The Speaker

by Traci Chee

  “There’s nothing to come back to.”

  A wrinkle appeared in the center of Tanin’s forehead. “I’m sorry. I thought . . . We can leave.”

  As Sefia turned, her footsteps smeared in the dust. She’d almost reached the door when something in the corner of the room caught her eye—a flickering, as if something was hidden there, just out of sight.

  She went to the wall, running her hands over the dirt and cracks.

  “What is it?” Tanin asked.

  Sefia found something round and hard—a doorknob, invisible to the eye. She leaned forward, tracing the carvings encircling the knob.

  Words.

  Summoning the Sight, she saw them engraved in the wood:

  MY LOVE IS INVISIBLE TO PRYING EYES

  BUT IT WILL ALWAYS APPEAR TO THE HEART

  Invisible.

  Entirely invisible. The words brought back memories of darkness and bilgewater, of lamplit nights and cramped quarters, of sleeping next to Archer, knees touching, his breath warm on her cupped hands.

  Entirely invisible had been carved into their crate, keeping them safe from the uncanny senses of the chief mate.

  Who had done this? Her father? Her mother?

  Taking a shard of pottery from the floor, she drew it across the words, scoring them out of existence.

  The invisible door flickered once or twice and appeared in the wall, hinges and all.

  Tanin gasped.

  As Sefia tested the knob, the woman leaned down to examine what remained of the letters. “Lon’s writing. We didn’t know it was here,” she murmured. “We searched . . . We even came back after we found out you existed, but no one ever saw this.”

  Then how did I? Sefia wondered.

  “Do you have a knife?” she asked.

  Tanin slid a blade from her boot and passed it to Sefia, who used it to tinker with the lock. “Clever,” the woman whispered. If Sefia hadn’t known better, she would have thought Tanin was being sincere.

  After a few seconds, she opened the door. They both leaned in to see what was inside, what was so precious it had to be protected by magic.

  Tears wet Sefia’s eyes.

  Inside were all their most valuable possessions: her mother’s jewelry box, her father’s telescope inside its black leather case, packages of dormant seeds, coins from every kingdom, ingots of gold and silver.

  Ignoring the currency, Sefia lifted the jewelry box into her lap. Gently, she pulled out each of the little drawers, disturbing the tarnished chains and bracelets of semiprecious stones with the tip of her finger.

  After a few minutes of searching, Sefia found what she was looking for, tucked away behind a tangle of glass beads—a silver ring set with sharp black stones.

  “Mareah’s ring.” Tanin held out her hand. “May I?”

  Sefia almost drew back. Their enemy didn’t deserve any part of them.

  But Tanin hadn’t always been their enemy, had she?

  She passed the ring to Tanin, who took it in her slender fingers and twisted. The setting unhinged, revealing an empty pocket inside.

  “I knew about the compartment . . .” Sefia murmured as Tanin flicked a hidden latch. A tiny blade, no thicker than a spear of grass, popped out from between the stones. “But not the blade.”

  “This was given to her by a Liccarine jeweler,” Tanin said. “For poisoning her enemies.” Closing up the ring again, she extended it to Sefia.

  “I thought Assassins didn’t have personal effects.” Sefia slipped the ring onto her middle finger.

  It fit perfectly.

  “I think we both know Mareah was no ordinary Assassin.”

  Nodding, Sefia got to her feet and took up her father’s telescope case. Outside, she stood on the steps, listening to the sea crashing against the coastline—a sound woven throughout the whole fabric of her childhood. “So you can travel anywhere in Kelanna with Teleportation?”

  Beside her, Tanin raised an eyebrow. “As long as I’ve been there before.”

  Sefia touched the ring on her finger. Her parents had hidden the closet from sight. Had her mother done the same with the crate on the Current? The sailors outside had spotted a girl there, someone who’d looked like Sefia, but older. “Could you travel through time?” she asked.

  “Why? Planning to go back and stop me from killing your father?”

  Sefia’s eyes narrowed. “Could I?”

  Tanin sighed. “Theoretically. But the only accurate referents we have are pages from the Book. You see the problem with that, don’t you?”

  “Yes.” Sefia’s voice was small. You’d need two pages to teleport through time: one for your destination and one for your return.

  But her parents had had the Book in their possession. Hard as it was to navigate those infinite pages, her mother just might have been able to find the exact two pages she needed . . .

  “Could you teleport with a Fragment instead of the Book?” she asked.

  “You could try.” Angling around her, Tanin descended the steps. “But Fragments are copied by hand, and even the best copyists make mistakes. If they were wrong in even one detail, you’d be lost.”

  Sefia followed, murmuring, “But it’s possible.” They clasped hands again, and she studied Tanin carefully as she swept her arms wide. In a whoosh, the magic carried them from the Delienean coast back to the Main Branch. Among the mountains again, Sefia was keenly aware of the weight of her father’s telescope on her back, of her mother’s ring on her finger.

  She now had something to remember them by—something she could keep.

  “Thanks for bringing me home,” she said quietly.

  Beckoning her toward the entrance to the Main Branch, Tanin smiled, and this time Sefia was sure she was sincere.

  CHAPTER 41

  One of the Wolves

  Archer, Aljan, and Frey found Hatchet exactly where they expected to, outside a little tavern at the end of a neglected alley. He seemed bored, leaning against the flaking wall as he picked at the scabs on his knuckles.

  Dismounting, Archer handed the reins of his horse to Frey, who waited at the mouth of the alley while he and Aljan advanced.

  “Hatchet.” Archer drew his gun. Behind him, he could feel the two bloodletters watching, listening. But no movement stirred in the windows facing the alley. None of the doors opened.

  Hatchet squinted at him, ignoring the revolver. “Is that you, boy?”

  At the sound of his voice, Archer went cold. Boy. Bootlicker. The names they had given him.

  Lifting a hand to his mouth, Hatchet pulled at a scab with his teeth.

  Archer had to swallow a few times before he could force the words out. “I go by Archer now.”

  The impressor’s eyebrows went up. “That’s quite a name these days. I thought it might have been you who wrecked all those crews up north. You’ve come a long way since I caught you back in Jocoxa. Easy prey for a predator like me.” He looked Archer up and down, much as he’d done when Archer was his prisoner, his candidate, his boy. Like he was appraising livestock. “Only . . . you’re a predator yourself now, aren’t you? One of the wolves.”

  Archer’s trigger finger twitched.

  The gun was heavy in his hand.

  While he hesitated, a smile crossed Hatchet’s face and curled up there like a self-satisfied cat. “But even wolves are game to the hunter.”

  Archer felt a thrill of fear. Or excitement.

  It was a trap.

  A fight.

  Gunshots exploded behind him. At the entrance to the alley, Frey cried out.

  Glass burst in the windows above. Archer twisted out of the way as a bullet skimmed his arm.

  Smoke rose from the revolver in Hatchet’s hand.

  Archer shot him. Almost without thinking. Almost without feeling. It was easy. Natural. Like b
reathing.

  Hatchet gasped. Blood flowered in his gut. He buckled, stumbling into the wall.

  Archer didn’t wait to watch him fall. Pivoting, he fired through the broken window above. A spatter of red hit the curtains. He turned toward the mouth of the alley.

  But before he could rejoin his bloodletters, Serakeen emerged from the tavern.

  Archer recognized him immediately: scar on the side of his face, sad eyes, two silver-tipped guns at his thighs.

  His aubergine coat flared around him as he lifted his arms.

  “Frey!” Archer whirled. “Aljan!”

  But they were too slow. Serakeen’s magic caught them and swept them both into the wall.

  Frey crumpled. Aljan’s face collided with the stonework. Blood mixed with the white paint at his eyes. He dropped beside Frey.

  Were they breathing?

  Barely.

  Neither of them got up.

  “I was wrong about you, Archer.” Serakeen’s voice rumbled through him, just like it had three months ago in the Guard’s office beneath Corabel. “You’re more killer than I gave you credit for.”

  Archer fired.

  With a wave of his hand, the pirate sent the bullet whizzing into the wall—a move Archer had seen Sefia use dozens of times before, now used against him.

  Archer blinked. The fight unrolled in front of him like a length of silk—quick and slippery.

  Serakeen’s fingers clenched, trying to pin him. Archer dodged. Felt the magic close like a net around the place he’d been standing moments before.

  The pirate advanced.

  Near the tavern door, Hatchet lay against the wall, clutching the wound in his stomach.

  From the ground, Archer let off two rounds so quick they sounded like one explosion. Fire and the black smell of gunpowder.

  Anyone else would have been killed. But not a Soldier of the Guard. Serakeen sent the first bullet into the wall. But the second got him in the shoulder.

  He hissed and wrenched at the air.

  Archer spun, but Serakeen’s magic caught his arm. The gun was wrested from his grip.

  He crouched, sliding one of his hunting knives from its sheath. As Serakeen neared him, Archer drew the blade across the pirate’s thigh and jammed it between his ribs.

  Serakeen bellowed and flung out his hand. Archer leapt aside. The ceramic pots behind him shattered.

  He attacked, striking Serakeen in the face, the side, wherever he could land his fists.

  Under the onslaught, the pirate yanked the blade from his side and flung it. Archer skidded backward as the knife flew toward him, narrowly missing his ear.

  Serakeen drew a curved cutlass, gleaming, from its sheath. “I’m sorry. I know she made a deal for you, but my Director thinks you’re too dangerous to let go.”

  She. Sefia? The mere thought of her quickened Archer’s blood. Was that why she’d left? To make a deal with the Guard?

  He flicked Harison’s sword from its scabbard—familiar and deadly in his hand—and attacked, lunging, jabbing, slashing, while Serakeen parried, his boots scuffling over the cobblestones.

  Their swords sheared against each other as they circled. Archer drew blood again and again. Serakeen’s leather coat split under his blade.

  With a wave of his hand, the pirate flung Archer back and lunged. The cutlass kissed his arm, his leg, before Archer could dance out of range.

  That magic. Sefia’s magic. Archer was good, but he wasn’t a match for it.

  Again the shining arc of Serakeen’s cutlass came down. Archer lifted his sword. The edges met.

  In a split second, he knew: He could deflect the blade. They could go on fighting like this, winnowing away at each other’s defenses until he was too tired to dodge and the magic got him like it’d gotten Frey and Aljan.

  Or he could take the hit.

  He twisted his wrist, and instead of curving away, the cutlass slid inward. It bit deep into his side, bringing them close.

  Close enough for Archer to see Serakeen’s nostrils flare.

  Close enough for Archer to smell him sweat.

  Their gazes met. In that instant, Serakeen’s eyes widened. His expression was a mixture of horror and admiration. His cutlass was trapped at Archer’s side.

  But Archer’s sword was free. He swung.

  The blade met little resistance as it severed Serakeen’s hand from the rest of his arm.

  He wouldn’t be using magic again—not with that hand.

  Howling, the pirate staggered back, yanking his sword from Archer’s flesh. He hoisted the blade onto his shoulder.

  Archer was quick enough to see Serakeen press the latch on the hilt of his cutlass.

  He wasn’t quick enough to avoid the flash powder that exploded from the pommel. His vision went white.

  He stumbled. He couldn’t see.

  Serakeen’s sword clanked against the cobblestones.

  Then came the magic.

  Archer’s limbs were pinned. He felt himself lifted off the ground, felt the air go rushing past him, felt his body hit the wall. Pain flared along his back and limbs. Spots burst before his eyes.

  He collapsed, groaning.

  As his vision cleared again, he saw Hatchet, not ten feet from him, lying dead against the wall. A half-picked scab still clung to the knuckles of his left hand.

  CHAPTER 42

  Long Live the King

  Eduoar had been true to his word. Arcadimon Detano now had the support of all the major houses. He had the deadly draught—the same one the Suicide King had taken all those years ago—in his pocket. Everything was set.

  Outside, the shadows lengthened along the inner courtyard as the sun crowned the castle walls. With a glance up at the lighted windows of Eduoar’s tower, he hurried along the first-floor corridor. He thought he saw the king behind the curtains, rubbing his sad, tired eyes.

  Reflexively, Arcadimon swallowed.

  This was it. The last obstacle between himself and total control of Deliene.

  His king.

  His friend.

  Arc bounded up the steps to the second floor two at a time. When he reached Eduoar, he’d kneel, bow his head, and present the vial in his palms like a knight offering his sword. The king would take it from him, touch his shoulder in a tender act of absolution and gratitude, and turn to the window, where the last light of day would graze his fine features. He’d look, once more, over his castle, his city, his kingdom, as Arcadimon withdrew, having delivered the killing blow.

  This was it. His Master—his Director—had ordered it.

  His loyalty to the Guard demanded it.

  Eduoar had requested it. He’d been wanting it for years, and at last he’d have it: the end of his life, the end of his line, the end of the curse.

  The hour was upon them. Arc’s hand froze over the knob.

  And then he wasn’t thinking anymore of how to pull it off but of how to stop it. Throw open the door. Relish the look of surprise on Eduoar’s face. Take him by the collar and pull him in, bringing their lips together so quick and hard they’d feel it for days afterward.

  Another body. Arcadimon would need another body. It was the only way.

  But how would he fool his Master, or any of the other Guardians, who could read the marks on a corpse like passages in a book?

  I love him. I love him. I can’t kill him. I love him.

  He flung open the door.

  • • •

  When Arcadimon burst into the room, his face was flushed. His blue eyes were bright. He looked handsome, and eager. In the pocket of his coat, his hand shook.

  Eduoar felt a flash of pain, panic, longing. “Is it today?” he asked, starting up from his chair.

  Arcadimon closed the door so hard Eduoar’s wine shivered in its glass. “No. Not today.” His
gaze was so intense it almost burned. “Not ever, if I have anything to say about it.”

  Eduoar recoiled.

  Arc extended his hand—it was empty.

  Eduoar backed toward the window. “But this is the only way we both get what we want.”

  Arcadimon caught Eduoar’s face between his hands. “I want you to live,” he whispered. His thumb skimmed Ed’s lower lip.

  Eduoar almost leaned in, wanting Arc’s mouth on his own, wanting a kiss as urgent as a bruise and as bright as a scream.

  Instead, he retreated until his back hit the windowsill. “I want to be free.”

  “You can be.” Arcadimon’s voice was pained. “If you leave. Right now.”

  “And go where?”

  “Away. Far from here. Go somewhere no one will recognize you. Start over.” Arc inched toward him. “You won’t be a Corabelli anymore. You won’t be cursed. You can do anything you want.”

  Fumbling behind him, Eduoar found the window latch. “That’s not how this works.”

  “‘Not until your family has been stripped of everything will the curse be broken,’” Arcadimon recited. “‘Not until you are bereft and begging for mercy.’”

  The words made Ed pause.

  He’d lost so much.

  He’d begged for mercy.

  But he hadn’t been stripped of everything. Not his title. Not his kingdom. Not his name.

  He twisted the signet ring on his finger. Not yet.

  He’d believed in the curse for so long he couldn’t remember a time when he wasn’t standing in its shadow. It had taken his mother, his father, his aunts, uncles, cousins. He’d been terrified it would take Arcadimon.

  For so long, he’d been sure death was the only way to break the curse.

  Arcadimon pulled him from the window. Their faces were so close they nearly touched. “You’re not dying, Ed, not while I’m here.” He smelled of glaciers and wild places. “I’m sorry it took me until now to realize it. I’m sorry it got this far. I should have told you a long time ago.”

  Ed froze. “Arc, don’t.”

  For as long as he lived—and he didn’t know how much longer that would be—he’d remember the shapes of Arcadimon’s lips, sending the words like smoke rings into the air.