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

a shepherd or sheep? Peeking into one of the bags, I see the scales of a stray dragon. Panic wraps cold fingers around my throat. There is no dragon in the story of the Shepherd and the Tiger.

Where is the confidence I felt in the Salon des Merveilles? The grand visions, the certainty of success? It has all vanished like a charlatan’s trick—and my malheur is behind it.

The king is unaware of my mounting reservations as he breezes up the aisle. “I’ll leave my footman in the lobby, in case you need anything else for the show,” he calls over his shoulder.

Should I hurry after him? Tell him I’d made a mistake, that I need to return to the Salon? No—bad enough I have lost my own confidence. If I lose his now, I might never get it back.

Instead I turn to the stage, but now the music in my head has vanished, along with the visions of the shadows on the scrim. Where are the ideas that had bubbled over one another in the salon? My mind is blank, like the pages of the Keeper’s book.

With difficulty, I try to summon the story in my head. “In the days when our ancestors were young,” I murmur, trying to recall the song, but without Maman’s music, the rhythm is elusive. “There was a brave swineherd who tended well to his . . . No. There was a brave shepherd.” The words sound wrong in my voice: Papa had always been the one to sing the stories. Still, I should know the new words—I was the one who had written them! But that show had been meant to flatter a man I had later killed. . . . Is that why it escapes me now?

I had been a different person then. I hadn’t known what I know now. I cannot tell that story.

So what story can I tell?

I don’t want to flatter Le Roi. I want to tell him the truth about power, and the truth is that he has never tended well to anyone but himself.

But even if I told that story, would he listen? Ayla’s words come back to me—other shadow players have tried before. Then again, other shadow players didn’t have all the skills I do.

Standing in the audience before the grandest stage I have ever seen, a new idea sparks in my head. A show like no one has ever seen, including me. But for this performance, I will need different fantouches.

I’ll need help too, and I know who to ask. Returning to the lobby, I send the footman for pen and paper. When he returns, I dismiss him with my thanks, citing the need for privacy to focus. Only when the door shuts behind him do I start my letter. Words, so elusive before, seem to spill onto the page. When I finish, I fold the note so it has wings like a bird, and sign it—not with ink, but a drop of blood.

“Find Ayla of the Ros Sook,” I say to the soul that creeps inside, and I watch the letter flutter up to the gilded ceiling and wheel away into the night.

Fighter . . . artist . . . savior. I told you this morning that I cannot choose, and so I cannot stay in Aquitan. Before I go, I will put on a show the likes of which no one has ever seen, for I am not only a fighter, or an artist, or a savior. I am also a nécromancien. But although I have the dead to help me, I need your help as well. Please meet me at the opera house as soon as you can.

Act 2,Scene 20

In the stateroom of the Prix de Guerre. LEO struggles on the fine wool carpet, tied hand and foot. He has managed to wriggle his way toward the stern, where a broken latch protrudes below the sill. Working desperately, he saws the rope against the rough edge of the metal, working until his shoulders ache and his wrists are numb. But at last the rope loosens, and he shrugs off the bindings to start untying the ones on his ankles.

Just as he manages to free himself, the cabin door begins to creak open. Hurriedly, LEO shoves his hands behind his back and tucks his feet beneath him, as though he is still bound.

LE TRÉPAS enters the room, carrying a birdcage in one hand and a stained burlap sack in the other. A frightened bird sings from the cage, but LEO’s eyes are fixed on the bag: from the rounded shape and the rust-red stain spreading on the burlap, it is not rice inside.

Setting the birdcage down on the deck, the monk turns back to LEO, a smile on his face.

LE TRÉPAS: Where is Jetta?

When LEO doesn’t respond, LE TRÉPAS lifts the bag.

Perhaps you’ll answer if your brother asks?

LEO: Xavier’s soul is long gone.

LE TRÉPAS: All I need is a drop of blood to bring it back.

LEO turns his face away.

LEO: If you’re so all-powerful, what do you need Jetta for?

LE TRÉPAS: Isn’t it obvious?

LE TRÉPAS throws the bag down at LEO’s feet, where it bounces with a dull thud, landing near his knees. LEO shrinks back.

The dead rot. A living armée is much more reliable.

LEO: She’d die before giving you an armée.

LE TRÉPAS: But will she let you die?

LEO growls, but the monk only goes to the desk, rummaging in the drawers until he finds a piece of paper and a pen—this one full of ink.

LEO: Why do you need an armée? You’ve gotten what you wanted. The Aquitans are leaving Chakrana!

LE TRÉPAS looks up from his writing, raising an eyebrow in surprise.

LE TRÉPAS: Do you really think I’d go through all this trouble just to send a few hundred Aquitans home? Better to teach the rest of them never to come back. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a letter to send.

Tossing the pen to the desk, he pulls out the other one, the one full of