Chronicles of a Falling Empire [Bloodstained, Bloodshed]

so heed the words of this dark tale
of Lady Fate, whose wrath prevails
within her hands, our threads entwine
where will your fate be aligned?

- "The Weaver," Final Verse

I'm in the cantonment, lying on my back—Lefe leans over me, his pointed features twisted into a frown. The bluish glint of the metallic beads woven through his braid look like fireflies—mutant bugs that give off an electric glow. I blink, then blink again—I'm shaking. My throat hurts, but not nearly as badly as my head. I sit up like a bolt sprung free from a crossbow, slide my hands under my leathers. I feel my chest, my nipples—to my relief, there's two of them. The right one feels a little tender, sore to the touch, but it's nothing compared to the pounding behind my temples. I breathe a long, heavy sigh of relief.

Killián lies on the dirt nearby, hands folded neatly on his chest, eyes closed. There's a ring around his neck, red, almost purple, complete with finger marks from where Lefe choked him out. His breathing is deep, easy—he's still unconscious.

"That was quick," Lefe says. "You were barely out for five minutes."

It felt like much longer. "Should we wake the general?"

"Depends on what he's doing. What happened?"

I'm not talking about it with Lord Lefe—or anyone for that matter. I shrug, fidget with the cuff of my leathers, don't meet his eyes. The prickle on the back of my neck lets me know he's watching me—that's fine.

"He said he was building an altar to the Lady proper," I say at last.

His gaze is still on me—I can feel it. "All went well, then?"

"It was fine." My voice is short, harsh, but I don't care. "Are you going to choke me out again? Send me back there?"

"I'm sure Killián can handle it on his own." Am I imagining it, or is there pity in his voice? I really hope not—I kind of want to hit him. "Rest. Get your breath back. It's over."

I wait for Leómadura's voice to tell me it will never be over, that he'll always have me and I'm damned to go back to that cabin every time I pass out—and spend eternity with him there once I take my final breath. To my surprise, no one answers. My mind remains blank, save for my swirling thoughts of I can't believe that happened and did that actually happen? and damn it, that happened.

Marix? I think, trying to interrupt the shame spiral.

No response.

He hasn't spoken to me since Leómadura died.

I wouldn't say I miss him, but it's strange not having him around.

"What's it like when the titan Baumé talks to you?" I ask Lefe, looking at him at last. He's sitting in the dirt barely two feet from me, clad in black leathers instead of the blue robe he wore to Bathune. His arms are wrapped around his knees, and he's a little slouched—his back curves into a C.

When he speaks, his voice is hard. "Bad."

"Why don't you fight to get your soul back?"

"I have my soul," he says. "Not the issue. Lefe was leveled—mind magic of that variety can never be unwoven. Better Baumé than Genevieve, Lefe thinks. Better Genevieve than the man who leveled Lefe—and that's saying something. Lefe asked Staffmaster Reign if she would be willing to seize his mind once, when he was a young man. She's an incarnate for Lady Fate, and Lefe succeeded her husband—it would've made sense. We tried. She didn't have the strength to defeat a titan. Maybe when she dies, she will save Lefe. Maybe not. Nothing we can do about it while she still breathes."

"Does it help?" I ask. "Referring to yourself as Lefe?"

"You think I'm crazy."

"No," I say, even though I definitely do, and it seems like most of the other people I've talked to agree.

He looks down at his knees. "Lefe is in the time web," he says. "Even without mallow, his mind does not stay still for long. Running through history, possibilities, probable outcomes. Stuck in the past and drawn to the future. Lefe is here with you, having this conversation, but he's also interrogating Baumé. Finding out everything the titan knows about Valenès, the municipal building. Lefe is eavesdropping on a conversation between Lady Death and Lady Love in the Lands of the Dead—Brid Naya'il is after the one who paid off her killer, and Genevieve gave her a riddle to solve. Lefe is in a cathouse, watching a little girl take her first john—she's not much older than Lefe's Eagleamé, and he regrets asking Lady Fate the question. What happened to Akeeva? Bad Lefe—never ask what happened in the time web. He was curious. That's no excuse. It is the night before Eagleamé took her own life, and Lefe is reading her a story—he never leaves the moment, because he knew something was wrong and believed foolishly it would work itself out. He should've read the future, but instead he went to bed, so now he never sleeps. Do you understand?"

"What riddle did Genevieve give Brid Naya'il?" I ask, because I have no idea how to respond to anything else the man said.

"In shadows deep, where secrets prowl," Lefe says. "A coin exchanged, a promised vow. Behind the veil, a father's trust, a lover lies and falls to Lust. A young girl takes her final breath—who would kill the Lady Death?"

"She thinks it was Lady Love?" I rub the back of my neck—it does nothing to subdue the ache in my head. "Adelaide?"

"Accusations fly like deadcrows," Lefe says. "Lefe has his own theory. No, not a theory—he knows, but no one listens. No one ever listens. He walked the web with Akeeva's guidance. Saw the coins change hands."

"Akeeva?" I demand. "You took her into the time web? You guys saw the coins change hands? Who paid off the lancer?"

"You ask dangerous questions."

"All right." I raise a hand. "I have to know. What's going on between you and my sister?"

His eyebrows rise. "Genevieve threw her an orange."

"She didn't catch it."

"It was a near miss."

"So, what?" My cheeks are a little warm, but I push on—this is insane. "That gives her the power to guide you through the effing web?"

"Of course not." He hesitates—his tongue darts out, moistens his lips. "After Lefe and Ko played the mirror game, Lefe couldn't move on. She looks like Alyson. The rest of you don't, but she does. He can feel the Lady Fate within her, see her golden threads. A child of Love and Fate—half Darkbloom, half Amore. That's why Alyson ran away, Lefe thinks—she was pregnant with Achille's child. The timeline works. The bloodline matches. Lefe took Akeeva into the time web to check, and we followed the golden threads to Brid Naya'il. Akeeva was a good guide—a natural, as is her birthright. No riddles, no torture, no Baumé. Just answers. Lady Fate has never worked that way before. Not for Lefe."

I stare at him, wondering if he's lost what's left of his mind.

"Don't tell Segolé," Lefe adds. "If he knew his daughter ended up on L-Street, he would drink until his heart stops. Lefe still needs him. We all do."

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

"No," I say, fighting back the strange desire to grin, to laugh. "You're mucking with me."

"Lefe wants to marry her," he says, dead serious. "She's young, but it's not like that—Lefe will never touch her—but he wants to spend the rest of his life using her as he navigates the web. Does he have your blessing? He's already asked your sisters. Ila was delighted. Felicity cussed him out."

Now I really do laugh—I throw my head back and cackle, the sound tearing at my throat, burning my lungs. It's enough to wake Killián, who groans. He rolls over, pushes himself onto his side, blinks his eyes open. He looks from me to Lefe—I'm still laughing my twisted witch laugh, and Lefe's features are a little hurt—then groans again and rubs his eyes. "It's done," he says to me. "Yosif has your essence—and mine, by the laws of succession. He'll speak to you when he's ready."

Relief hits me like a stronghorse train, but I'm not done laughing yet—not when Lord Lefe, puritanical zealot, raging asexual, just declared he wanted to marry Keev. My Keev, the one who was working for Kolton by the time she was 12, who'd probably taken over 200 johns by the time she was my age, who once told me she'd kill every pimp on L-Street before letting Ila into a cathouse. That's just the tip of this magnificent spear—apparently all four of us are Segolé's grandchildren, Akeeva's the bastard daughter of King Achille—who, according to what I learned from Lady Love when we played the mirror game, is also the crown prince's biological father—and due to the birthrights of divinity or whatever, she's been guiding Lefe through the time web while I've been attending parties and viewing flashbacks from lords and titans. None of this is plausible—none of this is real.

To top it all off, apparently my soul is safe.

"I don't believe you," I tell Lefe at last. "Great story, though—I enjoyed it."

"I assure you—I speak the truth." Killián seems to think my words were directed at him. "I was able to conjure Lady Death—"

"No, that I believe." The laughter finally dies in my throat—I swallow. "Thank you, General. There's no way to repay you for this."

He leans back on his hands, stretches his shoulders. "Do you want to know what happened to him?"

He's not looking at me. I avert my eyes.

"Hel?" I ask.

"Worse."

"Nonexistence?"

"Someday." Killián's voice is mild. "He'll have to earn that."

I never want to talk about this again, not with Killián—especially not with Killián. He's seen too much, or maybe I've seen too much. Either way, I have the sudden desire to get as far away from this tent as I possibly can. I'll never stop owing him—that I know—but I can't face it. Not tonight. I'm too exhausted.

"I'm going to bed," I tell them. "See you in the morning."

"Linden's kipped on the east end of the scrapyard," Killián says. "Want me to walk you there?"

I want to get as far away from him as possible, actually. "I can find it."

"Do you have a sleeping roll?"

"I'll use my jacket."

"The fores have a few spares," he says. "There's a supply station next to the medi-tents. Stop by on your way to Linden's tent."

I leave before he can give me any more unwanted advice—not that it isn't useful, but considering Yosif has my soul, and I'm going to spend the rest of my life serving the Church of Death, I have the strange feeling that no decision I ever make will be my own again. Can't even choose how or where to sleep—everything is an order. From Killián, from Yosif, from Lady Death.

Better than Leómadura owning me.

Worse than being free.

Then again, I was born a Whoreson.

I was never going to be free.

It's only once I've left the cantonment that I realize I never got Lefe to tell me who paid off Brid Naya'il's killer.

###

I get a kit roll from the fores and find Linden's tent—it's the same one we camped in when we were navigating the mountain pass, so he must've had a hunch and brought it to Bathune. I call out to him in a low voice, and he unzips the canvas, eyes bleary in the moonlight and hair disheveled.

"Need a place to sleep?" he asks.

"Got the room?"

"Come on in, brother," he says, and moves aside to let me in. I unroll the kit next to him and slide into the fabric. It's comfortable and warm, but it's a hot evening—I take off the jacket of my leathers, my bracers and shoulder pads, but leave my pants on. I hope they don't smell tomorrow, but I'm not undressing—not completely. Linden climbs back into his roll and flops onto his side. It's dark in the tent, and I can barely see him. The leather case of his lyre is a makeshift headboard, and he's using his kitbag as a pillow. I put my scythe beside his own and lean on one arm, surveying his outline.

"What do you know about Alyson Amore?" I ask.

"Segolé's daughter?" He rolls over to face me, sounding surprised. "Not much. He doesn't talk about her."

"How long ago did she run off?"

"Twenty-one years, give or take."

Keev's twenty—Lefe was right, that timeline works. Could be a coincidence that my mother has the same name as Segolé's daughter. The chances are against them being the same person. I try to remember anything my mother told me about her parents, her life before L-Street, but there's nothing there—a gaping hole where my recollections should be. I have one memory of her slapping me across the face when I spilled some oats on the milk box, another one of opening the curtain to our washroom and finding her with a needle in her arm, and a third of Akeeva tying her to a pipe when she was pregnant with Ila. We kept her there for six months to keep her from working and using, and she spat fire at us the whole time. I got used to it after a while, but it was awful, and I've tried to block out as many of those memories as I can. There's one—only one—from when I was younger, and she gave me a chocolate bar after I came home from school or something. That's the memory I try to focus on whenever I think about her, but it was Akeeva who walked me to class and mended my clothes and taught me Circuit-tongue and Valenèsian and a little French. I guess it makes sense I don't remember her much—she died her first time shooting up after Ila was born, when I was 6. Maybe 7.

"Why do you want to know about her?" Linden asks.

"Do you know what happened?" I ask instead of answering.

"Don't know why she left, but Bard told me what happened to her after," he says. "Killián tracked her down when he felt her spirit depart—she's gone from this world. A shade in Yosif's fields. We think Segolé will make good with her when he finally kicks it, but until then she's just another insentient spirit."

"How long ago was that?" My heart hammers in my chest.

"I didn't ask. Again—why do you care?"

"Just curious about the lanista, I guess."

If he knows I'm lying, he doesn't seem to care. "Segolé had bad luck with his kids," Linden says. "Alyson was always a problem child—her mother died when she was a kid, and Segolé was never around—and the sons he had with Reign didn't amount to much. One's a shoddy almoner in the Second Circuit, and the other two retired on mommy and daddy's money in Five. That's why Segolé likes Lefe so much, I think—say what you will about the mad bastard, but he never stops working."

"Think he was a bad parent?"

"He's a good teacher, but I wouldn't want him as a father. Would you?"

"A bad father is better than no father."

"Say that to Killián—I dare you."

"Fine, fair, I don't know what I'm talking about." I pause. "Do you think Lefe could ever be a good husband?"

He laughs so hard his throat gives out and he starts coughing. "Ko, what the fuck?" he gasps.

"He wants to marry Akeeva."

"You're shitting me."

"Nope."

"You're shitting me."

"I guarantee you, I am not."

"Goddamn." He thinks about it for a long moment. "Well, I can't blame him. Your sister smokes like a torch. I was thinking of making a pass myself—couldn't look away that night she dined with us. Pretty eyes, great smile, nice body."

"Ew. Stop."

"Just saying." He yawns. "Think she'd go for me over Lefe?"

"I can't imagine her with anyone, actually," I say. "She'll probably turn you both down."

"Shame."

"Go to sleep, heathen," I say. "I'm done interrogating you."

"I wrote a song about her. Want to hear it?"

"I told you to go to sleep, damn it."

I close my eyes to the sound of his soft laughter and will the world to be less confusing and chaotic when I wake up.

Wait until you're counseling spirits, speaks a voice in my mind—low, deep, and comforting, although I'm not sure why. You'll never have a moment of peace again.

Yosif? I think, hardly daring to hope.

He doesn't respond, but I can feel him—feel him—smiling. Somehow I know it, although there's no logical sensation or explanation for it. It's just something I feel, like my heartbeat or my breathing or the twang behind my temples.

Rest well, lieutenant. I'll see you in your dreams.