On This Unworthy Scaffold by Heidi Heilig (best pdf reader for ebooks TXT) 📕

“He’s immortal,” she says, with a regretful smile. “Open the door.”

“Immortal?” I stare at her, my mind racing. Le Trépas had claimed to be a god, to be able to cheat death—but I had thought those were the ravings of a man hungry for power. Then again, my own blood has given Akra similar protection. Had Le Trépas somehow used the last drops of my blood on his own skin? “How can you be sure?”

“Rumors have flown in recent weeks from soldiers moving south. Not the Aquitan ones,” she says quickly. “But the Chakrans. You know how they are, with their superstitions. . . .” She trails off, her wrist going still against the latch. Then she laughs again, softly now.

“I suppose I should have listened after all. But my husband said it was only a charlatan’s trick, and so I believed him. That is, until I stabbed the man through the heart. The nécromancien,” she adds, resuming her work on the latch. “Not my husband. Let me go so I can correct the mistake.”

The image sets me back on my heels: Madame Audrinne with blood on her hands, Le Trépas pulling the blade from his scarred chest. If he has used my blood to bind his soul to his skin, my blood will bring it back out. Just as it will free Madame Audrinne.

“I’ll let you go,” I tell her truthfully. “Just tell me where he is, first.”

“South,” she says, raising one missing hand to her dead heart. “His presence pulls at me. Open the door and I’ll lead you there.”

South. Likely in the capital, as Camreon had guessed. But at least we had confirmation now. I reach out, and the corpse smiles, but I take hold of her blackened wrist and not the latch. As her brow furrows, I use my bloody finger to trace the mark: the circle of death.

The symbol still makes me uneasy—after all, it is one Le Trépas had taught me. But as Madame’s body falls into the straw, I do not imagine the look of relief on her face. Freed, her soul is a gold light, illuminating the carriage house. Madame had come from Lephare; she had always loved the lights.

Only now do I unlatch the door, letting her soul drift free. I am about to leave the carriage house myself when a voice crashes through the dark. “Put your hands over your head!”

Startled, I whirl, falling back against the stall door; it swings wide, banging against the wall as I land hard on my tailbone. Half a second later, another bang, and a flash of light. Grit stings my cheek as a bullet buries itself in the brick beside me.

“Over your head!”

This time I obey the man standing in the doorway. My heart pounds as I piece him together: the armée uniform, the black leather boots, the smoke still rising from the pistol in his hand. But above the olive-green jacket, a Chakran face. Relief floods in. “You scared me, brother.”

“I’m not your brother,” the soldier spits, jerking his chin at Madame’s body. In his hand, the gun trembles. “I saw what you did. I know who you are!”

No use denying it, then. “I won’t hurt you,” I say, keeping my voice calm. Steady. “I’m nothing like Le Trépas.”

The soldier tenses at the mention of the old monk. “Do you have any weapons?”

“A knife in my belt,” I say, hoping he doesn’t notice the blood on my fingers. The souls of flies buzz by Madame’s corpse; if I can draw one into the blade, I can order it to cut the soldier’s throat. “Do you want me to toss it to you?”

“Don’t move,” he says quickly. Had I been too eager? The soldier wets his lips. “Are you alone?”

“Of course not,” I say with a scoff. It’s a lie, but I’m a good actor. I glance over his shoulder through the open door, an expectant look on my face. “The others are searching the grounds, but they must have heard the shot. They’ll be here any moment.”

The soldier shifts on his feet, nervous. What does he imagine creeping up behind him? Rebels—or revenants? Still, he keeps his eyes locked on mine. “Come closer.”

“The rebellion offers clemency to anyone who joins—”

“Closer!” he shouts. “And keep your hands up.”

“All right,” I say quickly. The soldier watches every movement as I rise to my feet, hands still over my head. Reluctantly, I slide my feet through the straw, hoping he will lower his weapon before he tries to take my knife. But he keeps his gun trained on me as he paws at the blade in my belt.

Even without the knife, there is still a drop of blood on the tip of my finger. Could I pull his living soul right from his skin? I have never tried it. It should be no different than killing the soldier with a knife, and the gods know I’ve killed before. But Le Trépas is the one who kills with his blood, and I am nothing like him. Nothing. As I hesitate, I hear feet approaching outside. More soldiers—but I smile anyway. “That’s the other rebels now.”

At last the soldier turns to check. I grab for the gun. Wrong move—he’s stronger than I am. As we wrestle for the weapon, he fires wildly. The bullet disappears into the rafters.

Then he punches me in the ribs.

Gasping, I stumble back, startled to see my knife in the soldier’s fist. Is that blood on the blade? I press a shaking hand to my side. It comes away warm and wet. But when I meet the soldier’s eyes; he looks as surprised as I am. “Let the gods forgive me,” he murmurs, like a prayer.

Then the soldiers outside call his name. “Sunan?”

“Aides-moi!” he shouts back. “It’s the nécromancien!”

Pale faces appear at the edges of the doorway, both Aquitan. They’d sent the Chakran in first, and it’s good for me that they did. The Aquitans never cared about our gods. They wouldn’t