Or rather, by Raik’s body. I am not the only nécromancien in Chakrana.
If I close my eyes, I can still see Le Trépas’s smile as he falls from the back of my dragon—down, down, down to the jungle far below. My fists clench, as though I could reach out and grab him back. It’s my fault he’s free. Raik may be the one who let him out of his cell, but I’m the one who let him fall into the jungle.
My brother’s voice in my ear makes me jump. “That was your cue.”
I glance across the stage, but Akra still stares, stone-faced, out at the audience. One of the side effects of my having raised him from the dead is that we can talk at a distance. I don’t bother responding—all eyes are on me, and the only thing worse than missing a cue is for the audience to think I’m muttering to myself about it.
Hiding my embarrassment, I nudge my dragon forward. The floral garlands around her neck sway as she moves. Leaning down, I pass Camreon the ceremonial wooden bowl I’ve been holding. In it, three green shoots of rice wave like banners in the breeze.
“I have spent too much time with blood on my hands,” Camreon continues smoothly as he turns back to the audience; he too knows the value of appearances. “But kings would do well to learn from farmers: we harvest what we sow.”
A cheer goes up from the crowd; it’s a good line. I myself have seen Camreon sow more corpses than seeds, but the moment the Aquitan armée began to retreat, the Tiger sheathed his claws, offering clemency for anyone who joined him. Not that many have; his reputation as a vicious killer, which served him so well during the rebellion, was proving a little more difficult for a king.
Still, he tucks each slip into the soft mud with the practiced hand of a man who has planted before. The audience looks on solemnly, but only I can see the souls that drift around the green shoots: the dead are watching too.
“For the Maiden,” Camreon says. “For the Keeper. For the King.”
The crowd stirs again—the older ones know their lines, and the younger ones echo as they learn. “For the living, for the learning, for the dead.”
I speak the lines with the others, and they feel like a memory—or is it only the magic of theater? Around me, the souls swirl faster, as though they are caught up in the moment. But this time, I am ready—if I miss my second cue, Akra will never let me hear the end of it. Reaching into the little basket atop my dragon’s neck, I lift out a dragon-bone crown.
It is even more finely carved than the one that vanished with Raik’s body. My papa had spent the last three weeks working on it, and even though he lost some of his fingers to the Aquitans, it might be his finest work yet.
I hold it up, pleased to see the eyes of the audience following. In a silence so deep I can hear the distant birds singing, I rest the crown on Camreon’s brow. When the audience cheers, I hold back the urge to take a bow.
Tears spring to my eyes; applause always makes me emotional, and we had been planning this show for weeks. It is not the end of the fight, not with Raik and Le Trépas in control of the capital. But it feels like the start of something new. I wish my parents were here to see it, but they are still in the valley of the temple, safe in rebel territory. I’ll have to try to capture it all in a letter: the cheering crowd, the king standing proudly in the mud . . . and Leo, smiling up at me.
“Nice prop work,” he says, teasing, and at last I reach down to muss his hair. Laughing, he catches my arm and pulls me into a kiss. It is several moments before I realize the crowd has gone quiet. My dragon lifts her head sharply, turning her nose downwind. A man has stepped from the tree line, mounting the berm at the edge of the paddy . . . a soldier d’armée, with a rifle slung over his shoulder.
Could he be a deserter, come to join our cause? Then two more emerge from the jungle, a prisoner between them. The man’s head hangs down, and his hands are tied in front of him. Even this far away, I can see the blood on the prisoner’s shirt.
Anger flares in my heart. The armée was defeated at the battle of the temple. How dare these stragglers try to intimidate the rebel leader at his own coronation? Quickly the villagers start to disperse—old and young alike have seen this play out too many times. The swaggering soldiers, the Chakran prisoner, the accusations real or imagined—it would be a farce if it didn’t always end in blood. But this time, I’m in a position to stop the show.
When I whisper to the dragon’s soul, her bones uncoil beneath me. We stalk through the mud as the floral garlands sway.
“What are you doing?” Akra’s voice is sharp, and I can’t tell if he’s shouting after me or if it’s only in my head.
“I’m not missing another cue,” I reply.
Leo calls after me too, but I pretend not to hear. Petals flutter behind us as I urge my dragon faster. I don’t bother pulling the knife from my belt; the creature’s teeth are twice as long as the blade. Instead, I crouch low over the bony spine, making a smaller target if the soldiers shoot. But as we draw near, their leader raises his empty hands in surrender.
“A truce!” he calls as his men follow suit. “We’re not here
