CHAPTER 13
Our Past Lives
Audacity. That was what the Book called it. She had the audacity to believe she’d changed Palo Kanta’s future, even though she’d been wrong. She hadn’t tapped into the power of the Scribes; she’d just used Manipulation, like she’d done countless times now.
But despite her failures, despite her misinterpretations, she still had the audacity to believe she could change Archer’s future. She was her father’s daughter, after all.
Of course Lon had tried to master Alteration, the power of the Scribes. Of course the fact that they’d erased themselves and all their magic from history hadn’t deterred him.
Of course he’d tried to save Mareah.
Just like Sefia was trying to save Archer.
Laden with treasure, the Current and the Crux sailed past Steeds and began the voyage back to the Central Sea to rendezvous with the bloodletters and the other refugees from the attack on Epigloss while Sefia began to study Lon’s efforts. With the Book open before her, she researched his breakthroughs, his techniques, following his progress up and down the pages of the Book as he pursued Alteration with a single-mindedness Sefia recognized in herself.
Using the Book was a risk, she knew, but she had to believe she could defeat it before it defeated her.
As the days passed and they skirted the northern coast of Liccaro, she began to see the Illuminated world as the Scribes must have seen it—as her father must have seen it.
The lower levels of Illumination—the Sight, Manipulation, Transformation, even Teleportation—dealt only with the currents and tides of the Illuminated world. For that magic, Sefia could draw her hands through the light and it would respond like streams of water or threads in an endless tapestry, flowing and bending around her fingers in constant movement, but there were limits to that power, physical laws she could not break.
But the Scribes had also understood and controlled the most fundamental components of the Illuminated world, not the great cascades and shifting tides but the individual motes of light, linked together in fine strands that, in turn, joined and changed and split apart again like swallows in flight.
“Erastis said the Book was a living story, but he was wrong,” she told Archer excitedly as they sat across from each other on the bunk one night. “The Scribes knew that. Nothing you do to the Book changes the real world. The Illuminated world is the living story. The Illuminated world is where you can make a difference. Every second, it’s changing, the way the sea changes with rain or glacier runoff or the passage of a minnow.”
“And you think the power of the Scribes can change our future?”
“It already changed the future once, when they erased themselves and the written word. They created this future.”
Archer’s fingers went to his throat, grazing the scar that marked him as the boy from the legends. “But you said they killed millions of people to do that.”
“That was different. They were altering the entire world. I just want to change one thing.” Sefia looked up at him, and she couldn’t help the tremor in her voice when she said the next words. “You live.”
His expression softened, and he crawled across the bed, taking her in his arms. “I will.”
“I know,” she said into his chest. “I’ll make sure of it.”
Her access to the Illuminated world was still weak, sputtering out when she least expected it, so she started small, at first, with grains of rice.
Placing one in her palm, she’d summon the Sight, and the Illuminated world would come flooding over her, bringing visions of glassy green fields, the swish of rice stalks in the wind, the rhythmic movements of human hands plunging beneath the surface, planting new shoots.
But she’d try to ignore all this. Instead, she’d focus on all the light contained in a single grain of rice, all the coiled filaments, branching and crossing, and then she’d look closer—she’d look deeper—until she could see each particle of light, distinct as drops of water on a black slate.
Her father had taken months to master this deep form of seeing.
Sefia did it in a week.
Soon she could stand on deck while the snow came down, watching the sparkling motes of the Illuminated world shift and dance around her with every flurry.
She was certain that if only she could look closer, if only she could sharpen her Sight, she’d see something else, something more, in each brilliant particle.
But not yet.
Until her Illumination strengthened again and she could attempt the Scribes’ actual powers, she could only practice honing her vision.
And she practiced on Archer. At night, she studied him, all of him—the hard muscles, the fading scars, the memories he bared to her like wounds—and in the Illuminated world he was brilliant, beautiful, an entire ocean of gold blazing before her eyes.
She saw the abuse he’d endured. She saw the pain he’d inflicted. She saw the day the messenger arrived to tell the family his father had died in service to the Royal Navy. She saw him make love to another girl for the first time. And she saw Kaito Kemura—over and over—fighting, drinking, talking, dying.
She kissed the nicks on his knuckles and ran the tip of her tongue along the scars on his shoulders. She held him and watched him and waited for the opportunity to rewrite his destiny and change the trajectory of his future.
A little over two weeks after they left the Trove, Archer finally saw the Brother again, in the icy waters off the Gorman Islands, battling the Alliance.
The bloodletters and the two outlaw brigs had closed ranks around the four Oxscinian merchant vessels, protecting the civilians as six blue warships circled them like sharks, their cannons taking bite after bite out of the refugees from Epigloss.
The bloodletters were in trouble.
His bloodletters.
As the Current and the Crux barreled down on them, Archer watched an Alliance vessel with a vulture for a figurehead draw up alongside the Brother. He saw the boarding ladders go slamming into the bloodletters’ rails and the soldiers in blue uniforms flood from one ship to the other. In the distance, he could see Scarza’s silver hair in the melee, the bloodletters obeying his every order.
Buckling on his new revolver, Archer turned to Sefia, touching his temple. Can you get me there?
She shook her head. “My magic isn’t strong enough to teleport yet.”
There was a distant battle cry: We were dead—Archer’s heart thundered in response—but now we rise. He had to get to them. With a frustrated growl, he ripped his gaze from the Brother. “Can you get us to the bloodletters, Cap?” he called.
“Nah, kid.” Reed pointed to the Alliance ship locked to the Brother’s decks by the boarding ladders. “But we can get you there.”
Archer grinned as Sefia strapped on her knives and sleeping darts. “Good enough.”
While the crew of the Current manned their rifles and loaded their cannons, Frey dashed toward them with two grapples slung over her shoulders.
“Aljan?” Sefia asked. The boy had had his sutures removed, but Doc hadn’t cleared him for battle yet.
Frey handed Archer a length of rope. “He told us to make those bonesuckers pay.”
Yes. Yes. At last, an enemy he could fight. Not like fate. Not like the future. This was an enemy he could feel bleed.
He, Sefia, and Frey raced to the rail as the Current neared the Alliance ship. The outlaws’ great guns boomed. The blue vessel splintered. The vulture figurehead screamed.
“Sefia, can you—” Archer began, gesturing to the Alliance’s rigging.
She blinked; her pupils constricted to points of darkness in her brown eyes. “Already ahead of you.”
The Current of Faith plunged into the troughs. Archer and Frey flung their grapples, ropes uncoiling in their hands.
Lifting her arms, Sefia steered the hooks into the rigging of the Alliance ship. Around them, the crew of the Current cheered.
Mounting the rail, Archer grabbed Sefia by the waist. Her hands locked around his neck.
“Ready?” he murmured.
She nodded.
Then they jumped. They were soaring through the air, clutching their grappling lines, over the smoke and shrapnel, dropping lightly onto the Alliance decks.
Archer leapt in among the soldiers, shooting, as Sefia thrust them back like leaves before the wind. Frey was with them, agile as a cat with her new switchblades flashing in her hands. Archer picked up a fallen sword, and together they carved their way through the enemy.
Across the boarding ladders.
Onto the deck of the Brother, where Scarza and the other bloodletters closed in around him in perfect formation, as if no time or distance had ever come between them.
He was home.
With his bloodletters.
Their opponents fell, one after another—gutted, hamstrung, with broken arms and shattered kneecaps. Blood splashed the tips of his boots.
Around him, the cannons thundered. Smoke billowed across the decks. The Alliance soldiers were many, but they were no match for the deadly skill of his bloodletters.
Over the din of battle, he heard Keon’s voice, full of relief and joy: “I can’t believe you really came!”
And Sefia’s: “I couldn’t abandon you again.”
As Archer glanced toward them, grinning, he saw it—an Alliance ship was sailing toward them at full sail, picking up speed every second.
It was going to ram them. The Brother was going to buckle.
“Sefia!” Archer shouted, pointing. “The boarding ladders!”
With a nod, she lifted her hands. One after another, the boarding ladders popped into the air and fell, splintering, into the sea.
The Brother was free.
“Griegi, Keon, the helm!” The boys raced to the wheel, hauling the ship to starboard. Groaning, they began to turn.
But the oncoming Alliance vessel was too fast.
With the wind in her hair, Sefia braced herself against the bow, facing down the big blue ship. Her hands clenched at the air. Sweat glistened at her temples. Every muscle in her body seemed to go taut.
The foremast of the Alliance ship shuddered. The sails trembled.
But they were still coming.
“Bloodletters, to Sefia!” Archer shouted, dashing toward her.
At his command, Frey and the boys surrounded their sorcerer in a protective ring—parrying, stabbing, firing as the blue-uniformed soldiers converged on them. Archer felt his blade slide through ligaments and tendons, saw his bullets burst through flesh and bones. Alliance bodies fell around them like moths falling to flame.
Then, with a great scream, Sefia pulled, yanking at the air, and the mast of the Alliance ship came toppling down, yards snapping, sails deflating, crashing into the water as the Alliance soldiers scrambled for cover.
The Brother turned. The oncoming ship slowed, missing their hull by mere feet, and floundered into the open water.
With the Alliance ship out of the way, Archer saw that a fleet of strange white-hulled ships had joined the Crux and the Current in battle against the enemy. Black-and-white flags flew from their yardarms, displaying ravens, whales, bears, and all other manner of northern creatures.
Gormani? Archer wondered. Maybe Kaito’s old province hadn’t joined the Alliance with the rest of Deliene after all.
Aboard the Brother, Archer and the bloodletters continued fighting. They killed and maimed and fought until the soldiers, seeing the new white ships chase off three Alliance vessels and take the others captive, laid down their weapons and laced their hands behind their heads.
“Did you find your peace, brother?” Scarza asked, clasping his arm in welcome.
Archer swallowed. “Not yet.”
He had Scarza see to the prisoners as he went to Sefia, shaking and exhausted at the bow. “Are you okay?” he asked as he helped her sit.
“Didn’t think I’d topple that mast in time. Not something I can do every day.” She looked up at him with red-veined eyes and wiped a trail of blood from her nose. All of a sudden he was aware of the stickiness of his hands. The blood spatter on his face and clothing. “Are you okay?”
Yes.
No. He was different. He was hungry again, hungrier than he’d been since the fight with Serakeen, for battle, for slaughter, for more.
But before he could answer, Frey and the boys took up a chant. “Chief! Chief! Chief!” Turning, he saluted them with a grin.
While they broke out kegs of ale and washcloths for the worst of the blood on their faces and hands, the new white ships sent boats to the Current for a meeting. Archer supposed he could have joined them, as leader of the bloodletters, but he wanted nothing more than to sit with Sefia, Frey, and the boys and listen to stories of what had happened since they were separated.
They were all on their second or third drinks—with the exception of Griegi and Keon, who were asleep in each other’s arms—when a boat pulled up to the Brother and a woman with loose black curls and green eyes climbed over the rail, followed by a contingent of what appeared to be officers in thick black cloaks.
Captain Reed was up last, his blue eyes finding Archer as he introduced the woman: “Chief Oshka Kemura.”
But Archer hadn’t needed to be told. He knew that broad face. He knew those eyes, like slivers of glass. He knew that posture, so full of pride it bordered on arrogance.
Kaito’s mother. Chief of her clan.
The bloodletters stood, shifting uneasily as she raked them with her gaze. Out of the corner of his eye, Archer saw Sefia stagger to her feet.
“Which one of you is in charge?” Chief Kemura said.
Archer stepped forward, keenly aware of being drenched in other people’s blood.
She was fast—fast as her son had been and just as deadly. In less than a second, she slammed Archer to the deck and had her knife at his throat, digging into his scar.
“Archer.” Her voice was a growl. “Chief of the bloodletters.”
It took everything he had not to fight back. Not to take her blade and snap her wrist. Not to kill her in half a dozen different ways.
Sefia raised her hand. The bloodletters leapt forward to haul the woman off him. Chief Kemura’s officers went for their weapons.
Reed drew the Singer, the revolver cold and blue in the winter sun. “Chief,” he said, “you told me you’d play nice.”
Archer stayed them all with a shake of his head. He felt the edge of Oshka Kemura’s knife draw blood. With a shrug, Captain Reed holstered his weapon again.
“Is it true?” Kaito’s mother asked, ignoring the others. “You killed my son?”
Archer closed his eyes. The legends must have reached her in Gorman, then.
Archer, chief of the bloodletters, had fought his own lieutenant, a Gormani boy with green eyes, on the shores of a flooded quarry.
Archer, chief of the bloodletters, had killed his own lieutenant, his friend, his brother, in a flooded quarry, far from the north.
He opened his eyes. “Yes,” he whispered.
Did she know about the gun, the rain, the regret and resignation on Kaito’s bruised face? The burst of blood as Archer’s bullet struck him between the eyes?
Did she know he’d loved him?
Did it matter?
He’d taken her boy.
“I’m sorry.” The words felt thick in his throat.
“You’re sorry?” She laughed in his face. Her tears struck his cheeks. “You’re sorry? You’re sorry?”
Archer swallowed. He could let her slit his throat right now. He could let her take all his nightmares away, and Kaito would never again visit him in the dead of night, telling him how ruined he was.
But Archer didn’t want to die.
He grabbed her knife hand and twisted, flipping her off him. He was on his feet before anyone else could react, slipping the blade from her grasp and holding it to the back of her neck as he forced her to her knees.
He could kill her. A little pressure and he’d sever her spine.
“I loved him,” Archer said. He could feel Sefia, Reed, the bloodletters, and the Gormani officers all watching him, ready to act. But no one moved.
Chief Kemura was laughing, each breath strained, as she fought his grip. “You’ve got a lot to learn, Archer, chief of the bloodletters. Your love? Your remorse? Your good intentions? They don’t matter if your actions do more harm than good.”
Archer blinked. His fingers loosened on her wrist, and she rolled to her feet, where her officers closed around her.
What was he doing? Threatening Kaito’s mother? How—?
He stumbled back, shaking his head. It was happening again. He was becoming that boy again—the one who’d killed Kaito, the one who’d gotten Frey and Aljan captured—hungry for violence, for victory, for the kill.
For months, he’d been fine. He’d been fine, even after fighting the enforcers in Jahara. Why was this different?
You weren’t leading anyone, he thought. You weren’t a commander, a chief.
But his bloodletters had been in trouble. And he hadn’t been able to stop himself.
He hadn’t wanted to stop himself. Because he wanted to be their chief. Besides being loved by Sefia, being their chief was the greatest honor he’d ever experienced.
It also made him someone he didn’t want to be.
The boy who killed his friends.
The boy who would conquer a world.
In a flash, all the faces of his victims flickered before his eyes: Oriyah, Argo, the candidates from the cage fights, the impressors, the robbers, the rancher girl, Versil, Kaito, the boys whose names he hadn’t even known when they were killed under his command.
Shaking, he extended Chief Kemura’s knife to her, handle first. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “If I could, I would bring him back.”
She took the blade, glaring up at him with those familiar eyes. “There are many things you cannot take back, Archer, chief of the bloodletters. Death is only one of them.”