Crier's War (Crier's War, #1)

by Nina Varela

This belief had no roots in the study of Organics, as it is known now that humans can create more of their kind in almost any setting, sprouting new life whether it is invited or not, much like weeds.

She was Made for this.

It is the duty of the Midwife to ensure that the inner workings of the new-Made Commission have been Made correctly and without Flaw.

It is the duty of the Midwife to place the continued existence of the new-Made Commission above their own.

It was like a ghost. Like a pale fish in dark water, flickering at the edges of Ayla’s vision.

Nothing mattered until she got inside. And she’d vowed to do so to exact her revenge—even if it killed her.

But now Ayla stared out at the marketplace, at the crowd of sleek, beautiful Automae—leeches—and tried to keep the hatred and disgust off her face.

For humans, possessing a Made object was forbidden, as Made objects were the work of alchemy and considered dangerous, powerful.

Perhaps they didn’t like any reminder that they, too, were once treated like trinkets and playthings.

But more than that, it was the way they looked carved from stone, indestructible. It was the way their skin stretched over their hand-designed muscles and bones. Like it could barely keep all the monster inside.

Forget that they were once merely the pets and playthings of human nobility.

“You’re not alone anymore. I can give you something to fight for, child. I can give you a purpose.” “A purpose?” Ayla had said. Her voice was weak, scraped out. “Justice,” said Rowan. And she squeezed Ayla’s hands.

the Automa belief in modeling their society after human behavior, as though humans were a long-lost civilization from which they could cherry-pick the best attributes to mimic. Family was important to Sovereign Hesod, or so he and his council preached.

Justice was a god, and Ayla didn’t believe in such childish things. She believed in blood.

Kinok had mentioned the scandal a week ago, during their Hunt, and yet she’d kept it to herself.

The subterranean jewel, carefully mined, was the source of the Automae’s strength. It ran through their veins, their inner workings, not like human blood but like ichor, the blood of the old gods in all the human storybooks. Something closer to magick, alchemy, than anything natural.

It felt like playing human.

Human culture had been, after all, the basis of stabilization across Rabu: Organization, System, Family. Hesod’s core values. We must never forget, he said, that for thousands of years the kings of this land were all human. And the human kings began their days with tea.

Crier’s father had made great efforts to coexist peacefully with the humans of Zulla.

Even in wild Tarreen, Hesod had attempted to preserve the humans’ way of life wherever possible. He fostered a genuine appreciation for their food, their music, their strange ceremonies; he found all of it very entertaining, and Hesod loved to be entertained.

“Remember, you can trust me. We are on the same side.”

Her father said he did not completely understand all the different forms of human love, but that he had thought carefully about it and that perhaps, beyond his fascination with their history, their little cultures, he did love humans. In his own way. Like how they loved dogs, he said, enough to feed them scraps of meat.

In this blueprint—only this one—there were five. Inside the Design of Crier’s mind was another little column drawn in deep-blue ink. A fifth pillar. Passion, it was labeled. Passion.

Like she was more than a human girl. Like she was a summer storm made flesh.

Ayla’s face was fascinating. Crier had seen her barely twice and she already knew this like she knew the constellations.

She felt improper before Ayla’s gaze. In disarray.

He said you can’t count on much, can’t trust most things to stay solid, but, you know, there’s always some sort of force at work.

For the first time since that day, Ayla had a plan. Not just the nebulous, half-formed notion of I want to hurt Hesod. I want to take away his family like he took away mine. But a real plan.

Your customs are similar because your entire culture was stolen from ours. Because you have no history or culture of your own.

The few guests Crier could see all turned to look at Hesod in unison, a ripple of simultaneous movement.

“If there exists a type of human capable of dismantling our world, it is the dancer.”

Because she was created for and bound to the queen, Kiera required the queen’s blood to survive.

That was what this chart was for. To find human weaknesses—and exploit them.

“We do so much for them,” Hesod had said. “Beneath us, they thrive. Before us, there was chaos.”

Her Kind lived in luxury while humans starved at their feet.

But it was harder, this time of year, to ignore the graveyard in her chest.

She couldn’t do this, couldn’t hear whatever he wanted to tell her; she had a sick feeling that she knew what it was and she couldn’t, not now, not ever maybe.

And because it was nearing winter—and because this is a story—she was exactly halfway through the Eye when a huge snowstorm struck.”

For some reason, Ayla’s outrage—over a story, over her words, over, maybe her—made Crier smile. A thought came to her: a story of its own, one that had only just begun writing itself in her mind: a story of two women, one human, one Made, who told ancient faerie stories to each other. Who splashed each other at the edge of the water. Who whispered the beauty of snow and the fear of death into the darkness of a late autumn evening.

Crier. Just Crier, no Lady. This was a new feeling.

To find out the ending to both stories. The princess’s, and hers.

A drop of water gleamed on Ayla’s lower lip. Strangely, it made Crier want to—drink.

That night in her bed, though, moonlight falling through the window like a curtain of white silk, Crier could not stop thinking of Ayla—her face, her words, her curiosity, her habits. The ways she moved and spoke. She was unaccustomed to this lack of control over her thoughts—usually

Ayla was there, always, in the shadows of her mind, looking back, her gaze not like the stars but like the soft darkness that enfolded them.

Knowing full well it was dangerous and stupid and a terrible idea, Crier made her way to Kinok’s study.

Under the moonlight, Ayla could have sworn . . . They’d been standing so close together in the dark water, clothes clinging to their bodies, and Crier’s eyes had lingered on Ayla’s mouth.

Because I could use it, Ayla told herself. Because the closer I get to Crier, the closer I get to revenge. That was the only reason why.

She was here for revenge, and to help the Revolution, but so far, she had only created more pain and suffering and confusion.

Ayla knew it like she knew the ache of sadness in her bones: the man standing at the Mad Queen’s side was her long-dead brother, Storme.

Maybe he’d been captured and somehow ended up in the queen’s court and had never, not even once in seven years, had a chance to escape and come find the sister who believed he had been killed.