Trial by Fire

by Josephine Angelini

  “By whom?”

  “Haven’t you figured out who runs things in this world?” He didn’t have to say it. She knew it was Lillian.

  “You recognized him. The killer.”

  Rowan nodded and dropped his eyes. “Gideon,” he whispered. Rowan clasped her hand in his and pulled her up. “We have to move. Now.”

  “Where’s Tristan?” Lily asked, clutching Rowan’s wrist.

  Rowan paused, his gaze turning inward for moment. “He’s okay. He got away.”

  “Are we going to him?”

  “It’s too dangerous,” he replied, shaking his head and frowning. “There are guards everywhere. We stand a better chance if we split up for a while.”

  Lily nodded reluctantly and followed Rowan. He stopped momentarily to pick up a discarded gun. He flicked open the chamber, saw that it was empty, and cast it aside. He didn’t waste any more time trying to scavenge a weapon and led Lily out of the glade. She ran alongside him, trying to move as quietly as she could. She could barely hear Rowan’s footsteps hitting the ground while she seemed to make so much noise that she was convinced at any moment they were going to get caught. But try as she might, she couldn’t figure out how to make her feet quieter.

  Rowan led her deep into the woods, neither of them speaking. Years ago, Lily had come to terms with the fact that she wasn’t in control of her own body, that at any moment a fever or seizure could overtake her and potentially kill her, but this was different. Now she was at the mercy of a whole world she didn’t understand.

  Rowan brought them to water, tasting it carefully before he slung the pack off his back and took out a water pouch. He filled it and passed it to Lily. Hands shaking, she drank from the pouch while he scooped water into his mouth with his cupped palm. When she’d drained the pouch, he refilled it and they moved on.

  Every now and again, Rowan would stop, brush some fallen leaves aside, and pick acorns or mushrooms off the ground. The mushrooms he’d hand to Lily, indicating that she should eat them, and the acorns he stowed in his pack. Lily eyed the mushrooms warily, her stomach still churning from what she had witnessed, but after the first taste of them—woody, earthy, and surprisingly meaty—she didn’t hesitate when he handed more to her the next time they stopped. After she ate, Rowan would reach out to touch Lily’s wrist in that odd gesture again, like he was taking her pulse. She wondered vaguely what he was doing, but was still too shaken to question him.

  They never stayed in one spot for more than a few seconds at a time before moving on. Rowan ate nothing at all and drank only a few sips of water. Everything he gathered, he gave to Lily to eat or saved for later, even though she urged him to take some for himself.

  “I don’t need it,” he’d said simply when Lily offered him the water pouch. “I drank my fill at the stream.”

  He wasn’t acting tough, or trying to be noble. He’d stored those acorns against some kind of emergency. Lily could tell from the detached way he pulled up a handful of wildflower bulbs, scraped them clean with his knife, then gave them to Lily to eat without sparing them even one hungry look, that he was someone who’d learned how to live with very little. He didn’t get thirsty or tire as quickly as someone with Lily’s upbringing. Rowan was a survivor.

  Unlike Rowan, Lily felt her sore feet, thirst, and pounding head, but she was too sickened to put too much thought into them. All day long, she’d been able to think of little else besides the old history teacher.

  Rowan pushed the pace, never letting them stop for more than a few minutes at a time, his eyes constantly darting through the trees, scanning for Woven. At dusk, Rowan built a fire and threw a handful of herbs on the flames. Their fragrant smoke smelled almost like a citronella candle, used to keep mosquitoes away in her world.

  “Barely enough for one night,” he whispered to himself, scowling. Rowan looked up at the looming canopy of branches, his face pinched with fear. “But it should keep the Woven away for a few hours.”

  Lily hardly registered what he’d said. She was so tired and numb she stretched out on the ground and fell instantly into a nightmare-filled sleep. She woke several times with a shake, seeing Gideon’s twisted baby face above hers and only fell back to sleep because of the steady, soothing pressure of Rowan’s fingers wrapped around her ankle.

  It was late afternoon the next day before the shock had faded enough so that Lily could speak. “Did I bring the soldiers to the camp?” she finally asked, barely able to raise her voice above a whisper.

  Rowan didn’t look at her as they walked along. “You can talk normally. No one’s following us.”

  “Is it my fault?” she asked again, needing to know.

  “No. It’s mine. I should have insisted we moved camp that night after Juliet showed up, even if the elders were on their way.”

  “Do you think she told Lillian?” Lily asked, unable to believe any version of Juliet would do something like that.

  “No. But Juliet’s not the stealthiest woman in the world. She could have been followed from Salem. Considering how fast the attack came, I’m pretty sure that’s what had to have happened.” Rowan angrily kicked a pinecone aside. “I should have fought the sachem harder about moving the camp.”

  “Are they okay? Can you tell if Tristan is still—”

  “Tristan’s fine,” Rowan replied impatiently. “He, Caleb, and the sachem are all out of danger.”

  “Why you?”

  “Why me what?” he asked, confused.

  “Why did you agree to take me out here and not insist Tristan do it? You hate me.”

  “I don’t hate you,” he said gruffly. “And Tristan is city bred. He wouldn’t last a day out here on his own, although I’m sure you’d have preferred his company to mine.”

  “I didn’t say that,” she replied quietly. She actually felt safe with Rowan. There was something about him that made Lily think he could protect her from whatever lurked out there in the shifting darkness between the enormous trees.

  Lily stared at his profile for a few moments, trying to decide if she should keep questioning him when he looked so forbidding. He had a straight, aquiline nose, and full, well-defined lips. His skin was a light-caramel color, and his cheekbones were high and sharp. It was a strong face. He was very handsome, she decided, but his fierce expression made him almost impossible to approach.

  “What?” he finally asked, his tone just short of snapping. Lily looked away, and silence drew out between them. “What?” he repeated, more gently this time.

  “Are you, Caleb, and Tristan related?”

  “Not by blood,” he replied. “We’re kin of a different kind.”

  “But you can all mindspeak with each other, right?”

  “Yes. When we have to.”

  “Why wouldn’t you do it all the time? It seems really handy.”

  He glanced over at her, his eyes measuring her. “You can’t lie when you mindspeak, or hide how you feel. Sometimes people need to keep things to themselves.”

  “Were you mindspeaking with them just now?”

  “No. Not at this distance,” he said. The corners of his mouth tipped up with a little smile. “I’m not you.”

  Lily couldn’t decide if he was giving her a compliment or making fun of her. She didn’t understand Rowan, and she had no idea how to read him.

  “Our willstones are tuned to each other. That’s why we can mindspeak. We are what’s called stone kin,” he said, surprising Lily by offering the information. “But only a powerful witch can sync up her willstone to other people’s and get into their heads from a large distance.”

  “Into their heads?” Lily repeated, not sure she liked what that implied.

  “That’s why they’re called willstones. The crystals get keyed to a person’s unique brain waves. Once a crystal is keyed, it answers to the will of its wearer, directing and amplifying a mental want or desire. Everyone here wears them.”

  “So everyone here can do magic?”

  “An average pe
rson can do small things, like seal something shut until they will it to open, turn lights off and on, or find something they’ve lost. Some of the more gifted can even share a little mindspeak with blood relations or stone kin. Mechanics can heal, regulate bodies, and strengthen the potions they create—along with a few simple spells, like camouflage and glamour.” He stopped and looked at her. “But only crucibles can do real magic because of their natural ability to transmute matter into energy and force inside their bodies. Their willstones help to direct and intensify that ability.”

  Rowan fished his willstone out from under his clothes and showed it to Lily. She leaned close to peer at it.

  “But a witch can do even more than that,” he continued. Lily looked back up at him. “She can unlock another’s willstone so that the wearer enacts her will. And that’s just the start.”

  “What’s the difference between a crucible and a witch?” Lily asked.

  “All witches start out as crucibles, but not all crucibles have the strength or the talent to become a witch. Most just stay crucibles. Very few are capable of graduating to full witch. There’s a level of magic—it’s called warrior magic—that crucibles don’t have the power to do.”

  Lily wondered what else a witch could do that a crucible couldn’t, but just as she was about to ask, her eyes drifted down to stare at Rowan’s willstone again, her mind going blank. It resembled an opal, except that the dancing lights inside of the stone seemed to flicker and glimmer independent of the sun. Like it was alive inside with sparkling thoughts. It was so beautiful. She wanted to dive inside it.

  “Don’t,” Rowan said, jerking away from her. She hadn’t even realized that she was reaching out for it. Lily dropped her hand, embarrassed.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, aware that she had offended Rowan in some way.

  “It’s an important thing to touch someone else’s willstone.” He tucked the stone back under his shirt protectively with a tight expression on his face. He turned and started storming off, like she’d just kicked his grandma.

  “I said I was sorry,” Lily called after him. “What’s the big deal?”

  Rowan stopped and turned to face her, his hands planted on his narrow hips. “Touching a stone is how you tune to it. It’s intimate, okay?” He looked away again. “And dangerous—for me. When mechanics touch each other’s stones, they become stone kin—like Caleb, Tristan, and I. We can hear each other’s thoughts and feel each other’s feelings. But when a witch touches your stone, she can key her mind to it and claim you.”

  “Claim you?” Lily repeated. Rowan nodded and started walking away from her again. She raced to catch up to him, wondering exactly what he meant by “intimate.”

  “A witch can take your will away. She can get in your head and control your body. Like a hand in a glove.”

  “That’s awful!” Lily exclaimed, visions of Body Snatchers dancing gruesomely in her head. “I wouldn’t do that to you, Rowan. Even if I did touch your willstone.”

  “Well, you couldn’t unless I let you in first,” Rowan said, his mouth pulled up in a guarded half smile. “No one can steal a willstone. A witch or a crucible needs the key, the right vibration from the wearer’s mind, in order to possess it. That must be given willingly or the willstone cracks.”

  Lily remembered Lillian saying that she couldn’t have brought Lily to this world without her consent. At the time, Lily hadn’t known that her little pity party would get her transported to another universe—she’d just been having a good cry on a rock. She didn’t know that wishing she could disappear would actually make it happen. She’d been tricked. Bitterness swelled in Lily at the thought of how deeply Lillian had wronged her.

  “I’m not upset with you anymore,” Rowan said quietly, looking straight ahead as they walked along. “You didn’t know.”

  “What? No, it’s not that,” she replied, realizing that she’d been silent for longer than she’d realized. “I’m just wondering why anyone would knowingly allow themselves to be claimed by anyone else.”

  “With a witch inside of you, you can do just about anything—jump higher, run faster, and more. A lot more if the witch is powerful.” Rowan’s voice was low and serious. “But once you let a witch in, your willstone is keyed to her. You have to smash your stone to get away. Start over with a new stone. And that’s really—”

  “I’m guessing it sucks,” Lily said, remembering how Caleb had gone stiff at any mention of smashing a willstone. Rowan gave her a funny look, and she laughed, realizing he had no idea what she’d just said. “It’s just an expression from my world. When something sucks that means it’s bad.”

  “Huh,” Rowan said, not seeing the logic between sucking and being bad. Now that Lily thought about it, neither did she.

  “It’s stupid, isn’t it?”

  “But fun to say,” Rowan conceded. “That sucks. This sucks. You suck.”

  “Hey!” Lily elbowed him, feigning offense. “Be nice to me or I won’t teach you the difference between sucking and blowing.”

  Rowan laughed, and the sound was so startling to Lily she stopped walking and stared at him.

  “What?” he asked, puzzled.

  “You’ve got a great laugh,” she replied.

  He looked away and tipped his head in silent thanks, then started walking again. Lily watched carefully as the cheerful look on his face darkened.

  “Come on,” he said sharply, abruptly severing the connection they were so tentatively building. “We still have to make camp before nightfall.”

  * * *

  They pushed on in silence for another twenty minutes or so and as the shadows around them deepened Lily felt Rowan growing more irritable. His eyes kept scanning the ground anxiously. Some ancient part of Lily’s mind sensed that they were in danger.

  “What is it?” she whispered. Her breath came out of her mouth in little puffs of steam.

  “Woven tracks,” Rowan whispered back. His skin was bleached an ivory blue from the cold air and his black eyes gleamed in the moonlight. “Fresh ones.”

  Lily looked down at the forest floor underfoot, but to her it was just a mess of leaves and sticks. How anyone could discern tracks from the general disorder of nature was beyond her, but she was grateful that Rowan could.

  “And we’re out of wovensbane,” he added darkly. Lily recalled the pungent herbs he’d thrown on the fire that had smelled to her like citronella, guessing correctly that that’s what Rowan meant.

  “What do we do?” she asked, her breath fluttering in her chest.

  “We climb.” Rowan took her hand and led her to the trunk of a large conifer. “And hope they don’t have simians with them.”

  Rowan gave her a boost up to the lowest branch, and then had to shove her hard so she could haul herself up on top of it. She peered over the side of the thick branch, wondering how Rowan was going to get himself up, and saw his willstone throb with that strange, oily light that seemed to call to her. He jumped easily up beside her on the branch, landing in a crouch on the balls of his feet with his fingers resting lightly in front of him.

  “Climb quickly,” he urged, steadying Lily with his hands. “They’re drawn to magelight like moths.”

  The gray-colored bark was rough but powdery under Lily’s tender palms. Her boots scraped it and sent clouds of lichen-laden dust showering down on Rowan. He took no notice and, despite the debris, didn’t let even a few inches of distance grow between them. More than once his quick hands shot out to help balance her as they rose over a hundred feet into the rapidly darkening sky.

  “Keep close to the trunk!” he admonished when a branch bent dangerously underneath her.

  “I’m trying,” Lily hissed back. “My arms are tired.”

  “Then stop.” Rowan hauled himself up onto the branch just below hers. “We’ve gone as far as we should go anyway.”

  Lily sat back against the trunk of the tree and rubbed the blackened tree sap off her scratched hands. Rowan’s shoulders suddenly
tensed, and his volume dropped to nearly nothing.

  “Hold still.”

  Lily froze immediately. The thin sweat that had coated her as she climbed shrank back into her skin. Rowan tilted his head ever so slowly to peer around the branch under him. Lily copied his careful movements, barely moving, and looked down.

  A man ran, staggering into view from the underbrush. He was reaching desperately for the tree. He didn’t make it.

  From above, the thing that attacked the man looked like a giant bug. In the bright moonlight Lily could see a sectioned carapace that was covered in spikes and hair growing in between the large armor-like plates. The creature had to be at least nine feet tall and twice as long, and it picked its way at lightning speed toward the man on four spindly legs that ended in pointy barbs.

  The man turned, saw the Woven moving in on him, and screamed. Rowan stood up on his branch without a sound. He unsheathed his knife and made a move to climb down. The front section of the creature was drawn up and hunched over like a praying mantis, but when its two front limbs shot out impossibly far to grab the hysterical man, it did so with human hands.

  The man howled in pain as the Woven curled over him, its mouth pincers clacking together. Lily felt Rowan grip her forearm tightly as he melted back into the trunk of the tree. She looked down at him, her breath whistling in and out of her with panic.

  “Shhh,” Rowan whispered almost silently. “It’s too late to help. Calm down, Lily.”

  She swallowed and forced herself to slow her breathing. Squeezing her lips shut and pressing herself against the tree, Lily narrowed her world down to one thing—the sound of the Woven as it tore into the man again and again. She saw parts of the man flying up and falling back down to the forest floor, an arm, a leg, even his insides. Lily put a hand over her mouth.

  The Woven ate the man down to nothing. Every bit of skin, muscle, bone, and all of the entrails were consumed. Nothing was left of the man except scraps of clothes. The Woven sifted carefully over every last bit of the killing ground and then moved on.