by L. Penelope
Darvyn turned to Tai, also caught in the amalgam net. The Raunian had produced a knife and was hacking away at the shining mesh. He freed himself quickly, then turned to Darvyn but was hit with a flying chair.
Tai straightened and growled. He used his forearm to block another chair that had been tossed his way. He didn’t appear hurt, merely angry.
The Dominionists, including Ladell, scampered out of the basement, leaving only Absalom and the two of them.
Darvyn was so weak—both his Song and physical energy were fading fast—he could barely even lift his head to watch as Tai faced off against Absalom. The Physick pulled a cudgel the length of his forearm, which had been hidden under his jacket, from behind his back and wielded it menacingly. Tai crouched, knife in hand, and beckoned the other man forward.
Absalom chuckled and pointed the cudgel in Tai’s direction. A thunderous, head-splitting wall of sound sprang from the weapon. Darvyn covered his ears as his brain vibrated against his skull. The blast of noise was enough to push him backward into the wall, but it didn’t seem to affect Tai at all. He didn’t so much as wince.
Absalom frowned and pointed the cudgel again, resulting in the same earthshaking clatter. Tai’s clothes actually lifted in the breeze that had been produced, but he gave no indication he could hear the horrible sound. Absalom’s brow furrowed in confusion as Darvyn’s head rattled.
The last of Darvyn’s Song dissipated, removing the spell he’d cast on Tai’s appearance. The Raunian’s hair became blue once more, and his tattoos emerged to stand out boldly on his face.
Absalom tensed his jaw. “Raunian!” he spit out like a curse. He pointed the cudgel at Darvyn directly this time, who cringed as the blast hit him in the chest. His eardrums shattered along with several of his ribs.
When Darvyn opened his eyes, the Physick was gone. Tai was crouching before him, cutting the netting off. He was moving his lips, but the words were lost to the ringing in Darvyn’s head. He touched an ear, then the other, to find blood dripping from them both.
Tai helped him stand, and Darvyn stumbled through the tunnel and up the stairs into the open air. Each step was agony, jarring his body. When he reached out to stabilize himself, he found his wrist was either sprained or broken. The pain intensified with each breath, making the journey back to the hotel a blur.
Somehow he had stayed conscious until then, but when his back hit something soft, he closed his eyes and all went dark.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Ayal recognized the seeds of dissatisfaction, well sewn and ready to grow quickly. Its fruit would only nourish the worst in mind and heart. One day while Boy-Who-Passes-Twice was running, Ayal lay a stone in his path. When he fell, she bound his legs, forcing him to remain still and listen.
—THE AYALYA
Kyara paced her cell, giddy with nerves and eager to get things started. She placed and replaced the hairpin several times, and her scalp still stung where she’d accidentally stabbed herself. Unlike all the other days, today she was actually looking forward to being taken from her cell.
Finally, the guards arrived to shackle her wrists and lead her from the prison. She counted the steps as usual, glad to know that they were taking her via the same route, not deviating from the course. Consistency would help any escape plan she was able to form. The long, brightly lit hallways were empty. The freshly polished floors squeaked underfoot. Everything here was radiant and shiny, made of chrome or burnished wood or glass.
A hum of voices wafted from inside the familiar door to the classroom. Kyara wasn’t sure if the guards were late or if students had arrived early, but there were not usually so many witnesses for the indignity of her being chained to the stone table. The seats were filled with young men and women in their color-coded cloaks with hues ranging from green to blue to violet. They all stared at her as the guards hauled her in.
The brightness of the auditorium stunned her once again. Electricity must be generated in such vast quantities here that they could waste it illuminating this room far past what was necessary. She squinted as they placed her on the table, then locked her head and limbs in place. Soon the same white-haired Physick as always arrived and sliced open Kyara’s palms.
The hairpin did not translate the words he spoke as he cut her—she wondered if it did not know the language of the blood spell. Though she’d learned the ancient tongue from Ydaris over the years, the words he used were unfamiliar.
Her blood flowed from the new wounds as the few remaining seats she could see filled. Then the instructor’s droning voice began. “I know everyone is eager to commence today’s ceremony. The graduation of a new class of Physick Spellsayers is indeed worthy of celebration. Those of you moving on have worked long and hard to achieve this milestone, and as your instructor, I am proud of each of you.
“As you proceed to your posts of service in the factories, and the valuable work of dedicating every amalgamation that comes off the assembly line with the words of power, never forget that we owe our prosperity to Saint Dahlia the Sanguine. In her name do we work.”
“By her grace do we prosper,” the audience replied in unison.
Kyara recognized the tone of this call and response. It had been uttered many times during her draining sessions. That the Physicks were some sort of religious order surprised her. Their methods were anything but holy.
“This is the first graduating class to receive quintessence powered by our new donor.” Several eyes in the crowd shot to Kyara. She glared back at them. “Not since the Bright One first arrived has there been such a leap forward in our humble art.” Now the same gazes were trained somewhere behind Kyara, presumably at the source of the brilliant light that was illuminating the room.
“Now that our supply of Nethersong is as pure and powerful as can be obtained,” the instructor continued, “the quintessence is more balanced than ever. Medallions created today will contain enough power to last the rest of your lives.”
A murmur of awe rose from the audience, but Kyara’s stomach turned sour. If the Physicks were happy about this, it must have been bad.
The voice continued. “In three days’ time, we will convene a symposium to share the wonders of our recent achievements due to the new source.”
“You’re welcome,” Kyara mumbled.
“All graduates of the Academie are invited and encouraged to attend and bear witness to Saint Dahlia’s blessings. And now, with no further ado, my colleague Master Effram will perform the rites. They are as they have been for two hundred years. Since the inception of the Great Machine, we have fed our life’s essence into it and, in turn, been rewarded by the glorious gift of quintessence.”
Kyara bit her lip, listening carefully, but still not understanding. What was the Machine? And what was quintessence?
“Will the graduates rise and form a line,” a new voice spoke. She assumed it to be Master Effram. Then she heard someone draw near to her, and the back of a red-robed figure appeared in her peripheral vision.
All the students in the violet robes rose, while those dressed in blue and green stayed seated. Effram moved farther into her range of vision, standing directly before her in profile. He was pale with blond hair. His age was difficult to determine, perhaps early thirties, but he could have easily been younger or older. In his grip, he held a bone knife already streaked with crimson. It must have been the same one used on her moments ago.
The instructor’s voice rang out again from beyond her vision. “You will step forward, one at a time, to make your contribution and collect your medallion. When the rites are complete, place your medallion on the platform so that it may receive the quintessence.”
The elderly Physick walked into the edge of Kyara’s vision and grabbed hold of a waist-high lever jutting from the ground. With great apparent effort, he engaged the lever, shifting it to the side forty-five degrees. The whirring of gears and motors began and beneath her, it felt like a great mechanical beast was awakening. The stone table vibrated s
ubtly with the hum from the machinery under the floor. This had never happened before.
The students in line gaped with expectation. A small silver plate sitting atop a snarl of copper pipes and tubing rose from somewhere below until it was the same height as the table. Puffs of steam escaped from what must be a hole in the floorboards. The classroom was built on top of some kind of machine.
The first student stepped up to Effram. The young man was about Roshon and Varten’s age, with similar coloring except for his yellow hair. Standing tall, he extended his palm. Without any preamble, Effram sliced into it. Kyara’s eyes widened, but the student maintained his eager demeanor. He held his hand carefully so that the blood dripped onto the silver plate. There must have been a drain in the center, for the blood disappeared. The piping below the plate shook slightly as another puff of steam rose from below.
“Dahlia’s breath is life. Dahlia’s breath is death. Dahlia’s breath is matter. Dahlia’s breath is spirit.” Effram reached into a white basket that had appeared at his side and pulled out a circle of gold metal. He placed it into the student’s bloody palm and folded the young man’s fingers around it.
Then Effram uttered the same string of foreign words that were said every time Kyara’s blood was spilled in this room—a blood-magic spell. The tubing coming out of the floor whined and churned and spat out a small, milky-pink stone onto the silver platter. The student pressed his palm down on top of it, and when he lifted his hand, the stone was embedded in the gold coin.
Realization dawned as the student stepped away and was replaced by another. Kyara had seen such a medallion many times—worn around Ydaris’s neck.
The “rites” were repeated dozens more times. Students would step to the front, be sliced, and allow their blood to drip onto the silver, then receive a medallion and embed a tiny pink stone in it, delivered from below by the belching machine.
The fatigue from her Song being drained tugged at her. For the first time, she wondered where exactly it was going. Her blood always dripped down below her, but whenever they took her from the room, the floor was clean. There must have been another drain beneath her. Was her blood being fed to the machine in order to drain her Song?
Raal had told her that amalgam magic was the combination of Earthsong, Nethersong, blood magic, and material objects—that would describe what she was witnessing. Well, everything but the Earthsong. She was their source of Nethersong. Was there, even now, an Earthsinger somewhere nearby whose Song was being drained just as hers was?
Dansig had never been taken to this room, had never had his Song drained, though he’d told her once that his was relatively weak. That meant that there was at least one more prisoner here or the Physicks had found some other supply of Earthsong. And what had they done for Nethersong before capturing her? The questions just kept coming.
She had a wealth of new information, though, thanks to Asenath’s hairpin. As the ceremony continued, Kyara forced herself to stay aware, determined to gather as much intel as she could before the weariness was too much to bear.
One of the last in the line of students was a short girl with midnight skin and eyes so dark blue they nearly matched the violet in her robe, eyes that reminded Kyara of Asenath. Perhaps this girl was some kin of hers, a granddaughter or great-granddaughter. Did Physicks even have children? Somehow she couldn’t picture the ruthless mages marrying and bearing young. But they had to come from somewhere, of course.
Unlike the other students who appeared to view Kyara as part of the furniture, the girl with Asenath’s eyes looked directly at her as her palm was sliced and her medallion secured. Did the old woman’s entire family share her dissent against the ruling Physicks? Perhaps Kyara truly did have allies here.
After the ceremony ended, the auditorium emptied quickly. The smell of roasting meat and alcohol, along with the sound of merry voices, floated in from somewhere nearby. A celebration for the graduates.
Apparently forgotten, Kyara lay on the table, the machine doing its work to pull her Song from her and serve as a power source for amalgamation magic. She hung on to consciousness for as long as she could, sifting through everything she’d learned. Something here must be the key to escape.
* * *
The dream had changed. Kyara stood in the same dark place, illuminated by a source she could not see. But this time, three archways made of smoke and light stood before her. They were each as wide as her arm span and were pulsing with latent power.
A gasp came from behind her; she spun around to find Mooriah, barely visible but shaking her head before abruptly fading back into the darkness.
“Mooriah?”
A blurry image took shape on the other side of the archway on the right. The figure was familiar and male; Kyara’s eyes widened, heart racing, as she stared at the man before her.
“Darvyn?” she cried out, reaching for the arch. Could it really be him?
A hand shot out to stop her. Mooriah had reappeared at her side.
The woman’s form passed through Kyara’s arm, leaving an icy sensation crawling across her skin. “You can only look.” Mooriah’s voice was desperate.
Kyara nodded sadly. She had so many questions for Mooriah, but Darvyn’s presence was foremost in her mind.
On trembling legs, Kyara stepped as close to the archway as she could without going through. “Darvyn?” She stared at his form, which appeared shaky and tremulous, as if not quite certain whether to come into focus or not.
His eyes widened and jaw slackened. He looked around wildly, seeming unable to see her. His mouth moved, but she couldn’t hear him.
“Are you real?” she whispered, holding out her hand, longing to touch him. “Have you finally come to judge me?”
His eyes still searching, he turned toward her voice and reached for her. They stood, separated by time or space or worlds—she couldn’t be certain—but a flood of yearning threatened to drown her.
She struggled to read his lips, but his form was too indistinct. “I’m so sorry. For everything. The Physicks took me. They’ve been … draining me. Stealing my Song slowly.”
He looked like he was shouting now, a vein bulging at his temple.
Her mouth quivered. “I can’t hear you. I’m not sure where I am. The World Between? The World After? Maybe it’s a place connected to the Physicks’ headquarters where they’re keeping me prisoner.” A ripple went through his form. He came into focus momentarily, his eyes hard and jaw clenched. He was angry, as angry as all the others who came for her to blame her.
She pressed her fingers to her lips. “I’m so sorry.”
His image began to fade. “Darvyn!” she screamed, tears forming in her eyes. “I”—he disappeared completely—“love you,” she said to the darkness.
She held her hand out again toward the place where he’d been and looked around. Mooriah was gone, too. She’d been dim, hard to see again, and Kyara wondered if the power the woman used to make herself seen and heard was weakening.
Kyara simply stood there, grief beating at her, questions cluttering her mind. Darvyn had looked so fierce. His spirit would never forgive her for taking his life.
Turning away from the arches, she wondered if the others were on their way—the others she’d killed.
She waited alone in the dark for a long time, but they never came.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
When the forest dwellers returned from their pilgrimage, knees bruised from supplication, they found Boy-Who-Passes-Twice seated calmly. “I will run in circles no more,” he said, “instead, I will find a destination. I thank my friend, Ayal, for showing me the way.”
The seeker raised her arms in appreciation and watched them transform into the forelegs and paws of a lion.
—THE AYALYA
Lizvette peered inside the brown paper bag before shutting it and tossing it away. It landed on her pillow with a thud. She clenched and unclenched her hands, then crossed the bedroom to wrench open the closed door. The others had
gathered in the common area after dinner.
Darvyn was still unconscious in the other room, and Tai stood in the doorway staring down at him. The events at the Dominionist meeting were terrifying. It merely proved how dangerous the sect was, and how desperately they needed to be stopped. And if they had amalgams that could drain the power from an Earthsinger and shatter his bones with sound, what horrors were in store for Clove from the device Lizvette had been given? Lizvette had no idea what would happen if she used the thing, and her father would slip through their hands if she didn’t. She needed to find a way to tell the others, but hadn’t figured out how to bypass the amalgam necklace around her throat. Scissors wouldn’t cut the chain. It didn’t fit over her head. She’d even tried to break the clasp with the heel of her shoe. But it was impervious.
She paced the floor, wringing her hands. She was losing time. Clove would be going to bed soon.
“Darvyn is getting better,” Vanesse said, looking up from the newspaper’s crossword puzzle. “I checked on him an hour ago and his bruises are already fading. It’s slow going, but his power is returning and he is healing.”
Lizvette nodded but couldn’t stop her pacing.
Tai glanced over at her, worry and weariness etched into his face as starkly as his tattoos. He’d been in such a state after dragging Darvyn back into the suite. Lizvette couldn’t allow another of their group to come to harm. There had to be some other way to bring her father to justice. But if she didn’t use the device, was there some other plan for Clove? Knowing her father and his lack of faith in her, she bet there was a backup plan. She had to warn the woman.
“I have something to say,” she announced.
Three pairs of eyes focused on her.
She cleared her throat. “Only … you see…” She formed the words in her mind. Father visited me. He knew of the plot to kill Alariq. He’s going to sabotage Clove. But even as she thought the words, the necklace heated up.
