Where Dreams Descend

by Janella Angeles

  And yet no one would offer her even the grace of a direction when she asked. They grunted out hurried responses, rushing away each time she tried approaching.

  On a sharp breath, Kallia crossed her arms, above caring if she was in someone’s way. Growing more frustrated as she—

  “Oh, excuse me, I’m sorry!”

  Someone had collided into her. She nearly toppled over, were it not for the warm grip latched tightly on her elbow. Suppressing a scowl, she looked up at a young, long-limbed stranger in a dusty beige coat. Finely made, with the top brass buttons missing.

  “Apologies, miss, I’m not usually so clumsy.” The young man grinned sheepishly, struck with surprise. But the face peeking out from the shadow of his hat spoke a different story, a hint of wickedness that would not be masked.

  In the silence that lingered, the man drew his fingers away from her elbow. “I was only on my way to the post, are you all right? Can I get you anything?”

  Brows arched, Kallia never broke eye contact. Not even as she grabbed the hand that had begun sliding stealthily into her pocket. “Over-politeness is an obvious tell, you know.”

  The man paused under her hold. “A tell?”

  “Same with your whole getup.” Kallia looked him over. “It’s almost too obvious. You don a fine coat, but the top buttons are missing. Your shoes are clean, but haven’t been buffed in some time. There are a few stray threads off the rim of your hat you probably pilfered.” She considered him closer, tapping on her lip. “The smudge beneath your chin was a nice clue, as well.”

  The young man didn’t stiffen like a caught deer. Instead, he tilted his head, curious as a bird. “Pitfalls of being taller than a lamppost. Still, you’ve listed lots of details but not the sum of them.”

  “Fine, you want specifics? You’re a thief.”

  At this, he smiled. “Am I, now?”

  “Don’t act proud—you’re clearly not that good at it.” Kallia looked down, inspecting the nails of her free hand. Tightening the grip of her other. “Kindly let go of what you were trying to take, or I’ll twist until something snaps.”

  The thief complied, and her viselike grip loosened. But when she released him, he didn’t run. Just stood there, blinking. “Zarose, where did you come from?”

  “Nowhere remarkable,” she said without missing a beat, shifting her glance over her shoulder. “Now, if you would be so kind, could you point me in the direction of the Alastor Place?”

  “Ah, I knew it. Lots of people from the outside have been popping into town.” The thief’s brow quirked. “Here to audition for the competition? Are you an assistant?”

  “I most certainly am not.” Kallia’s jaw worked when he only snickered. “Point me in the direction of the Alastor Place, and we’ll be even.”

  “For what?”

  “You did try to steal from me.” With a casual shrug, she cocked her head in the direction where a gathering of people crossed the street. “And I’m guessing the uniformed man over there with the odd hat and pleasant-looking club will not simply run away if I scream.”

  “But I didn’t even nab anything off you! All you had was a hanky, for Zarose sake.”

  “Shall we test your word against mine?”

  Admittedly, it was a gamble. For all she knew, the guardsman would regard her with no more than a sneer. She had yet to experience any semblance of kindness from anyone here. Except for the thief. His brand of kindness was exactly what she’d been looking for, and somehow, Glorian had delivered.

  He held Kallia’s gaze long and hard, before amusement reared its head beneath his veneer of defeat. “Somehow, I hear you working in more than one favor in that threat. Though it does make me wonder if you’re truly as wily as you seem if you’re asking for my help.”

  “Favors are not a matter of lifelong trust, only guaranteed delivery,” Kallia remarked. “You seem like the kind who delivers very quickly.”

  “I can even perform miracles, too.” The thief lifted his palms with a flourish. “I can make things disappear and reappear.”

  “Stealing is not magic.”

  “I’d say it is if your only working props are quick hands and a disarming smile.” He winked, almost pulling a laugh from Kallia. Her sparring partner had always been Jack. But with the thief, it was easy and light, as if they could go on for hours like this without injury.

  Oh yes, the thief would do very nicely.

  “Want to see some real magic, thief?”

  When that flicker of mischief in his eyes flared, mirroring her own, a deal had been struck in the exchange. Intrigue started it, and curiosity sealed it.

  The air in Glorian was less chilly against Kallia’s skin when the man tipped his hat. “The name’s Aaros. And yours, miss?”

  He’d know soon enough.

  This whole city would, by the time she was through with it.

  7

  The Alastor Place was built like a tomb. Cold and forgotten.

  Spacious, more importantly.

  The perfect venue to house this brand of foolish chaos, Daron thought as he rubbed his hands for warmth, knuckles whitening beneath tawny brown skin. Paling without the constant graze of sun he was used to back home.

  This city was not a place for sunlight.

  Biting back a shiver, he settled deeper into his seat at the long table before the stage, the chairs beside him occupied by the rest of the judge’s row. An assortment of elderly former show magicians: Sydney Bouquet, a pale, reedy man who always appeared utterly unimpressed by his surroundings; Ricard Armandos, a sleepy-eyed gentleman donning a long silvery beard that he constantly stroked as if petting a cat; and Victor Silu, a stout man with the tallest top hat who kept sneaking sips from the flask hidden in his coat jacket.

  Daron had not even been born when they’d graced the stage. Then again, with so many stage magicians, it was impossible for each one to remain memorable past their prime.

  At only eighteen, Daron was by far the youngest present. His seat at the very end made that abundantly clear.

  “I cannot believe it’s come to this,” bemoaned the mayor of Glorian, Andre Eilin, tugging at the collar buttoned up to his chin. “I wanted more business, not some mad talent show.”

  Daron’s first impression of the mayor was that he was clueless, but too proud to admit it. Whether or not he willfully kept his ears plugged here in Glorian, it was as though the man knew nothing beyond the confines of his city. He’d had no idea who Daron or any of the other magicians were, suspiciously eyeing them until provided with an extensive list of their feats and performances. All Daron had to assert was his aunt’s name.

  “Wasn’t it by your word that this whole event was allowed to occur in the first place?” Daron pointed out, rubbing the skin beneath his eyes. He’d long avoided mirrors of any kind, but could all too clearly imagine the mess. Dark hair in disarray, exhaustion scoring his face. He really should’ve put more effort into his appearance to fit in here. Dragged a comb through his hair, shaved his jaw smooth. A look in the mirror would inspire him to clean up, he was sure. Yet his resolve shattered each morning without fail. Only dread.

  One could only run from their reflection for so long.

  “Being mayor means making sacrifices,” Mayor Eilin grumbled. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand, Demarco. You’re still young.”

  He wasn’t sure what that was supposed to imply, but opportunity was the last thing on Daron’s mind when he reassessed the Alastor Place—more a cemetery of dreams than the stage to make them come alive.

  “Young is right,” Judge Bouquet muttered. It was difficult to believe someone as scowl-mouthed as him had once had enough charisma to entertain a crowd. “Doesn’t perform anymore, but counts himself an expert. Hmph. The youths believe they know everything.”

  “Funny,” Daron bit out drily. “I was just thinking the same about the elderly.”

  Judge Bouquet’s face remained flat as paper. “Why did you invite the boy, again, Andre?”
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  Boy. Daron grinded his teeth.

  “Didn’t even have to ask him,” Mayor Eilin chortled. “Rayne handled the invitations. Sent them to the topmost gentlemen still on the circuit, and somehow, Demarco answered instead.”

  The other judge sneered suspiciously. Daron remained unfazed. “Magicians talk.”

  “No complaints here, young blood. Like I could ever turn a Patron away.”

  He’d meant it as a compliment, but Daron cringed. Family privilege served on a platter comes with its own brand of grease, his sister would say. He could barely swallow it.

  “Though from what I heard, I am shocked you came.” Mayor Eilin paled, awkward and apologetic as Daron’s face darkened before turning back to the stage. “Of course people know who you come from, and they say you weren’t in retirement for that long, after all.”

  Another hmph, from Judge Silu this time. “Retirement, after one bad act. You have your whole life ahead of you. It does you no favors to be so sensitive.”

  It took everything in Daron to not knock off the man’s top hat and crush it beneath his shoe before putting a fist in his face.

  Two years ago, Daron had left the stage and everything that came with it. Packed audiences and parties, front-page stories after festive nights of revelry. Young performers had no need for retirement, and those older than he was never failed to tell him. As if it were their duty to shame him for taking a break from what had nearly broken him.

  Two years.

  And then one day, when Daron happened to glance at the morning newspaper boasting a flashy flyer with a top hat, he woke up.

  Glorian.

  The city lost in the Woods—opening its gates to a show, and its participants.

  And his sister’s words began trickling back in like an old song.

  “I had the dream again.” Eva had said during one of their card games, only a few nights before his last performance. “I’d made it through the Woods, to Glorian.”

  “You’re obsessed. That’s why you keep dreaming of it.” Daron picked up a card from the center deck. Five golden petals branded the card he tucked into his hand. “It’s just Glorian. I’m surprised the Woods haven’t devoured it like a snake yet.”

  “You’re no fun anymore.” Eva flicked a forgotten speck of glitter from her gown off her elbow. “Maybe some of the rumors are true.”

  “Name one.” Everyone loved to speculate and exaggerate over the unknown. They made for amusing tales in the papers—mysterious horned beasts stampeding through the city once a month, inexplicable storms of blood rain, an abundance of cats prowling the streets—but none that could be proven. The Dire Woods made sure of it, like a serpent holding court over a garden. A treacherous ocean between lands that no one dared navigate.

  Only Eva would, given a chance.

  “You have to admit, the cats theory does not seem completely outlandish.” Eva shrugged. “Lottie stands by it.”

  “She stands by anything that’ll sell papers.”

  She ticked her tongue defensively before pressing her rouge-painted lips to the side. “I have a theory.”

  He rapped his fingers across the table. “Surprise, surprise.”

  Ignoring him, she let her thumb dance across the tops of her cards. “At Casine’s, they never taught us much about it, only that the Woods make it hard as hell to find. And no one should go looking in the first place.”

  “They prefer isolation.” Daron snorted. “To avoid being overrun by certain fanatics and outsiders curious about its insides.”

  Her deep brown eyes remained undeterred. “What if they’re … hiding something?”

  “Hiding what?”

  “I don’t know. Something powerful.”

  Her tone teased at something more. More than nonsense, more than conspiracy theories. “Like weapons?”

  “No, if they wanted war they would’ve come for the rest of Soltair already. It must be something else, something valuable.” She bit her lip in consideration. “The ability to travel back in time, to make memories and erase feelings like they never existed, to bring people back from the dead or elsewhere!” she exclaimed. “Even magicians have limits. If there was a source of magic, a different kind … well, that’s something worth hiding.”

  “Magic is not a treasure to be buried somewhere. You’re talking in tales.”

  It’s what their aunt had said years ago, every time Eva had asked questions only a child with magic could. Is Zarose Gate really a gate? Does magic truly come from below? Do the trickster devils who live there come above to play?

  “And besides, it’s impossible,” he continued. “Magicians have their limits. Thank Zarose magic like that doesn’t exist.”

  “Not here, not yet. Maybe it depends on where you are.”

  Daron shook his head, counting his cards. “If that were even a little true, Aunt Cata would never allow it. She’d have the place swarming with Patrons.”

  “Not if she doesn’t know,” Eva posed. “No one knows what’s happening in there.”

  He sighed. “See, this is what happens when you hang out with the press.”

  “Don’t insult my friends. What’s the harm in a little possibility? Where’s your sense of imagination, Dare?” She kicked him lightly under the table. “Or does the spotlight suck that from your soul, too?” She always teased about the spotlight going to his head, both joking that if it ever found her, she’d be on a relentless ego trip.

  “There’s no such thing as hidden magic,” he said. “And besides, that’s all impossible. Contradictory.”

  “Most stories are. It’s like the difference between a good trick and a great trick.” A knowing gleam twinkled in her tired, kohl-lined eyes. “A good trick amazes, leaves everyone breathless in that moment. But a great trick truly deceives, keeps the audience wondering what happened, long after the performance. Like the Vanishment.”

  Daron snorted. “All right, but the Vanishment is a showstopper. You can’t even equate it to Glorian, Eva. That’s like comparing a raindrop to the sea.” He threw down a card, smiling despite himself. “It’s just a dead city.”

  “What if that’s what they want you to think?”

  As soon as Daron had seen the flyer, it hadn’t taken him long to find an invitation to Spectaculore, a map leading straight to Glorian. He was far too established to be a competitor—thank Zarose for that—so he needed a spot on the judges’ panel. Determining which notable magicians might possess actual invitations proved easy. Astor and Atlas, the infamous Alexandros twins of New Crown always knee-deep in gambling debt, all but bowed out at the sight of Daron’s envelope of money. His old partying friend, Griff Kaysim, oh so conveniently had no care for the competition with all his other engagements lined up. And the rest, former friends and rivals alike, backed away from the event as soon as Daron appeared at their doors like a ghost come to settle a score after years without a word.

  Certain he’d closed the playing field, Daron packed his bags and stack of invitations—hand-delivering them to the mayor as soon as he landed in Glorian. The white shock on the man’s face had been laughable, a precursor to the displeasure from the rest of the judges: older, esteemed magicians long retired before Daron ever took the stage, and they seemed to resent him more for the distinction.

  The Daring Demarco. A name once cheered in theaters packed to the doors, now a joke to the weathered-faced judges who regarded him as a pet still learning tricks. But with the formidable Cataline Edgard, the current head of the Patrons of Great, for an aunt, no one could say no to Daron. As much as he detested playing the family card, he’d needed that extra leg up to earn a place here as an esteemed judge.

  In the city.

  Right where he wanted to be.

  Daron’s jaw ticked as he leaned back in his seat. His gaze darted up to the proscenium arch of the stage, tracing the broken, rusted squares bent out of place. Like ugly cards thrown above, stuck in midair and forgotten by the dealer below.

  The rest of the stag
e was no better, more a cold barren platform than the backdrop of a grand show. Much like the city itself. Still, he hoped today’s audition would end soon so he could explore more of Glorian. Eva had always framed it as an abandoned puzzle of lost pieces, one he refused to leave without solving.

  For his sister.

  Wherever she was.

  He pinched the bridge of his nose. He needed to focus. Play the part: a judge in a competition held by the Conquering Circus, led by a ringleader who fancied himself a king of show business.

  “Next in line—number twenty-four!” called the short, broad-chested man in glaring red from the other side of the table. Erasmus Rayne, the only person Daron might’ve disliked more than the mayor of Glorian. A showman to the core, the man beamed brighter than diamonds at the sight of Daron arriving as a judge. No questions asked, just praise, flattery, and the keys to one of the finest rooms in his traveling hotel. Anything to keep his youngest judge in his good graces.

  But the rest of the men had made clear his voice was not welcome amongst theirs. Not that Daron cared to give it. The first few days of watching magicians audition had hurt more than he’d expected. His chest twinged, remembering what it was like stepping onto a new stage for the first time. Power sparking at your fingertips to deliver a trick, delight a crowd.

  The pain was only fleeting. It didn’t take long to shove it away, sit back and observe, unimpressed. Some magicians possessed skill, but many more lacked it. And amongst the judges, more arguments arose than agreement over who deserved a place in Spectaculore. Most people with power were destined to be labor magicians, an honorable path to be sure, but rare were the ones meant for the stage. The glory of packed houses and endless applause.

  The next contestant swaggered onto the stage in a starchy brown suit and a wide casual top hat. There was an air about him similar to the others, as if he had all the magic in the world at his fingertips. It wasn’t until he heard a second set of clicking steps that Daron realized why.

  An assistant sauntered behind him in a gaudy rose-colored dress studded with sequins that caught the morning light beaming in from the windows. She was by far the most colorful figure in the room, no doubt freezing in her getup like the others who’d strutted in before her. Most candidates were accompanied by a charming assistant to wink and giggle at the audience. An accessory to the performance, and a scapegoat if anything went wrong.