them, Archer spied the tip of the feather he’d given her—a little frayed now, but as green as the Oxscinian jungle where he’d found it.

  Sefia laid the Book in her lap and looked up at him again, her eyes burning like drops of coal.

  Archer nodded. It’s not me. It can’t be me.

  “Is it Arche
r?” she whispered. “Is he the boy who will win the Red War . . . and die shortly after?”

  What if it is me? He closed his eyes, and in the time it took him to blink, he saw them all—the dead—Oriyah, Argo and the boys he’d killed in the ring, impressors, trackers, bandits, the girl at the ranch—so many, and still, somehow, not enough.

  Silently, Sefia began to read.

  ARE

  YOU

  The Lighthouse Keeper

  Soon—too soon, it seemed, for all of them—Annabel had to return home. In comfortable silence, she and Archer walked back along the trail until they reached the jungle, when she sighed happily. “I’ve missed your family.”

  Archer cocked his head at her. “Don’t you see them all the time?”

  Annabel trailed her fingers through the undergrowth beside the path, the backs of her nails tapping softly against the stiff leaves and autumn flowers. “I did at first, after you disappeared . . . But then your mom found Eriadin, and Aden and I . . .”

  He looked away. “Right.”

  “You found someone too, didn’t you?” she asked. “Sefia?”

  Found her and lost her. He nodded.

  Annabel gave him the simple, curious smile that used to make him spill all his secrets—who’d given him a black eye, what he’d gotten for her birthday. But he was not the boy he’d been—now his secrets were deep and painful.

  But he wouldn’t think about that. He wasn’t the chief of the bloodletters anymore. He was someone different, he told himself, someone who wanted to stay.

  “Why isn’t she here?” Annabel asked.

  They stepped from the path, wandering through the trees until they found the cliff, where they could see the village of Jocoxa along the eastern curve of the bay.

  “It’s . . . complicated,” Archer said.

  Annabel sat down among the sprawling roots of an old tree, which made a sort of bench near the edge of the bluff.

  “With her, nothing was ever easy,” he continued. “Not like it was with—”

  “Us.”

  “Yeah.” He shrugged. “Except there is no ‘us’ anymore.”

  “Could there be?”

  He looked out toward the village, where the lamps glowed yellow through the curtained windows and the sailboats bobbed softly at their moorings.

  This had been home once. Could it be again? If he could forget Sefia, the bloodletters, the guilt, the violence, the way his longing for it remained kindled even now, like a candle flame floating in the vast black ocean?

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  Annabel bit the inside of her cheek. “I didn’t invite Aden tonight,” she confessed.

  “I figured.”

  “You did?”

  Archer chuckled. “You haven’t changed a bit, Bel. I can still read you like a book.”

  “Like a what?”

  “Sorry. Nothing.”

  “Where is she, Sefia?” Annabel asked.

  He sighed and sat beside her, placing the empty cake box between them. “Deliene, I think. I don’t know for sure.” Again, he felt the absence of the worry stone at his throat.

  “Do you want her to come back?” Annabel pleated the folds of her dress, not daring to look at him.

  “Bel . . .” he began.

  She leaned over, mimicking him. “Cal . . .”

  He almost didn’t say anything. But he must not have been as immune to her charms as he thought, because the wall inside him cracked. “That’s not my name,” he said, surprised to hear the truth on his lips.

  “That’s always been your name,” she chided him.

  “Not anymore,” he said, holding her gaze, needing her to believe.

  “That’s okay.” A smile dimpled her round face. “I don’t mind getting to know you again.”

  He buried his face in his hands so he couldn’t see her bright-eyed earnestness anymore. “I don’t think you’d say that, if you knew.”

  “Knew what?”

  And because he couldn’t resist her, even now, the wall he’d so painstakingly built came crumbling down. “I’ve killed people, Bel,” he began, and once he started it was like he couldn’t stop. It all came flooding out of him, all the things he’d tried to keep hidden, all the things he’d tried to forget. “I’ve killed so many people I’ve lost count. Some because I had to. Some because I wanted to. Some because I couldn’t tell the difference anymore. I couldn’t stop. I’m afraid I still can’t. I’m not Calvin anymore. I’ll never be him again.”

  “I know,” Annabel said, so matter-of-factly, he looked up, surprised. She bit her lip. “I mean, I didn’t know all of that, but I knew you weren’t the same. How could you be? But I still believe in you, whatever you’ve done, whatever your name is now.”

  He swallowed. “Archer.”

  “Archer, then.” She extended her hand. “I’m Annabel.”

  He took it.

  “Nice to meet you.” She leaned in, and for a second he thought she was going to kiss him, and it scared him, because he wanted it. Missed it. Longed for it. Although he could not help thinking of Sefia and their last kiss on the cliff, with the wind buffeting around them.

  Wild.

  Complicated.

  Thrilling.

  Instead, Annabel kissed him on the cheek, her soft pink lips lingering on his skin. And he wanted so badly to turn, to put his mouth on hers, to gather her up in his arms.

  Maybe that would drive out his memories of Sefia. Maybe that would help him let go. Maybe if he kissed Annabel, they’d slide back into the love they used to share, simple and straightforward. Maybe with her, he wouldn’t need walls, and he could be all the different boys he’d been, all of them at once—the lighthouse keeper, the animal, the killer, the captain, the commander, the lover—and maybe . . . maybe he’d finally be home.

  CHAPTER 24

  After

  Tears filmed Sefia’s eyes, blurring the final word of the passage.

  Home.

  For months, she’d been asking Archer where he’d come from. For months, he’d refused to answer. But now she knew.

  Home was a seaside village in Oxscini.

  Home was a family awaiting his return.

  Home was a girl named Annabel—his past and his future.

  “Well?” Archer leaned forward. “What did it say?”

  In the lamplight, his gold eyes were so bright he looked almost feverish. She’d thought she knew him. The set of his shoulders. The curves his body made in battle. The jolt of delight and guilt that went through him when he made a kill. She knew the freckles that tipped his ears. She knew the texture of his hair between her fingers. She knew the whisper of his breath against her neck.

  But she didn’t know him at all, did she? Didn’t know his friends or his parents, his childhood aspirations, his phobias, or his greatest loves.

  She hadn’t even known his name.

  Calvin.

  She should have been relieved that his life wouldn’t be shortened by war. In part, she was. Whoever he was, Calvin wasn’t the boy from the legends. Calvin wasn’t the one the Guard wanted.

  Calvin got to go home. Calvin got to live.

  But he did it without her.

  Marking the page, Sefia closed the Book. What would he do if she told him? Would he go running back to Annabel, now that he knew she’d take him back? Would he promise Sefia he’d never leave her, and hurt her worse when he did?

  Or would he use this as an excuse to keep hunting, keep fighting, until he’d gone so far down the path to being the boy with the scar he couldn’t come back?

  “It isn’t you,” she said.

  For a second he continued to stare at her, as if waiting for lightning to strike.

  “It isn’t?” A smile touched the corners of his mout
h, but his voice was laced with disappointment.

  She took his hand, while it was still hers to take. “You’re going to be happy,” she said, as if she could convince them both this was what they wanted. “You’re going to leave all this behind.”

  You’re going to leave me behind.

  His lips parted. His canines flashed. “Then you’ll help me find the last crew of impressors?”

  He wanted her. He needed her. And yet she’d never felt farther from him.

  Suddenly, Sefia shoved the Book aside. Whatever the future held, they were here, now, together. Grabbing him by the neck, she kissed him, rough, teeth knocking, lips bruising. He responded eagerly as she pulled him down beside her, hands climbing under her shirt, up her back. “I’ll help you,” she murmured, her words melting on his lips like snow.

  But then what? she wondered even as he kissed her. How will I lose you?

  • • •

  Once the roads finally cleared, Sefia announced to the bloodletters that she’d found their next target.

  There was a flooded ocean-side quarry on the west side of Ken, an old pit of slate tiers and blue-green salt water, and in less than a month, the last Delienean impressors would be there, camped in the few stone buildings that remained.

  While she spoke, Kaito sat against the back wall, tapping out uneven rhythms on the bench beside him. His right eye and the bridge of his nose were swollen, and there was a gash on his cheek where Archer’s knuckles had cut him.

  “What about after?” he demanded when Sefia had finished speaking.

  Archer frowned. “After?”

  The Gormani boy stood. Boys shuffled out of his way as he stalked forward. “Yeah. After we finish off the last of the impressors in Deliene. Are we done? Do we all go back to our homes and wait for Serakeen to retaliate?” He glanced at Sefia out of his good eye. “Or do we keep going, until we’ve rid all of Kelanna of those bonesuckers?”

  Sefia and Archer exchanged glances.

  She knew what he’d do—who he’d go home to—even if he didn’t know it himself yet. She just didn’t know why. Or where she’d be when it happened.