Leo and I have emerged from the earth into an overgrown garden. Ragged palms litter the scrubby grass with dried leaves; huge patches of elephant ears ripple in the breeze. Limes rot at the base of a tangled old tree, and green ponds lined with stones dot the grounds.
It must have been beautiful once, this meditation garden nestled behind the hulking stone temple: Hell’s Court, they called it. Death’s Palace. Now it is a prison: a dark heap of stone squatting behind the line of palms, the walls carved with demons, the openings laced with iron bars. I shudder looking at it—but it is not the legend that scares me. It is the darkness. Every other temple I’ve seen has glowed with the light of spirits. Hell’s Court is lit only by torches.
Then again, after meeting the dead man at the bottom of the well, I can see why the other souls have abandoned this place.
Crouched behind an overgrown fall of morning glory, Leo stands so close to me I can feel him shaking. “They were dead, weren’t they?” he says, his face pale. But it’s not a question. I swallow.
“You saw him.”
“I smelled him! Mon dieu, Jetta!” Leo runs his hands through his hair. “But he stood. He spoke! It was one of the old monks, wasn’t it? Le Trépas’s followers.”
“Shh!” His voice is too loud and the name is a curse—I see it now. The stone walls of the prison would never be thick enough to hold a soul. Neither would the grate that covers the well, if it came to that. Uneasy, I reach for Leo’s hand, to pull him away through the gardens, but though he wraps his fingers around mine, he won’t budge. “What is it?”
“Jetta . . .” Leo swallows, the muscles in his throat working. The leaves rustle in a sultry breeze; a mosquito whines past my ear. He takes another breath. “He called you sister.”
Despite the humid air in the garden, a chill settles over me. I want to explain the words away: a mockery, twisting a term of endearment. But I know it was more than that.
All my life, I’d thought Akra was my only brother. Who else should I have been praying for?
Welcome home, the corpse had said. Such an ugly thing—an evil spirit in corrupt flesh. But the n’akela had taken the dead body as easily as any of the souls I’ve ever commanded. No wonder Maman hated what I could do.
Leo turns to me, his face pale in the moonlight. “Are you . . .” Then he stops—shakes his head. But I can’t let it go.
“Am I what? Dead? Alive? One of them?” Before he can answer, I take his fingers and press them to my throat, where my pulse pounds. Even faster now, at the warmth of his hand. He is close enough for me to hear his breath hitch.
“Are you all right, I was going to say.”
“Liar.”
He only shrugs. But his eyes are boring deep into mine, and he brings his thumb up to brush my chin with a touch like a feather. I barely suppress a shiver. “You saw something following us through the middens,” he says.
I blink at him, releasing his hand, but he doesn’t let it fall. “A premonition.”
“And how did you open the lock on the grate?” he murmurs. “You had no key.”
“It must have been rusted out.”
Only now does he pull his hand back, but he doesn’t drop his eyes. “I can’t make you answer me, I know that. But we’ve come an awful long way since that night in Luda, when you marked Eduard’s hand with your blood.”
At his words, I stiffen. I want to shove my bloody hands in the folds of my sarong. Instead, I clench them into fists. “And we still have farther to go. Which way to the inn?”
For a moment, I think he will argue—but he only shakes his head. “Come on, then.”
Ducking through a tangle of bougainvillea, we skirt one of the ponds. Carved stone statues seem to watch us from the tangled greenery. At the edge of the garden, a crumbled wall. Leo makes a stirrup of his hands to help me climb over, following a moment later. As we emerge from the shadows, we go from a sneak to a stroll, leaving the temple grounds behind.
There on the main road, Leo pauses to orient himself. Though we can’t linger on the street, I can’t help but stare.
When we used to do the circuit—was that only last year?—one of our regular stops was Monsieur Audrinne’s plantation. His wife was young and beautiful and hailed from Lephare, the capital of Aquitan, the land of gold and glamour. Monsieur, on the other hand, was old and rich and lived in a back valley in Chakrana—paradise for some, but not to Madame. Naturally, she expected very fine things in return for joining him so far from what she deemed “civilization,” so much of her husband’s wealth went to bring civilization to her.
Players and poets, musicians and singers, all came to perform in Madame’s parlor. She hosted a circus troupe from the Lion Lands on her great lawn, including a live elephant with tusks trimmed in silver leaf. Her mansion held a vast collection of paintings from artists all over the world, each canvas framed in gold.
Even before I learned about the spring’s healing properties, my favorite had always been one that depicted Les Chanceux: a group of pale, languid women bathing in a hazy pool. But the biggest painting, given pride of place over the enormous mantle, was of Lephare itself, the Light of the West: steepled stone roofs and copper spires, gables and windows going on and on into the far distance, and all washed in a lovely golden dawn.
Nokhor Khat must be almost as big.
At first, all is wonder—glitter and glow. Past the rundown sector near the temple, we move through an empty market. The colorful stalls are shuttered for the day, but the square is lit with slender glass lamps and lined with grand buildings twice as tall as the tallest I’ve seen in Luda. The windows, also glassed, gleam with light: a clear, clean glow that must be electricity. I’ve heard of that strange fire without fuel, but I’ve never seen it before tonight.
It lights the fine buildings: upturned roofs lapped with curved tiles of blue copper in old Chakran style, entrances lined with carved scrollwork, massive doors gilded and decorated with bronze knockers in the shape of dragons—the king’s symbol, here in his capital. The streets are straight and wide and so clean, patrolled by sweepers and their carts.
But despite the glamour of the city, something winds tighter in my gut as we walk. What is it? The lingering scent of decay? The threats of the dead man—or his words of welcome? Or is it the soldiers, the electric light gleaming on their black boots?
They patrol the streets more zealously than the sweepers. Each time we pass them, I’m sure my shawl will slip from my scarred shoulder. If they look too close, will they catch the shape of the rifles in our packs? My spine prickles, as though a chitinous thing with many legs is crawling down the back of my neck. Despite the weight of the guns, I walk faster and faster; by the time we reach the inn, I am practically running.
Le Livre is a long, low building glowing with light, shaped like a plantation house and oriented along the water so it catches the breeze through the shutters of the many windows. Leo leads me right to the ornate door, peeking out from under a fall of jasmine. The scent mingles with the smell of sweat and the reek of the middens still trapped in my hair. I feel too filthy to even touch the handle, but Leo barges right in with a smile.
I follow a few steps, then freeze on the threshold. The main room is huge, nearly the height of the entire building, and beautifully appointed. Enormous open doorways face the back gardens; the ceiling is studded with lazy fans ushering the fragrant breeze. Woven chairs cluster in small groups around low teak tea tables, where a handful of well-dressed men read the paper. The room is brightly lit with gas lamps, illuminating the richest sight of all: a shelf in pride of place, directly across from the front door, and all lined with books.
I’ve never seen so many all at once. I didn’t know there were so many in the world. Some of the plantation owners kept a few—or at least, they bragged that they did, though usually the books were locked away in a study. Madame Audrinne had a prized collection of seventeen, most of which she kept in the parlor and never read, though her servants dusted them daily. But here were dozens—hundreds, maybe.
Standing in the doorway, blinking in the light, I find I can’t take another step—I am not meant to be here. I do not belong. But Leo pulls me into the room, toward the bookshelf and the wide desk before it. A man sits there, slender and dignified, with black skin and a warm smile.
“Siris!” Leo calls, grinning. “Sava?”
“Sava.” His voice is rich, with a soft accent—but that makes sense, and the books do too, of course. He must be from the Lion Lands, to the south and west of Chakrana. They say the countries there are rich in knowledge—that the crowns of their cities are universities. He stands to shake Leo’s hand across the desk. “And you?”
“Sava,” Leo replies, less enthusiastically. Then he grimaces, teetering his hand in an equivocating gesture. “Though it was comme ci, comme ça for a while.”
“I heard about that.” Siris’s face is grave, but he gives me a small smile. “You must be Jetta. Your parents are here already. My daughters are preparing your rooms. The baths should still be warm if you want to shed the dust of the road.”
“Baths?” I’m out of breath—from the idea of such a luxury, or perhaps from the pace I’d kept through the streets. But he only waves to a girl, tall and dark as he is.
She smiles and beckons me toward a hall. “Just this way.”
“I’ll be happy to shed more than dust,” Leo says, relieved. He shrugs off his pack, setting it on the floor carefully—I only hear the clink of metal because I’m listening for it. I follow suit as Leo flicks his eyes down, then back up to Siris. “Is there anyone around who can take our bags?”
“Certainly,” Siris says smoothly, motioning to a table in the corner where two well-dressed Chakran men are sipping drinks. When Siris nods, one man murmurs to the other; they both drain their cups as Siris turns his attention back to us. “Now it’s time for you to rest. I can see it’s been a long journey. I’m just glad you got out of Luda before the fighting started.”
“You mean at La Fête?” Leo shakes his head. “We were there for that.”
“The night after.”
Leo stiffens. Emotions flicker across his face like shadows: shock to pain, fear to uncertainty. My own heart drops like a stone through muck. “What happened?”
Before he answers, Siris raises a hand. Smoothly, the tall girl steps back, pretending to straighten the curtains, and the men at the table settle back into their seats. “I’ve only heard rumors, of course,” the innkeeper murmurs. “And rumors are always worse—”
“Tell me.”
“Reports vary, but . . . there was some sort of rebellion among the soldiers. A quarter of the battalion was slaughtered,” he says, almost apologetically. As though it were his fault.
As his words sink in, Leo leans heavily against the desk. My own gut clenches at the news. “How?”
Siris shrugs, uncomfortable. “Some people are sure it was the rebels. But some say it was Legarde’s own men turning against him. The questioneur, they say.”
“Eduard?” Leo looks at me and my heart sinks.
I open my mouth—but what to say? A quarter of the battalion. The monk at the temple—what had she said? The dead are coming—you’ve sent us so many.
“Unfortunately, Capitaine Legarde was gravely injured,” Siris adds delicately; he must know Leo and the capitaine’s history. “But he’ll likely make a full recovery.”
“So who’s in charge?” Leo says. Then his mouth twists. “Not Pique.” Siris only makes a face, and Leo swears under his breath. “That explains Dar Som.”
“Rumor is that Capitaine Legarde left his sickbed to rein him in, but not soon enough. Word is, morale was quite low. There were more than a few officers ready to take their frustrations out on somebody. Anybody.”
“I need a pen and paper,” Leo says. “Can you have someone run to the telegraph office for me? If not, I’ll go myself.”
“The telegraph at Luda was damaged in the fire, I’m afraid.”
“The fire?”
“A riot at the docks. People were already jumpy after the explosions. When they heard the gunfire . . .”
With sudden rage, Leo kicks the bundle of guns at our feet. “The telegraph office is nearly in the center of town! How far did the fire spread?”
Siris takes a careful breath. “Like I said, it’s only rumor—”
“How far?”
“Almost certainly the theater was affected.”
The theater. The girls. And all because of Eduard. Because of me. My hands start to shake, but Leo takes a deep breath. His face is pale, and the pain in his eyes is deeper than a wound. I reach out to him, but he shrugs me off. “Leo—”
“Go rest, Jetta. Your part of the deal is done. I won’t forget mine.” Leo pulls a fistful of coins from his pocket and turns to Siris. “I’ll need you to get a letter to the palace. And I need a fast horse too. I have to get back to Luda.”
My eyes go wide, but Siris waves the money away. “Just tell me when you’re leaving. I’ll have everything prepared.”
“As soon as possible,” Leo says. “Tonight.” Then he turns to me, and for a moment, I catch a glimpse of the softness about him that I had first seen while he had slept on the back stair of our roulotte. He reaches out to tug on the shawl I’m wearing, drawing it tighter over the scar on my shoulder. Then his mouth twists into that old smile, but the charm has been hollowed out of his eyes. “Good-bye, Jetta.”
Before I can protest, Siris gestures again. The men at the tables approach, and each of them shoulders a bag—mine and Leo’s. They follow Leo and Siris around the desk into a little office and shut the door firmly behind them. The tall girl leaves the curtains and takes my arm. “Come, cher,” she says. “I’ll have your things brought to your room. Let me show you to the baths.”
I follow her down the hall in a daze, and in my mind, memories play like shadows on a scrim. The cold fire of the n’akela, the sting of the knife, the moment I marked Eduard’s hand. And the sound of his screaming. But then—even worse—the smell of the theater, stale sweat and old perfume. Cheeky’s wicked grin, her soft hands. The sweet, aching song of the violin.
If La Perl is lost, it’s because I couldn’t control myself. Eduard was after me because of what Capitaine Legarde had seen me do—because of my performance on the road. The weight of guilt presses down like a yoke on my shoulders, like sins on my back. I try to tell myself that I couldn’t have known; I call up Leo’s words about the gamble of survival. But the lines are hollow in my head—I cannot fool myself.
The baths are as luxurious and inviting as the rest of the inn, with deep tubs carved of basalt and hammered copper showerheads that sluice warm water from catchments on the roof. There is even soap in powdery flakes, sprinkled with dried lavender blossoms, and soft robes thicker than quilts hanging on the walls. The hour is so late that I have the space all to myself.
So no one can hear me crying.