It Ends in Fire

by Andrew Shvarts

  She raises my hand and gently kisses my Godsmark tattoo, sending an electric tingle down the length of my arm. “I’ll pray that you’re right.”

  I rise. I get dressed, putting on my most practical clothes, comfortable pants and a loose shirt. I strap on my holsters, slide in my Loci, test their grips. I take in my room one last time. And we head out.

  There’s a crowd waiting for me outside. All of the Nethros are there, Tish and Zigmund and the rest, huddled together in a dense crowd, waiting for me, for their leader, for the captain who carried them to victory. Others are there, too, Javelloses and Zartans and even the odd Selura. Talyn watches me from the back, and when I emerge hand in hand with Marlena, he gives a little nod of understanding, like Ah, I see. He’s not entirely right, of course, but it doesn’t matter. Not anymore.

  No one speaks as I make my way down the Order’s steps. They don’t have to. They part to let me through, patting my shoulders, bowing their heads, and when I set off to make the long walk to the Champion’s Grounds, where the duel will be held, they follow me as one, a shadow, an army. We march together through the campus, and every step we take is a moment of solidarity, a rebuke to the order this school was founded on, a challenge to everything Blackwater, everything the Republic, is meant to represent.

  Others watch silently from the sides as we walk by. Vanguards and their supporters scowl our way, ugly sneers and hateful glares. A few professors glance away, as if even acknowledging the defiance is somehow being complicit in it. But it’s the Humbles that really catch my eye. Marlena is well liked in their village, and word must have spread about what happened. As I walk by them with Marlena, they stop working and watch me, watch us. Some look concerned. Others proud. An old gardener takes off his hat and presses it to his chest. A woman sweeping the path nods. A trio of children wave.

  The Champion’s Grounds are located maybe a mile away from the campus. We march there together, wordless, unified, a gathering storm, a rising wave. This moment feels significant, charged, heavy. Something is happening here, something bigger than me, bigger than the game, bigger than this school. Something that’s going to matter.

  Then we’re there, at the grounds, and I feel a knot of anxiety tighten in my stomach, because this is really happening. Slowly, my crowd disperses, heads into the stands to take their seats.

  Tish and Zigmund take their time. Tish hugs me tight and says, “Do it for Fyl.” Zigmund claps me on the back, grinning wide. “Crush his ass,” he booms, and I can’t help but smile back.

  Calfex is next. She approaches me, expression as unreadable as ever. “Do you have even the faintest idea what you’ve gotten yourself into?” she asks.

  “Maybe the faintest?” I reply.

  She lets out an exasperated sigh that reminds me more than anything else of Pavel. “Tell me you have some great cunning strategy to win this. Tell me this is all part of your plan.”

  “I wish I could,” I say, and I feel Marlena’s hand squeeze mine. “But I’m just winging it.”

  “You are alternately the most brilliant and the most infuriating student I’ve ever taught,” Calfex says wearily. Then she leans in close and whispers in my ear, her voice so low I can barely even hear her. “Ishmai vel pera, ishmai vel relos.”

  An Izachi prayer. One my mother would say to me every night before bed. May you find triumph, it means. May you find peace.

  Talyn comes up after she’s gone. He glances at Marlena, then back at me. I wince a little at the awkwardness, but he dismisses it with a signature smirk. “Listen,” he says. “You’re going to win out there. You’re going to show that prick he messed with the wrong person. You’re going to get the justice Fyl deserves.” He takes my other hand in his, squeezes it gently as he presses his thumb against my palm. “I know it.”

  There’s a strangle tingle in my palm, and when I look at my hand, there’s an imprint of dust on it, ash that sparkles a vivid gold in the shape of his thumbprint. His Gods’ Ash. “Will that help me?” I ask.

  Talyn shrugs. “It won’t hurt.”

  “Thank you.” I clench and unclench my fist, and my hand pulses with power. “You know, there’s no glory for you if I’m the one who beats him.”

  “I have a whole lifetime to chase glory,” he says, and gently pats my shoulder. “Today, I’m just here for my friend.”

  The last person to stay with me is Marlena. I know it’s time to go into the grounds, to take my place, to finish this once and for all. But I don’t want to let her go, don’t want to be apart, not now, not ever. I turn to look at her, and she leans in and kisses me, long and deep. It’s a kiss of longing, a kiss of desperation, but it’s also a kiss of transgression, of defiance, of power. I can feel the other Wizards staring, hear murmured gasps and whispers, but I don’t care. Let them stare, let them gossip. I might die today. I’m going to make it count.

  When she pulls away, she stares into my eyes one final time. “Come back to me,” she says.

  “I promise,” I reply, and then I head inside.

  My krova-yan with Marius isn’t some little duel to be played out on a strip of grassy lawn; even the professors who disapprove of the practice can’t deny the significance. So we meet instead here, in the Champion’s Grounds, an ancestral dueling field dating back to the school’s founding. It’s only meant to be used for special occasions, and the duel of the century certainly meets that criteria. A long stretch of flat, dry clay sits framed by tall stone stands of tiered seats on both sides, like a road cleaving between two mountains. Overhead, the sky is gray, overcast, and a cold wind rustles through. Not like that kept anyone away. It looks like the whole school is already there, packing the seats, ready to see one of us die.

  Normally, today would be a big day of celebration, as the winning Order is honored for their victory. But the duel has stolen the focus from all of that, and I don’t think even the Nethros have done much partying. Everyone seems to understand that, fair or not, this duel is the real culmination of the Great Game. If Marius defeats me, then even if Nethro is crowned the Order Triumphant, he’ll have made it out of this with his dignity intact, with order restored. And if I defeat him… well, I don’t think anyone’s prepared themselves for that.

  I take my spot at one end of the track, planting both feet firmly in the clay. My Loci sit in sheaths at my hips, and I rest my hands on their hilts, feeling the cold leather grips, comforting in their familiarity. The truth is, I’ve put barely any thought into what comes next, or any strategy into what I’m going to do. It doesn’t really matter. Marius is a vastly better Wizard than I am, and there’s no amount of preparation I could have done that would matter, not in a night. All I can do is hope to improvise and catch him off guard.

  That made sense when I challenged him, and last night talking to Marlena, and this morning as I walked here. But standing there, on the dueling ground, I feel my knees start to tremble, my palms start to sweat, my heart hit my ribs. There’s a nagging voice in my head I’d manage to ignore, but it’s getting louder and louder, and it’s asking the same question: What the hell were you thinking?

  I breathe deeply, collect myself, and turn to the stands. They’re all there, everyone. Zigmund and Tish sit in the front of the Nethro section and wave at me. Professor Calfex gives a slight nod. Talyn nods. And Marlena looks on with the most complicated expression of all, fear and pride and love all at once.

  I can do this. I have to do this. For them. And for myself.

  There’s a commotion at the other end of the dueling grounds. It’s Marius. He strides up, bold and smug, taking his position. He’s dressed impeccably, resplendent in a gold and red suit, long leather gloves, tall boots with silver buttons. His stag-head Loci sit at his hips, and he shoots me a blinding smile, a smile I want to wipe off his face more badly than I’ve ever wanted anything. The Vanguards cheer loudly at the sight of him, and I see a nervous titter run through the Nethros. That’s not comforting.

  “Duelists!” a voice cries, and ev
eryone goes silent. Headmaster Aberdeen strolls onto the ground between us, his long black robe trailing after him. He’s cleaned up since yesterday, and when he speaks now, it’s firmly in his old voice, the gentle, wise patrician. Maybe he’s had the time to recover after his outburst. Or maybe he’s just confident I’m going to die here, and all his problems will go away. “I had hoped that the rivalry between Lady Dewinter and Lord Madison would be resolved peacefully, in the spirit of friendship,” he says, and I have to wonder if a single person here believes what he’s saying. “But it was not to be. So we settle it instead in the most ancient of ways, with a krova-yan. A duel to the death, here in these grounds where the First Fathers once stood. Here, with blood, this shall at last be resolved.”

  He turns to me, and I scan his face for a hint of emotion, but it’s all hidden deep. “Alayne Valencia Dewinter! Do you relent, drawing the shame of the Gods unto your line?”

  “I do not,” I reply, and there goes the point of no return. This is happening. This is really happening.

  “Marius Benedikt Madison!” Aberdeen booms. “Do you relent, drawing the shame of the Gods unto your line?”

  “I do not,” he says, loud and theatrical. “I shall fight for the Madison name, and I shall honor my ancestors!”

  “Thus shall it be, in the eyes of Gods and men.” Aberdeen steps away, out of the line of fire, to his position at the base of one of the stands. He claps his hands, a boom that sounds like thunder. “Let the krova-yan commence!”

  I move first. I have to. My best shot is if I can somehow beat him to the draw, catch him right away while he tries something fancy. I slip into the Null, my Loci already drawn, breath tight in my chest. The Null here is quiet, still, the ash frozen in midair, like it’s paused in anticipation. The fog hangs thick, blocking out the stands so that all I can see of the hundreds watching is the distant, barely visible beating of their hearts, like stars flaring out in a distant sky.

  I jab my right Loci forward, carving the first strokes of an Earth Base, and my instinct’s decided what I’m doing for me. A lance of stone, just like the one Marius threw at Fyl. Fast, deadly, and poetic. I just need to beat him to the draw.

  But when I look up at him, he’s not carving anything. He’s just standing there across the Null, arms folded across his chest, a bemused smirk on his face. It’s enough to stop me cold, to trap my breath in my throat. What is he thinking? What is this?

  He sees me freeze, and that just make him smirk harder. He extends one hand, an endless motion in the expanse of the Null, and gestures at me. Go ahead.

  The two lines of my Earth Base flare brown in front of me. Shit! I’m reconsidering everything now, trying to figure this out, but it’s too late. I could try a different form, maybe, like a shield or an infusion, but I’m starting to panic and doubt myself and I’m not even sure which shield form works with earth. I don’t have time to think. With a wince, I cut fast, the Lance Form, and let it fly.

  My spear is far less elegant than Marius’s had been, a jagged, crumbling shard of stone, but it should still hurt like hell. It flies forward, plunging over the clay with that lazy, molasses speed of the Null, its tip aimed perfectly at his heart.

  Now he moves. He whips his Loci out with a flourish, twirling them midair, and then he carves with dazzling speed, a flurry of motion with both hands weaving like dancing birds, his wands slicing through the air with incredible precision. My lance is bearing down on him, inch by inch, but he doesn’t seem to notice or care. The nervousness in my gut turns to full-blown panic. He’s not just good, he’s incredible.

  A Glyph burns in front of him, one I can’t recognize, an elegant interwoven purple star framed by a pulsing wavy line that flares white and yellow. The Glyph expands outward, a net that envelops my lance and burns clean through it, leaving deep red grooves in the black stone. Now a foot away, the spear crumbles and breaks apart, dozens of rocks falling to earth, and all that hits him is a gentle breeze.

  The smug bastard takes a bow.

  I suck in my teeth, falling back, as I realize exactly what he’s doing. He’s not worried about winning. No, he’s certain he’ll win. What he’s trying to do is humiliate me, to win so boldly and cruelly that it’s all anyone will remember, that it’ll undo any damage to his reputation my victory yesterday did. This is going to be a duel for the history books, and that means making my loss as shameful as possible.

  I need to get on the defense and buy myself time to think. I take one step back, and now he springs forward, waving his Loci with a flourish. I recognize the base this time, the long slash of fire, so without thinking I jerk my Loci up and start carving ice. But as fast as he was defending himself, he’s somehow so much faster attacking. His Glyph is already carved, a perfect whirling ball of flame, and it’s moving fast, faster than anything should in the Null, hurtling its way toward me like a tiny meteor. The fog swirls around it, a twisted spiral chasing its tail. I fall back, carving as fast as I can, the sloppiest shield I’ve ever done. It springs up in front of me, a pulsing blue hexagon, literally a second before the fireball hits it. The shield bursts apart in a frigid blast, shards of ice slashing my cheeks, the force knocking me over.

  I hit the ground and snap into the Real for one awful moment. I’m sprawled out on the hard clay. I couldn’t hear the crowd in the Null, but I hear them now, cheers and shouts and hollers. Marius stands at the other end, still in the Null, his eyes a pitch-black starscape, his hands moving in an impossible whirl. He’s carving another Glyph. Shit!

  I leap up to my feet and pull myself back into the Null, but it’s too late. His next attack hits me instantly, a sliding column of earth that slams into me like an avalanche and knocks me hard onto my back. Pain flares through me, my vision flaring with stars, and then something tangles tightly around my ankles, something that grasps hard and stabs with thorns. A vine. I look up just in time to see him grinning wider than ever, and then the vine whips me up, waving me through the air like I’m a rag doll and then smashing me face-first into the hard clay. I feel a tooth shatter, feel my nose break, feel blood rush into my mouth. I gasp for air, spitting crimson everywhere, pushing myself onto my hands. Now I can hear the crowd even through the Null, a distant shrieking and thundering, like a herd of gazelles.

  Any capacity I have to think is gone, any strategy, any sense. I’m an animal just trying to survive, to fight her way out, to get away. My Loci are still in my hands somehow, my weapons, my lifeline. I just need to get one good attack in. One hit. I try to turn to him, to carve, but my hand is trembling, my fingers weak, my vision blurry. I don’t see him. I just see the flash of light streaking my way.

  It explodes in front of me, and I feel its heat scorch my face, and then I can’t see at all anymore, can’t see anything except hot, burning white. I have no idea what his next attack is, or the one after that, or the one after that. A burning lance stabs through my calf. A thousand needles tear open my side. Something hard and massive hits my chest, and I feel a rib shatter. My Loci fly out of my hands, skittering away across the fields. In that moment, I can’t see, can’t hear, can’t scream. I’m just the rush of agony, the roar of blood, the taste of copper. And I’m a thought, a thought trapped in time like the ash in the Null, hovering in my head.

  This is it, I think. This is how I die.

  Then it stops. There are no more impacts, no fire, no ice. For one moment, everything is still. I’m still alive, I think, even if my entire body aches and burns, even if my breath is coming in ragged gasps. I strain to open my eyes and I’m still in the Null somehow, but the ash is thicker than it’s ever been, a dense haze that coats me like a blanket. Everything hurts, hurts so much. I can barely see. I can barely move.

  Something thunders toward me, pounding booms, louder and louder. Marius’s footsteps. He’s walking over to me. Of course. The cruel display has gone on long enough. Now he’s going to finish the job.

  My eyes burn and I feel something else, something worse than my body’s ag
ony, a sudden terrible burst of emotion and clarity. I lost, and I lost so badly. Everything I’ve built, everything I’ve done, gone. I got stupid and reckless and now I’m going to die here, all alone on the cold, hard clay, and Marius is going to laugh and smile and preen, and Aberdeen will keep on living his decadent life and my parents will be unavenged and the Wizards will stay in power, and it will all have been for nothing, all of it.

  And the others… Tish and Zigmund… Talyn… Marlena… they’re all going to watch me die. They’re going to have to live with that forever, that pain, that defeat.

  That thought, their faces, is like a bolt of adrenaline, a shot of lightning running through me. I’m not going to let it end. Not like this. Not without a fight. And even as his footsteps grow louder, even as his shadow looms over me, I feel a pulse of power in my right hand, where Talyn left his gift of Gods’ Ash. In the Null, I see my hand glow bright and dazzling, filled with power, and I use my fingernail to scrape against the skin of the world, to carve what I can. It’s a Glyph I know by memory, the simplest one I know, the only one I can carve without a Loci in my grip.

  A weight presses down on my ribs, the toe of a boot, and the pain jolts me out of the Null at last, back into the Real. The world is impossibly bright and colorful, hurting my aching eyes even more. The clouds above have cleared, giving way to a blue sky, but it’s blotted out by Marius’s shape. He stares down at me, totally unharmed, his hair still perfectly brushed, his suit unblemished, his smile blinding white. He leans over me and grabs my hair, once again, jerking me up. The crowd is silent now, breath held tight, ready for the killing blow.

  “You see, Dewinter?” he whispers, so low only I can hear it. “It was always going to end like this.”

  There’s a tiny burst of magic from my right hand as I finish my Glyph, the smallest crackle. I feel something in my palm, something cold and hard. He sees it, and his eyebrow arches with curiosity. With an amused snort, he kicks my hand with his boot, turning it over so he can see what’s in it.