Chronicles of a Falling Empire [Bloodstained, Bloodshed]

War fights for peace, that much is true
but darling, if you only knew
she raises when the dealer deals
taking souls with bloodstained steals.

"The Soul Trade," Verse four

Can't breathe, can't breathe, can't breathe. I awaken, still falling. Panicked, disoriented, thrashing. White lights flash behind closed eyelids. A hand clamps over my jaw, pinching my nostrils shut. My hand finds its way to a small, skinny wrist. I squeeze. Fingernails penetrate flesh. Sharp squeals pierce the air.

"Ow, ow, okay, ow!" Brid releases me. "No need for kitty claws. Zounds."

I sit up and gasp for air. Brid lights the candelabra, sits on the end of my bed, and smooths the skirt of her finishing school dress. Knotted tight in the chest and waist, it flares out around her arms and legs. An embroidered shawl fastens around her neck, and her hair is coiffured with a beaded clip. The outfit makes her look equal parts little girl and old lady.

"Wake up and smell the corpse-rot." She snaps her fingers in my direction. "Do you know about lex desert? Lefe, Audrin, and Da were in the war room all night discussing your abandonment of Loss! It seems we've reached unprecedented levels of FUBAR—not that I eavesdropped! I couldn't sleep with all the yelling."

"They know about that?" The idea that my dream could've been more than just a dream is disconcerting. I don't know much about magic, or First Circuit rituals and tradition, or any of that stuff. It never came up on L-Street. "What time is it?"

"Time to talk politics!" she says. "Lex desert—punishment for those who leave their church. Tell me what you know. Otherwise I'll bore you to death with details."

I rub circles on my temples and try to get my bearings. Pierre Marie's overview of the deserter's law was brief and left me with a confusing takeaway. The codes seemed somewhere between superstitious and downright occult—morally dubious would be putting it nicely. She didn't answer my follow-up questions, and I had lots. Even if my eyes weren't crusty, I wouldn't be able to offer an adequate summary.

"If you pledge yourself to a church, you're not allowed to leave," I say. "You have to obey your Lady—her incarnate, her titan, and her father The God King—for eternity. Extenuating circumstances notwithstanding—the last pardon was issued because a highborn follower of War became a vampire or something, and her family said she could no longer fight for peace. She was shuttered into the church of Loss with other hellspawn."

Brid bursts into raucous giggles.

"Sorry," she says when she calms down. "Your accent made it sound like you said vampire."

I nudge her off the bed and fold the sheets. "Lady Death is your aunt, but you draw the line at vampires?"

"My aunt is an incarnate, not Lady Death herself." She grabs two corners and helps me fold. "Think of Brid Naya'il as a nice cardigan, one of many in Lady Death's closet. She can appear as Brid Naya'il—or any living or dead incarnate—at whim. But because Auntie B's in a different world, when we see her from the lands of the living we can assume she's acting as Death. Of course, Da can summon Auntie B by snapping his fingers—that's why she's our known incarnate. It's a perk of being her lord."

"So…you don't believe in vampires?"

"Fourth-world indigene are better left in Hel," she says. "They're Loss's subjects, not Death's, so Da can't conjure them. I believe in larvae, though—hellspawn. Bard went through an Araeda phase last year. Daemon mistress, deadly seductress, incarnate to War before she turned—you know the lass. I believe she's the one you're thinking of when you said vampire, but she was turned by a succubus. Da threatened to burn Bard's books. We have enough demons to wrangle without inviting new ones into our lives, he said. Bard was all like, bold words from the man who moved Médéric into our guest house, which sidetracked the argument. Da parried with my father, my palazzo, my decision. If you think that declaration went well for him—spoiler alert! —it did not."

Her vocal mimicries are eerily accurate. She hits the marks for Killián and Bardic down to their micro expressions and Bard's right eyebrow twitch. I'm impressed. Alongside Valenèsian, Circuit-tongue, and a smattering of French words, I left the cathouse fluent in gossip. She's got a knack for it.

"Did they work it out?" I ask.

"They compromised," she says. "Bard got to pick a city for the annual family getaway—we went to Sojoz. Da got to sleep on the divan until he finished reading Araeda Sightings in the Lands of the Living. Unabridged in its entirety. Took him a week."

"She's the last deserter who was pardoned?"

"So they say," Brid confirms. "The Septemvirate will burn you at the stake if lex desert is invoked. More pressing than larvae, don't you think?"

My legs swing out of bed. "Did you say they'll burn me at the—stake?"

"Get dressed," Brid says. "I'll meet you outside."

It's 0430. The window is dark behind the curtain. Disoriented and worried, I don my leathers and leave Jebah's nightclothes on the pillow. I repack my kitbag and grab the scythe Killián gave me last night—the metallite is warm to the touch. I touch it reverently, and the maxims gleam up at me.

Se battre comme le Diable.

With everything I've got.

After I strap it to my back and lug my kitbag over my shoulder, I find Brid waiting for me outside the chamber. She leads me past the washroom and down another set of corridors. We enter another dinette, this one bisected by a marble counter. A food preparation area features multiple coalpots, a few cabinets, and an icebox. The table is lined on one side by a window bench with plush pillows.

At the counter, Killián lies fatty strips of meat across a coalpot. Bard—clad in his signature healer's cassock—is brewing herbs in a teapot. Multiple newspapers are spread across the counter. Killián flips the closest one over as I approach.

"How did you sleep?" Brid grabs Killián's sleeve and yanks hard.

Killián lifts her off the ground with one arm. "I didn't."

Her giggle upticks into a squeal. "Why not?"

"I was working, Briddy. Eat your breakfast and go to school."

Killián sets her down and nudges two plates in her direction—buttered toast, potatoes, steaming pork. Brid sticks out her tongue but takes the dishes to the table. I stay where I am.

"Drink this." Bardic circumvents Killián and hands me a cup of aromatic tea. "How are you feeling?"

Yesterday I woke up from a chemically induced coma. Today Brid suffocated me to consciousness before the sun rose. Now I have to go back to L-DAW and face the life I ran away from—on five hours of sleep. Tomorrow better bring some peaches and sunshine. That's how I'm feeling.

"I'm fine," I say. "Totally fine. Mostly fine. Brid says I'm getting burned at the stake?"

"I said you might get burned at the stake," Brid says through a mouthful of potato. "If lex desert is invoked by a member of the Septemvirate. Which it will be."

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"No one's getting burned at the stake." The shadows under Killián's eyes are dark as kohl lines. "Brid, do not eavesdrop on my private conversations and present misinformation as fact. Today's vote in the Septemvirate is a preliminary screening. It's an official poll, not a trial, and there will be an appeal."

Somehow he was there, in that courtroom—I know that, but still can't fathom how.

"If you didn't sleep, how'd you get to the God King's court?" I ask.

"I smoked malloweed and walked the time web," he says. "As did Lefe. And Audrin…allegedly."

"There must be plenty of deserters out there," I say. "Why am I being targeted by the Septemvirate?"

"It was a very public desertion, and three Ladies have taken a vested interest in you," Killián says. "We pick and choose our cases, and no matter how this matter is settled, the church of Love will take offense. Whoresons are not meant to leave their caste."

Well, that's just great. "I see the perks of secularism," I say.

Killián looks at me like I've dropkicked a kitten.

"I know that you are a self-centered child too absorbed in your own angst to spare theocratic mores an afterthought," he says. "But if you think you are popular in the Septemvirate, you're gravely mistaken. Do not become a secularist."

"It was a good decision to switch your allegiance to Death." Bard sips from a mug and adds more herbs. "The last thing we need is for you to start conjuring larvae. Loss is one hell of a Lady."

Indeed she is. Marix's voice, inside my mind. As for conjuring larvae…we'll get there.

I wonder if I should tell Killián I'm still hearing Marix.

"Eat," Killián tells me, and it sounds like an order.

I join Brid on the window bench. She slides the second plate in my direction and mouths ask Bard about vampires. It's enough to make me smile. The pork is rich—tough and hard to chew, but warm in an empty stomach. After a few minutes Miro stumbles into the dinette, bleary eyed and dressed in red sleepwear. Killián gives him a plate and Miro joins Brid and me at the table. If he's surprised I'm still here, he doesn't show it. Bard distributes tea to the twins—the brews are different colors—and sits across from me.

Killián stays at the counter, flipping between the newspapers while he eats. A pair of spectacles roost on his nose. He's dressed in combat leathers, and the elites' signature feathered cloak is fastened at the collarbone. I didn't get the matching garment with my black leathers or scythe—not that I want one. The feathered texture reminds me of a fairytale Akeeva told me when I was a kid. The Dog Lady might own a similar garment if she plucked crows instead of skinned puppies.

I've finished half my plate before anyone speaks.

"Eat quickly," Killián says. "Segolé's meeting you three at the guard tower at 0450."

"I'd rather walk than catch his two-horse chaise," Miro says. "Anyway, I'm going back to bed. Study hall doesn't start for three hours. Why'd you wake me up?"

"Because I know my children." Killián doesn't look up from the newspaper. "If I let you make the trip sans lanista, Brid would find herself on the frontline. You would awaken in a library with no memory of how you got there. Ergo, everyone will take the chaise and no more will be said about it."

More is said about it, almost immediately. Brid picks at her toast. "I don't see why we have to go to school," she says. "It's the Friday before Veneer break."

"You aren't skipping," Killián says.

"I took the liberty of looking up your unders records in the Knowledge Center. You ditched all the time."

Killián's pen moves across the journal page, meticulous and controlled. "Explain to me how that is relevant."

The severity of his tone would shut me up, but Brid isn't deterred.

"We're wrapping up an etiquette unit in preparation for the week of festivals," she says. "My budding intellect will survive the absence."

At long last, Killián looks up from the newspaper. "Brid, you're going to school today."

She pouts and turns to me. "Are you going home to Valenès?"

I was vaguely aware that my time on the frontline—and eight days in the medi-center—shot me back just in time for the spring hols, but this is the first time I'm facing the realization directly. We never celebrated Veneer Week on L-Street—I can't see myself honoring it here. I missed three weeks of grunt session. As far as I'm concerned, I'll be catching up on coursework until they tie me to a stake.

"No reason to go home," I say. "My sisters have all moved in with Lefe, apparently."

Brid takes the 'sisters moving in with Lefe aside without question, which is baffling. I certainly can't wrap my head around it. I make a note to visit Akeeva as soon as school gets out today. Ila and Felicity too, but especially Keev. If there's anyone who can make sense of all that's happened in the past few weeks, it's her.

"Are you shadowing Da with us next week, then?" Brid asks.

"He'll be shadowing me alone." Killián slides into the seat at the head of the table, abandoning his plate and newspaper. "Bard's parents have agreed to watch you both during the workday, starting Monday."

Miro and Brid break into vehement protests. Bardic sits across from me and offers a pleasant smile amid a two-voice chorus of Why are you ruining our lives? Even with the threat of execution hanging over my head, this breakfast feels very different from the skulls-in-the-guestroom reception I was treated to last night. Sitting with the four of them forces me to grapple with the idea of a nuclear family—real people going about their lives in the First Circuit. The di Vivars are functioning members of society as well as leaders of a death cult. It's easy to forget.

"We aren't sending you to the gallows," Bardic tells the twins. "You love my parents."

"That's not the point," Brid says. "Lucian's shadowing his father in all the kingly duties, and Coraline's doing the same with the Lord of Hope—she'll be privy to all Galtero's meetings! I don't want to play marblesticks with a bedridden Lord of War while Grandmother Aurore calls me skinny and stuffs cake down my throat."

"You paint the image of a cruel and unusual childhood." The lines on Killián's face are trenches, and the bags below his eyes slash like scythes. "How will I sleep at night, knowing I've sentenced you to such a fate?"

"I honestly don't know." Brid downs the rest of her tea. "I thought you loved me."

"A foolish and shortsighted conclusion, mon ange," he says, and that's that.

###

Miro goes to change and returns to the dinette in a mint Ivo Lorsan sweater—I compliment him on it, and his thin lips press into a smile. Brid leads our procession to a spiral staircase. The steps shoot us into the parlor, and we make our way to the gatehouse. It's a warm, damp morning. Spring is quickly blossoming, and the first rays of sunlight are already kissing the Pinenuts. As we cross the drawbridge, I look around the gardens and breathe in the stench of flowers.

I came back to the First Circuit. I'm staying, even if the deck is rigged against me.

I'm going back to L-DAW.

Brid falls in beside me and follows where my gaze has turned. Upwards.

"Lore says the stars are Lady Love's apples," she says. "After the titan L'Angly died—or maybe before he was born—he stalked his lady through the Fjords. Nabbed her as she was tending the orchard. She dropped her basket, the apples fell through the cosmos, and their golden glow became our stars."

"Is lore ever pleasant?" I ask.

"The Book of Snakes says stars are celestial objects that emit light from nuclear reactions," Miro says. "It's complex astronomy—Bard gets it, I don't—but they're not apples."

"The apples are a metaphor," Brid says.

"For what?" Miro asks.

"Dunno," she says. "Freewill. Humanity. Sex. Ask Lanista Segolé."

"People always say it's a metaphor when they talk Testament," Miro complains. "At the end of the day, it doesn't matter. I want an explanation for why Lady Death keeps mucking up my prospects. Auntie Brid set the Dame Tachi up with Einar before I could ask her to be my festival date. Then Yosif had the audacity to go dark. Who's going to help me court her now?"

"Your social life is Lady Death's ultimate priority in these trying times," Brid says haughtily. "Uncle Jeb challenged Da to a death duel, but you want to get your hand under Tachi's sweater. That takes precedent."

"I'm going to die sonless and alone."

"I'll buy you a cat."

By the time we make it to the guardhouse, it's at least 0445. Segolé is leaning against the stonework, cane in hand. The torches on either side of the posts are lit, and he's smoking a pipe.

"Raise the gate," he tells Miro, and to Brid: "Go get the horses from the stables."

Once the gate has been raised, Segolé teaches me how to prepare the horses and check the harnesses for damage and wear. The chaise is parked adjacent to the gatehouse—attaching it to the two steeds Brid fetched is a matter of securing bridles and lines. The chaise is divided into two boxes—the driver's bench, which Segolé clambers into, and the coach box. I start to climb into the carriage with Brid and Miro, but Segolé clicks his tongue and pats the bench beside him.

"You and I need to have a chat, Diable," he says.

I hop up beside him. He snaps the reigns, and the two steeds lurch forward.

It's only once we've rolled through the gate and across the drawbridge I remember:

I forgot to move the skulls out of the closet.