The shield’s mostly dissipated on impact, but a few streaks of ice go whistling off into the forest beyond, shattering against trees and freezing through the brush. Alayne stands there for a moment, a statue, and then topples over and lies still, her Loci still trapped in her icy grip.
I let out my breath in a gasp, collapsing onto my knees. My whole body is quivering. My left sleeve’s been jerked up, and the Godsmark on my forearm is blazing. It hurts, hurts so much, like my whole arm is full of ice, which I guess in a way it was.
It hits me in a rush. I won. I actually won. Alayne’s not the first person I’ve killed, but she’s the first I’ve killed like this, the first Wizard, head-to-head, Glyph against Glyph. My first real duel with another Wizard, and I won, walking away without a scratch. I let out a wild noise, somewhere between a laugh and a gasp, and I feel the hot glow of pride swell in my chest. Gods be damned, I actually won.
Then I hear a metal click from behind me. It’s Drell. He’s pulled himself out of the brush, a bleeding scratch on his cheek. He’s also picked up Leland’s crossbow, which he’s aiming right at me. And he is very much not laughing.
“She was a Wizard,” he says, staring at Alayne’s body. His voice is flat, stunned, and I can see the crossbow just barely trembling. “She was a Wizard. And you killed her.”
“Yes. I did. I saved our lives.” I try my hardest to sound calm and friendly, even as my eyes fixate on the point of his crossbow’s bolt. “Relax, Drell. Put the crossbow down.”
“And you… you’re a Wizard, too,” he says. “What the hell have you gotten me into?”
“Easy, Drell,” I say, and even though I don’t want to hurt him, my hands are tightening around my Loci. “Listen to me. This is all part of the plan. This is going to be taken care of. No one is going to know you had anything to do with this.”
“‘Part of the plan?’” he repeats. “You knew about this all along, didn’t you? You set this up!” That flat, stunned affect is gone. There’s anger now and a surprising amount of hurt. “You’re one of them! A Revenant! A godsdamned rebel!”
“Drell, please,” I beg, and I really don’t want to hurt him. He’s a decent man, for a bandit anyway, and it’s my fault he’s out here at all. “Put the crossbow down, and I’ll explain everything. We can both walk away from this.”
“No.” His face curls into a scowl. “Not you.”
He pulls the trigger, and I slip into the Null.
Time slows here, but it doesn’t stop. I can see the twang of the string in Drell’s crossbow as he fires, can see the bolt leave the shaft and come flying toward me. It’s moving ever so slowly, like it’s underwater, but it’ll still hit me in twenty seconds, thirty at best. I whip my knives up and carve the simplest Glyph I can: four notches for a Wind Base, surrounded by a Circle Form for a push. It throbs a faint white, enough for me to see through the ashy haze and make out the look of utter hatred on Drell’s face.
I snap back to the Real. A gust of wind bellows out from me, a forceful, focused blast. It’s enough to stop the bolt in midair and send it whistling harmlessly away. It’s enough to rip apart the crossbow. And it’s enough to lift Drell off his feet and send him hurtling backward into a tree, where his bald head hits the trunk with a loud, awful crack.
Shit.
He lies slumped against the base of the tree, feet twitching, his gray eyes wide and his lip trembling. There’s a long streak of blood running down the trunk to the back of his head, which is cracked like a saucer that was slammed down a little too hard. He’s still alive, but he won’t be for long.
“Oh, Drell,” I say, pacing over to him. His eyes flit up to me, practically popping out of his head, and I can see him straining to talk, to will his body to work, to force his lips to move. Is he begging for mercy? Or is he threatening me, insulting me, cursing my name? If his hands could move, would he wrap them around my throat?
Doesn’t matter, I suppose. Either way, he deserves better. With a weary sigh, I hunker down next to him and slip into the Null to carve one last Glyph, a circle for life with a crescent around it. Then I snap back to the Real and blow with my lips, just the tiniest bit. The Glyph dissolves into dust, sparkling green dust that dazzles like stars and floats gently across Drell’s face, washing over him, sinking into him.
It’s a Glyph used to help children fall asleep, to give a moment of tranquility and calm. Drell’s chest heaves as he draws a deep breath, and his eyes droop shut. His head slumps sideways onto his shoulder, and he lies there, still, at peace.
A gentle death. It’s the least I could do.
With a deep swallow, I rise back to my feet and turn away. I can’t afford to feel sad for him, can’t afford to feel anything. Not now, not when I’m this close. I shut my eyes, breathe once, twice, three times, and bury all that feeling deep down.
We’re at war, Whispers would say. And all wars have casualties.
Right, then. Back to the mission. With everyone dead, I have a little more time than I’d planned, but sooner or later someone else will come riding up the trail. I make my way back to the carriage, to Alayne’s frozen corpse. It’s the first chance I get to take a really good look at her, and I understand why she was the target Whispers picked. We definitely look alike. My skin’s a shade darker than hers, a light tan from my Izachi mother, and her eyes were a pale brown while mine are a sharp green. But we’ve got the same lean features, the same sharp chin, the same smattering of dark freckles. We could pass for sisters, easily. Could have, anyway.
I step over her and lean into the broken hole in the side of the carriage. There’s still one thing I need before I burn this whole clearing to the ground. Alayne’s suitcase rests on the cushioned seat where she’d been sitting, and I crack it open. There are clothes… books… a few elegant jewels… and…
There it is. On the bottom. A crisp envelope, expensive looking, with elegant script on the front and a glowing wax seal. The seal’s already been cracked, of course, so I flip it open and pull the letter out. The paper has an image at the top, a towering castle framed against a full moon, with five symbols around it: a crown, a sword, a quill, a chalice, and a scale. But my eyes flit to the text below.
Lady Alayne Dewinter,
It is my great honor to invite you to attend the Blackwater Academy of Magic for our upcoming term in the Fall of 798. All uniforms and materials will be provided, though you may bring your own Loci. If you wish to attend this term, please meet us on Autumnal 9th at the Lauderdale Docks, and provide this letter to gain admission to the ferry.
Your family has earned a place within our esteemed halls, Lady Dewinter, and I greatly look forward to making your acquaintance.
Yours sincerely,
Headmaster Magnus Aberdeen
My hands are actually shaking. This is what it was all for. Ten years of training. Ten years of blood and sweat and pain. So many lives taken. So much given up, so much lost, all for this moment.
Blackwater Academy is the most elite school of magic in the Republic of Marovia. Any Wizard who’s anybody graduated from its halls. Senators, generals, and high clerics, the wisest scholars and the most powerful leaders, the nobles who’ve made the world such a godsdamned mess. Blackwater Academy is the true seat of power in the Republic, maybe in the world, where entire generations are molded into a powerful, unbending, uncompromising aristocracy. Blackwater Academy is where Wizards are made.
And I’m coming for every last one of them.
CHAPTER 2
Then
I am seven years old on the last good day of my life.
I’m living with my family in Laroc, a small coastal town on the Republic’s western coast. It smells like fish, and the shops don’t carry plums, but I like Laroc, at least more than the last few places we’ve lived; it’s better than New Seylem, with its dark, scary slums, and Washburn with its surly miners and sulfur reek. In Laroc, we have a nice first-floor apartment by the town’s edge, close enough to the ocean that I can smell the sa
lt in the air when I stand by the window. It’s small but snug, and I have a shelf full of carved animals, and I get to sleep on my own little cot by the foot of my parents’ bed. It’s the best home I’ve ever had.
Even at seven, I know there are things I’m not supposed to question. There are the protective wards all over the walls, spiderwebs of red string adorned with multicolored crystals. There’s my father’s job, which requires him to vanish for days at a time, a job of utmost importance that no one will explain to me. There’s the heavy wooden chest under the bed, the one with the shifting lock that hurts my eyes to look at. And there’s the Mark on my forearm, the Mark just like my father’s, the Mark I have to keep hidden, forever, no matter what.
On that day, that last good day, I wake up just a little after sunrise to the smell of breakfast. My mother’s still asleep, curled onto her side in her bed, and my little sister, Sera, is sleeping next to her, snoring with her mouth open wide. My father is up, though, standing in the kitchen, and he’s laying out all my favorites on our little round table: a wooden bowl of olives, a tin cup of milk, and, best of all, some scones from the bakery down the street, the sugar-glazed kind filled with chopped apples. I run over to eat, still in my nightgown, and my father laughs at the sight of me shoving the entire scone into my mouth.
“You really like that one, Monkey?” he says, grabbing a cup for coffee. He’s a south Marovian, with pale skin, messy red hair, and a smattering of freckles across his pointy nose. He’s short, like me, a good half a head shorter than most men, and he wears a delicate pair of golden spectacles over his sharp green eyes that instantly mark him as a scholar. “I always preferred the blueberry ones.”
“Apple’s the best, and everyone knows it,” I reply, spitting chunks of scone everywhere. My father just smiles and shakes his head, turning back to the kettle resting on our stovetop. He sets the cup down and picks up his Loci, slim greenwood wands engraved with strands of ivy, wands that I want to play with more badly than anything in the world. I don’t see him cut the Glyph, because I can’t slip into the Null yet, but I see his hands flit imperceptibly fast, and then the kettle rattles as it’s instantly heated.
“Do you have to go today?” I ask, even though I already know the truth. He’s wearing his suit, the one with the little bowtie and the watch-chain, and he only wears that when he’s going to work.
“I do. Duty calls.” He finishes making the coffee, then walks over to hunker down by my side. “But I promise I’ll be home for dinner.” He leans down to kiss my forehead. “Be good. Have fun.”
I grin, despite myself. “Can’t do both.” It’s our little joke, and I have no idea when it started, just that we say it whenever we part. “Bye, Monkey,” he says, and with a smile so kind and warm, he leaves.
My mother wakes up half an hour later, groggy, rubbing her eyes. She’s Izachi, one of the Scattered People, with tan skin and curly black hair, her eyes an endlessly deep brown. She pads over barefoot, because she’s always barefoot, and drinks the cup of coffee my father left her like it’s the nectar of the Gods. She tries to move quietly, but Sera wakes up anyway, shooting bolt upright in the bed, her eyes instantly on me. “Scones?” she asks. “Did you save me a scone?”
“Nope,” I lie, as a joke, but instead of laughing she just looks down, heartbroken. “I mean, yes! Of course! I was kidding!” I rush over, handing her the last one.
“Not a funny joke,” she grumbles, even as she takes a delicate bite. Sera just turned six, and if I take after our mother, she takes after our father. She has his pale skin and freckles, his scholar’s disposition. But what really stands out is her hair. It’s as vibrant red as the sunset and cascades down her back to her waist with beautiful curls like waves in the ocean. Every stranger we meet comments on it, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t jealous.
I have one thing she doesn’t, though. The Mark on my left wrist, the tattoo that glows hot red and gold. Sera’s wrists are as bare as my mother’s. I’d asked, just once, why I had one and she didn’t, and my father’s face fell. “Because she’s lucky,” he’d replied.
“I don’t suppose you saved me a scone?” my mother asks now, and my sugar-glazed grimace of guilt is the only answer she needs.
The three of us get dressed and head out to run errands. We visit the market square, crowded with dozens of stands, flooded with the din of shouting vendors. We stock up on bread and fruit and salted meat, and my mother buys a book of poems for Sera and a little wooden horse for me. “His name is Boneshanks, and I love him!” I scream, to the bewilderment of everyone there and the great amusement of my mother. We go to the library next. Sera sits quietly reading while I run wildly through the aisles. We grab lunch in the Izachi neighborhood, a spiced beef dish my mother loves that burns my tongue just a little, and spend at least half an hour watching a juggler toss balls and staves and knives. He’s all the more impressive because he’s just a Humble, no magic involved.
Because we were good girls, we end the day with a walk on the beach, which is my absolute favorite part of Laroc. I dance Boneshanks around in the sand and chase Sera in the crashing waves and bury myself up to the waist and pretend I’m a bog goblin. My mother just sits on the sand, gazing out at the endless blue.
This is how I’ll always remember her. Resting by the water’s edge on that brittle gray sand, a little smile on her face as I cartwheel around her, her eyes full of kindness and love and, just below, an unbearable aching sadness. This is her, forever.
Our walk back takes us past the docks, which is a mistake. The docks are always unpleasant, packed with angry grunting sailors and reeking of fish. A massive ship has come into port, an enormous galleon with giant fluttering sails and a bronze mermaid on the front, so the docks are even more crowded than usual, crowded enough that I hold tight onto my mother’s hand as we shove our way through. But that’s not all. There’s something in the air, something wrong, a sense of malice and tension, a smell of decay and flame. Everyone’s scowling, sweating, staring. The Mark on my arm starts to burn, and I clutch my sleeve tight.
We push forward, into the public square at the dock’s edge, and I see what all the commotion’s about. A statue of Javellos, the God of Commerce, towers over us, gazing down at the courtyard with his eight glistening eyes. Beneath him, on the dirty cobblestones, three men stand bound to whipping posts, their hands locked in thick metal clamps. Their bare backs are exposed, taut and muscular. Humble sailors. And there are other men around them, too, men who do not seem happy. City watchmen in their leather armor keep the crowd at bay, clubs in hand, shoving anyone who gets too close to the square’s edge. A heavyset older Wizard stands on a dais before them, wearing an ill-fitting black suit and tugging at his collar with a ring-covered hand. But all eyes are on the Enforcer, standing silently behind the bound men. She wears a tight black robe, her face is hidden behind a blank silver mask, and in each hand she holds the most sinister-looking Loci I’ve ever seen, gnarled bone wands with jagged tips and little carved skulls at the hilts.
My mother clenches me tight with one hand and Sera with the other. “We should leave,” she says, pulling back, but there’s nowhere to go. The crowd is packed dense behind us, and the square’s ahead of us. So all we can do is stand and watch.
“As the vice chairman of the Laroc Trading Company, I find these men guilty of sloth, cowardice, and desertion!” the Wizard on the dais bellows. His voice is coarse and phlegmatic, and sweat streaks down his stubbly face even though it’s chilly out. “Their mutinous actions at sea not only sank a prize vessel but cost me nearly four thousand valmarcs’ worth of cargo! Four thousand! For a price like that, I could well sentence you all to death!”
Two of the sailors stand firm, but the third, the youngest, begins to sob. “Please, sir, have mercy,” he begs. “It wasn’t our fault! We had to abandon the ship or go down with it in the storm! Please!”
“Mercy.” The Wizard chews the word like a bitter herb. “Yes, I suppose I can grant you
a drop of that. And you’ll serve far better as examples.” He waves a hand at the Enforcer. “Give them the thorns.”
The Enforcer raises her two Loci, arms crossed, even as the men grit their teeth. “Close your eyes,” my mother hisses, and Sera listens, but I don’t. I can’t. I watch as the Enforcer tenses her arms and sucks in her breath, and then I feel it, feel it for the first time in my life, the call of the Null, a feeling like I’m being pulled toward that woman, toward her Loci. It’s like there’s something in my body being drawn out through my skin, wrenched out of me, out of reality, into somewhere else. My stomach lurches, my vision spins, and my arm flares with a horrible stinging pain, like there are thousands of needles inside it and they’re starting to break through.
I let out a little scream and my mother squeezes her hand tight over my face. I can’t quite see what happens next through the cracks between her fingers, but I see enough. I see the air crackle and waver behind the men, see tendrils of hazy green light shoot out of the end of those bone Loci, see the men’s backs rip open as they’re struck by hundreds of invisible hooked thorns. I smell blood and hear screams and feel that throbbing painful pulse of magic within me, straining to break free, tearing me apart from the inside, like there’s a hurricane surging within me and my body’s just barely, barely, keeping it in.
Later, as we walk hand in hand back to our apartment, I finally find myself able to speak. “Why?” I ask my mother. “Why did the Wizards do that to those men?”
My mother glances down at me, and I can tell, even at seven, that she really doesn’t want to have this conversation. “Because the laws of the Republic allow Wizards to punish Humbles as they see fit,” she says, teeth clenched, choosing every word carefully. There’s an anger in her expression, dancing behind her eyes, and it scares me.
It Ends in Fire Page 2
