Phoenix Flame

by Sara Holland

  “Tell me,” I insist, leaning forward about as close as I can to the plexiglass without pressing my nose against it. “Please, Mom. I promise I won’t do anything stupid, I just want to know.”

  For a long moment she doesn’t say anything, and I brace myself to sit here for twenty minutes of painful, loaded silence. But finally, when I’ve just about given up on hearing more, she lets out a heavy breath and speaks.

  “I fell in love with a man of the Realms,” she says, so quietly the mic barely picks her up. “I fell in love, and everything fell apart.”

  My heart is racing, even as I sit as still as a statue. Inside, I’m rifling through my memories for any mystery man in our childhood, but I can’t picture a face, just a tall shadowy figure that might well be a manufacture of my imagination.

  “Did he betray you?” I whisper.

  She nods. “He would have never had knowledge of us or Nahteran if I had been wiser. But I trusted him. I was a fool.”

  “What was his name? The man you loved?” I ask.

  The question falls from my lips breathlessly, thoughtlessly, like a little kid eager to hear the ending of a bedtime story. For a moment, I don’t care that the name might be the key to cracking the soul trade, to finding Nate. I just want to know this one thing about my mom, who has always been so mysterious to me. I want to know the name of the man she loved.

  She waves her hand dismissively. “It’s not important.”

  “Please,” I whisper. My hand is against the glass, and I don’t remember putting it there. “Mom …” I don’t know what makes me say it, but I hear myself say, “I’m in love with someone from the Realms too.”

  Her eyes narrow a little at that. “I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you that it’ll never work.”

  “Then tell me why not,” I challenge. “Tell me what happened with you and …”

  After a stretching moment, my mother sighs. “Magpie,” she says. “That wasn’t his name, but that’s what I called him, what everyone called him.” She closes her eyes for a long moment, and when she opens them again, they’re burning. “His name, though, was Cadius.”

  6

  Once I’m back at Havenfall, I dream about birds. I don’t usually get nightmares here, with the mountains surrounding us like massive, steady sentinels. But tonight I dream about birds filling the sky, birds diving and falling and screaming, birds with broken wings and accusing eyes. I dream of moonlight flashing, glittering, just like the key under the windowsill on my nightstand. It was the last thing I saw before I went to sleep. The key to my mom’s long-untouched suite, borrowed from Willow, since I knew Marcus wouldn’t give it to me.

  The third time I wake, I sit bolt upright in bed, drenched in sweat. It finally sinks in that I’m not going back to sleep after the clamor of the dream-birds. Using the light of my cell phone to supplement the moonlight, I pull on the sweats that are closest at hand and pad out into the hallway, closing and locking my bedroom door quietly behind me.

  Mom’s old room is on the first floor, near Graylin and Marcus’s suite. As I creep down the hall, I’m nervous about getting caught by my uncle, but everything is still and quiet. Not even a cleaning crew is about. Everything in the inn is silent, so much so that I can hear the rustle of the wind through the pines outside. It makes the scrape of the key in the lock to Mom’s suite extra loud. The mechanism sticks, resists, and for a moment I think I’m not going to be able to get in. But then the tumblers give way, and the door swings open.

  The hinges have been kept oiled, even after all this time, but it’s clear as soon as the door closes behind me that the cleaners haven’t been inside. The curtains are drawn, leaving the room in near-total dark. I use my phone light to pick my way across the room—the phone screen illuminating only a few feet of floor at a time—and pull back the curtains, releasing the moonlight as well as a cloud of dust. Pressing my sleeve over my mouth, I turn around to look at the room for the first time in a decade.

  It’s just as I remember it. Well, almost. Marcus seemingly hasn’t touched Mom’s stuff—whether out of sentimentality or the wild hope that somehow she might come back, I don’t know. But everything is still here. There’s the big fluffy bed that could hold the three of us: Mom, with me and Nate on either side. Her blanket was woven of Fiorden wool so thick it seemed to give off its own heat. There’s the fireplace with its ledge of mountain granite, and the picture window with an alcove full of pillows and blankets, where I loved to curl up and pretend I was a princess in a castle. Even the ancient portable TV Mom had toted up here at some point, a gray cube with a bulbous screen and a slot for VHS tapes.

  I have a vague memory of snuggling under the blankets with Nate, watching cartoons while Mom worked across the room at the big oak desk. I remember her bent head, the way she bit her lip when she concentrated. What was she doing back then that required such focus?

  The moonlight is enough to see by, so I slide my phone into my pocket as I pad through the room. Dust has accumulated in the corners. It softens hard edges and swirls in the air as I pass, giving everything a surreal, dreamlike appearance. I feel separate from my body, like I’m floating somewhere above myself and looking down as I proceed through the deserted room. I’m aware of feelings—recognition, shock, sadness, grief, anger—but they’re all muted, like my heart is wrapped in cotton gauze.

  There are happy memories here. Mom reading to us in bed, patiently intervening when we’d fight over what book to read. I wanted The Rainbow Fish every night. Nate wanted Bread and Jam for Frances, even though he must have been a little old for it. I can almost hear the voices she did for each character and see the light in her eyes. But the cozy images are accompanied by too much pain to look at straight on.

  If I were her, where would I have hidden something precious?

  After a moment of pondering, I cross over to the closet and open the door. Whoever oiled the door to the suite neglected to do the same here. It squeaks loudly—but then the sight of her clothes hits me, and it’s like a blow to the chest. Even in the moonlight all the colors are discernible—reds, blues, greens, yellows, pinks. I’d forgotten that about Mom, how much she loved bright colors.

  Just as she had in her closet back at our old house, there’s a box full of old shoes and belts and knickknacks on the floor beneath the hems of the dresses. I plop down on the carpet, feeling like I want to cry as another small dust cloud rises around me. But the tears don’t come. Something else has taken over.

  I reach into the box and extract a sweater I vaguely recognize, worn thin, its once wine-red color now caked gray with dust. I shake as much free as I can and press the cleanest part of the sweater to my face, breathing in, trying to find some smell of Mom or of home. But there’s nothing there. Just mustiness.

  I drop the sweater, feeling crushed and frantic, and reach back into the box. Maybe something buried deeper will have been kept safe from the dust. If I were Mom, and I had a secret—something I wanted no one else to find—this is where I would put it, buried among mundane things. And sure enough, the next thing my fingers touch is a square leather edge. A book cover.

  I extricate it from the box, careful not to tear what I can tell by touch are age-worn pages. Tilting my phone so the light shines over the cover, I feel something snag in my chest. It’s a photo book, the kind you buy at a craft store. The red leather cover and the page edges are gilded to lend an air of fanciness. There’s a little plastic sleeve embedded on the front cover, one small spot to give a photo prime placement. And in it is a shot of me and Mom and Nate in Havenfall’s gardens, her arms around our shoulders, flowers rioting all around us. She is wearing a yellow dress, and her hair is long and loose, held back only by a pair of sunglasses pushed to the top of her head. Next to her, Nate and I have big, hammy smiles. Havenfall’s front door stands open in the background, ready to welcome us home.

  In a daze, I bring the scrapbook over to the bed and sit down on the side, reaching for the lamp switch on the nightstan
d. The bulb sputters and flickers worryingly at first, but then holds, casting the room in dusty yellow light. I page through the pictures, feeling like I’m in a trance. Me and Mom and Nate on a hiking trail. Me and Mom and Nate at the doughnut shop in town. Me and Mom and Nate in the Havenfall kitchen, baking something.

  Then the pictures start to change. They feature the same places, but instead of us, of Mom, they feature a man. I can tell that he’s a Fiorden, tall and handsome with aristocratic features and fine clothes made of velvet and silk. He has short dark hair, bright brown eyes, and a slightly wicked smile. There are pictures of him and of my mom, but never of the two of them together. When I look closely at the crystal pin fastening his cloak at his shoulder, I see it’s carved in the shape of a bird.

  I can’t stop staring at his face. It’s less than an inch high in these pictures, faded after more than ten years. But my mother loved him, this Cadius. Who was he?

  Suddenly, it’s too much, his handsome smile and what it represents—this huge secret Mom kept from me. I go back to the box in the closet and keep digging. This time, my fingers close on silk, and I pull—but something heavy comes loose and clangs to the floor, making me jump almost out of my skin. Something that was wrapped in the fabric. I sit totally still, heart pounding, sure at any moment that Marcus is going to barge in on me. But the door of the room is thick. I remain alone in the silence and darkness and dust.

  The lamp is on in the room, but the closet is still filled with shadows. I turn my cell phone on the pile, and metal glints beneath the light. It’s so bright I almost pull back in surprise. I see gold, untouched by dust.

  The closest word I can think of to describe the object before me is a gauntlet. The delicate tapered cylinder of gold flares at the end, shaped and sized for a wrist. It looks like finely wrought armor, opening on tiny hinges and closing with a delicate latch. Intricate scrollwork, vines, and gothic patterns cover its surface. I recognize some of them from Brekken’s clothes. This gauntlet came from Fiordenkill. From Myr.

  Tentatively, I pick it up and turn it over. It’s beautiful, untouched by the rust and decay all around. I never knew Mom had anything like this. I would remember if she had showed it to me. Was it a gift from Marcus, maybe, or one of the delegates? The Magpie, Cadius? It seems clear enough what happened—Mom fell in love, not knowing the Magpie was a soul trader. And he betrayed her to get his hands on Nate’s soul. But I don’t want to act rashly. I want proof before taking this to Marcus.

  Something on the inside of the cuff catches my eye. I tilt the gauntlet up and angle my phone light inside to see. The interior is smooth except for two engravings: the letters C. Winterkill and a small bird symbol. Same as the one in the photo of the man in the cloak.

  I take the gauntlet with me when I go, heavy in the pocket of my hoodie. The scrapbook too.

  Halfway back to my room, I see light under the door of Brekken’s room. I pause, then stop, feeling silly.

  He’s probably asleep, I tell myself. Asleep and just forgot to turn the light off.

  But then I hear soft footfalls behind the door, like he’s pacing. I don’t know quite what makes me raise my hand and knock, only that I don’t want to be alone right now. I want to tell someone what I found, what I know.

  Brekken opens the door. He’s wearing a soft-looking tunic and loose linen pants, and he’s barefoot.

  Is this what he sleeps in? It seems strange that I’ve never seen him like this before.

  He blinks in surprise. “Maddie.”

  “Hi.” My voice can’t decide whether it wants to be a whisper or not. It’s an effort to keep my eyes on his face—sleepy, open—rather than on his mussed hair or bare shoulders.

  Focus, Maddie.

  “What is it?” he asks, his low tone matching mine. Then his gaze sharpens. “Is everything okay?”

  “Everything’s fine.” I nod. “Just, can I come in?”

  “Of course.” He stands back to let me pass.

  The only light on, his bedside lamp, leaves everything shadowy and hazy. Brekken’s room is smaller than mine. The bed takes up most of the space, with the nightstand and a small desk crammed in beside.

  I stand next to the bed, suddenly self-conscious. Why did I come here? Hurriedly, I take the scrapbook and gauntlet out of my pockets, not wanting him to think—I don’t know what I want him to think.

  As Brekken closes the door and pads over to me, I quietly relay the story of going to see my mom at Sterling Correctional, leaving out the part where she told me we weren’t meant to love people from other worlds. Then I show him the gauntlet.

  “I found this in her room,” I say, turning it over so he can see the design. “I think it might be—his. The man she was in love with. I think he was a Fiorden.” My mom’s words echo in my head. The Magpie. Cadius. C. Winterkill. It could all be a coincidence, but maybe …

  Brekken takes the gauntlet and examines it, his face furrowing in focus.

  I try not to stare. The already short distance between us seems shorter here in this small room, and I’m very aware of his recently vacated bed behind me, the covers turned down and rumpled.

  Focus.

  “Winterkill,” Brekken muses.

  My heart jumps. “Do you know that name?”

  Brekken nods. “It’s a castle in Fiordenkill, in south Myr. A wealthy lord’s estate. Cadius Winterkill lives there. But …” He hesitates and sits down on the bed, still looking at the gauntlet. “He has an ill reputation. I wouldn’t think your mother …”

  “An ill reputation?” I echo. “What does that mean?”

  After a moment of indecision, I join him on the bed, keeping an inch or so of space between us. I feel like I’m finally getting somewhere with this Winterkill stuff, and I don’t want to be distracted … plus, it’s not really clear to me where Brekken and I stand. Yeah, he kissed me under the influence of truth serum, but it’s been a couple of days since then and we haven’t discussed it. What if he doesn’t want to take things further? What if he does?

  “I don’t know the details,” Brekken says, a little evasively. “There always seems to be some lavish ball or other happening at his estate, even in frozen times when food supplies are low. And my parents have never gone. They say he’s corrupt. And no one’s quite sure how he made his fortune. His family raised birds”—he taps the icon on the gauntlet with one fingernail—“but there’s no way it all comes from that.”

  My heart beats faster. A wicked lord, a misbegotten fortune? That lines up with what I know about the soul trade. “She had this too.”

  I pull out the photo book and flip to the section where the man starts appearing. I only looked at a handful of pictures back in Mom’s room, but now, with Brekken, it feels easier to face. I hand it to him and let him turn the pages, leaning in close to look over his shoulder. He studies the same pictures I saw, looking intently. Then he turns the page, and I gasp.

  It’s my mom again. But—somehow—she’s not in Havenfall. She stands on a snowy hill, bundled up in a thick peacoat, hat, scarf, gloves. Practically all you can see of her are her eyes, but those are enough to tell that she’s beaming.

  Yet that’s not the astonishing thing about the picture. It’s the backdrop. The trees surrounding her are so tall that the branches aren’t even in the frame. The sky between the trees drips with aurora colors.

  I’ve never seen this place, but I know immediately where she was. My mother was in Fiordenkill.

  “How is that possible?” My voice is shaky as my hand reaches out, almost of its own accord, to trace the picture.

  Out of the corner of my vision, I see Brekken shake his head. He doesn’t know. But I can’t tear my gaze from the image. My mom. In Fiordenkill. The colors surrounding her are ice blue and indigo and blinding white. And—gold, in the space between her coat cuff and mitten. Gold patterned with branches and leaves.

  Brekken holds up the gauntlet. It’s too small an image to tell for sure, but I know we’re thinking the same
thing.

  “It’s like the story,” he says in a hushed, awed voice. “The knight traveler.” He turns his body toward me, and there’s almost a feverish light in his eyes. “Maddie, it’s real.”

  7

  The gauntlet.

  Stories about knight travelers and dead enchanters.

  The Silver Prince possibly having other access points to Earth.

  Cancarnette’s scornful words about magpies, collectors of enchanted objects.

  Mom being convinced that her involvement with Cadius Winterkill led to Nate’s kidnapping. The man she and everyone called the Magpie.

  Mom wearing the gauntlet … in Fiordenkill.

  I don’t know what it all adds up to, but it must be something. It has to be.

  I sit across from Marcus in his office off the tunnels beneath the inn, trying not to fidget as he reads over my list of—clues? ideas? leads?—the things I wrote down to stop them all from ricocheting around the inside of my head. I watch his eyes rove from side to side. Laid out like this, I’m hoping he sees that it’s too much to be a coincidence. Mom brushed up against the soul trade when she had an affair with Cadius Winterkill, the Magpie. They were able to travel between the realms using the gauntlet—and now someone is traveling between realms to propagate the soul trade.

  What are the chances that the Silver Prince has also found a way between the worlds? Could he be involved too?

  Despite all of that, though, I can’t help but be distracted by the dark circles beneath Marcus’s eyes. Since the Innkeeper is tied to the inn, it hit him hard three weeks ago when the Silver Prince disrupted the natural balance between the Realms. Graylin and I didn’t know what had rendered my uncle unconscious—or if he would ever wake up. We thought he’d been the victim of a Solarian attack, his soul eaten like in the stories. Graylin used Fiorden healing magic to keep him alive, and it worked. My uncle is back on his feet now, back running the inn.

  But the magic changed him, making him not quite at home in this human world anymore, though none of us want much to acknowledge that fact. His health is still touch and go; some days he’s had to stay in bed most of the time, sending me to oversee peace summit business in his place. Yet he looks all right today, except for the paleness of his face and the shadows under his eyes that have become the new normal.