It Ends in Fire
Page 1
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Copyright © 2021 by Andrew Shvarts
Cover art copyright © 2021 by Michael Heath. Cover design by Erin Shappell. Cover copyright © 2021 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
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First Edition: July 2021
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Shvarts, Andrew, author.
Title: It ends in fire / Andrew Shvarts.
Description: First edition. | New York : Jimmy Patterson Books/Little, Brown and Company, 2021. | Audience: Ages 14 & up. | Summary: Raised by an underground rebel group after the murder of her parents, seventeen-year-old Alka goes undercover at the most prestigious school of magic in an attempt to recruit for the rebellion and win the Great Game, which would give her access to the seat of her enemies’ power.
Identifiers: LCCN 2021008999 | ISBN 9781368057950 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780759555990 (ebook)
Subjects: CYAC: Magic—Fiction. | Revolutions—Fiction. | Social classes—Fiction. | Schools—Fiction. | Fantasy.
Classification: LCC PZ7.1.S5185 It 2021 | DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021008999
ISBNs: 978-1-368-05795-0 (hardcover), 978-0-7595-5599-0 (ebook)
E3-20210521-JV-NF-ORI
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1: Now
Chapter 2: Then
Chapter 3: Now
Chapter 4: Then
Chapter 5: Now
Chapter 6: Now
Chapter 7: Then
Chapter 8: Now
Chapter 9: Then
Chapter 10: Now
Chapter 11: Then
Chapter 12: Now
Chapter 13: Now
Chapter 14: Then
Chapter 15: Now
Chapter 16: Now
Chapter 17: Now
Chapter 18: Now
Chapter 19: Then
Chapter 20: Now
Chapter 21: Then
Chapter 22: Now
Chapter 23: Now
Chapter 24: Then
Chapter 25: Now
Chapter 26: Now
Chapter 27: Now
Chapter 28: Then
Chapter 29: Now
Chapter 30: Now
Chapter 31: Now
Chapter 32: Then
Chapter 33: Now
Chapter 34: Then
Chapter 35: Now
Chapter 36: Now
Chapter 37: Now
Chapter 38: Then
Chapter 39: Now
Chapter 40: Now
Chapter 41: Now
Chapter 42: Now
Chapter 43: Then
Chapter 44: Now
Chapter 45: Now
Chapter 46: Now
Chapter 47: Then
Chapter 48: Now
Chapter 49: Now
Acknowledgments
About the Author
JIMMY Patterson Books for Young Adult Readers
To my parents, Anya and Simon, for raising me to be skeptical of institutions, and to always find my own path
CHAPTER 1
Now
It’s half past noon and there’s no sign of the wagon, so the bandits are all starting to get restless. I am, too. For the last two hours we’ve been sitting crouched in the undergrowth of Dunraven Forest, hidden among the tall ferns just off the dirt highway. It’s a nice enough day: sunlight streams through the canopy of the towering oaks, and somewhere nearby a redbird is singing its jaunty tune. But my calves hurt, my back’s sore, and if this wagon doesn’t show soon, I’m in for a world of trouble.
“Getting late, Alka,” Drell says. He’s the leader of the bandits, a burly bruiser with a mouthful of gold teeth and a tattoo of a skull on the back of his bald head. I spent a solid week casing the taverns of New Finley, sizing up all the cutthroats and lowlifes, before I settled on him. Drell acts gruff and smells like sour beer, but he’s not all that bad for a highwayman. He thinks things through, listens when I talk, and hasn’t made even a single advance on me. “You sure your tip was good?”
“I am,” I say, even though I very much am not. Whispers said the carriage would pass through in the morning, and here we are edging into the afternoon.
“All right.” Drell rests his hairy hand on the pommel of the cutlass sheathed at his hip. “I hope so. I like you plenty, Alka, but the boys aren’t going to be happy if you wasted their time.”
“The boys” are precisely what I’m worried about. Doing a job like this meant putting together a team. There’s Leland, lanky and pale, scowling my way as he holds his crossbow; Phaes, a scarred Sithartic mercenary with a bandolier of knives around his chest; and Griggs, a hulking Velkschen who carries a giant axe.
I could probably kill them all, if it came down to it. But I’d rather not put that to the test.
Leland breaks the tension with a sharp inhale. “It’s coming,” he growls, and nocks his crossbow. “Positions.”
Thank the Gods, he’s right. I can hear it now, the clip-clop of hooves, the crunch of wagon wheels on dirt. We all hunker down, holding our breath, drawing our weapons. Well, they draw their weapons. I don’t have any, not that they can see. As far as Drell and his boys know, I’m just a traveling grifter with a lead on a job, a tavern flirt looking for a bit of gold.
They have no idea what I’m capable of.
The trees by the roadside rustle as the wagon rolls into view. It’s fancy, all right, an ornate wooden carriage with a rounded roof and gilded wheels, pulled by two stocky, spotted horses. A coachman sits at the front of the wagon, his face hidden behind a wide-brimmed hat, and the sword at his side says he doubles as a bodyguard. The windows are shuttered so I can’t see inside, but the seal on the wagon’s side tells me everything I need: a growling tiger framed against a red sun. The Dewinter family crest. My target.
Drell shoots me a nod. It’s time. I take one deep breath, collecting myself, and then I push through the ferns, right into the road. “Help!” I yell, throwing up my hands. “Please, sir! Help!”
The coachman jerks the reins, and his horses rear back as the carriage skids to a hard stop. “Gods!” he snarls. “Who the hell are you?”
“Please,” I sob, actual tears running down my cheeks, and it’s quite a convincing performance, if I may say so myself. “You have to help me. My family was set upon by outlaws just up the trail. I barely got away. They’re all… they’re all…” I collapse to my knees, blocking the wagon’s path, and I can see, just barely, my bandits creeping arou
nd the wagon, sliding into position. “Oh, Gods! They’re all dead.”
The coachman cocks a skeptical eyebrow my way. I can practically see the gears in his head whirring as he sizes me up. I’m seventeen, but I look younger, standing a little over five feet. My dark brown hair hangs tousled around my shoulders, and I’m wearing a long rose dress with frilly sleeves, the hem caked in mud and torn along the sides.
It’s not enough. “Sorry, girlie,” the coachman says with a shrug. “I’m on business. You want a constable, follow the road to New Finley.”
“That’s at least a day away!” I plead. “Please, sir. I beg you! Have mercy!”
“Mercy doesn’t pay for ale,” he sneers. “Now move out of the way, before I—” but he never gets to finish the sentence because Phaes leans around the side of the wagon, pressing the edge of a dagger to the underside of the coachman’s throat. The coachman startles back, his hand darting toward his sword, but Phaes stops him by pressing the blade up, drawing a trickle of blood as it cuts into the soft stubbly flesh of his neck. “Wouldn’t do that,” Phaes says. “Not if you value your life.”
The other bandits emerge around us: Leland with his crossbow leveled, Griggs with his axe unsheathed, Drell pacing confidently up the road. The coachman’s eyes flit around, and he’s not looking anywhere near as worried as I’d like. “This is a robbery, friend,” Drell calls out. “Play along and no one gets hurt.”
I rise to my feet, brushing away my tears with the back of my hand, and the coachman snarls at me with a scowl so deep it could cut stone. “You’re making a mistake,” he says. “A grave mistake.”
Leland tugs on the wagon’s door, and it doesn’t budge. “Locked.”
“Hand over the keys, friend,” Drell says. His voice is calm, gentle, even as it’s clear he means business. “We want your goods, not your life.”
I’d hoped the coachman would make this easy, but he’s not budging, which is impressive for a man with blood trickling down his neck. “My goods,” he repeats, shaking his head. “You have no idea what’s in here, do you?”
Leland jerks the handle again, just as uselessly, and now Drell finally draws his sword. It’s an expensive curved cutlass from the Kindrali Isles, its blade shining gold in the wan light. “I know you’ve got one last chance to open it,” he says. “And then it gets ugly.”
The coachman’s bleary eyes narrow. “Now you listen to me. I am in the employ of General Grayson Dewinter, his line recognized by the Senate. His daughter is in this carriage. His Wizard daughter. Do you understand what that means, you pissants? Do you have any idea what’ll happen to you if you don’t let us go?”
The bandits glance at me uneasily. “What’s he talking about?” Leland hisses.
“He’s lying,” I say, but my voice chokes up for a moment. “It’s a bluff. The only thing in that wagon is sacks of gold.”
“A bunch of Humbles killing a Wizard? The Senate will never let this go,” the coachman continues. “They’ll hunt you wherever you hide. They’ll flay the skin from your bones. They’ll kill your wives, your mothers, your children. This is your last chance.”
“No, this is your last chance,” Drell commands. He understands, even if the other bandits don’t. It doesn’t matter what’s true at this point. We’re in too deep to turn back. “Griggs. Break the door down.”
Griggs lets out a grunt of approval and steps forward, pushing Leland out of the way. He hefts his axe back, ready to bring it down in a massive chop.
Then I feel it. A chill in the air, unnatural for a midsummer day. A buzzing sound, like a swarm of locusts. And the carriage grows darker, like the light around it is dimming, like it’s cloaking itself in shadow. The others don’t see it, but I do, and my stomach plunges.
Gathering magic. A coming storm.
Everything goes to hell.
A thunderclap booms from within the carriage and the whole side of it explodes outward, shattering into a wave of jagged shards that tear Griggs into bloody scraps. His axe flies back into the brush, useless, and his body, what’s left of it, hits the trees with a wet splat. Dust floods the air, blinding and stinging. The force of the blast knocks me to my knees, hurls Drell into the woods, and sends Leland staggering, fumbling for his crossbow. There’s movement from inside the ruined carriage, a glimmer of light, the sound of scraping metal, and a hot black streak cuts through the air impossibly fast. One moment Leland’s head is on his shoulders. The next, it’s bouncing away into the brush.
“Stand down!” a man shrieks, his voice cracking with fear. It’s Phaes, and he’s in the middle of the road, holding the coachman in front of him like a shield, his dagger still pressed against the man’s throat. “Stand down or your man dies!”
There’s a moment of silence, long and tense, and then a figure emerges from the side of the carriage. I can make her out now as the dust clears. Lady Alayne Valencia Dewinter. We’ve never met. She has no idea who I am. But I know all about her. For the past three years, she’s all I’ve thought about, her name dancing through my head as I’ve fallen asleep every night. Alayne Dewinter, Alayne Dewinter, Alayne Dewinter.
Alayne is a girl my age in a long blue gown, her long brown hair running down her back in beautifully interwoven braids, a gold necklace with a massive ruby glinting at the base of her neck. She’s deep in the Null: her eyes are a sheer black, dark as the night sky, glistening with dozens of dancing points of light like fireflies. Phaes and the coachman are staring at her face, but I’m looking right at her hands, sizing up the Loci in her grips. Wands, matching, one in each hand. Blackwood by the look of them, with sharpened ivory tips and leather grips. Expensive. Professional. Powerful.
My heart is thundering against my ribs, and my breath is caught in my throat. Alayne was supposed to be an untrained novice who’s never even held a Loci. And yet here she is, carving battle Glyphs.
“I mean it!” Phaes repeats, shoving the coachman forward. “Drop those wands, or your man here dies!”
“Please, m’lady,” the coachman pleads, and now, now, he looks scared. “I had your back, didn’t I? I did as I was told? I’m on your side!”
Alayne’s lips twist up in a cruel smirk, and just like that, the coachman’s fate is sealed. He might well be on her side. But in the end, he’s just another disposable Humble, and she’s a Wizard having a bad day. Her hands fly up, imperceptibly fast, a precise jagged blur as she carves a Glyph into the air in front of her. The coachman barely has time to scream before a lance of cragged stone shoots out from the ground at his feet, plunging into his chest, out his back, and into Phaes behind him. The two men stand there, stunned, gasping, and then the lance explodes, leaving nothing of them but dust and a fine red mist.
Alayne’s shimmering nightscape eyes flit to me. I lean back on my hands, pressing them up against my lower back, sliding them under my gown, toward the leather band around my waist, toward its hidden sheaths. My palms find two hilts and close tight. I’ve got one shot at this, one chance to get out of this alive. Alayne cocks her head to the side, studying me like an insect. And as badly as I want to strike, as badly as my whole body is screaming fight!, as badly as my forearm is tingling, pulsing, burning, I know I have to wait and let her move first.
Alayne’s left arm jerks up, raising a Loci.
Now.
I let out a roar, lunge to my feet, and whip my hands out, unsheathing two short knives, carved from bone, their edges razor sharp, their handles pulsing with magic. My Loci aren’t as fancy as Alayne’s, but they’ll do the trick.
I slip into the Null.
The world melts away around me, and time slows to a crawl. The bright green of the forest, the blue sky overhead, the crimson blood splattering the trees, all of it fades into a gray haze, like the scene around us has been lost in fog. Black ash flits through the air like falling snow. There is no sound in the Null save the thundering of my heart and the deafening roar of magic. For one moment, one lingering, vital moment, everything else disappears.
There’s just me and Alayne, facing off.
I see her eyes widen with shock as she realizes what I am, but it’s too late. She’s already carved the first two lines of her Glyph, and they hover in the air at the end of her left Loci, spectral and elegant and the brightest red. A long line slashed down at a forty-five-degree angle, bisected at the halfway point by a vertical cut. Fire Base. And judging by the way she’s raising her right Loci, the turn of her wrist, I’m guessing she’s going to circle it for the second form, making it a single blazing blast.
It’s a basic attack Glyph. The kind you’d use when slaughtering a defenseless, cowering Humble. Definitely not what you want against another Wizard. But it’s too late for Alayne. She’s already started cutting that Glyph, and if she stops now, it’ll blow up in her face. An expert Wizard could redirect, maybe, find another form off that base, but Alayne’s nowhere near that good. So even though she knows it won’t work, even though she knows she’s doomed, all Alayne can do is lift up her right hand and finish it off.
The Null throbs around us, smoky and dark. I whip up my Loci, and with those two bone knives I carve my own attack Glyph into the air in front of me, my blades sinking deep into the skin of the world. A three-stroke triangle for an Ice Base, and a crosshatched hexagon around it for a solid block second form. It’s more complicated than Alayne’s, but it doesn’t matter, because in the Null time moves slowly and in favor of the defender. Alayne’s ball of flame is already forming in front of her, the air around it wavering in the heat, but before it can get to me, I close the hexagon and my Glyph is finished, a perfect shield of blue ice hanging in the air, spinning like a coin.
I blink, pulling back into the Real. Color and sound come back in a flash, as does the rush of time. Alayne’s fireball streaks toward me like a meteor, but my ice shield surges to meet it, leaving trails of sparkling frost in the dirt below. Ice meets fire, and ice wins; the fireball dissolves midair into steam. And my shield hurtles past it, a battering ram of glowing blue that can’t be stopped. Alayne lets out the tiniest shriek as it hits her, and then it passes through her, into her. Her skin turns blue as her blood freezes in her veins. Frost crackles in her hair. Her terrified expression stays stuck, even as her eyes go glassy and her breath freezes on her lips.