Would anyone in Chakrana run toward a war machine? Perhaps the Aquitans don’t realize how much they have to fear—at least, not yet. A dark impulse rises in me: the same feeling I had when Fontaine’s men arrived at the coronation with a bloody prisoner in tow. I want to teach them what fear is. But this time Leo isn’t watching me. I have to watch myself.
Taking a deep breath, I follow Theodora out of the avion. After so many hours in the air, there is an ache in my legs that echoes the dull pain in my ribs. But I stand up straighter as the impromptu audience parts around a tall man. The crown gives him away—no simple carved circlet, but a lacy dome of gold topped with a sapphire the size of a human heart. He wears layers of silk and velvet; his broad shoulders are covered with a robe trimmed in spotted fur. But beneath the outlandish clothing, his features are oddly familiar. The silver hair, the hawkish nose . . . if he’d been wearing an armée uniform, I could have mistaken him for his half-brother, the first General Legarde.
His appearance throws me; it’s like looking into the face of a dead man—one who I killed. But Theodora calls to him warmly. “Uncle!”
“My dear niece,” Le Roi says, reaching out to the girl, and I know enough Aquitan to understand him. He clasps her hands, kissing her on both cheeks, then drawing back to study her face. “Your portrait hardly does you justice. I’m so relieved you took my advice and left Chakrana.”
“I’ll be going back as soon as your three fastest ships are ready to come with me,” Theodora says, pitching her voice to carry. The crowd around us murmurs at her boldness. But now I know why she wanted an audience—it makes her so much harder to ignore. “I would never abandon Chakrana, but many Aquitans must, and they must do so safely.”
“There is already a ship in Nokhor Khat waiting to bring our people home,” the king replies, still smiling, though his expression has hardened like amber.
“The Prix de Guerre?” The surprise on Theodora’s face is pretense. “A cargo ship can’t safely transport so many passengers.”
“Your own brother feels differently,” the king says, loud enough for the assembled court to hear. “The general d’armée sends me regular updates on his preparations. As does the Boy King, who has promised to outfit the ship for the journey.”
“I wouldn’t trust either of them,” I interject, enunciating carefully, aware of how my accent inflects the Aquitan words. To my surprise, Theodora’s hand shoots out, as though to stop me from saying more. But I have already caught the king’s attention.
He takes me in with a glance that sweeps from my windblown hair to my stolen shoes. “And who are you?”
The crowd turns, curious, and for a moment, I see myself through their eyes. Madame’s dress, so fine in Chakrana, is clearly years out of date here in Lephare, not to mention ill-fitting and stained with blood. And of all the people assembled in the square, I am the only one without Aquitan features. If I were in the audience, I might assume Theodora had brought a poorly dressed servant along with her. I draw myself up—if the king had reports from the armée, surely he would know my name. “I’m Jetta Chantray.”
“Ah,” the king says, and now he looks impressed. “The shadow player.”
The crowd murmurs again, but I cock my head. Despite his well-known love of shadow plays, that is not what I’d expected Le Roi to focus on. Still, I can still see Theodora’s warning hand out of the corner of my eye, so all I do is bow. “Your Majesty.”
“With the unrest in Chakrana, I fear you may be the last shadow player I ever meet,” the king says, with a wistful look on his face. “Welcome, Jetta. But you must be tired from your journey,” he adds then, turning back to Theodora. “We’ll have refreshments in the hall of mirrors. Come!”
At his invitation, a handful of servants rush back toward the palais to make ready. The king too starts across the square, though he moves with much less haste. When he offers Theodora his right arm, she takes it. Then, to my surprise, he offers me the other.
In Chakrana, most strangers hesitate to touch a nécromancien. Is it possible the king doesn’t know what I am? Or is he only trying to keep the crowd from being frightened? The Aquitans whisper as I slip my hand through the crook of his elbow. The velvet trim of his shirt is as soft as petals.
Crossing the wide plaza, the courtiers step out of our way, and the great arched doors of the palais open before us. Or rather, before Le Roi. From the ground, the building is even more impressive than it was from above. It looms over us in pale limestone and glittering glass, the stately colonnades stretching several stories high. Stepping inside, my feet sink ankle-deep into a rich carpet as purple as a field of indigo in bloom. It must have taken at least as many blossoms to dye so much thread. Vaulted ceilings soar overhead, stamped with intricate plasterwork, and art lines the walls. Madame Audrinne’s home seems like a hovel by comparison.
The king catches me staring, and his eyes gleam, the same color as the stone in his crown. “Do tell me you’ll stay long enough to give a performance,” he says hopefully. “I was devastated to hear of the rebel attack on the Fêtes des Ombres.”
I blink as the memories resurface. The festival was held every year: a celebration of shadow plays, where Le Roi’s brother had chosen the best troupe
