Le Roi Fou has taken Theodora, he has taken our avion. For practical purposes, he has taken my freedom, offering it back in exchange for a show. Not that I could leave without Theodora, even if I did have a ship. And how long would a journey by ship take? A week at least. What would happen to the Prix de Guerre—and to Leo?
Rage burns in my belly—was the elixir really worth this? I rip the flask from my pocket and heave it across the room. It crashes into the shelf, denting the old wood and tumbling into the fantouches with the unmistakable tinkle of breaking glass.
The sound jolts me, turning anger into fear. Despite the dust coating the embarrassment of riches in the room, I have a feeling Le Roi Fou would know instantly if something were destroyed. What had I broken? I go to the shelf to retrieve my flask. There is something dark on the corner—I try to brush it away, but it smears on my fingers like ink.
Cursing, I shove the elixir into my pocket, then scrub my hand on the inside hem of my dress. Pulling out the rest of the fantouches, I check for stains. The tiger I’d seen earlier is still pristine, as is the dragon beneath it. I set it aside on the carpet, then pull out a fantouche of the King of Death, and a second dragon, even more impressive than the first.
I am relieved when I find not so much as a stray spot on any of them. But the fantouche at the back of the shelf is not so lucky. The limbs clack gently as I lift it out. It is not fashioned out of leather, but wood, painted brightly and inlaid with chipped gems and nacre. This puppet is not for shadow plays—it’s meant to be seen without a scrim. It’s cleverly made, with a head that spins to show different faces: an old man, a beautiful youth, a fierce warrior, a young girl. With a start, I realize it’s the Keeper, made to perform the story of the Keeper and the Liar—the same story I’d seen carved on the stairs at the temple. The ink had come from a tiny glass bottle hanging from a string beneath the puppet.
The bottle is smashed now. Such a fragile thing: the gift of a deity. Still—there are a dozen plays about the Keeper. Unless you knew the puppet was made to tell that particular story, you might not notice the bottle of ink was missing. Taking my little knife, I cut away the string holding the bottle, setting the broken glass carefully on the shelf. Once the ink dries, I’ll slip it into my pocket and dispose of it outside.
Gently, I return the fantouche to its place at the back of the shelf. The nacre eyes shine in the shadows there. The Keeper’s look is accusing. What am I doing? I had come here for the book, not to destroy the king’s fantouches, and certainly not to have a temper tantrum in the bowels of the old cathedral. Akra was right; I have a role to play. But I don’t know my lines—or even what performance I am meant to give.
Save Theodora. Save Leo. Bring back the elixir, bring back the book. A ship for a show, the Mad King says, impressing me with the treasury, threatening me with the sanatorium.
My thoughts are racing again. Was that the king’s goal? Was he trying to keep me off balance, to destabilize me? I can’t let it happen. I take a deep breath, the way I do before any show, when my mind starts burning like the flames in the fire bowl and the lines threaten to trip over each other on their way past my tongue. If I am to play my role, I have to do it one beat at a time. So what first—what now?
The Book of Knowledge, of course. Theodora wouldn’t have it any other way.
It is nestled between a gilded glass vase and a scrimshaw tusk. Seeing it here, surrounded by so much glittering treasure, I can see why the king thought so little of it. The book is much plainer than I expected, bound in undyed leather, with no gilt or title. But if it is the Keeper’s book, it might just be the most valuable thing in the room. After all, knowledge is power, isn’t it? Or so the stories go.
Reverently, I pick it up. A thin layer of dust swirls away, glittering with the souls of dust mites. I have worked with leather all my life, making fantouches, but I have never seen a grain so fine. Is this really the body of a deity? Suddenly, my hands are trembling.
I sit cross-legged on one of the soft carpets covering the stone floor, setting the book on my lap so as not to drop it. But when I turn to the first page, it is blank, just as the king had said.
Determined, I flip through, looking carefully for anything—a sign, a symbol, a mark—but there is nothing, not even on the covers. Were we mistaken to think this was anything more than an empty book? Perhaps it was foolish to believe that Le Trépas would give the king a holy relic—but why would he give the king a book at all?
Maybe there was a secret to it . . . a way to reveal the writing. Le Trépas must have known it, or guessed. His powers and mine take blood to summon. Wouldn’t the Keeper’s work the same way?
With my little knife, I prick my fingertip and mark the book on the first page—not with the symbol of life, but the symbol of knowledge. To my surprise, the blood soaks into the page, then vanishes.
Nothing else happens.
But the symbol usually has an accent, doesn’t it? Know yourself, know your enemy—my thoughts are racing again. I take another deep
