All That Burns

by Ryan Graudin

  I shift to the side, push Richard ahead of me. Brace myself for what’s coming up the steps. Kieran’s face is grim—his eyes hold the same weight they did that day I first met him. The day he stood at the edge of the cliff and looked out over the sea.

  Except this time, the doom isn’t on the other shore.

  “Go!” He looks straight at me. “Keep Belle safe!”

  Before I can argue—before I can even begin to realize what he means—Kieran’s scars flare. His magic slices through the iron of the staircase between us. The whole bottom half collapses, crumples to the broken ground. A mess of wire and half-thawed, flightless Ad-hene.

  The rattle and crash of the stairs’ carcass spooks new life into Richard’s step. Whatever energy I gathered from him has been returned as he clutches the railing like a lifeline. We stumble to the top.

  Below us Kieran is fighting. The Ad-henes’ spells flash like lightning, tangle like behemoths of another age. It feels as if an earthquake is under our feet as we emerge on the ground level.

  “This way!” It’s Richard pulling me now—through the Palace of Westminster’s long, empty halls. The building is shaking at its very roots, crumbling from the bottom up. Its vaulted ceilings tremble. Stained glass falls like rain—dashing against stone. Ornate tiles shiver beneath us, their patterns of lions, thistles, roses of Sharon, and Latin script rearranging into nonsense. Statues of kings, queens, lords, and saints tumble from their pedestals, smear like pillars of salt across the floor.

  The roof over our heads is fragile and doomed, but it holds until we reach a door, and after it, the terrace. It’s impossible to tell if the Ad-hene are still battling beneath us, or if the groans are simply the bones of a weary, old building on the verge of collapse.

  We run to the terrace edge—where the Thames creeps along the river wall. Richard climbs onto the stone ledge, one arm hooked around a lamp. The other reaches for me. He pulls me up beside him.

  Big Ben strikes midnight. Beginning and end.

  The bell tolls, wide and deep. There are no thousand hells this time. Only the one we’re running from: the underworld which bursts to life with Morgaine’s runes. Flames bloom. Heat licks and shimmers, punches through what’s left of the jagged windows.

  Richard’s hand is firm in mine. There’s no tearing apart or pulling away. This time we jump together.

  Twenty-Seven

  By the time we resurface there’s nothing left. Cinder and cloud, ashes peppering the Thames like snow. I can’t even shiver as I tread icy water in front of the tower of smoke. It’s as if the Palace of Westminster was no more than a sand castle—a beautiful lump of dirt erased by the tide. Swallowed whole—along with Kieran and all the other Ad-hene. Not even an immortal could survive such destruction.

  “It’s gone.” Richard gasps next to me, watching the roiling smoke. Dark billowing into dark. It swallows the city lights. Blots out the stars. “J-just gone.”

  His words are stiff with shock. The water rushing around our limbs is mere degrees away from ice. Already I can feel my strength sapping—that rush of adrenaline and magic which swept us out of our tomb bowing to the cold.

  “She hasn’t won,” I say, as much for him as for myself. “We’re still here.”

  Though we won’t be much longer if we don’t find a way out of this river. The Thames’s currents have seized us with freezing strength. We float with clumps of ash and glass dust—under the bridge where Blæc’s tunnel rests. Past the London Eye’s ring of light. The shore tears along: a blur of stones and docks and moored boats.

  I can’t feel much, but I grab out and snag the edge of Richard’s sleeve, so we don’t drift apart. His eyes have a mist in them, still taking in those fragments of flame.

  “Come on, Richard! Swim!” I scream at him, try to break through the cold’s grip. His face seems almost blue. “We can’t let her win!”

  The freeze sneaks up my fingers, loops through my bones and joints, starts to drag my whole body down. The deep is calling again—luring me down with a cold, crooning song.

  I feel the mist crawling over my eyes too, spreading across my vision. Is this what Guinevere sees? A wraith world? Fire. Ice. Death.

  And then: the water in front of us parts like a miraculous sea. Two slicked ears, hellish eyes, and flaring nostrils rise of out the froth. I stare at the Kelpie, so shocked I start to sink. Down to a silt-bottom death.

  The water spirit vanishes, weaves under me and rises. I’m lying limp on its back, and Richard next to me. I wait for it to dive again. For the final wall of water to come crashing down on our heads.

  “Drygaþ!” Instead there’s a voice. A spell. A warmth.

  The Kelpie’s hooves churn through the rough currents as it pulls its way out of the Thames, onto dry land. The beast stops, its massive hooves still on the city concrete. I look up and face our savior.

  Titania’s face is a clean canvas: no surprise, no signs of chill or fear. Her crown glints bright under the lamps of the river walk. We’re on the same shore as the ruined building—plumes of smoking chaos rise behind the Faery queen’s head like a peacock’s fan.

  “Your Majesty.” I gulp in clean, cold air. It slices my newly warmed insides like a razor.

  “Lady Emrys,” she addresses me with her mouth pulled tight. The wild edge I saw in her eyes before is gone. At bay for now.

  I slide down to the ground and look around. We’re not alone. The night is alive with the gleam and power of Kelpie flesh. There’s well over a score of them, crowding the street’s shadows. All bear Fae on their backs. The younglings ride two or three per Kelpie, their faces strained with the effort of keeping the spirits out of the water.

  The Guard has returned.

  Richard lands next to me, his eyes wide and clear as he takes in the sight of this army.

  “You came back,” I manage.

  “I was afraid we were too late. Ferrin told us you’d been imprisoned beneath Westminster.” Titania looks over her shoulder. “We saw the fire on the horizon and feared you were still inside.”

  “But—you left us.” I can’t keep the blame out of my voice. I look around at the restless herd of Kelpies, the beautiful Fae on their backs. Where were they all those cold nights I sat on the rooftop, waiting for an answer? Where were they when Morgaine froze time itself in the garden?

  “I did what was necessary,” Titania replies in true Faery queen fashion. “The mortal’s strange weapon drove me to the edge. It was not safe to stay.”

  “Yes, but the Frithemaeg never returned. Princess Anabelle was left unguarded!”

  “You really believed we abandoned you altogether?”

  I blink. “What was I supposed to think?”

  “It’s true, we left the princess unattended for a moment. The younglings dropped everything to take me back to the Highlands—including the Black Dog. The entire Guard stayed with me at court—prepared to destroy me if the machines’ madness set in. It didn’t, thank the Greater Spirit. By the time I stabilized we’d received your letter that you’d sought the Ad-hene’s help. I sent Ferrin and Helene back to guard the princess under the secrecy of a veiling spell, in case my suspicions about the Ad-hene proved correct.”

  “The Frithemaeg were watching this whole time?” I think of all the times the shadows crowded in, when I’d felt so, so alone. Had Ferrin and Helene seen me crying? All those moments of weakness?

  Titania nods. “Ferrin arrived in my court a few hours ago with news that the sorceress had finally unveiled. We’d been preparing for the event, especially after you discovered the runes in the Black Dog’s tunnel and under the desk.”

  “Why didn’t you come sooner? Why didn’t you stop her?”

  “Even we did not know it was Morgaine le Fay behind all this until Ferrin and Helene saw her reveal herself in the garden. I suspected if we intervened too soon that Richard would be lost.” Titania’s silver eyes slide over to the king. “We failed you once, Your Majesty. I do not intend to do so again
.”

  “My sister,” Richard says sharply, “is she safe?”

  “Helene is watching the princess. The last sparrow reported she was still at Kensington Palace.”

  “What about Morgaine?” Richard asks.

  “The sorceress left the dinner at the Orangery not long after the Ad-hene took Emrys away. Ferrin and Helene did not deem it safe to follow. She could be anywhere.”

  The night fills with wailing. Red and blue lights pound against the thick smoke on both sides of the river. Emergency sirens which sound too much like Banshees.

  “We have to find her. Put an end to this.” Richard’s voice is as grim as the scene across the river.

  “No,” I find myself shouting over the sirens’ song. “Not yet.”

  All eyes turn to me.

  “Morgaine might be powerful, but I do not think she is a match for the full brunt of the Frithemaeg,” Titania says. “Even with London’s technology against us.”

  “It’s not her magic I’m worried about,” I say. “It’s her other powers. In a few hours the people of Britain are going to wake up. They’re going to turn on the news and see the symbol of their kingdom in ruins. Morgaine means to blame this on the Fae, so the vote will sway toward the M.A.F. Once the people see these ashes, once they hear it’s the Fae’s fault, they won’t forget. Even if we defeat Morgaine and expose Julian Forsythe, the damage will be done. The integration, everything we’ve worked for, every meter of ground we’ve gained will be lost.”

  “What are you proposing?” Richard asks.

  “The press is a powerful enemy and they can be just as powerful as an ally.” I think of Anabelle’s original plan. The one set in place before everything fell apart between us, around us. “It’s time to bring them back to our side.”

  “You want me to hold a press conference? Now?” He gestures at the smoke scraping the sky and the days of facial hair foresting his jaw.

  “Your kingdom needs you, Richard. Now more than ever,” I tell him. “It needs the truth.”

  “Lady Emrys is correct,” Titania says. “The sorceress believes you are dead and she does not know of the Frithemaeg’s presence. There is still time to set things right, to show your people that you are alive and whole.”

  “Will your strength hold?” I watch the Faery queen with hawk eyes. Scalping her snow-stung features and tinsel hair for signs of sickness. Titania does not waver.

  “I have some hours left.” Titania nods down to Richard. “His Majesty’s blood magic seems unnaturally strong tonight. If I remain close I should be able to sustain my own strength.”

  I touch Richard’s arm. Blood magic buzzes and hums through the meeting of our skin. Leaping between us like an electrical current. Titania and the other Frithemaeg see it. Their eyes grow wide.

  “You’ve found a way to wield it!” For the first time since her arrival, the Faery queen looks shaken. Her fingers curl tight around the mane of her Kelpie. Bone white in their effort to keep the beast still. “How?”

  “We share it. Through our soul-tie,” I tell her.

  Titania watches us, reading our auras. Her fingers loosen, and her lips soften into a smile. “You have found your wholeness. I am glad.”

  “We should go.” Richard nods at the news van wheeling across the bridge and weaves his fingers into mine. “The vultures are already circling.”

  “I never dreamed there would be a day where we were the ones chasing the paparazzi,” I say.

  Hand in hand we start to walk toward the smoking carcass.

  The news crews have already found a meaty bone to pick.

  A rumpled Julian Forsythe stands tall inside a ring of microphones and cameras. He’s screaming to be heard over the song of emergency vehicles, the shouts of rescue workers trying to make sense of the smoking, blackened char which was once the Palace of Westminster.

  “I was in my office, working late for the good of the British people, when I heard a scuffle outside my window. I saw King Richard being spirited into Westminster by some Fae. I was just on the phone with the authorities when everything exploded!”

  Reporter Meryl Munson, looking as fresh and awake as ever, jousts her microphone under the young politician’s nose. “So you’re saying King Richard was inside the building when it collapsed?”

  We’ve reached the edge of the reporters—holding hands and quite visible. But no one seems to notice us. All eyes are fastened to the politician, the smoldering ruins behind him.

  “I hope I’m wrong,” the glacial-eyed puppet tells the cameras, “but I fear the worst. My only consolation to the people of Britain is that when I’m elected prime minister I will do all in my power to wipe these creatures from our island. To protect the British people and avenge the death of our king.”

  Richard stops. “I think this kingdom has seen enough revenge, Julian.”

  The circle turns outward. The cameraman closest to the king drops his lens. A hybrid hiccup-scream leaves Meryl Munson’s open mouth. Julian Forsythe stands—lost in the crowd he just commanded. For once he does not have a silken response.

  One by one the cameramen start to recover, focusing their lenses on the king. Richard is a strange and wild sight, still dressed for his coronation, with scarlet and sapphire emergency lights blazing across his jutting hair, his just eyes. His stare cuts straight into Julian.

  The young politician tries his best to recover. “Y-your Majesty! Thank God you’re alive!”

  Richard’s jaw grits and his nostrils flare. I feel his anger swell in my own chest and gather it up like stray yarn so it doesn’t accidentally set off a curse. It’s not rage or wrath, but a righteousness which gilds his words, booms for every microphone to hear. “It was not the Fae who kidnapped me from the coronation carriage. Those were your loyal M.A.F. party members. It was not the Fae who locked me up beneath the Palace of Westminster and destroyed the building. That was your wife.”

  “He—he’s been spelled!” Julian is red and spluttering—as if he has a biscuit lodged in his throat. He points at me with a wild trigger finger. “It’s that witch beside him. She’s controlling him! Making him say these things!”

  Richard lets go of my hand and walks, all calm, into the center of the circle. All of the lenses turn inward, watching as the two men stand face-to-face.

  “My words are my own. Unlike yours,” the king says. He grabs Julian’s wrist and shoves up the sleeve, exposing the bracelet of inked runes.

  Richard holds Julian Forsythe’s wrist for all the cameras to see. “The woman masquerading as Julian Forsythe’s wife is a sorceress named Morgaine le Fay. She has been controlling him with magic runes. She ordered my kidnapping, sabotaged the government, and tried to bury me in the ruins of Westminster.”

  Julian has the look of a man who just watched a gruesome death. His eyes rally—toxin blue—and he tugs his wrist away. As if he could pull back the truth Richard just laid out for the world.

  But the questions have already started—piling like winter-starved wolves onto a fresh kill. Hungry and tearing. Too many to face.

  He bursts away from Richard, shoves through the pack of reporters and breaks into a run. The cameraman whose lens smashed to the sidewalk starts a pursuit, but Richard holds up his hand.

  “Leave him. We have what we need. I’d like to film a more formal address if I could.”

  The cameras which just recorded Julian Forsythe’s retreat turn inward again. For once the reporters are silent. They offer up their microphones and listen.

  A sparrow bursts through the ash—all blackened soot and feather—and lands in Titania’s cupped hands. The Faery queen’s face withers as she reads its parchment message.

  What is it? I send her my thoughts. I can’t speak out loud, not while I’m standing by Richard’s side. He’s finished his speech, but the reporters are still chaos around us: cameras, lights, wires, microphones, rapid-fire questions.

  “Princess Anabelle’s human security has taken her to a bunker.” Titania’s voic
e weaves through the reporters’ bobbing heads. They don’t hear any of it. Or see the long queue of Frithemaeg and Kelpies standing at attention along the riverside, covered in layers of the Faery queen’s veiling spell.

  My thoughts sway to Eric, ski masks, and unwavering stun guns. The Protection Command is compromised. They’re the ones who kidnapped Richard in the first place, I tell the Faery queen.

  “It’s not the mortals who concern me. Morgaine is with them.” Titania says this and the blood in my veins jets colder than the river. My hand becomes a vise over Richard’s bicep.

  We’ve lingered here too long. Morgaine is already trying to acquire her second royal puppet. If anything happens to Anabelle . . . If I fail Kieran’s final wish . . .

  There’s a scream and suddenly the cameras jerk away, focus on the river’s edge, where the dark shapes of giant Kelpies and their Fae riders have materialized. Queen Titania guides her mount closer. Reporters scatter like nervous colts, legs quivering and eyes wide.

  Titania takes no notice of them, as if they’re just as invisible as she was moments before. She guides the water-spirit to where we stand, offers her hand to Richard. “Your Majesty, we must hurry. Your sister is in danger.”

  Paparazzi shutters click as Richard clasps hands with the Faery queen, pulls himself onto the Kelpie’s back. I follow: loop my arms around Richard’s waist, bury my face into the back of his neck, and wait to fly.

  Twenty-Eight

  Richard and I are the first into the bunker—navigating the maze of doors and guards with my clumsy improv spells. It’s different from the last safe room Anabelle and I took shelter in, though if I hadn’t approached it from the outside I would hardly know. It looks the same, from the brick walls to the tea tray to the fake potted palm in the corner. But this time the television is on, alive with the explosion footage some late-night Londoner caught on their phone’s camera. Anabelle watches it from the settee—alive, but far from safe. Morgaine sits beside her, arms bared. Her runes lock together perfectly under the sheen of the fluorescent light.