“That’s awful,” I said. We were almost back by then. “Do you believe it?”
“I know they also died in the Citadel. I saw them dropping out of the skies myself. Others will tell you the same.” He brushed at his eyes, then looked up at me. “I’d give a deal to see a butterfly while we’re out on that playing field. Just one. But I suppose they’re all gone.”
“No,” I said. “I’ve seen them. A lot of them.”
He took my arm, his grip surprisingly strong for a little man—although if the Fair One came, I didn’t think the doc would last much longer than Hamey. “Is that the truth? Do you swear it?”
“Yes.”
“On your mother’s name, now!”
One of our guards looked back, frowning, and made a threatening gesture with his limber stick before facing forward again.
“On my mother’s name,” I said, keeping it low.
The monarchs weren’t gone, and neither were the Galliens—not all, at least. They had been cursed by whatever power now lived in Elden—the same power that had reduced the closer suburbs to rubble, I assumed—but they were alive. I didn’t tell Freed that, though. It might have been dangerous for both of us.
I thought of Woody’s story about Hana chasing the remains of his family to the city gates, and how she had swatted off the head of Woody’s nephew Aloysius. “When did Hana come? Why did she come, if the giants live in the north?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know.”
I thought that perhaps Hana had been on a visit to the home folks in Cratchy when Mr. Bowditch made his last gold-getting expedition, but there was no way to tell. He was dead, and as I say, Empisarian history was hazy.
That night I lay awake a long time. I wasn’t thinking about Empis, or the butterflies, or the Flight Killer; I was thinking about my father. Missing him and worrying about him. For all I knew, he might think I was as dead as my mother.
3
Time slipped away unmarked and uncounted. I gathered my little crumbs of information, although for what purpose I wasn’t sure. Then one day we came back from a practice slightly more arduous than the others had been lately, to find a bearded man a lot bigger than either me, Dommy, or Iota, in Iota’s cell. He was dressed in muddy short pants and an equally muddy striped shirt, the sleeves cut off to show slabs of muscle. He was squatting on his hunkers in the corner, knees up around his ears, as far from the blue presence also occupying the cell as he could get—the blue presence being the Lord High.
Kellin held up one hand. The gesture was almost lackadaisical, but the pair of night soldiers leading us stopped at once and stood at attention. We all stopped. Jaya was beside me that day, and her hand crept into mine. It was very cold.
Kellin stepped out of Eye’s cell and looked us over. “My dear friends, I would like you to meet your new compatriot. His name is Cla. He was found on the shore of Lake Remla after his little boat sprang a leak. He nearly drowned, didn’t you, Cla?”
Cla said nothing, only looked at Kellin.
“Answer me!”
“Yes. I almost drowned.”
“Try again. Address me as Lord High.”
“Yes, Lord High. I almost drowned.”
Kellin turned back to us. “But he was rescued, my dear friends, and as I’m sure you can see, there is not a bloom of gray anywhere on him. Just dirt.” Kellin tittered. It was an awful sound. Jaya’s hand tightened on mine. “Introductions aren’t common in Deep Maleen, as you no doubt know, but I felt my new dear friend Cla warranted one, because he is our thirty-second guest. Isn’t that wonderful?”
No one said anything.
Kellin pointed at one of the night soldiers at the head of our unlucky procession, then at Bernd, who was in front beside Ammit. The night soldier hit Bernd in the neck with his stick. Bernd screamed, went to his knees, and clapped his hand over an ooze of blood. Kellin bent toward him.
“What is your name? I won’t apologize for having forgotten. There are so many of you.”
“Bernd,” he choked. “Bernd of the Cita—”
“No such place as the Citadel,” Kellin said. “Not now and not ever again. Just Bernd will do. So tell me, Bernd of Nowhere At All, is it wonderful that King Elden, the Flight Killer, now has thirty-two? Answer up loud and proud!”
“Yes,” Bernd said. Blood dripped between his clutching fingers.
“Yes what?” And then, as if teaching a small child to read, “Won… won… won…？ Loud and proud, now!”