On This Unworthy Scaffold, Heidi Heilig [best books to read for success .txt] 📗

peering at the carvings, then up at Theodora. “We aren’t really here for the lytheum, are we?”

“Of course we are,” she says. “Le Trépas looted the temple almost two decades ago. Anything he didn’t take, the armée certainly destroyed. Still, it’s interesting. Maybe when this is over, we’ll have time to look for the book. To put it back where it belongs and restore what was lost. Come along!”

“When this is over,” I repeat, my eyes on my feet as I continue upward. I hadn’t given much thought to what would happen after the fight—at least, not in practical terms. My dreams of the future are more like memories of the past: performing with my family, dinners in the comfort of a home that’s long gone. What will Chakrana be like when the war is done? What will I be like? Theodora’s plan to restore the country is a grand vision, but in my mind’s eye, all I can see is our old roulotte, our collection of fantouches, and my family preparing for a show. Will I ever be Jetta of the Ros Nai again, or am I now only a nécromancien?

“Know your enemy,” Le Trépas had written, but suddenly I fear I do not know myself as well as I should. I chew my lip, staring at my feet as we climb. The farther we get from the water, the less algae there is on the steps, and the clearer the lettering becomes. Here and there, I can pick out words. Knowledge, of course, and life, and death. Others take more time to puzzle out—love, truth, and fear—after all, I am still a novice in my studies of old Chakran. But as I stand on the steps, another memory comes: the flicker of firelight, the sound of the drum, and shadows dancing on a scrim. “I know this story,” I mutter, but Theodora’s voice echoes back.

“What was that?”

“I know this story!” I say again, louder this time. But why am I surprised? When the old ways were forbidden, the stories of the gods found new life in the theater. Most shadow plays are versions of myths. “The Keeper and the Liar is carved into the steps!”

“You’ll have to tell me sometime,” she calls. “For now, save your breath for climbing!”

I look up, and curse. How has she already reached the top? I hurry after her, but the steps seem to multiply as I climb. Soon I am sweating from the exertion as well as the pain in my side. I put my hand against my ribs and press onward, but when I finally catch up, I drop the miner’s pack so I can breathe.

Theodora’s brow furrows. “Are you all right?”

“It’s only a stitch,” I say, waving away her concern. My gesture disturbs the souls that have drifted near. The dead are drawn to my blood; the wound must be bleeding again under the bandage. Theodora gives me a look, but she doesn’t bother arguing with me. She takes out her map, pretending to study it while I rest, even though there is only one path ahead.

As my heart slows, a distant sound rises and falls on the breeze. The crash of the waves? The ringing in my ears? No—if I listen close, I can almost pick out a melody. “Do you hear that sound?”

“Over your breathing?” Theodora smiles. “The old stories claim it’s the souls whispering their lives to the Keeper of Knowledge, but I’m fairly sure it’s just the wind in the lava tunnels.”

I return her smile, shaking my head. “How do you know all this?”

“You love performing, but I love learning.” She cocks her head as though to listen to the wind. “Wouldn’t it be something, to listen to everything everyone has ever known?”

The wind rises, as though to answer her question. The hollow song reminds me of the holy chants Papa used to sing sometimes. He’d learned them in his youth, with the other village children who spent the rainy seasons in the monastery, working the fields and learning to read. When I used to imagine the sound of a hundred voices joining his in harmony, it sounded something like the wind does now.

Had the monks carved the tunnels deeper as well, to catch the wind just so? Or had they heard the song in the wild like a miracle and known this was the place to build their temple? And what had drawn Le Trépas here, two decades ago?

Suddenly I have to see it: the temple dedicated to the Keeper of Knowledge. Knowledge, like the message on the dead man’s chest. Grabbing the pack again, I start down the hall, and now it is Theodora hurrying after. “Wait for me!”

We are so close to the surface that the tunnel is more like a rift in the earth, pried open by the water and the wind over the years. Roots and ferns slip through the crack, bringing with them the green, humid scent of the jungle above. By the way the soullight grows steadily brighter, I can tell we’re getting close to the temple. Soon enough, I see the broken remains of a carved lintel, with spirits spilling through the doorway like a beacon. I press forward, eager, but Theodora has fallen behind, looking again at her map. “Come back, Jetta!”

Reluctantly, I turn back to see her standing by a branch in the tunnel, the opening as wide as a hungry mouth. How had I missed it?

“The ashstone is just down this hall,” she says, but I hesitate. The temple is in the other direction.

I press my hand to my ribs again, pretending the stitch is back, though I can hardly feel the pain anymore. “Go on ahead,” I say. “I’ll be right behind you.”

The concern in Theodora’s face almost makes me drop the act. “I can wait.”

“It’s all right,” I say quickly. Then I shrug off the miner’s pack. “I just need a minute. The pack is so heavy.”

“I can carry it for you—”

“No need,”