by Amanda Joy
I thought about asking Mirabel, but I hadn’t yet told her or anyone else about the binding. I didn’t want to worry them yet, especially when there was nothing I could do about it now.
“Tell me, Princess,” Baccha began, “what do you know of human magick?”
Unfortunately I knew little. When the Sorceryn finished my tattooing, they sent me away without a single lesson after admitting they had no way to instruct me. “The nature of human magick is to control a substance, physical or metaphysical. Magick of illusion controls the imagination, and magick of water . . . controls water.”
“And do you know why tattoos are used in human magick?”
“The ritual brings magick to the surface and the Sorceryn use the tattoos to shape our unformed power into specific abilities. Touching them is supposed to trigger that magick,” I said. Though nothing as simple as touch had ever brought any magick out of me. I’d tried with every tattoo, clutching them as I focused on the lake. But always it remained placid.
I shut my eyes and was nine again, in a dusty inking chamber with two robed figures leaning over me, my arms bound to a table heaped with vials of powder and ink. One recited their spell, while the other applied a needle and hammer to my skin. Magick in the air smelled of burning sugar clove and the coppery tang of my blood. I flinched each time the tools met, tiny beads of blood flowing down my arms like a fine lace.
“Princess?” Baccha’s low voice drew me from my memory. “Are you well?”
“Fine,” I muttered, pushing away the memory. His worry seeped into me through the bond. “Why must we be inked so young, at nine? Why not once we’re older?”
So that we could understand our magick, before we were made to bleed for it.
“Nine years was chosen because eight was thought too young and ten was often too late,” Baccha said quietly. “Between nine and ten years is how long it takes magick to . . . ripen, if you will. That’s true for everyone, but when humans’ magick matures, it comes pouring out unfettered. I was still quite young when the men who would eventually be called the Sorceryn created the tattoos that let humans control their magick. Back then, those who mastered their magick lived . . . but many more died or were killed when they became a threat to others. The greater the magick, the worse the accidents were.”
My chest grew tight. If what Baccha said was true, then it hadn’t been my fault when I hurt Isadore. It wasn’t my wicked nature that caused the accident; it was the inherent volatility of human magick. But it flew in the face of my tutor’s insistence that humans had come to Myre with magick of their own. Surely we couldn’t have made it across the Fair Sea with constant magickal accidents. “I was told we had magick before we came to Akhimar.”
He tilted his head, squinting through the sunlight. “Is that what the Sorceryn say now? Your study of history has been insufficient.”
“Then teach me.”
“Will you pay me for those lessons as well?” He arched a pale eyebrow. “My rooms could be more spacious.”
“No, you’ll do this because you should. The next Queen should know Myre’s real history. Shouldn’t I be armed with more than just magick?”
“A fair argument,” Baccha agreed, rubbing the golden stubble on his jaw. “Very well, I will tell you the old stories after our lessons each day.”
“I’d rather you told me about Raina now.”
“Oh no, Princess. I’ll teach you my way, or not at all. Raina is only the middle of the story; what would you learn if I skipped the beginning?” Of course he would be difficult. Baccha only did things his way. He still hadn’t explained why our lesson today was outside.
We came to a clearing in the trees. Baccha settled down in the shadow of a heavy bough and patted the crisp grass beside him.
“Tell me of the assassin,” he said when I sat. “With detail this time, please. I’m sorry to make you relive it, but I must know everything if I’m to know where to begin your lessons.”
I fought to keep my voice steady as I described it—the blood that scalded my skin, my tattoos’ sudden luminescence, and the power itself, writhing and ravenous as it sought the assassin’s flesh. With every word, my chest tightened.
Memories were fickle things. I could not, for example, recall what tea Mirabel served this morning, but when I thought of the assassin, things I’d missed that night leaped to my attention. The scar on the assassin’s chin, tugging at his lips as he snarled at me, and overhead a clump of wilted poppies hanging from a terrace, petals leached of color.
If Baccha felt my growing horror through our bond, he hid it well. “So you’ve already learned the secret to blood magick. While touching one’s tattoos is sufficient for most human powers, blood magick can only be triggered by the presence of that which it seeks.”
“So . . . blood?”
“Yes, preferably from whoever you plan to use it on. Place it on one of the tattoos tied to your blood magick, and it will draw out your power.”
“What of using your own blood?” I was sure mine had been the catalyst to using my magick against the assassin.
“Though that might work under less than ideal circumstances, I don’t advise it. If your concentration slips, you could accidentally turn the magick on yourself, which could be a fatal mistake. Besides, I find it’s a good rule to leave your enemies to the task of hurting you. Best not to give them any advantage.” He pulled out the dagger with the wolf handle from our first lesson and rolled up his sleeves. “Cut me. Preferably somewhere on one of my arms, but whatever you can manage is fine.”
“Just like that? Is there more to explain?”
“Oh, for the Mother’s sake. You will only stop fearing your magick if you understand it.” He grabbed my hand and brought the knife down, too sudden and quick for me to resist. Blood dripped from a deep cut in his forearm. “The only way to understand magick is through its use.”
Baccha held the arm aloft, blood seeping into the dirt. “One of the benefits of training with me is that I can heal almost anything.”
The wound began to knit closed, leaving a coating of blood but otherwise unharmed skin. “Impressive, Hunter.”
“Thank you.” He held out the dagger. “Now place my blood on one of the blooms and go to the lake.”
I laid the blade, still wet with Baccha’s blood, over one of the roses inked high on my forearm, but hesitated, remembering how the lake had sucked me into its depths.
“You won’t have to swim into it, I promise.”
I pressed the flat side of the blade to my skin and swallowed a pained gasp as the tattoo began to burn. Baccha’s blood lit an unseen fire beneath my skin. Its effect was immediate, waves of dizziness striking me as the lake boiled.
I shut my eyes and found myself on the shore next to Baccha. A thick forest surrounded the lake now, a sign of the coalescence. Our mindscapes had combined. The cries of birds and pocket monkeys swinging through the trees overhead filled the air.
Watch. I gave a start as the Hunter’s voice whispered through my mind.
A moment later, a red flower burst from the lake. It wasn’t a real rose; its petals seemed made from flows of scarlet energy, pulsing with darkness. It hovered over the churning waves, slowly revolving. I could sense its lust for blood and for Baccha’s especially. Just like with the assassin, Baccha’s pulse sounded in my ears.
I started to back away, but Baccha grabbed my wrist. Remember our promise, Eva. I am safe and so are you.
Right. I’d decided to do this. I couldn’t quit now. I drew in a deep breath. What should I do?
Call it to you.
Come, I thought. The flower drifted closer until it floated just beyond my fingertips. From a distance it had seemed as large as a dinner plate, but when I reached out to cup it, the rose fit in the center of my palm. The flower bobbed, petals flaring, and then sank into my skin.
All the red ros
es tattooed onto my arms began to glow with the same crimson energy as the flower. The magick of the lake coated my hands like gloves.
The Hunter smiled. Good, now let’s go back.
I opened my eyes and the sun’s heat returned. Magick still covered my palms. From where I was sitting just a few feet away, it leaped toward Baccha, but stopped short of touching him.
“Do you see?” He placed his hand an inch above mine, and the magick licked at his skin. After a moment, he held up his palm, the skin unbroken. “It can’t bleed me unless you tell it to. You are in control, not the magick. It only lands where you direct it.” He offered his hand. “Now I want you to try.”
I touched the center of his palm. Bleed.
When I pulled away, my fingers were slick with Baccha’s blood.
The Hunter sighed as he inspected a few shallow cuts in his palm, exactly where I had touched him. “You can do better than that, Princess. This is barely worth healing.”
I let out a shaky breath and stared down at the magick cloaking my hands. Beneath it, the roses on my arms looked aflame. To Baccha it might have been nothing, but for me, it was stunning. “Do you have more advice to offer, or is your plan just to berate me into getting better?”
“The magick senses your hesitation.” He spoke as if it should have been obvious to me. “You need to want it. Strengthen your resolve.”
“Fine,” I snapped. I caught his wrist, feeling the steady thump of his pulse. Baccha was not at all afraid I would hurt him. Even as the magick coating my hands flowed over his skin, his expression remained placid. Open his skin, I instructed. Bleed him.
And it did. Three slashes, as if cut with an invisible and wickedly sharp knife, appeared on his forearm. Blood, smelling of salt, iron, and Baccha’s magick, sprayed.
I caught a flash of white bone and covered my mouth as my stomach threatened to empty its contents. In my surprise, the magick left me, the glowing power seeping back into my skin.
It had been so . . .
So easy.
And felt so wrong for that ease. I’d expected my magick to demand great toil and sacrifice. Isa spoke of how her Sorceryn tutors would make her practice the same method repeatedly for hours and test her on the location of every one of her tattoos. I thought my lessons with Baccha would be much the same.
The Hunter barely flinched at the wounds, and I felt no pain from him through the bond. There was only warm satisfaction, like fresh toffees, as he smiled at me. “You will get used to the blood. To get close to the throne, you must.”
“I’d rather it shocked me every time.” Papa always said that to become numb to violence was to forget to cherish life. Better that my magick disturb me. Like Anali said, it was better that I felt guilt. Or else I might come to see this violence as my only solution to everything.
“Fair, as long as you don’t let that shock hinder you.” He stanched the blood leaking down his arm with a handkerchief patterned with running wolves. “Now you’ve used blood magick by touch, but I’m sure you can understand how much of a disadvantage it would be in armed combat.”
I’d actually been wondering how Raina had killed thousands with a magick that had such a small range, but I said nothing as he continued. “Another method would be to direct the magick using a weapon. That way you can fight at a distance, as well as close range.”
“How?” I asked, eager. Wielding magick with a weapon I already knew well had so much more potential than doing it by touch. I never again wanted to feel someone’s lifeblood wash over my body as the assassin’s had.
“Summon your magick as you did earlier using my blood, but instead apply it here.” He helped me to my feet and pointed to a tattoo just below my elbow. Next to a cluster of rosebuds, there was a curved dagger hidden among the leaves. “That ought to serve you well.”
I did as he said, using blood from Baccha’s handkerchief. My eyes fluttered shut as the tattoo became uncomfortably hot.
Baccha said, “Remember, you’ll be using this magick in a fight, Princess. Keep your eyes on your foe.”
When I looked into his amber eyes, I could still sense the lake, the waters swelling and rippling until a red knife, shaped just like the tattoo, burst from the depths. It hovered over the surface, pulsing darkly.
“You see it, don’t you? You don’t always have to travel to the lake. Open yourself to the magick and it will respond.” Baccha smiled.
I pictured the lake’s red knife covering Baccha’s dagger. After a moment, the red tattoos on my arms flared to life. I watched, mouth ajar, as the red energy rushed down my skin to wrap around the dagger.
Baccha let out a low whistle and backed away. “Now, Princess, I’ll show you—”
I didn’t wait for him to explain. Somehow I knew what to do. Baccha had said the weapon would direct the magick, and that this would allow me to fight at a distance. That must have meant that I didn’t need to actually strike him with the blade.
I sliced up with the dagger, aiming for where his chest would have been if he was standing closer. As I’d hoped, the magick lashed out in a thin streak of red and struck Baccha. Blood suddenly spurted from his shoulder.
I dropped the knife and ran to Baccha’s side.
“Well done.” He looked especially wild, blood from his shoulder staining his hair. “Now let’s see how many times you can land that when I’m not standing in one place.”
He barely waited for the wound to heal before he was calling for my next attack. I chased him back forth through the trees. He dodged and feinted, neatly escaping my attempts until I realized he wanted me to anticipate his next move. Most of my attacks missed, but the few that struck him opened dire wounds. Without his healing ability, practicing this way would have been impossible. As it was, I was glad no one else was there to see his blood-soaked clothing.
And thankful that Baccha hadn’t yet sensed the pounding in my head through our bond. The pain must have been from straining the binding, but I decided not to tell him unless it became truly unbearable. Baccha had been quite adamant about the dangers the binding presented, but a headache seemed a small price to pay for the safety the power would grant me.
An hour later, when I was exhausted and dripping with sweat, Baccha told me his first story as we walked back to the Little Palace.
* * *
Before there were things such as beginnings and endings, two souls drifted, waiting for the dreamgod, Hesa, to create their home.
Hesa dreamed all things into existence, but she chose their souls first, you see, because souls are easier to dream than worlds. When Hesa fell into her last sleep of creation, seas poured from her eyes, land rolled at her touch, and red sand cascaded down her skin. She dreamed of flowering trees and crocodiles and rivers. And finally she dreamed of power planted deep within the soil.
When she awoke, Hesa named this land Akhimar, which meant “place of magick.” For the power she sowed would flow into everyone who lived in this land if they chose to embrace it.
With this in mind, the dreamgod sent the souls, whom she called Godlings, to Akhimar.
They were not born, but awoke full-grown. The first, Khimaerani, gasped her first breath on the banks of the river, which then ran pure and blue. The second, Safiron, woke upon the boughs of a mountain pine, covered in a blanket of snow.
The two Godlings lingered in their corners of the realm, thinking themselves alone. But one day Safiron flew to the top of a mountain. He looked to the south, watching the great river that cut through the land. Though the mountains of his domain were cold, he could see that the sun favored the southern regions.
His eyes were as sharp as a hawk’s, and even from that great height, he saw a woman bathing in the river. Her form was different from his, with horns that curved back from her brow and legs that were like an impala’s. But even as she waded through the water, she changed. Her body shifted, horns b
ecoming antlers, arms becoming wings. But her face remained the same, high sharp cheekbones, hickory skin, ripe lips, and velvety black eyes.
Safiron flew to her.
Khimaerani saw the man coming. She could not have missed him, flying through the air as he was, without wings, sunlight dancing off his umber skin, white locs kicking in the air behind him. His eyes were the green of new leaves and his ears were pointed.
“How can you fly without wings?” she asked when he landed on the riverbank.
“How do you change without breaking apart?” Safiron asked as she swam to the water’s edge.
The wind whispered an answer: magick.
The two became lovers, wandering from the red sands of the south to the mountains of the north. They swam to the isles and back.
Their children were as different from one another as their parents were. The first had Safiron’s form and unyielding beauty, and he could make others see whatever he wished. The second grew horns like her mother and wings like those of a golden eagle, and could call forth a storm with a thought. The third child craved fresh blood and could enchant all who looked into her eyes.
From these three became many. The son who took after Safiron called his people the fey and formed a Kingdom in the North. And the daughter who was like her mother, Khimaerani, named her people the khimaer and established a Queendom in the South. The last son, who called his people the bloodkin, roamed both lands, kindred with all.
The two lands lived peacefully, until they didn’t.
CHAPTER 11
THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON, I walked beside Prince Aketo on the way to the Sandpits. Anali had proposed a trip to the sparring grounds attached to the barracks after I returned from my third lesson with Baccha.
I hadn’t seen him since the night we met. It required all my concentration to stand next to him and relax. Each time I glanced over, I wanted to linger on the details of his face. I resented its perfection. I’d always longed for a face like his, or Isadore’s. My father used to say Mother’s smile, when it was real, felt like sunlight hitting your skin. Isadore had the same smile. I’d spent years chasing it.
