Phoenix Flame

by Sara Holland

  Brekken leads me into the thick of the dance. Silk and velvet rustle around us, music and perfume and laughter melding in a delirious aura. When we reach a pocket of space on the floor, he claims it, turning and wrapping his arms around me. He’s still grinning like he just won the freaking lottery.

  “Brekken.” I have to stand up and speak close to his ear to be heard, not wanting to shout. Sometimes his skin is cool to the touch, but somehow, wrapped up in him like this—my hands on his shoulders, his around my waist—I’m warm all over. “I’m really sorry. There was a truth serum in that wine. I didn’t mean for you to have it …”

  But I guess I’m not loud enough, because Brekken tilts his head, eyes crinkling with confusion. “What?”

  “I—” But then the music kicks up into a faster, lively section, and my words are lost in the cheer that goes up from the crowd of delegates. I give up. “Never mind,” I say, loud enough for Brekken to hear. This conversation is better suited for another time anyway, sometime when I have the space and quiet to explain myself.

  He grins at me, lifting me off my feet, and we dance; and my worries ebb away again. I’m usually no good at this—which is why I usually park myself behind the bar during Havenfall’s nightly dancing. Maybe it’s the couple of glasses of wine in me, or the feeling that I finally got somewhere with Cancarnette and the magpies he mentioned. It’s not much of a lead, but it’s better than nothing. Whatever the case, I feel slightly lighter.

  As the gravity of the music swirls us around the ballroom—somehow slow and fast at the same time, other dancers coming together then making way for us like it’s all been choreographed—I catch a glimpse of Marcus holding a tall glass of ice, sitting next to Graylin in one of the golden carved chairs lining the sides of the room. Marcus isn’t dancing or schmoozing at the bar anymore, and he looks tired, but at least he’s here and upright. Marcus has been getting better slowly but surely since the Silver Prince forced open the door to Solaria and threw the inn into imbalance. He’s not the same as before, that much is clear, but at least we have him back.

  The truth of the matter is that none of us are the same, really. At the beginning of the summer, my uncle took me to task for my closeness with Brekken, now that he was a soldier. He said that paying too much attention to him could look like favoritism, and Innkeepers are meant to be impartial. The delegates at Havenfall have stuck around through chaos and fear and upheaval. I doubt seeing me dance with Brekken is going to faze them, and if it does, well, in all my summers here I’ve seen them do a lot more embarrassing things with the help of wine.

  By the time the song is over, the currents of the dance floor have taken Brekken and me to a corner of the room. Relative quiet falls as the band takes a breather and a sip of wine—normal wine this time. I drop my hands from Brekken’s shoulders, self-conscious. But he grabs them before they fall all the way to my sides, and holds them between us.

  I feel heat rise to my face and hope I’m not tomato red as his fingers fold around mine. What the Heiress told me floats back into my mind. That the serum only brings out impulses, and truths, that were already there.

  “Brekken …,” I start, trying to figure out how to break it to him, when he leans forward and cuts off my words with his lips.

  My breath catches. Suddenly it seems like all my senses have been dialed up to eleven; and yet, somehow, the world has fallen quiet. My eyes flutter shut, but I still hear everything: the Elemental Orchestra launching into a new, slower, aching song; the low threads of conversation crisscrossing the room like spider silk. The fizz of champagne in glasses, and the late summer wind whispering outside the walls.

  And Brekken. Everywhere, Brekken. His hands on my waist, polite and chaste but burning hot and trembling a little. The solidness of his shoulders under my hands, muscles shifting beneath cloth. The scent of him, like an ice wind. And his lips, warm on mine, moving gently at first and then more urgently.

  People must be looking, I think. I can feel the weight of eyes on my back. But I don’t care. I can’t bring myself to care. Brekken’s taking over everything—until he breaks away to take a breath, and we realize at the same time that we’re surrounded by a circle of onlookers, some smiling indulgently, some looking scandalized. A different kind of heat, one I like much less, rises to my cheeks. I grab Brekken’s hands and lift them from my sides.

  “Let’s take this somewhere else, shall we?” I ask with a smile.

  As we head out, I accidentally meet Marcus’s gaze across the room, and he doesn’t look happy.

  Guilt slides in … but then it dissipates. I hold my uncle’s stare. Without me, the inn would be in chaos right now. Who’s to say we would even be here, dancing, if the Silver Prince had gotten his way? We’re not safe yet, not by a long shot, but I think I’ve earned a little bit of freedom. I hold my head high and square my shoulders as I lead Brekken out of the ballroom. Not embarrassed, not scurrying as I once might have.

  Let them look. Who I kiss is none of their business. There’s only two weeks left in the summit anyway.

  Outside, we automatically meander past the gardens and find ourselves skirting the edge of the woods. We don’t speak, but we don’t need to; the silence is a comfortable one, built up like layers of lacquer by years of friendship.

  My breath hitches only when we pass a spot where the undergrowth is slightly trampled, some of the leaves and branches indented. Brekken doesn’t know it, no one would even notice unless they were looking closely, but this is the path Graylin and I cut to the clearing where we buried Bram.

  Unbidden, a memory sneaks in of Taya, her face in the dark as I emerged from the woods. I tense a little, and Brekken looks down at me, his hand tightening around mine.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” His voice is soft, languid.

  “I’m fine.”

  Shake it off. Thinking about Taya when I’m holding hands with Brekken makes me feel guilty. Both of them have claimed a part of my heart. I’ve loved Brekken since I was a kid, but earlier this summer I thought Brekken had double-crossed me and Havenfall. Marcus was sick, and I had no idea who I could trust. Taya was the only one who seemed to understand. Not to mention those dark eyes, her motorcycle jacket and crooked smile. Of course I caught feelings for her.

  When I look at Brekken, though, I can’t quell a low, wild excitement deep in my chest—that how he’s looking at me now, with tenderness and longing and not a little hunger, is how he really feels. And part of me feels that way about him too.

  I tug his hand onward until we’re past the woods, away from the inn. We come to a stop at the edge of Mirror Lake. It spreads out before us, reflecting the purple dusk sky. For a moment, we stand side by side in silence, watching the stars slowly make themselves known overhead.

  “Did you learn anything from Cancarnette?” Brekken asks at length. The music from the Havenfall ballroom reaches us faintly, spilled from open windows and floating through the twilight, now backed up by a chorus of crickets and frogs.

  “A little,” I say. “I told him that story you told me when we were little, about the knight and the princess with her healing pendant. But you left out the ending, Brekken.” I speak lightly, finishing with a laugh, but the space between us suddenly feels a little denser.

  “Did I?” Brekken says. His voice is similarly light, but when I glance at him, his eyes are serious. “Well, who could blame me?” He turns his body toward mine, and I find myself automatically doing the same, like a magnet responding to a lode. “I want to make everything perfect for you.”

  “Perfect doesn’t exist,” I say, grinning.

  But he doesn’t grin back. He looks intently at me. “I disagree.”

  And he leans down to kiss me again.

  This time, without our audience of delegates, things get heated quickly. His hands roam over my back and sides; my tongue slips out to taste his lips, sugar and frost and mulled wine. That reminds me of the truth serum, and the guilt slices through the dizzy want. I
turn my face to the side—just a little, our bodies still pressed together—and gasp the words into his ear.

  “Brekken, wait.”

  He freezes immediately, then steps back, concern creasing his face. The evening air that rushes into the space between us feels extra cold, and I reach after him.

  “No, don’t go, I’m fine—”

  “Then what’s wrong?” His voice is husky, his cheeks pink and eyes hazy bright.

  I don’t remember running my hands through his hair, but I must have, because his usually tidy copper locks are messy and wild. He lets me grab the lapels of his jacket and pull him back close to me, but all he does is rest his hands cautiously on my waist.

  “That wine,” I say, shame and happiness running circles inside me. “It had a truth serum in it. I just wanted to find out if the delegates knew about the soul trade—”

  “A serum?” Brekken says. But instead of the shock and indignation I expect, his words carry the edge of laughter. He blinks and smiles at me. “Maddie, I knew that.”

  The relief that hits me is profound and immediate. “You did?”

  “I mean, not before I drank it,” Brekken clarifies. “But after that it was fairly obvious.”

  “And …” I wait for him to go on, to reprimand me, but he doesn’t. “You’re not mad?”

  “About using it on me or on the delegates?”

  “Either,” I say. “Both?”

  He shakes his head, his face growing serious. “Once I might have been. But that was before I found out about the soul trade. Now I know we have to end this however we can.”

  I think of my brother, Nate. A sense of resolve and relief fills me, relief that Brekken feels the same way. “I agree.”

  He leans in and kisses me again. It’s not so wild this time, but tender and slow and serious. Like a promise. I kiss him back, winding my arms around his neck, playing with the impossibly soft hairs at the nape of his neck. I feel like I’m falling through space, but gently somehow. There’s no fear in it. Suddenly I know that whatever I decide to do next, Brekken will be behind me, and that makes me feel so much braver. Like maybe I can actually do this.

  “Did Cancarnette tell you what happened to the knight in the story?” Brekken whispers after a few minutes, low and close to my ear.

  For a moment I don’t want to hear any more. I want to tell him I only want to know if there’s a happy ending. But I stop myself. Surely, after everything, I can handle a story. “Just that the lady died from an illness.”

  “After the lady died, the heartbroken knight wandered through all the worlds,” Brekken says. “There were more Realms then, more than we even remember. He traveled them all, and he slayed monsters and protected the innocent in every one. But he never came back to Fiordenkill. Either he perished in one of the other realms or he decided to stay away.”

  I pull back and stare. “That’s a terrible ending,” I say, indignant.

  Brekken blinks, like he’s been caught up in a dream and I just pulled him out of it. “Is it?” he says. “I always thought it bittersweet. How even without his lady, he found life again in new worlds. Perhaps he even found a new love in one of them.”

  “But it doesn’t make sense,” I press. “How could he have traveled to other worlds without getting sick?”

  Brekken shrugs. “Supposedly he had some talisman that let him pass through. I don’t remember exactly. But, Maddie, lots of them have just such a traveler.” His hands tighten around mine. “Maybe it’s possible. Maybe we’ve just forgotten how.”

  “You’re drunk,” I say, giggling despite the spike of sadness that’s just gone through me.

  “No, I’ve had truth serum. And whose fault is that?”

  His lips graze my temple, my cheek, and a thrilling, bone-deep want rolls through me.

  But … I still have a job to do. I can’t make out with Brekken here by the lake all night. Even if at the moment, I want badly to do just that. I stop his lips with a finger before they can find mine again.

  “I have to get the rest of the signatures,” I say breathlessly, hoarsely. “On the peace treaty.”

  Brekken sighs; cool air brushes my fingers. “All right, then.” He steps away from me with a heavy, regretful sigh. “Can I help you?”

  “Sure.” I try to sound businesslike, even though my body aches like a part of me has been torn away now that he’s not touching me anymore. “Talk it up to the Fiorden delegation, so that they’re willing to sign when I come round. And …” I hesitate, then go on. “I’ve been trying to dig up information about the soul trade, how the objects got through Havenfall without us noticing. So if you hear anything about collectors, or silver merchants, or magpies, listen close.”

  With the mention of the soul trade, the lightness drains out of the moment, both of us remembering what we have to do. Our responsibility. Brekken straightens up and combs his fingers through his hair, making it fall back into place. I touch my mouth with my fingertip, hoping my lip stain isn’t smeared.

  Brekken reaches out to cradle my cheek for one more moment, then lets his hand fall. “All right,” he says, turning back toward the inn, his eyes fixing on the golden lights of its windows. “Onward.”

  3

  Later, after the dancing is over, I head to the kitchen, where Marcus, Graylin, and I have planned to meet and discuss our next steps, as we’ve done almost every night since the door to Solaria closed and the Silver Prince was banished back to his Realm.

  I’m exhausted, my feet sore from dancing—more like chasing the delegates around as they danced—but I feel amped up from the success of the night. Despite being more than a little distracted after stepping out with Brekken, I’ve gotten almost all the delegates’ signatures on the peace treaty, safe in the velvet folio tucked into my bag. I know many of them are still skeptical, but once the treaty is signed and official, hopefully it will ease their concerns about Solarians. It’s imperative that they’re welcoming, because when we figure out how to free the Solarian souls trapped in the silver objects, we don’t want them to face hostility from the delegates.

  Especially if we find Nate …

  I push the thought away, trying not to get my hopes up.

  The kitchen is as grand as the rest of the inn—with shining polished-brick floors, huge high windows that show off the night sky, and gleaming copper cookware hanging neatly on the walls, reflecting the cozy light of the lamp Marcus has on the oak worktable. When I get there, he and Graylin are sitting with Princess Enetta, the future ruler of the kingdom of Myr in Fiordenkill. She looks as lovely as ever in a shimmering gold gown, matching gold beads woven into the ends of her braids.

  The trio is leaning over a bunch of papers spread out in front of them, and my heart beats faster as I recall what Marcus has been working on for the last few nights. Those are the Silver Prince’s papers. Even though he’s back at Oasis after his play to take over Havenfall failed, we’d be idiots to think that was the only thing up his sleeve. We can only hope the papers contain information about his intentions, whatever he might do next.

  Marcus’s smile to me is a little strained, and I wonder if he’s still mad at me for kissing Brekken out on the ballroom floor. Or Brekken kissing me. Whatever. But all my uncle does is pull out the counter stool next to him.

  “How did getting the signatures go?”

  “Great.” I let myself feel proud as I pull out the folio and smooth it on the countertop. “A few more to go, but I’ll try again tomorrow.”

  I look down at the Silver Prince’s papers, covered in writing in a language I don’t know. To each, Willow has stapled a printout of her translation. At a glance, it just seems to be a mundane recount of life at the summit—meeting logs and notes about fellow delegates. But Marcus must have found something else. He looks shaken, his hair mussed and sticking up, which means he’s been running his hands nervously through it. Stress curls, my mom used to call them. He palms through the papers too fast to be reading anything, like he’s jus
t giving his hand something to do.

  “What’s up?” I ask, pride giving way to nervousness.

  My uncle shakes his head as he pulls one page from the pile. “The Silver Prince talks about meeting his traders outside of Havenfall. He could be referring to legitimate trade from Byrn, or something else. But I’m more concerned by the ‘outside of Havenfall’ part.” He stabs a finger down on the page. “Maybe he was planning to use a proxy instead of going himself, or maybe it’s a misdirection, but …”

  He trails off and hands me the sheet of paper. My heart sinks as I read over Willow’s translation.

  I haven’t enough to travel at the moment, but I will soon. In Haven’s winter, I can meet you far away from the inn to discuss further and examine the gemstones.

  I pass it to Enetta, reeling inside. “How can that be?”

  Far from the inn. No one, except for Solarians, can survive outside of their home world or Havenfall. If I were to step into Fiordenkill or Byrn, I’d sicken and die within hours. The sphere of protection the inn offers extends to the town of Haven—but no farther. That’s what makes Havenfall special. Safe—the fact that we guard the only way in and out of Earth.

  The Silver Prince shouldn’t be able to get in without us knowing, nor survive elsewhere. I watch Enetta’s brow wrinkle as she reads.

  “It doesn’t necessarily mean there’s another doorway,” Marcus says, and I can tell he’s trying to keep an even keel. “He could mean to meet this trader in Byrn, far from the inn, though that’s an odd way of putting it. Or it could be deliberate. Could be he left this letter so we’d find it in case his plan went wrong.” Marcus turns to Graylin. “Have you and Willow found out anything more from the delegates?”

  “The elder King of Byrn has agreed to rule in the Prince’s stead, since he’s still missing from Oasis,” Graylin replies. “They think he’s in hiding somewhere in the wildlands, outside the city walls.”