I run down the road in the creeping light of dawn. Is Leo following? I don’t know, I don’t care. The fantouche bounces on my shoulder, the wind takes my hair, and in my chest, hope blooms. Sefondre. When everything comes together.
La Fête was cut short; Legarde is leaving too soon. If he cannot stay for the show, I will bring the show to him. And I have a chance now that I did not have on the main stage: to perform without competition.
But it is strange to have the fantouche out in the open—without the scrim, without any cover but the predawn darkness. In my arms, he moves, restless as I am, eager to be seen. Under my breath, I whisper commands I do not follow myself: “Be calm, stay still.” And unbidden, unwanted, Maman’s voice creeps in over the sound of my pounding heart, my racing feet: never show, never tell.
I have to be cautious—I know that. I do. Nothing too showy, nothing too impossible. Just a taste of our skill, nothing more, nothing less. Doesn’t theater always look like magic? Desperate times call for desperate measures—besides, don’t I want to catch Legarde’s eye? And there is something thrilling in it, isn’t there? In the idea of such a dangerous show.
Along the road, little souls glimmer under scrub and on the breeze. Some of the living drift toward the horsemen, too: farmers pushing wheelbarrows or pulling carts, carrying children or driving animals. People following the armée toward the capital. People afraid of the Tiger.
People who can’t get the general to stop and take notice.
I dodge around them, breathing hard. I see him now—Legarde, astride his golden horse, as the cavalry forms in rows at his side. He is only one soldier among many, and all wearing the same colors, the dark knee boots and drab green uniform of the armée, but even the firelight seems pulled to him, glittering on the bright buttons of his uniform, the medals on his chest, the silver in his hair. “General!” I shout, but he doesn’t even turn to look. “General Legarde!”
Others stare as I pass. A foot soldier puts a hand on his gun and my heart stutters, but he doesn’t take aim. What do they think of me, with my bandaged feet and my torn silk dress and the black bulk of the puppet in my arms? They must know I’m a performer, at least. But this show is not for them.
Speeding past startled livestock and surprised civilians, I skid to a halt at the side of the road and spin the King of Death to the side, like a partner in a foreign Aquitan dance. “Follow my lead,” I whisper, and the arvana in the fantouche obeys as I stretch out one arm.
The King ripples through the air, unfolding, and hovers a few inches above the dusty road. A strange beast—I crafted him of stranded leather after a dream I had, where death crawled toward me on a hundred scuttling legs, and gave him the soul of a vulture. I keep hold of one bent wing, the other spread wide, and he slouches at my side—all without stick or string.
Now people are watching. There are gasps and murmurs. This is my first time facing an audience—behind the scrim, they are only a murmur of voices, a round of applause. I can’t hide my grin. I bow with a flourish, and the King of Death does the same. But when we straighten up, instead of the wonder I expected to see, there is only fear in their eyes.
The crowd falters, stepping back in a widening ring around me, the older Chakrans pulling the younger away. At first I think they are afraid of the fantouche. I know he’s intimidating—I made him that way. But no . . . the crowd is staring at me. For a moment, my heart quavers. Then it hardens. This show is not for them, either. “General!” I call again, and he has heard the commotion. At last he looks at me.
The full force of his gaze is almost physical; all the charisma of an actor, but the country is his stage. I draw myself up straighter as Legarde narrows his eyes—bright blue. Ghost eyes.
“My name is Jetta of the Ros Nai,” I begin—and why didn’t I bring the flyers? But before I can go on, a familiar voice calls my name. This time, it isn’t only in my head.
“Jetta!” Maman is racing down the road. Just my name, but in it, a warning: never show, never tell. My mouth goes dry.
“You may have heard of us,” I croak, trying to ignore her, but I’ve lost the audience. They’ve all turned at the sound of her voice.
“Jetta!” She pushes through the thick ring of the crowd and stumbles into the clearing. How did she find me? Part of me wants to run; the other part has no idea where. But I came here to get Legarde’s attention, didn’t I? And here he is, still watching. Fear mixes with something else in my gut—is it anticipation? Surely she must see the opportunity I’ve made for us—our best chance to get to Aquitan.
But as she nears, she draws her hand back. I am too stunned to cower, but she only snatches the fantouche out of the air, clutching it to her chest. For a moment, she glares at me—then past, to the audience as they wait for the next act in this drama. Even Legarde is rapt. She points her other hand at me. “You charlatan!”
My eyes go wide. “What?”
“How dare you try to impress the Shepherd with a parlor trick? Forgive us, general,” she says, bowing low, nearly groveling. The leather tendrils of the fantouche drag in the dirt. “My daughter didn’t mean any disrespect. She merely wanted to perform for you, but she has no sense of timing.”
“Maman!” I try to protest, but she has stolen my show.
“A new marionette with silk strings!” The lie slips smoothly from her tongue; she’s spoken this line a dozen times: Aquitanians always ask how it’s done, and they never take “trade secrets” for an answer. “The thinness of a spider’s web,” she says, pretending to grasp a strand between her thumb and forefinger, pulling it taut to show him something that doesn’t exist. “See? Almost completely invisible, especially in the dark!”
Legarde waves her into silence, still watching me. But shadows can hide many things, and Maman has been an actor longer than I. The general dips a hand into his saddlebag, tossing something to the road at our feet.
A five-étoile coin.
Without a word, Legarde puts his heels to his horse. The armée follows him in a cloud of dust and hooves, and they are off. Leaving the coin in the dirt, Maman grabs my wrist and shoulders through the crowd, back toward the theater. “Come with me.”
“We should be going with them!” I say, pulling back toward the armée. “He would have taken us to the capital—”
“He would have taken you to prison!” she says. “Or worse. Legarde is the one who banned the old ways. What were you thinking, to shove them in his face?”
“And how would he know what they were?” My voice bursts out, too loud; strangers glance my way. I lower to a whisper. “How would he know about the souls?”
“How do you think they did?” Maman jerks her chin to the crowd. She pulls me close, hissing in my ear. “You’re too young to have seen anyone else toy with the dead, but not all of us are so lucky.”
I stop in my tracks. The crowd is thinner here . . . or people are giving us a wide berth. Still, I feel eyes crawling like insects over my skin. Souls are drifting closer, as though they’ve seen what I did. As though they hope I could give them new life too. “Who else?” I say, and by her silence I know the answer. “Le Trépas?”
She flinches at the name. “Don’t ever say that name again.”
Frustration bites at me. “What else am I supposed to call him? Kuzhujan?”
The name, his real name, trips up my tongue as it falls from my mouth. I’ve never said it aloud before—only heard it whispered or, once, shouted by one of Akra’s friends. A taunt, a dare—answered only when his father came running from their house to give him a cuff across the mouth. Maman’s eyes go wide. She shoves the black fantouche into my arms; it squirms against my chest. “Don’t call him. Don’t speak of him. Don’t think of him.”
I scoff. “You think he can hear me?”
“No. But the dead can.”
“And what can they do about it?”
“Pray you never find out.”
Her words take my breath away—so much anger in them. But I’m angry too, now. I open my mouth to make a retort, but in the corner of my vision, something flickers.
Bright blue, like the heart of a flame, like the waters of Les Chanceux—yet the sight leaves me cold. I turn my head, but it’s gone.
No. It’s on the other side now, just behind me. I whirl, but it’s vanished again. Part of me wishes I could convince myself it was never there in the first place, but something about it shakes me, and I know it wasn’t only my malheur. I have never seen a n’akela before, but there are tales about them. Rare souls—and dangerous. The ones who died in pain . . . the ones who want revenge . . . the sort Le Trépas created to send against his enemies. They do not want a new life—only more death. And they use their fading days to seek it out.
Did I draw it near, simply by speaking the old monk’s name? A chill seizes me; I shiver, and Maman frowns. “What’s wrong, Jetta?”
Everything. “Nothing.”
I hate how Maman looks at me, like I might break. But she takes my arm again, gentler this time. “Tell me.”
I grit my teeth, wavering—is she only going to blame me if she knows? “N’akela,” I say at last, and she goes still.
I am so close to her that I can hear her breath falter in her throat, and her fingers tighten around my wrist. “Where?”
“Gone now,” I say, but she searches the dark, like she could see it if she looks hard enough.
“Back by the road?”
“I . . . yes. But—”
Suddenly Maman clutches my hand. “Look there.”
My eyes go wide—Maman has always denied being able to see souls—but then she points and I peer into the dark, not toward a flicker of blue, but something . . . stranger.
At first I think it is a man in the fields, dressed all in black, his face floating like a moon above a shadowy landscape. But as I stare, I realize that it is only a man’s head, spiked through the chin on a spear of green bamboo. Farther down the roadside, a torso, striped and spotted with red wounds. Past that, another piece—a leg or an arm? I hadn’t noticed them before, in the dark, in the crowd, or maybe I’d only had eyes for Legarde. Now flies crawl across the swollen tongue of the man’s open mouth, and though it’s been beaten bloody, the face is familiar. I can still hear his plea: Help me. A scream builds in my throat. I bite down, trying to breathe, to gather my scattered thoughts. They ruined his body, twisted his soul. But it’s only a rebel . . . only a rebel . . . and it’s no worse than the Tiger would do—is it?
“Come,” Maman says, pulling me down the road. “Let’s go.”
I follow her with faltering steps, but the skin on the back of my neck is crawling, as though someone is watching me run. The eyes of the dead man? His vengeful soul? Then a voice drifts behind us on the road. “Madame?”
It’s a commanding voice, smooth, accented. It reminds me of the general—but Legarde has gone, hasn’t he? And Maman keeps walking, as if she didn’t hear, though her arm tenses and she picks up her pace, ever so slightly. Behind us, the heavy tread of a soldier’s boots comes at a jog.
“Madame!”
In my arms, the fantouche writhes. I clutch him tighter as the soldier steps in front of us, forcing us to stop. He’s younger than Legarde, younger than Maman too—but old enough to be decorated, with medals on his chest. Maman looks at those, instead of into his pale blue eyes. But I can’t look away—the color is too unnerving. “Yes, sir?”
“You forgot this.” The soldier extends his hand—in it, a five-étoile coin. The one the general threw. A simple gesture, but his urgency gives me pause. Why would a soldier d’armée chase us down just to bring us some pocket change? I don’t want the money, not from him, but Maman takes it, bowing low.
“Thank you, sir,” she says. “Thank you.”
He inclines his head; his eyes bore into mine. Then he stands aside. My palm is slick around Maman’s arm. Together we leave at a measured pace, fearing another call. Nothing comes, but I don’t breathe easier till we reach the docks. I lean down then, pretending to check my bandages while I glance behind us. The soldier has disappeared, thank the ancestors. A false alarm.
Still, my heart is pounding. “I thought the rebels were the only ones who used torture.”
“There are no rules in war.”
Maman’s harsh whisper takes me aback. “The armée is supposed to be civilized!”
“Civilization is only another act. We have to get out of the area,” she says. “I don’t want to be here if the general decides he wants an encore.”
I blink at her. “What about Le Roi Fou? The Boy King? The boat to Aquitan?”
“We’ll have to find another boat,” she says grimly. I follow her gaze to the wharf. Already there is a small crowd gathering—news must have spread of the other attacks.
“Leo says the prices are an outrage,” I murmur, with the peculiar feeling of taking a side I’d only just argued against. “If we pay to travel downriver, we may not be able to afford a ship to Aquitan.”
“It’s worth asking,” she insists, chewing her lip. So I wait on the road while she goes to inquire with the other hopeful passengers. As I watch her, I feel watched myself. I try to ignore it, to fight the urge to turn around. When I finally give in, there is no one behind me.
It must be my malheur . . . the sight of the dead rebels . . . or the talk of Le Trépas. I grew up free of his reign—he’s been imprisoned as long as I’ve been alive. Still, his shadow lingered after he was shot and jailed by Legarde, like an infection in the world, like poison on the skin. The older Chakrans remembered—they couldn’t forget. I cannot get their stares out of my mind.
Did they think I might be just as bad as him? Another thought comes to me then—are we really leaving to find a cure, or are we running from something darker?
Maman is returning now, and even in the predawn light, I can see by the droop of her shoulders that Leo was right about the price. I clench my jaw. If travel downriver is so expensive, how much would it cost to cross an ocean? Perhaps it was a good thing the soldier brought us the general’s coin. “So,” I say to Maman when she’s close enough to hear me. “We’re following the armée after all?”
“At a safe distance,” she snaps. “So the general doesn’t ask to see you perform in broad daylight.”
My skin prickles. Does she have to throw it in my face? “Good thing the wagon will run,” I say, but she gives me a skeptical look.
“Only so long as no one notices it’s running on a broken axle.”
I narrow my eyes. “What would you prefer, Maman? The boats we can’t afford or the wagon that shouldn’t run?”
“I don’t know, Jetta!” she shouts, rounding on me; at first I think she’s furious, but then I see the despair in her face. “I don’t know.”
I swallow all the other angry words gathering in my throat; they turn into guilt in my stomach. Why am I being so cruel? It isn’t helping—and perhaps she’s right to be angry. After all, if it weren’t for my malheur, we wouldn’t be here in the first place. I collect my thoughts, trying to breathe—trying to find a solution instead of more angry words.
“I have an idea,” I say at last, taking her hand again. “Let’s go back to the theater.”