On This Unworthy Scaffold Read online

“There is truth in my stories,” the soul said. “Not about who I was, but about who we all wish to be.”

  The Keeper saw the truth of her words. The story was nothing of her life, but all of her soul.

  So the Keeper let the liar continue, and three days later, she was still spinning a story as she faded toward her next life. When the last whispers grew too faint for the Keeper to hear, they were stricken with loss. Never before had they not known how a story ended.

  So the Keeper plucked up the pieces of the story and scattered them like seeds among the souls nearby. And the Keeper watched eagerly as each soul brought life to this new type of knowledge. The stories changed and grew, creating theories and fantasies and myths and shadow plays, each with a hundred different beginnings, and at least as many endings, and the soul of truth in all of them.

  Act 1,

  Scene 7

  In the kitchen of Le Livre—a dim room warm with wood and clay. But the usually tidy space has descended into disarray. The smell of spices and bread is overshadowed with the cloying scent of old rhum. Cups line the sideboard, most of them dirty, and the trash pail is overflowing by the sink.

  ELLISIA pulls some dishcloths from a basket, sniffing them delicately before passing them out one by one as the rebels drip water on the kitchen floor. Then she turns back to LEO with a fond look.

  ELLISIA: I would hug you, but you smell like river water. Dry off while I fetch you a mop.

  LEO (smiling): It’s good to see you too, Ellisia. But where’s Siris?

  ELLISIA: Back in the Lion Lands. He left the minute he saw the deportation decree. He could always read the writing on the wall.

  TIA: Did he leave anyone behind, by any chance? Maybe his oldest daughter?

  ELLISIA: I wish he had. When I agreed to look out for the inn, I had no idea how much cleaning there’d be. I only used to rent a room here occasionally. Siris never mentioned that men don’t pay half so well for clean rooms as for dirty talk. But he said he’d be back as soon as it was safe.

  AKRA snorts as he runs the dishcloth over his hair, damp from the rain.

  AKRA: That might be some time.

  LEO: Sorry, Tia.

  She puts on a brave face.

  TIA: It’s good that she’s safe. Besides, I’ve gotten good at pining.

  She turns to CHEEKY, bracing herself for a joke, but the showgirl has a thoughtful look on her face.

  CHEEKY: Your name is Ellisia?

  She cocks her head, remembering.

  You knew Leo’s maman.

  ELLISIA: So many did, in one way or another. Though she and I met through Leo’s father, the old dog. She was always his favorite. I think of her whenever I hear a good chanteuse.

  Her sly smile turns sad. She turns back to LEO, gesturing to the violin on his back.

  I suppose now isn’t the time for a concert, but if you’re in town for a while, I hope you’ll come and play some of her old songs for me. Perhaps after the Prix de Guerre goes, and the rooms are empty again.

  CAMREON: The Prix de Guerre is actually what brought us here. We want to stop the deportation.

  ELLISIA laughs brightly.

  ELLISIA: You and all the Aquitans in town. Good luck getting Raik to listen.

  CAMREON raises an eyebrow at her tone.

  CAMREON: Raik?

  ELLISIA: The Boy King.

  CAMREON: I know who he is. I’m just surprised to hear you call him by his first name.

  ELLISIA folds her arms, her sly smile returning.

  ELLISIA: Raik is a long-standing client. We met here at Le Livre, in fact. Quite often.

  CAMREON: I see. And have you . . . entertained him since he returned from Le Verdu?

  ELLISIA: A lady never tells.

  LEO gives her a crooked smile.

  LEO: Good thing you’re no lady.

  ELLISIA laughs, the sound surprisingly raucous.

  ELLISIA: Indeed. My girls and I are the only people who’ve been granted an audience in recent weeks. Raik doesn’t even leave the palace anymore. It’s driving the Aquitans mad. They’re planning a protest in response. Can you imagine? They think that if they gather in the square and shout at the king, he’ll listen, but it just makes them easier to shoot.

  AKRA: I hope you got them to pay for their rooms in advance.

  ELLISIA: Of course I did.

  CAMREON: Do you think he plans to respond with force?

  ELLISIA: You’re asking a lot of questions for a man who’s neither paid nor introduced himself.

  CAM looks at LEO, who nods once.

  CAMREON: I’m Camreon Alendra. Raik is my brother.

  ELLISIA’s smile freezes.

  ELLISIA: I see. I’ve heard . . . so much about you.

  CAMREON: From Raik? What has he said?

  ELLISIA: Surely the man who styles himself the rightful king can pay for information.

  CAMREON: Alas, I left my treasury in my other pocket.

  ELLISIA gives him an arch look.

  ELLISIA: Just like a man. Unfortunately, your sour-faced soldier has the right thought.

  She jerks a thumb at AKRA, then holds out her hand.

  Payment is always in advance.

  AKRA glares back at her, but CHEEKY turns to ELLISIA.

  CHEEKY: Professional courtesy?

  ELLISIA: I let you in, didn’t I?

  TIA gestures to the tiny diamonds in her ears.

  TIA: How about earrings?

  ELLISIA tucks her own hair behind her ears, where larger diamonds sparkle.

  ELLISIA: I’m not in the market.

  LEO: What about that concert?

  ELLISIA turns to him, a look of surprise on her face. Then she chuckles again, more quietly this time.

  ELLISIA: It’s a deal. But if I ask you to play me “The Lights of Lephare” until your fingers cramp, you better not complain.

  LEO: Not a word. Only music.

  ELLISIA: But not tonight. It’s almost dawn. For now, go three blocks over to the Royal Opera House. It’s shuttered by royal decree. You should be safe there. I’ll come by tomorrow.

  CAMREON: Can you give us any information before we go?

  ELLISIA: I just did.

  She opens the door, ushering them out through it and closing it firmly behind them.

  Chapter Eight

  Mei mei—little sister. I can tell by the look in the monk’s blue eyes that she does not mean it as an honorific. This is no normal revenant, but one of Le Trépas’s children—killed at birth, their souls twisted to his service. They survive by slipping from body to rotting body, killing new victims when the flesh begins to fail. I was almost one of them.

  Now I back away slowly, keeping my eyes not on the gun in her hand, but on the monk’s wizened face. Of course I don’t recognize it; she was wearing a different one when I saw her last. “The well outside Hell’s Court,” I say as the memory floods back—the stinking corpse had dragged me into the mud. “You were there as a dead man.”

  “Alas,” she says, still stepping slowly toward me. “I was there as a dog.”

  I shudder—the dead dog had stalked us through the tunnels, herding us toward the corpse. . . . Is she doing the same thing now? When the monk takes another step closer, I freeze. On the back of my neck, the hair stands on end.

  In one quick motion, I whip the little knife from my belt, drawing it across my palm as I turn. Behind me in the tunnel, the dead man looms. Not the same corpse as back in the well, but the same soul. This body wears armée clothes, crusted with old blood. He lunges for me, but I raise my hand like a threat, and he falls back. Then I turn my head so I can see the monk too. The gun is still in her hand, but her face is uncertain.

  At the sight, boldness pushes my fear aside. I tuck my knife back into my belt, and dip my other fingers in my own blood. With one bloody hand facing the dead soldier and the other stretched toward the monk, I take a step closer to her. “If you’re going to shoot me, you better do it fast.”

  “Le Trépas doesn’t want
you dead,” she says quickly, and now she’s the one retreating.

  “He could have fooled me,” I reply as I take another step. Behind me, the dead soldier follows at a wary distance. “I got his message, by the way. The grenade was a nice touch.”

  “The message was meant for the Tiger,” the monk says. “The moment he offered a truce to the Aquitans was the moment he became our enemy. But to you, Jetta, our father offers an agreement.”

  “An agreement?” I smirk, taking another step closer. “Let me guess. Wealth? Power?”

  “Knowledge,” she replies, still retreating. “There’s so much he could teach you.”

  I laugh then, bitter. Le Trépas had offered to teach me once before. He had given me his own blood, and told me to make the symbol of death on a feather to call the soul of a bird. When the soul appeared, blue and vengeful, he’d revealed that I’d ripped it from its new life. “I’ve already learned my lesson from him.”

  “Have you learned your history? He remembers the way things were before the Aquitans came and took it all away,” the monk says, and now I hesitate. “And he knows how to get it all back.”

  “To restore what was lost?” The words slip out—I can’t help it—and in the tunnels behind me, the wind sighs a distant song.

  “Yes.” The monk’s blue eyes glitter. “You can’t imagine the wealth they have—the wealth they have stolen. Even he could hardly believe what he saw in Aquitan. With your help, he can bring it all back to Chakrana.”

  “I thought he wanted the Aquitans gone,” I say.

  “That’s the start of it,” the monk says. “Join him, and he’ll even let you keep your moitié.”

  Leo’s face swims behind my eyes. I hate the slur she uses, and the way she speaks, as though he is a pet. But something else caught my attention, and I frown as I take another step down the tunnel. The dead man behind me follows suit. “Le Trépas has been to Aquitan?”

  “Do you think his hatred comes from ignorance?” The monk scoffs. “He has seen their selfishness. Their greed. He knows his enemy. You should too.”

  “I do,” I say softly. Then I take a deep breath. “Theodora!”

  At my sudden shout, another gout of flame bursts from the crack in the earth, engulfing the dead man behind me; I have led the soldier back to where Theodora is hiding. Flesh burns; hair shrivels. The stench is overwhelming and I gag, but the revenant doesn’t so much as scream as he falls, leaving behind the bright blue flame of a n’akela.

  The monk is still standing too. I leap at her, bloody hands outstretched, and she tosses the gun aside to grab my wrists with gnarled fingers.

  Grappling, we fall to the floor of the tunnel. “You’ll come to him sooner or later,” the monk says through her teeth. Her arms shake as I push my own hands inexorably closer to her skin. “Death is inescapable for everyone but him.”

  She grits her teeth as I make the mark on her wrinkled skin, but when her soul springs free, it is bright gold. I scramble to my feet as the spirit follows its sibling down the hall, but I stumble when I try to follow. My ribs are throbbing, and blood is seeping through the bodice of my borrowed gown.

  “Are they gone?” Theodora’s voice comes from the crack in the earth.

  “Yes.”

  She peeks out, frowning when she sees me. “Are you okay?”

  “Mostly.” With a sigh, I sit back down beside the monk’s still body. Other souls drift closer, drawn to the blood. In the distant tunnels, the windsong rises and falls: the sound of souls sharing secrets with the Keeper. Has my sister’s soul joined them? What secrets would she share?

  “Are you sure?” Theodora comes to my side, concern on her face, but I wave her off. Then I grimace at my bloody hands.

  “It’s worse than it looks,” I say. “I’ll sit here while you get the lytheum salts.”

  “I have bad news about that.”

  Looking up in surprise, I follow her gaze to the cleft in the earth. In the light of the gathering souls, I can make out the marks of picks and chisels. It is not a crack, but a scar. “They took the salts.”

  “Mined out the whole vein. They must have known we’d come looking for it at some point.”

  “But where did they take it all?” Then I curse as the answer comes. “Nokhor Khat.”

  “That’s my guess, though of course it’s hard to ask.” Glaring, she nudges the monk’s corpse with her foot. The sight shocks me.

  “Don’t!” My voice echoes in the tunnel, and Theodora startles, wide-eyed. I open my mouth, looking for the words to explain. “His minions—these n’akela . . . he made them what they are. And now they’re only following orders. Besides, it isn’t even her body,” I add, remembering the akela I’d seen in the temple. “She killed a monk to get it. I saw the monk’s real soul by the altar. She may have been trying to warn me.”

  Theodora narrows her eyes, looking from me to the body, then back. “You went to the temple.”

  “It’s just down the hall,” I say, defensive, but she turns back to the body.

  “And the monk’s soul is there?”

  “She was,” I say, frowning. “Why?”

  “Well.” She kneels down beside the body, tucking a strand of silver hair behind the old monk’s ear. “Le Trépas can’t be the only one who remembers the way things were before La Victoire.”

  “You want me to bring her back?” I look askance at Theodora, then back to the body. I have made many fantouches out of smaller souls, but the only times I’ve trapped akela, it had been under duress. Sunan . . . or Akra. “It seems disrespectful.”

  “We only need her to answer a few questions,” Theodora says. “And isn’t that at the heart of the Keeper’s powers? Passing down knowledge?”

  I chew my lip, staring at the monk, but now I too am curious. She might even remember when Le Trépas came to the temple. And if there was a way to stop the nécromancien, wouldn’t the Keeper’s monk want to share it?

  Slowly, carefully, Theodora and I lift the old monk’s body and carry her back to the soul-bright temple. Without the n’akela inhabiting her skin, the body is fragile, light—the bones like a bird’s. With her own soul looking on, we lay the monk’s body down gently by the altar where she would have worshipped, near the faded flowers she herself might have put there.

  Then, as respectfully as possible, I make the mark of life on her forehead. With a soft gasp, she opens her eyes, and I am relieved to see they are as dark as tea.

  “This is . . .” Her voice is a whisper as air returns to her lungs. “Unseemly.”

  “I’m sorry, grandmother,” I say, but Theodora is already pulling a notebook from her pockets. I have seen it before—or one much like it. She keeps them everywhere.

  Flipping past doodles and notes and diagrams, she finds a blank page, then pulls out a pen. “Have you heard of the Keeper’s Book of Knowledge?”

  The monk only purses her lips, giving the Aquitan girl a look. “Answer her questions, please,” I say, softening the order, and the monk’s mouth twists.

  “Of course I have.”

  Theodora wets her lips. “Do you know where it is?”

  The monk gives her a pointed look. “If I did, I would have put it back where it belongs.”

  I glance over my shoulder, at the broken altar, filled with stagnant water. “If we find it, we’ll do just that.”

  The monk turns her head, slowly, painfully, and in the soullight I can see bruises around her neck. “If you find it,” she repeats. “Le Trépas hid it well before the armée imprisoned him.”

  “Do you have any idea where?” Theodora asks, but the monk shrugs.

  “Those of us who remain have been searching the countryside for years,” she replies. “It is nowhere to be found.”

  Dread creeps into Theodora’s voice. “Could he have destroyed it?”

  “No,” the monk says simply. “Or their soul would have been reborn.”

  “Whose soul?”

  “The Keeper’s.” The monk reaches
out to the altar, resting her gnarled hand on the stone. “Do you know the story? How they took human form to learn what life was. How they were born, and died, and born again a thousand times. The book is bound in their holy skin,” she says. “And it holds their soul. It has not been destroyed.”

  I do know the story—it’s part of our troupe’s repertoire. But Theodora looks up from the page, a delicate look on her face. I know what she’s thinking. Is what the monk says true, or only wishful thinking? “Are you sure?” she says at last, and the monk fixes her with a solemn look.

  “I am,” she says. “Because when I died, no one came to hear my story.”

  Theodora’s hand stills on the page. On the breeze, the wind sings. “Did you expect to see the Keeper?”

  “Of course I did. If the book had been destroyed, the Keeper’s soul would have been there. If the book was close by, I would have seen their faces. Instead I saw nothing. The Keeper is not in Chakrana.”

  “Not in Chakrana,” Theodora repeats slowly, tapping her pen on the page, but when I meet her eyes, I know she’s thinking the same thing I am.

  “When did Le Trépas go to Aquitan?” I ask her.

  Theodora cocks her head, but it is the monk who answers. “It was after he took the book,” she says. “Aquitan is one place we have not been able to search.”

  Theodora stands, pacing through the temple, careless of the souls that swirl around her feet. “Thank you, grandmother,” I say to the monk, but she only bows her head.

  “All the thanks I want is to be released,” she says. “And that you burn my body, so this doesn’t happen again.”

  I frown, taken aback. “But . . . what about your story? Without the Keeper, it won’t be heard.”

  “Life must go on,” she says. “As must death. As for the knowledge in between, I will create it anew someday.”

  She raises a hand to her forehead, rubbing away the mark I had made. Then she sits down beside the altar, her back against the stone, and beckons me closer. Taking my bloody hand in her own, she traces the mark of death on her own skin. Her body sags sideways as her soul bursts free.

  Gently I lay the monk’s wrinkled hand in her lap, stepping back just as Theodora turns from her pacing. “We have to go to Aquitan,” she says, but I had already guessed she would say so.