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

Jetta’s blood, and marks the letter with the symbol of life. Of course, nothing happens—souls flee Le Trépas. The monk only turns to the birdcage, opening the door to reach inside. As he wraps his fist around the feathered body, the bird flaps frantically, then stops.

LEO looks away, but soon enough, the fluttering sound returns, this time from paper wings. The monk follows the note to the window at the stern, watching it fly away—not inland, but across the water.

LE TRÉPAS: She’s in Aquitan?

LEO looks up, startled.

LEO: She is?

LE TRÉPAS: Why? Why did she go there?

For the first time, the monk looks troubled—almost frightened. He rushes toward LEO, wrapping his bloody fingers around LEO’s wrist.

LEO: She was looking for her elixir! That’s all I know!

The monk narrows his eyes, but LEO’s face—and his fear—are genuine. LE TRÉPAS releases the boy’s wrist.

LE TRÉPAS: No matter. We’re going there anyway. But if she can’t give me a living armée before I arrive, I might as well get started on a dead one.

The monk turns on his heel, heading to the door, but LEO calls after him, trying to keep the panic out of his voice.

LEO: You’re going to kill the Aquitans? Now?

LE TRÉPAS: It’s a lot of flesh. A lot of blood. Best to start early.

LEO: You said it yourself, the dead will rot before we’re halfway to Lephare!

LE TRÉPAS: Not with Jetta’s blood powering the ship. I have just enough left to take one more soul. What do you think? A crocodile, perhaps? They’ll be easy to catch.

As LE TRÉPAS heads toward the door, he picks up the rice sack that holds XAVIER’s head.

Especially with a little bait.

As the monk exits, LEO spares a last look for the open window at the stern.

LEO: One more soul.

Gritting his teeth, he sheds the last of the rope and stands, racing after the monk.

Act 3

THE SWINEHERD AND THE TIGER

In the days when our ancestors were young, there was a brave swineherd who tended well to his charges. Under his care, his herd grew numerous and healthy, and the swineherd happy and prosperous.

Then one day, a tiger came prowling. The beast was quick and deadly, carrying off livestock night after night. The other farmers locked their doors, too frightened to face the tiger, but the swineherd guarded his herd closely, so the tiger stayed away.

After three nights, the swineherd was exhausted. He fell asleep during his watch and woke to the cries of the smallest runt being carried away in the jaws of the tiger.

Quickly he gave chase, with only his staff to defend himself, while his neighbors called after him to let the tiger go. But the swineherd knew that if he let the tiger go now, the beast would only come back. So he chased the creature through the fields, across the valley, up the hills, and into the jungle, where the King of Death was waiting to collect a soul.

There the tiger dropped the piglet and turned to face the swineherd, a hungry look in his eye. “You could have let me go with just a morsel,” the tiger said. “Now I have a feast. How did such a foolish man become so rich?”

“By caring for my herd,” the swineherd said, raising his staff. “It is because of them that I have what I have. It is for them I must be willing to give it up.”

The tiger leaped at the swineherd, and the two fought tooth and nail. Though the tiger was vicious, the swineherd did not give up, for he had his herd to protect. And when at last the two lay bloodied and broken on the jungle floor, it was impossible to know who had won and who had lost.

So the King of Death chose the victor, and took the tiger’s soul. Then he helped the swineherd to his feet. “Why did you spare me?” the swineherd said, leaning on his staff, but the King of Death only smiled.

“Because I too care for my herd.”

Chapter Twenty-One

As I watch the message to Ayla flutter into the dark, my uncertainty returns. I hardly know the woman—how can I trust her? She had reminded me so much of Maman, but Maman herself had always warned me to keep my power a secret.

Never show, never tell, she used to say. But that was when the old ways were forbidden in Chakrana. Now I’m far from home, and there is no use hiding anymore. Soon enough, all of Aquitan will know.

Still, when a knock comes at the theater door, I half expect to see the entire armée when I open it. But Ayla herself stands on the doorstep, her face half hidden by the hood of a cloak. In the shadows, her expression is even more nervous than my own. She is no longer afraid for me, but afraid of me.

The look makes my heart hurt, but I reach for my own poise and paste on a smile. “Come in,” I say, stepping back, and she follows slowly—carefully. Stepping through the door, she glances over my shoulder, right, then left, as though checking if I am alone.

Frowning, I watch her duck into the theater, peering at the empty seats. Then she squints up toward the balconies and the boxes. She returns to the lobby as I am closing the door. “Wait,” she says, opening it again and beckoning to someone outside. Peeking out into the dark, I realize she has brought an armée after all, but they are not Aquitans. As she holds the door open, Chakrans file into the lobby. They too have hidden their faces with deep hoods or hats pulled low.

But as Ayla had taught me, I look at their hands and recognize the scars and calluses there. These are puppeteers and musicians—artists, like me. Some of them even carry leather cases at their sides, the right size and shape to hold Chakran instruments or tools to work leather.

They