Crier's War

“I never imagined I’d get a chance like this,” she admitted, meeting Rowan’s steady gaze. “I dreamed of being assigned to something inside the palace, but—I thought I’d be in the kitchens, or a nameless maidservant . . . I’m a handmaiden. The handmaiden to Lady Crier herself. It’s got to be a sign.”

“A sign of what?” asked Benjy.

“A sign that—” Ayla dropped her voice even lower. “Killing Crier wouldn’t be true revenge. Not the way I’ve always wanted it. If I want to destroy Hesod, really destroy him . . . I have to kill everything he cares about.”

He huffed, frustrated. “What do you mean?”

“Killing his daughter is one thing, but for Hesod? For men like that, Automa or not, there’s nothing so dear to them as power. Blood and gold and precious stones—it all comes in second to having a seat on the council, command over an army. To having control. The only way to really destroy Hesod is to take away his power.”

“So it’s still about revenge for you,” said Benjy, almost annoyed. “Not revolution.”

Ayla stared at him. How did he not understand? She turned to Rowan, beseeching. “You understand, right?”

“I do.” Rowan reached out to ruffle Benjy’s hair, smiling when he squirmed away, and then she ruffled Ayla’s for good measure. “Benjy, love, this is revolution. The sovereign is the head of the great beast. We all have our own reasons for wanting to cut off the head. All that matters, in the end, is that someone does.”

Kinok. The war hero. Lady Crier’s betrothed.

He’d quelled human rebellions and was responsible for the deaths of many. Still, when dealing with monsters, Ayla almost preferred that kind of frontal attack over Hesod’s insidious tyranny, the way he professed his appreciation for humankind with one breath and ordered massacres with the next. The way he made laws pretending they were for the “good” of humans. Like the one that banned any use of large storage spaces: places where grains or dry goods could be kept for the drought and cold seasons were explicitly banned under the guise of caring for human welfare. Hesod—and the Red Council—said it was because humans might hoard. They might let their food rot and spread disease. But the rebellion knew better. Rowan had told Ayla and Benjy that the Automae were worried that any large storage spaces could be used to meet in secret or hide weapons. And in their fear, they sentenced many families to almost starve to death during the winter seasons.

Self-defense was something Rowan had insisted on teaching them, whether it was with a knife or just their fists. Rowan was a strict but fair teacher. She’d make Ayla and Benjy practice a single move over and over again until their arms were aching, their muscles trembling, the
calluses on their palms split open and bleeding, but she always praised them afterward and rewarded them with a hot, hearty dinner. She rubbed ointment on their sore muscles, tended to the broken skin on their knuckles and palms.

One afternoon, she’d pulled Ayla aside after a particularly brutal round of training left Benjy sulking by the hearth fire, nursing a sprained wrist.

You’re stronger than him, Ayla, Rowan had said. You have to protect him.

At the time, Ayla hadn’t understood. Sure, she was quick and wily, but Benjy was physically much stronger. He won their fights eight out of ten times. What are you talking about? she’d asked. Just yesterday he practically tossed me across the room. My tailbone’s still hurting.

But you got up, said Rowan. You fought three more rounds. And here you are again today, even though you’re in pain. Whereas Benjy . . . She trailed off. I wasn’t talking about physical strength, Ayla. I was talking about resilience. I was talking about how you never, ever stop fighting, no matter how much it hurts.