The song is back in my head.
I can hear my brother singing it. It even echoes in the cavernous stone temple, differently than it did in the field, when I first imagined his voice those years ago. But he is dead. Now he is truly dead. His body lies on the floor, his soul standing beside it, and as I listen to the sound of his voice, the akela turns to walk out the door.
That is what breaks me—I can’t bear to watch him go. And before I can think better of it, I drop to my knees beside his prone form and trace the symbol of life on his skin. His soul hesitates, as though ready to refuse the offering—but the pull is irresistible. A flash of light, a moment of stillness. Then under my hands, Akra’s body trembles, and he draws a breath so loud it seems to tear the air in two.
A fresh gout of blood bubbles from the wound as his heart begins to beat again. I rip the shawl from my waist and press it to his chest, trying to stanch the bleeding as his teeth chatter like dice in a cup. Air passes through his blue lips—first in a hiss, then in a groan. When he opens his eyes, there is a pain in them deeper than my own. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, suddenly afraid. “I’m sorry.”
But his eyes slide shut again, and I don’t think he can hear me. And then, with a deep rumble, the temple itself shudders.
At first I am sure it is the god himself, ready to strike me down. It was too much—to steal my brother back from Death right before his blank stone eyes. A betrayal. An abomination. This is madness. But then, with a crack like thunder, a rift shoots across the crook of the stone god’s elbow. Another breaks the bend of the knee. It is not the god, but Legarde.
Dust and gravel hit the floor as the spirit moves in his new stone skin. Desperately, I try to lift my brother, but he screams like I’m killing him all over again.
“Leo?” I say, my voice shaking. “Help me.”
There is no response, so I turn. Leo is standing over the general’s body—his father’s body. His own face is just as pale. Are those tears in his eyes?
“Leo?”
“What?”
“We have to get out of here. Please.” I slip my shoulder beneath Akra’s arm, but I lose my balance as he slumps back against the stone. His blood pulses weakly through the silk of the shawl. “Please!”
Another deep rumble strikes the temple, and a chunk of stone tumbles from the shadows above and smashes to pieces. That finally moves Leo, and he comes to my side, helping me lift Akra halfway to his feet. “Where are we going?” Leo murmurs, and I look at him.
“Le Livre?” It is not a question, but a request—and it is a very long moment till he nods. “Get Papa. Please.”
“We can’t carry them far.”
“Just out of the temple, so we’re safe.”
He presses his lips together, but he goes to Papa, lifting him cradled in his arms. With Akra draped around my shoulders, we stagger out of the temple. Behind us, the statue creaks and groans.
Blocks of stone bounce down the steps as we stumble to the plaza. I try not to look at the bodies of the soldiers—at their fleeing souls, glowing through the tangled temple gardens. But as we gain some distance from the temple, other spirits appear, drifting close to my blood. We stop near the garden wall, breathing hard, and I pull a vana into each of Akra’s shoes, to lighten the load, and another into Papa’s shirt. It’s been torn nearly to rags, and while his eyes are open, his face is vacant. I cut the ropes around his wrists and ankles, but he will not stand on his own. When I pull the gag from his mouth I have to stifle a scream. Even in the dim light, I can see the ragged stump of his tongue.
Then another deep crack makes the ground itself tremble; with Legarde’s soul trapped in the stone, the temple is crumbling, the carvings broken, the walls tumbling away. We have to move. Already I can hear the sounds of the prisoners—they are screaming too, in terror as their prison falls, in joy as they see the dawn. Le Trépas is surely among them. What have I done?
For an instant, I consider turning around, tearing the gun from Leo’s belt and tracking down the monster, the madman—my father. But then I hear it over the rumbling of the falling stone: the sound of the gong. Someone has raised the alarm, and Akra will not make it to the inn if I do not carry him there.
We flee through the city, ducking and weaving through the shadows till we reach Le Livre. One of Siris’s daughters lets us into the inn and shows us directly to a room. They prop Akra with pillows and call a docteur, though I don’t know if it’s necessary. I don’t know if Akra can die, not even if he wanted to.
But the docteur treats Papa too; when she’s finally done, the sun is high and the shadows small. She is cagey about his prognosis—it will be weeks before he can leave the bed, much less the inn. Shamefaced, I ask Siris about the cost of a brace of messenger pigeons—something to send to the rebel camp in the hope a note will reach Maman. So that she’ll know we are safe, so I can warn her about Le Trépas. But Siris waves away my question, and he pays the docteur as well. Before she leaves, she promises to come back tomorrow, telling me to rest as well. While I doubt I can, I go to my own room, where at least I can be alone.
The bed is wide and inviting, the pillows thick and soft. And there is a bottle on the center of the silk coverlet: the bottle that Legarde had offered me—the treatment his daughter created. I had forgotten it in the fight. Leo must have brought it.
I pick it up now, cool and heavy and so precious. My hands are shaking so much I nearly drop it: a month’s worth of the cure I’d sought for so long. What would life be like without my malheur? I hardly dare imagine—for what would life be like after the cure runs out? I cannot get more. La Fleur would never agree to treat the girl who killed her father and trapped his soul in darkness.
I set the bottle aside, gently, gently. But beneath it on the quilt is a note—a creamy page folded neatly in half. I pick it up—and for a breath, I imagine the blood on my hands seeping into the page like ink, a litany of my sins, a book of all the souls I have sent to the King of Death. Will send, now that Le Trépas is free.
But the blood is dry, and I unfold the page. It only takes a second to read, but in that second, a lifetime passes. What had Leo said about regrets? That the only way to soothe the pain was to do better.
For a long time I hold his letter in my hands. Then I go downstairs to write my own—not to Leo, but to the king. To the rebellion.