Chapter Twelve
Theodora and I follow the servant through the glittering maze of the palais, passing massive friezes, marble statues, fine porcelain, and framed paintings. The endless carpet underfoot is soft as fur, though it’s been woven with such intricate care that it feels like a shame to step on it.
Beside me, Theodora seems unaffected by the grandeur; her brow is furrowed and her eyes faraway. “A ship for a shadow play,” she murmurs, speaking in Chakran. “Can you do it?”
“How big a ship?” I try to laugh, but I had heard the stories of Le Roi Fou’s generosity. How he had given a favored shadow player her weight in gold, or offered his own throne for kindling when a fire ran too low for a third encore. Like all my dreams of Aquitan, my trust in those tales has faded. But walking through the fine halls, with my dirty feet on the priceless carpet, they seem a lot more real. “They say your uncle is mad for fantouches, but I didn’t realize how bad his malheur really is.”
“Shh.” Theodora flicks her eyes toward the servant, then back. “Don’t assume he doesn’t know what he’s doing.”
“What’s he doing, then?”
“I’m not sure,” she admits. “It might have something to do with public opinion of the occupation. The last thing my uncle needs is a rebellion on his own soil, and spending more money on a failed war looks different than spending money on popular art.”
“What about spending money to save Aquitan lives?” It is difficult for me to keep my voice to a whisper. “How can he believe Le Trépas is harmless?”
“Could he afford to believe otherwise?” Theodora’s own face is troubled. “If Aquitan knew the monk’s true abilities, no one would ever have come to live or work in Chakrana. Not to mention fight,” she adds. “Safer to paint Chakrans as victims of their own superstitions. After all, you have to admit, harnessing souls sounds . . .”
“Crazy?” I say with a bitter smile, but she shrugs a shoulder.
“Improbable.”
“You believed,” I say.
“I grew up in Chakrana,” she counters. “And I saw what you did with the first avion. Remember, I’d been trying for weeks to get that machine airborne. I knew it was something more than science. It’s probably for the best my uncle is skeptical,” she adds with a familiar gleam in her eye. “Or he might be more protective over the Keeper’s book.”
“Le Roi said the book was blank,” I remind her.
“And I can’t see the souls in this hallway,” she replies. “That doesn’t mean they aren’t there for someone who knows how to look.”
Automatically, my eyes flick across the little lights drifting in the air. She’s right, of course, but before I can tell her so, I realize that the servant ahead is watching us with the blank expression servants here seem to cultivate. He stands beside a door carved with leafy patterns reminiscent of bromeliads, opening it with a flourish as we approach. “Your rooms. There are refreshments laid out on the buffet, and chemises on the beds.”
Theodora thanks him, but any reply I might have made flies out of my head when I step inside. The Chakran suites, the king had said, though it is less Chakran than the idea of Chakrana.
Silk in bold colors has replaced the ubiquitous velvet on the Aquitan-style couches, and orchids in full bloom are displayed atop the marble mantel of a grand fireplace—at home, fire is only made for cooking or shadow plays. The plasterwork continues the leafy motifs, as do the gilt frames of the art on the walls. There are fantouches here, finely wrought and lovingly painted, but each one is pressed useless—lifeless—under glass. The paintings themselves feature Chakran scenes as well, though with that strangeness that comes from the distance between knowledge and imagination. In one, villagers work in pastoral sugar fields, where the sun is mild, the humidity low, and the serrated leaves of the cane never meet bare skin. In another, half-dressed girls splash in a jungle pool, completely unconcerned about mosquitoes.
It is a uniquely Aquitan understanding of Chakrana—all surface, no substance. No soul. If anything, the room is even more foreign than the rest of the palace.
At least the food looks delicious. There is an entire tray of those little flaky pastries on the table, along with more fruit and cheese, and something unidentifiable that smells like meat but resembles paste. As I reach for a tiny pie, I see a silver flask beside the platter. Picking it up, I uncork the bottle. The contents look like water, but I know better.
“The elixir,” I say, weighing the flask in my hand—so heavy. Not even the promise of a ship seems as extravagant. “There’s enough for weeks in here. Maybe months!”
Theodora only smiles as I tip a dose into the cap and drink it down. “We should get some rest,” she says, taking a handful of fruit and turning toward a bedroom. “It’s been a long day.”
“Good night,” I say as she closes the door softly behind her. The thought of bed is tempting. Then again, so are the pastries. I stand over the table and eat three in rapid succession. Then I pick up a fourth and find my own room.
The spacious chamber has yet another fireplace to ward off the chill in the air, and the bed is a mountain of pillows and blankets, framed with carved mahogany posts thicker than roof poles. Luxurious curtains of gold velvet hang in swags—much heavier than the mosquito nets I’m used to, though there are no mosquitoes here.
There is a long white nightgown laid across the foot of it, clean and soft as morning mist, but suddenly I am too tired to undo the buttons
