On This Unworthy Scaffold Page 4

  The door swings wide, but nothing springs out. Creeping closer, I peer inside. Thin moonlight barely pushes through the shutters, but the souls of mice glimmer in the grain bin, and the spirits of flies zip through the air alongside the living ones. The dim glow illuminates a figure standing in one of the horse stalls, and the straw is not as golden as her hair.

  Madame Audrinne was always lovely in the way the Aquitans prize: plump and pale and proud, with those wide foreign eyes. Cornflower blue, she used to say, though we don’t have cornflowers in Chakrana. My old patroness is still pale, still plump. But her eyes are a different blue—like cold fire.

  The look in them chills me, but underneath the fear is something even colder: grief. She didn’t deserve this sort of death—no one does. Still, I dare not let down my guard. Though her face is familiar, the soul behind it is a mystery.

  Whoever—whatever—it is, I could free it if I can get close enough. Cautiously, I approach, blood still wet on my finger. She reaches out over the stall door, but her own hands have been cut from her wrists; she cannot lift the latch to escape. All the better. But is this another trap Le Trépas has laid? Her mouth opens as she takes a labored breath, and I am relieved to see nothing behind her teeth but her blackened tongue.

  “Jetta,” she whispers through cracked lips. “Jetta of the Ros Nai.”

  At the name of my troupe, I freeze. “Madame?” My own reply is a croak. “Madame Audrinne?”

  “Oui, ma cher,” she says in Aquitan, with the same gracious affection she always displayed. “It’s so good to see you after so long. Are you still performing? When this unpleasantness is past, we must have another show. For now, be a dear and open the door.”

  I blink, gathering my thoughts as she scrabbles fruitlessly at the latch. It must be Madame’s spirit in her own corpse—I can’t imagine anyone else imitating her style. But her ice-blue eyes give away the vengeful nature of her soul. Her death had not been easy.

  My stomach clenches at the thought. She had always been kind to me, and generous with payment—this Aquitan beauty, rich with Chakran wealth. The Audrinnes represented everything the rebellion was fighting against, but this was not the way to win the war. “What happened to you?”

  Madame’s laugh is still musical, though the notes are duller in a dead throat. “The soldiers locked me in here,” she says. “Can you imagine?”

  I take a shallow breath—the smell of death is so strong. “I meant . . . with Le Trépas.”

  “Le Trépas?” The word is a snake’s hiss, and her lip curls at the mention of the monk. “He made me a lesson to my fool of a husband, who ran off to fight the deportation in Nokhor Khat. Let me out,” she adds then, still dragging the stump of her wrist across the latch. “I can still take revenge on the man who made me a target, even if I cannot kill the one who held the knife.”

  “You want to kill your husband?” Is she telling the truth, or is it only some ploy Le Trépas has dreamed up? “Why not the nécromancien?”

  “He’s immortal,” she says, with a regretful smile. “Open the door.”

  “Immortal?” I stare at her, my mind racing. Le Trépas had claimed to be a god, to be able to cheat death—but I had thought those were the ravings of a man hungry for power. Then again, my own blood has given Akra similar protection. Had Le Trépas somehow used the last drops of my blood on his own skin? “How can you be sure?”

  “Rumors have flown in recent weeks from soldiers moving south. Not the Aquitan ones,” she says quickly. “But the Chakrans. You know how they are, with their superstitions. . . .” She trails off, her wrist going still against the latch. Then she laughs again, softly now.

  “I suppose I should have listened after all. But my husband said it was only a charlatan’s trick, and so I believed him. That is, until I stabbed the man through the heart. The nécromancien,” she adds, resuming her work on the latch. “Not my husband. Let me go so I can correct the mistake.”

  The image sets me back on my heels: Madame Audrinne with blood on her hands, Le Trépas pulling the blade from his scarred chest. If he has used my blood to bind his soul to his skin, my blood will bring it back out. Just as it will free Madame Audrinne.

  “I’ll let you go,” I tell her truthfully. “Just tell me where he is, first.”

  “South,” she says, raising one missing hand to her dead heart. “His presence pulls at me. Open the door and I’ll lead you there.”

  South. Likely in the capital, as Camreon had guessed. But at least we had confirmation now. I reach out, and the corpse smiles, but I take hold of her blackened wrist and not the latch. As her brow furrows, I use my bloody finger to trace the mark: the circle of death.

  The symbol still makes me uneasy—after all, it is one Le Trépas had taught me. But as Madame’s body falls into the straw, I do not imagine the look of relief on her face. Freed, her soul is a gold light, illuminating the carriage house. Madame had come from Lephare; she had always loved the lights.

  Only now do I unlatch the door, letting her soul drift free. I am about to leave the carriage house myself when a voice crashes through the dark. “Put your hands over your head!”

  Startled, I whirl, falling back against the stall door; it swings wide, banging against the wall as I land hard on my tailbone. Half a second later, another bang, and a flash of light. Grit stings my cheek as a bullet buries itself in the brick beside me.

  “Over your head!”

  This time I obey the man standing in the doorway. My heart pounds as I piece him together: the armée uniform, the black leather boots, the smoke still rising from the pistol in his hand. But above the olive-green jacket, a Chakran face. Relief floods in. “You scared me, brother.”

  “I’m not your brother,” the soldier spits, jerking his chin at Madame’s body. In his hand, the gun trembles. “I saw what you did. I know who you are!”

  No use denying it, then. “I won’t hurt you,” I say, keeping my voice calm. Steady. “I’m nothing like Le Trépas.”

  The soldier tenses at the mention of the old monk. “Do you have any weapons?”

  “A knife in my belt,” I say, hoping he doesn’t notice the blood on my fingers. The souls of flies buzz by Madame’s corpse; if I can draw one into the blade, I can order it to cut the soldier’s throat. “Do you want me to toss it to you?”

  “Don’t move,” he says quickly. Had I been too eager? The soldier wets his lips. “Are you alone?”

  “Of course not,” I say with a scoff. It’s a lie, but I’m a good actor. I glance over his shoulder through the open door, an expectant look on my face. “The others are searching the grounds, but they must have heard the shot. They’ll be here any moment.”

  The soldier shifts on his feet, nervous. What does he imagine creeping up behind him? Rebels—or revenants? Still, he keeps his eyes locked on mine. “Come closer.”

  “The rebellion offers clemency to anyone who joins—”

  “Closer!” he shouts. “And keep your hands up.”

  “All right,” I say quickly. The soldier watches every movement as I rise to my feet, hands still over my head. Reluctantly, I slide my feet through the straw, hoping he will lower his weapon before he tries to take my knife. But he keeps his gun trained on me as he paws at the blade in my belt.

  Even without the knife, there is still a drop of blood on the tip of my finger. Could I pull his living soul right from his skin? I have never tried it. It should be no different than killing the soldier with a knife, and the gods know I’ve killed before. But Le Trépas is the one who kills with his blood, and I am nothing like him. Nothing. As I hesitate, I hear feet approaching outside. More soldiers—but I smile anyway. “That’s the other rebels now.”

  At last the soldier turns to check. I grab for the gun. Wrong move—he’s stronger than I am. As we wrestle for the weapon, he fires wildly. The bullet disappears into the rafters.

  Then he punches me in the ribs.

  Gasping, I stumble back, startled to see my knife in
the soldier’s fist. Is that blood on the blade? I press a shaking hand to my side. It comes away warm and wet. But when I meet the soldier’s eyes; he looks as surprised as I am. “Let the gods forgive me,” he murmurs, like a prayer.

  Then the soldiers outside call his name. “Sunan?”

  “Aides-moi!” he shouts back. “It’s the nécromancien!”

  Pale faces appear at the edges of the doorway, both Aquitan. They’d sent the Chakran in first, and it’s good for me that they did. The Aquitans never cared about our gods. They wouldn’t have hesitated to shoot.

  They don’t hesitate now—not even with Sunan in the line of fire.

  As they lift their guns, I lunge for the cover of the stall. The Chakran soldier is not so quick. I hear the bullets thudding into his flesh; he is dead before he hits the ground. His soul stands over his body, as though surprised, but I don’t have time for shock. My hand darts out to draw the symbol of life on the young man’s skin. Air gurgles in his throat as his soul pours back into his flesh.

  He arches his back, opening his mouth. Blood is all that comes out. Still, his voice echoes in my head, like Akra’s voice does—part of our new connection. “Let me go,” he whispers in my skull; the same plea Madame had made. But I am not so lenient with Sunan.

  “I’ll let you go when the others are dead,” I gasp, short of breath. The wound in my side is starting to throb.

  Groaning, Sunan lifts the gun, rising to his feet like a broken marionette. His body jerks and judders as the soldiers fire, but this time he shoots back. The Aquitans cry out as they fall, one, then the other, but the Chakran only stops firing when he runs out of bullets.

  My ears ring in the sudden silence. Sunan sags against the wall, his shoulders heaving. Blood covers his chest and runs down his face from the empty socket of his eye. With the uniform, with the haircut, with the shadows of the carriage house, I see my brother instead—the way he looked when he died, and when I’d brought him back.

  Remorse stabs through me, sharper than the knife. I have held so tightly to the differences between myself and Le Trépas—the way he makes the dead walk, while I make them live again. But life isn’t always such a gift.

  More gunfire rings out, closer to the veranda this time. The Chakran soldier stumbles to the doorway, pulling one of the rifles from the fallen men. Sliding down along the doorframe, he fires. As the gun cracks, cries drift in from outside. But Sunan’s finger is slipping on the trigger, wet with blood; his arm shakes, unable to hold steady. How much longer can he fight? How many soldiers are left?

  Then, even louder than the gunfire—the blast of a grenade. My heart clenches in fear, but the carriage house is unaffected . . . at least, so far. Gritting my teeth, I prop myself on one hand. Blood has already soaked through the fabric of my sarong. Crawling to the window, I pull myself up with the sill, easing open the shutter. There is a bright light among the mimosa trees. Not an explosion or a fire, but the soul of my dragon.

  “No!” The soldiers must have found her—why had I ordered her to stay? Her spirit makes shadows of the figures like dark wraiths under the trees. Then a pale hand rips the shutter back, revealing another soldier pressed up against the brick exterior of the carriage house. He swears, raising his pistol just as another shot rings out. The soldier crumples to the ground.

  I duck back beneath the windowsill, breathing hard, with Sunan’s voice echoing in my head. “Release me.”

  “There are still soldiers out there,” I pant.

  “They’re dead,” he insists. “Let me go.”

  I glance to the window, but looking out seems unwise. Instead, I creep back through the straw toward the doorway where Sunan’s body sits. Peering over his shoulder, I look for movement, seeing nothing.

  “I can’t lie to you,” he says, and there is a hitch in his voice. “Please.”

  I hesitate, but I don’t want to be a liar either. So I take his hand in mine, and his skin is so slick with blood that the mark of death shows pale in a sea of red. The body sighs as the soul rises. After that, silence. I press my hand to my side and wait.

  Why were the soldiers here in the first place? Were they part of Fontaine’s battalion, or working with Le Trépas? I should have asked before Sunan’s soul fled. Still, other spirits cluster, closing in. Flies and mice, birds and a prowling cat. The dragon’s soul stalks brightly across the lawn. Can I draw her back into the blackened bones? I have to, if I’m going to meet Leo at the avion.

  I should treat my wound—do something to staunch the blood. Wet warmth trickles down my side. How long until sunrise? I glance to the sky, but I can’t remember which way is east. Thoughts are hard to string together. A breeze through the door moves the haze of gun smoke like a curtain, bringing the incongruous smell of jasmine . . . and Leo’s voice.

  “Jetta?” For a moment, I’m sure I’m imagining it. Then I hear him cursing in Chakran and Aquitan. “She’s in the carriage house!”

  Frowning, I squint through the soullight and the smoke to see him pelting across the lawn. I scoff a little, incredulous, but the movement hurts. “How many times do I have to tell you?” I say as my eyes slide shut. “It’s not your job to take care of me.”

  * * *

  INCIDENT REPORT REGARDING TEMPLE FOURTEEN

  Capitaine Bertrand Audrinne

  My men and I arrived yesterday afternoon at our first assigned location: Temple Fourteen, half a kilometer northwest of Nokhor Khat, and dedicated to the deity known as the Keeper of Knowledge. In order to free the locals from the grip of their superstitions, our orders were to destroy any false idols, dismantle the altar, and arrest any monks in the area. However, upon initial inspection, our work seemed to have been done for us.

  Further search this morning in the surrounding villages led us to a single monk, identified by the traditional tattoos on his back. We have taken him into custody, and he insists he is the only one left in the area. According to him, the others were killed years ago, not by the armée, but by Le Trépas himself.

  Additionally, he claims the man desecrated the temple by opening the altar and stealing their religious book, supposedly bound in the skin of the very deity to which the temple has been dedicated: a Book of Knowledge, if you will. He says that this book is how Le Trépas gained so much power. Unfortunately, the monk died before the questioneur could glean any more information about the book’s contents.

  With Le Trépas himself in custody, it might be worth questioning him as to the current location of this artifact. It’s clearly an important symbol to the religious fringe; indeed, the monk we captured seems to believe that the soul of the Keeper of Knowledge can be found inside the book.

  As to our orders, my men and I will be finished at Temple Fourteen much sooner than anticipated. Our next assignment is Temple Thirty-Four, to the northeast. You can expect my next report upon our arrival there.

  * * *

  Chapter Four

  The soft sound of a violin—a distantly familiar tune—makes me open my eyes. When I do, I am gazing at Aquitan.

  A painting of Lephare, to be exact. City of Lights. The artist has captured it at dawn, gilding each gabled roof and the tall spire of their famous cathedral. I know the work well—it hangs over Madame Audrinne’s velvet settee.

  I am lying on the couch in the great room. Morning light gleams through the expensive glass of the tall windows. The wooden floors glow honey gold under the scattered armée bedrolls. The soldiers must have been camping out here. Had they thought that the last time they’d see Lephare was in the gilded frame?

  Once I had hoped to travel there myself. Now the dream of visiting Aquitan is at least as distant as my life as a shadow player. Still, this room was where that dream began, inspired by another work of art on the walls: a depiction of Les Chanceux, the spring that treats madness. Theodora’s uncle—Le Roi Fou, the mad King of Aquitan—takes the waters there. When Madame Audrinne had first told me the story, I had assumed it was magic that kept Le Roi’s madness at
bay, and not the lytheum salts dissolved in the water.

  Madame Audrinne . . . the memories of last night surface slowly, like bodies in a still pond. The soldier, the fight . . . my hand goes to my ribs; the makeshift bandage there has a floral pattern that matches the curtains on the high windows. Gingerly, I prod at the dressing to try to gauge the severity of the knife wound underneath. The pain makes me gasp.

  “Just rest,” Leo says gruffly, his face looming into my vision. He holds the neck of a violin in his hand, and now I recognize the music I’d heard earlier: the broken melody of the song he’d been working on the last few weeks, so new it doesn’t even have a name. “The Audrinnes had some excellent medical supplies, but you’ve lost a lot of blood.”

  “I didn’t lose it,” I reply with a twist of a smile. “It’s in the carriage house.”

  Leo doesn’t laugh at my joke. “You could have died out there.”

  “Could have, would have . . .” The look on his face stops me short. “I didn’t, though.”

  “Because Cam and I found you first!”

  My heart sinks. I can already imagine Camreon’s disappointment. “Where is he?”

  “Trying to string the dragon back together,” Leo says, and I wince at the memory of the blast. Leo kneels beside the couch so that we’re eye to eye. “What were you thinking, running off alone?”

  “It was your idea in the first place!”

  “It was?” Theodora’s voice surprises me; I hadn’t realized she was here too. I lift my head from the arm of the settee to find her seated at the writing desk, flipping delicately through a stack of old papers with ink-stained fingers. The painting of Les Chanceux hangs just above her, but it looks strange to me. Smaller than I remember. “You didn’t mention that part, Leonin.”