Phoenix Flame

by Sara Holland

At last, Graylin steps back. “All right. I think that’s about all we can do.”

  I open my eyes, blinking as the cabin comes back into focus. I’d kind of zoned out, and I didn’t realize how much time must have passed. The world through the thick windows is dark, and starlight glitters off the snow. My heart speeds. It’s almost time to go to Winterkill.

  As Graylin and Kae step back, examining their work critically, Brekken appears in the periphery of my vision. He’s holding something—a hand mirror, I realize, old-looking, the carved wood handle worn smooth and the surface mottled silver.

  Brekken’s blue eyes are wide as he looks at me, with a mix of wonder and trepidation. It makes a flush of self-consciousness rise to my cheeks. Caught up as I was in the danger of what we’re about to attempt, I didn’t really feel the wonder of it—my face, my features changed and manipulated by fairy-tale magic, all so I fit in better in this strange world of ice and starlight. Winterkill’s world. Graylin’s world. Brekken’s world.

  The whole cabin seems to go still as I reach for the mirror. Ilya, measuring fabric at a desk against the far wall, pauses in her work. Graylin tenses. Kae turns and sweeps from the cabin—maybe she needs fresh air, or maybe the sudden tension and pressure in the air is too much for her. And Brekken is still, his eyes on me.

  My reflection slides over the small, aged mirror, and I swallow a gasp—of surprise, a little alarm, and wonder. It’s my face, but not quite. The planes of my face have sharpened, my cheekbones look more blade-like, and the hollows at my cheeks and temples more shadowy. My skin is pale except for roses of color high in my cheeks, like I’ve only just come in from the cold. My ears seem a big longer, and my hair slightly more reddish. I look strange. I look beautiful.

  Before I can examine my reflection too long, Ilya rushes in, wielding a wooden case filled with what seems to be Fiorden makeup—powders in bone-carved boxes, mysterious liquids in bottles of colored glass. While Brekken and Graylin head outside to prepare the sleigh, she goes to work, accentuating the changes magic has wrought.

  Then she presents me with what she’s been working on—a long green velvet dress, simple but elegant, and a cape of fine black fur with a silk-lined hood. She also hands over leather boots for underneath, with high heels to make me taller. Everything fits perfectly. I guess I know where Brekken got his meticulous nature, but between the heels and the voluminous skirt, I hope everything goes according to plan tonight. That I don’t need to run.

  “Well,” Ilya says when I stand. She sounds pleased with herself, and takes up the mirror to angle it my way. She tilts it up and down to give me the full picture. “What say you, Maddie Morrow of Fiordenkill?”

  She says it in a joking, teasing way, but it still sets a chill sweeping up my spine. I gaze at the girl in the mirror. Tallish, slender, elegant. Someone who would look at home in this perpetual winter. At home next to Brekken.

  All in all, no one who looked closely would mistake me for a Fiorden, but hopefully no one will look twice.

  “Thank you,” I tell Ilya, my voice thick with a bit too much emotion. “Thank you so much.”

  Then I turn toward the door and turn my mind to the task ahead.

  Infiltrate Winterkill.

  Find the Solarians.

  Free them.

  Get the armor.

  And through it all, one question gets louder and louder in my head.

  How, exactly?

  11

  That night, we ride the short remaining distance to the Winterkill estate in tense silence. The scenery outside the sleigh is as beautiful as ever, the aurora casting a dappled, multicolored light over the ice road and the pristine snow. But it feels colder, darker, and I don’t take the landscape in, instead letting it rush by my unfocused eyes. While I’ve been anxious to get on with everything—to get to Winterkill and take down the soul trade—now that it’s right in front of me, the fear I probably should have been feeling all along is sinking in. Brekken was right earlier. None of this is going to be easy.

  It’ll be worth it, I remind myself, trying to breathe deep, slow my racing heart and the prickling of sweat on my palms. Worth it, if we can save even one captive Solarian. Is such a thing even possible?

  Eventually, the great wolves’ fast pace starts to change. It registers deep in my bones, causing me to look up ahead before I even quite realize we’re slowing. What I see makes me draw in my breath. A towering silhouette looms in front of us. Wreathed in fog, it looks even darker against the night sky. It would hardly be visible at all, except for how it pierces the aurora and blocks out the stars. A massive maze of turrets and buttresses and walls and towers surrounds the grounds.

  I keep my eyes on the estate as the wolves take us closer and it comes slowly into focus. As we approach, some of the fog seems to clear away and I realize the castle of stone and ice, rather than being dark, is actually blazing with light. It rises above a thicket of pine trees and pours light from its windows. Even at a distance, I can see other sleighs gathered up front, some pulled by wolves and some by great gray deer with white antlers. Then we plunge into the trees skirting the fortress, and the world goes dark.

  It’s startlingly scary. I can’t see for crap, but I guess the wolves can, because we keep going at top speed, the sleigh turning with surety as the road twists and winds through the trees. I can feel them on either side of us, like conscious presences, and smell the sharp woodsy scent of sap and snow.

  When we emerge from the trees, the world seems brighter than it did before, brighter than can be accounted for by my eyes adjusting. I realize with a jolt that we’ve emerged straight into a great, gardened courtyard, the windows of Winterkill spilling light all around us.

  It’s beautiful, like an otherworldly, wintery version of the gardens at Versailles. Great trees, sort of like weeping willows but bigger and paler, march in orderly rows in all directions, draping pearly white vines over gray cobblestone paths. Bushes with glossy black leaves and round red flowers hug the sides of the castle. Ice sculptures dot the gardens—rearing bears and birds in flight and knights standing triumphantly atop slain enemies—and seem to capture and refract the starlight from above, casting the gardens in a shifting, living light. All around us, Fiordens in fine velvet gowns and fur cloaks are disembarking from sleighs.

  Laughter and conversation floats through the air, both in English and the Myr language. As the partygoers filter inside through a set of open doors on the other side of the courtyard, footmen appear out of nowhere to attend to the sleighs and the animals. Great wolves shift their weight and eye the elk and reindeer that other parties have used to pull their sleighs.

  Nervousness is a lump of ice lodged in my throat as Graylin swings down from our sleigh and speaks to us in a low voice.

  “Remember the plan,” he says. His posture is casual, one hand resting against the sleigh side, but his eyes dart around nervously. “Don’t interact more than necessary. Don’t attract attention. Keep in touch”—he pats the walkie-talkie on his belt, hidden under his cloak—“and don’t get separated. I’ll meet you back here in an hour.”

  I nod in response, patting the place where my walkie-talkie is hidden to show that I have it. I argued on the way here that we should all split up—we can cover more ground that way—but Graylin wouldn’t hear of it, since I don’t speak the Myr language and don’t have much in the way of self-defense skills. I know he’s right, but I hate feeling like deadweight.

  We disembark and walk toward the castle, aiming for an inconspicuous side entrance rather than the propped-open doors admitting the crowd. The feel of a party is in the air, but my limbs are heavy with anxiety.

  Graylin comes up next to me. Here, he seems different from the gentle, soft-spoken soul I’ve always known. Wariness is in his eyes, and there is a subtle tension in his movements.

  “Promise me you’ll be careful in there,” he says under his breath. “We are only gathering information.”

  “I will,” I whisper back, resis
ting the urge to remind him I’ve promised exactly that a dozen times already. “Always am.”

  “I don’t know what I’d say to Marcus if I lost you.”

  That takes me aback. Graylin’s never said anything like that to me. I don’t know how to respond. But I don’t get the chance to think of something, because Graylin veers off. His job, for now, is to chat up the crowd to see what he can discover; Brekken’s and mine is to get the lay of the land.

  Brekken and I continue forward, my hand on his arm, and suddenly the doors are in front of us and we’re crossing the threshold. We’re inside.

  What greets us is an opulent hallway, narrow and oppressively dark despite the glass lamps spaced at intervals along the walls. Deep, velvety rugs line the floor and shimmering brocade tapestries cover the walls. They zig and zag without logic, broken by occasional alcoves holding stuffed beasts—bears, deer, wolves—or wild sculptures of wood or stone. The overall mood is claustrophobic, threatening.

  A few people walk by us, Fiordens either in drab servants’ uniforms or bright, extravagant finery, gaudier than what the delegates at Havenfall wear. They don’t pay us any mind, and we don’t speak, not wanting to draw attention to ourselves. I wish I had been better about studying the Myr language growing up, or that I was taller. I wish a lot of things, but I can’t dwell on them here. We have a job to do.

  Eventually, the hallway feeds into a wide, crowded foyer, and it’s a simple matter from there to find the feast. People are streaming in and out of a set of tall double doors at the end of the room. There is light and noise and music. The atmosphere is festive, not so different from the nightly dances at Havenfall, just bigger, louder, more crowded, and fancier. But an air of menace hangs above it all, because I know the truth about this place. Everything—all this luxury and elegance—is funded by the soul trade.

  Maybe that’s why there are guards stationed every twenty yards or so along the fortress walls. Uniformed in forest green wool coats with gold buttons, they stand tall and still amidst the swirl of the party. The gleaming, jeweled swords at their hips could plausibly be just decoration, but I don’t think they are. Although the other partygoers seem not to be bothered by the weapons, I can’t help but notice them. They are a reminder that this is a dangerous place. A deadly place.

  Without a word, we pass through into the ballroom. It’s massive, all dull gold and gleaming stone. The floor is made of different kinds of wood, but as polished as if it’s covered by melted diamonds. Its surface is smooth and soundless beneath my boots, and I have to be careful not to slip, though it doesn’t seem to slow down the people dancing all around us. Skirts and capes and tailcoats whisk through the perfumed air. Rather than dance in consistent pairs as you’d expect on Earth, people here dance alone, sweeping and swirling, elegantly coming together with others, before separating, changing partners, and then separating once again. The overall effect is dizzying, and I’m glad for Brekken’s strong presence beside me.

  A head table dominates the front of the room, and my gaze is drawn as if by a magnet to the Fiorden man who sits in the middle of it. Is this Cadius? My mother’s love? He’s tall, broad, and imposing, with a patrician face and neat dark hair. There is a small smile on his lips as he looks out over the hall. On a small dais between the head table and the rest of the room, a band plays strange stringed instruments I haven’t seen before.

  Perhaps this is a normal enough celebration. But there’s an edge in the air, some kind of tension, a cruelty in the savage tempo of the music and the high laughter ringing from all directions.

  My instincts tell me to pause, hoping not to be noticed, but Brekken propels us forward, bending down as he does to whisper in my ear.

  “Don’t slow down,” he whispers. “That’ll make everyone look at you. Even if you don’t know what you’re doing, keep moving.”

  I nod my understanding. He’s right, of course. The room is a blur of motion and bright color. As much as I want to squeeze myself into a corner and hope no one notices me, that’s a surefire way to be noticed. So I keep pace with Brekken as we walk past the band and join the dance.

  We fall into step easily, the muscle memory of however many summers in Havenfall’s ballroom taking over, even though the music is different. Even with the task ahead of us, part of me just wants to appreciate this moment, my body pressed close to Brekken’s as one of his hands twines through mine while the other cradles my waist. But I can’t feel the romance. Something seems so wrong here.

  And then I realize why the light in the room has such a strange quality. Silver is inlaid into the walls and ceiling, forming ornate shapes, such as flowering vines and snowflakes and the silhouettes of slender dancing figures. It’s flush with the wall, as if the lines were carved into the wooden walls and then molten silver poured in. It reminds me of ancient pottery I’ve seen at the museum in Denver, where artists mended cracks in ceramic with liquid gold. But rather than beautiful, the effect here is sinister. There’s an opalescent shimmer to the silver, like something alive moves under the smooth surface.

  Something alive. Like a soul.

  It’s Haven silver, I realize with a shock. I’d been drifting toward the nearest wall, my hand reaching out almost touching the figure of a twirling woman engraved there, but I quickly snatch my hand back as if from a stove burner. I don’t want to touch the metal created to hold Solarians’ fragmented souls.

  The evil of it makes me shudder. I keep my eyes open over Brekken’s shoulder as we spin, and I see people looking up at the man at the head table, Cadius Winterkill, the lord of this castle. Lips part in leering smiles. And even though I don’t understand the words people are calling out at him, I feel like I can make out their jeering, laughing tones.

  Princess Enetta had said no one reputable went to these parties. How much does everyone here know about the soul trade?

  “What are they saying?” I whisper to Brekken. I feel him tense at the little spot where his jaw rests against my temple.

  “Nothing interesting,” he says after a moment. “Jokes.”

  Anger shoots through me that these Fiordens—who must know what Cadius is up to—are joking. They are joking as the reflected light of the soul-silver plays off their beautiful clothes.

  Automatically, my hand drops to pat the walkie-talkie strapped to my thigh, half checking to make sure it’s still there, half hoping that I’ll feel it chirp with a message. I don’t want any part of this ball. I just want to find the Solarians who must be trapped here somewhere, get away from this place as fast as I can, and take everyone I love with me.

  “Has anyone mentioned the Solarians?” I grab Brekken’s waist tight, wanting to keep as close to him as I can, as much out of fear as of desire. “Or the armor?”

  I feel him shake his head. “Not that I’ve noticed.”

  “Maybe we should talk to someone,” I whisper, trying to think above the clamorous music, which seems to take pleasure in its own discordance. “Just casually to see if anyone knows anything.”

  “They’ll want to know who you are, and then they’ll notice you don’t speak the language.”

  Again I curse myself for never learning the languages of the Realms when I was a kid, when it would have been easy, my brain malleable. Graylin would have taught me, but I was too busy chasing squirrels and playing hide-and-seek with Nate, and later with Brekken.

  I see a serving table set up along one side of the room and nod at it, leading Brekken to follow my gaze.

  “You talk to someone, then. I’ll, uh, go get some food or something.” The last thing I want to do is eat anything, but we can’t just dance around until the feast is over.

  Brekken doesn’t let me go right away, though. “We’re supposed to stay together.”

  “I won’t go out of sight,” I promise.

  He pulls back enough to look into my face, and I see the familiar glint of stubbornness in his eyes. He knows it’s a good idea, but he doesn’t want to separate.

  “Who
should I talk to?” he asks.

  “Cadius? Would he recognize you?”

  Brekken hesitates and looks up at the head table. “I don’t think so …”

  “Then talk to him.”

  I spin out from under Brekken’s hands, pausing to kiss his cheek. I want to distract him from how antsy I am. I don’t know why I feel such a sense of dread, like an ax is suspended over my head. Maybe it’s just the effect of spending time in another world. Maybe I’m getting sicker, despite the protective effect of the phoenix flame gauntlet. Which would not be great, but I’d rather it be sickness than intuition that something is going to go wrong.

  Without giving Brekken any more space to argue—and draw attention to us by speaking English in a room full of Fiordens—I stride off toward the serving table and grab a small wooden bowl, as I see others doing. The table is piled high with mostly roasted meats, the shapes uncomfortably reminiscent of the animals they once were. The centerpiece is a huge roasted boar with the tusks still attached, sharp and dripping with grease. My stomach turns, and I go for a fruit platter instead, grabbing a random handful of what looks like small sticky blue plums.

  Then I realize I don’t know how to eat them. They seem messy. I’m searching for silverware when a sound cuts through the room. It’s the clear peal of cutlery clinking on glass, like people do at weddings. I guess some traditions occur across worlds. Or maybe they’ve permeated through the portals at Havenfall … Or elsewhere, if Kae is right, and other doorways to Realms are possible where phoenix flame is present.

  The music fades out, and the chatter of the large room dies quickly. Everyone turns toward the head table as Cadius rises to his feet. I look for Brekken, my heart in my throat and my plate slippery in my now-sweaty hands. But I don’t see him anywhere.

  Cadius begins to speak, his voice deep and rolling. I can’t understand any of it, except for a few random basic words like home and thank you and friends. After a few minutes of this, Cadius raises his arms, his voice rising to a finale. Around me, the celebrants laugh and cheer. The haunted silver glitters all around us, and I can almost feel the weight of the souls inside. Souls like Nahteran, captive and trapped. And maybe like Taya now.