Soul of Cinder

by Bree Barton

  Sometimes when Quin went to the orphanage, he simply sat on the floor with the children, telling stories, laughing at their jokes, and braiding their long, matted hair.

  And then he returned to his privileged life. Back to his decadent feasts, his jackets with gold buttons, his cozy canopy bed where every night a servant girl packed smoldering embers into a copper warmer and tucked it between his plush linens.

  More often than not, he cried the whole ride home.

  And now the orphanage was gone.

  What had happened to the children inside?

  He wanted to ask Tobin, but by now most of the group had passed him by. His former music teacher walked swiftly at the front, deep in conversation with one of the Embers.

  Quin turned back to the orphanage. He strained his eyes to make out the hunk of scorched wood in the corner. The piano. He stared at his hands, wondering if he still remembered any songs the children loved. The last time he had touched a piano was in the Snow Queen’s music room, when he’d bludgeoned it with a violin.

  A sickening thought snaked through him. He could have wrought this destruction himself. With the magic in his hands, he would have needed no torch to set the orphanage on fire.

  “Hello!” chirped a small voice.

  He looked down to see the puckish blue-eyed girl staring up at him.

  “I’m Briallihandra Mar. But you can call me Brialli.” She smiled widely. “It’s very nice to meet you, Your Grace.”

  Quin’s emotions settled. He began to walk again, Brialli falling in step beside him.

  “Did you grow up in the village, Brialli? You speak very well.”

  “I should think so! My mother was a scholar of the old language, and of the histories, too.”

  “The histories were always my favorite subject. I begged my tutor to bring me all the books he could get his hands on.”

  “My mother did her tutoring in private. A sneak-around scholar, she used to say. That was before the Hunters came to our cottage.”

  Quin steeled himself for what was coming. This girl had every right to hate Clan Killian.

  But, to his bafflement, there was no malice in her expression. Only curiosity.

  “My mother,” Brialli said, “used to say you weren’t rotten like your father. She saw you in the village once, when you brought bread and toys to the orphans. Mother said you were gentle with them. She believed you’d make a fine king someday. There are those of us who still—” She stopped herself. “Mother also said you were easy on the eyes.”

  Quin coughed. Brialli looked up at him, guileless.

  “What does it mean, ‘easy on the eyes’? She never would tell me. Is it an expression in the old language?”

  “And your father? What of him?”

  “Mother did that, too. She always changed the subject.”

  Brialli let out a deep sigh, as if she was resigned to adults being evasive. Quin was charmed. The girl reminded him of Karri, so frank and unfettered. Sometimes he missed his sister so much it was physically painful, as if a part of him had been cut out.

  “My father was a cook. He died when Queen Angelyne sent her men into Killian Village. I was in the next room, hiding where Father told me to, in an old canvas flour sack. I heard everything. He tried to tell them how much he hated the old regime, seeing as how it was King Ronan who took his wife away, but they . . .”

  She trailed off. Quin didn’t need to hear the rest to know what had happened. She’d lost her mother to Ronan, her father to Angelyne. How had a girl so young survived much loss?

  Quin had stared into the eyes of many orphans; he knew how easily grief could give way to despair, despair to resignation. But, by some miracle, this girl still had hope in her eyes.

  Careful, Quin thought. Remember these people are not your friends.

  “Tell me, Brialli Mar.” He flashed his friendliest smile. “How long have you been with the Embers? Is it quite a large group?”

  She shrugged. “Large enough. There was hardly anyone left in the village. They’d all either been killed or run away. When Toby found me scavenging for food, he invited me to join them. We’re building a different sort of kingdom, one where the powerful won’t use their power against the weak.”

  “Going to destroy anyone who stands in our way,” said a deep voice.

  Quin was annoyed to find the big man from the brothel skulking behind them, shamelessly eavesdropping.

  “It appears,” Quin said, gesturing grandly toward the remains of the village, “you have destroyed everything already. You Embers roam my kingdom, killing and pillaging, leaving your trail of flames.”

  “There’s naught left to burn.” The man waved a meaty arm around them. “This is magic’s doing. People with that kind of power are always hungry. Doesn’t matter how much they eat.”

  A trickle of dread dripped down Quin’s spine.

  “In a perfect world, no one would ever hurt anyone,” Brialli said brightly. “Magic or not. But, like my father used to say, sometimes you have to skin a few rabbits to make a good stew.”

  Quin expected Tobin to take them to a row of cottages, or perhaps a tavern on the outskirts of town. His mouth watered at the thought of a hot meal and a frosty pint of stonemalt. Surely the Embers had some kind of headquarters where they slept and ate.

  Only when they started to ascend the eastern road snaking out of Killian Village and up the mountainside did Quin realize where they were going.

  They were leading him to the castle.

  They were taking him home.

  Chapter 8

  Celestial

  “IT’S EXQUISITE.”

  The word was woefully insufficient. Mia stood at the top of the floating staircase, unable to tear her eyes away from the House of Shadows. Towering over them was a masterpiece of a door, its gilded facade embellished with moons and stars.

  “People actually live here?”

  “Don’t let the fancy exterior fool you,” Nell said. “The House is much more relaxed inside.”

  The door was nested in two curved alcoves, the first a dark, scalloped teakwood that sat atop the golden door like a crown. The larger alcove boasted dazzling mosaics: rust, teal, and sable tiles arranged in intricate patterns.

  “Mahraini tiles,” Nell explained. “Made by the Mahraini mystics thousands of years ago.”

  “The door’s so pretty I don’t want to touch it.”

  “I’ll touch it.” Pilar scowled. “Since you won’t.”

  Mia was losing patience. What had she said or done to make Pilar so angry? Granted, anger seemed to be Pilar d’Aqila’s default emotion. But something had definitely inflamed it. On the boat Pilar had been guarded. Since arriving in Pembuk, she’d become downright hostile.

  And yet. When Mia stepped toward the labyrinth, hesitating on the first stone to look back, she’d seen a flicker of something on Pilar’s face. Fear? Hope? She knew how easily those two intertwined. Even now, staring up at the House of Shadows, she felt both emotions. Surely a place this beautiful, this magical, would be able to help her. But what if it couldn’t?

  If even the Shadowess couldn’t fix her, who was left?

  “There’s the Bridge.” Nell motioned toward the west. “You can see it from here.”

  “Bridge to where?”

  “Prisma.”

  In the middle distance Mia saw glinting steel, clean and unsentimental, liquid silver arcing over the water. Beyond the Bridge, the Isle of Forgetting was a white smudge. The color of pale sand. The color of nothing.

  Mia turned back to the House. Two brass sconces flanked the door, cradling spheres of green fire. They called to mind the cool green flames from the pinewood sulfyr sticks her father had gifted her after one of his journeys.

  She gave a start. It was the same fire. Her father had brought the sulfyr sticks back from the glass kingdom. Perhaps even from the House of Shadows, where she knew for a fact he had been. She couldn’t explain why, but it soothed her, knowing that some part of P
embuk had found its way to her long ago.

  As far as reconciling how Griffin Rose, legendary Hunter—killer—of Dujia, had whiled away the hours among peaceful pilgrims and truth seekers? Mia’s mind was not up to the task.

  “Are we going in or not?” Pilar huffed. She shoved at the door. It didn’t budge.

  “Funny thing,” Nell said. “You actually pull it.”

  Pilar grunted and gave the gold knocker a hard tug. The door swung toward her so quickly she swore and jumped back.

  The door was transforming before their eyes. The gold sheen dissolved and became translucent; a glimmering hinge materialized down the center, splitting the pellucid glass into two perfect halves. Mia watched, spellbound, as the door fell open like a book.

  “I’ve always thought that part was a bit much,” Nell said.

  Mia didn’t hear her. She was already stepping over the threshold, drawn onto the page.

  The interior of the House took her breath away.

  They’d stepped into a cavernous hall. Immense glass pillars stretched from floor to domed ceiling in rich hues of rose and emerald. Crystalline water filled an entire billowing wall, aquatic creatures gliding and drifting. Mia saw fish in every shade of blue: robin’s egg to azure, powder to peacock, rich royal to midnight indigo. And, in their midst, a single orange melonfish, its long lappets whirling bright and brilliant tangerine. Like a coquettish girl at a ball, Mia thought, twirling in place as her skirt spun around her.

  She craned her neck, admiring the elaborate mosaics overhead, thousands of Mahraini tiles arranged in dizzying geometries.

  “Careful,” Nell cautioned. “My mother used to say staring at Mahraini tiles too long could dislocate your eyes, though now that I’m grown I’m pretty sure that’s not possible.” She laughed. “Mothers say such violent things to their children, don’t they?”

  In her peripheral vision, Mia saw Pilar flinch.

  But there was too much to see, too many marvels to take in, to worry about Pilar. The hall teemed with people. Mia delighted in every manner of attire—smart jackets and trousers; long, flowing garments; veils adorned with jewels—fabrics hugging sharp angles and voluptuous curves, bodies large and small and everything in between.

  During Mia’s time in Refúj, the Dujia had mesmerized her, their hair and clothes so different from the ones she’d known. Their hands stirred her deeply: countless girls and women without gloves, a glorious display of skin tones she had never seen in the river kingdom.

  Here, in the House of Shadows, her awe only grew. She saw not just women, but men. Some covered their hair while others wore it styled in elaborate braids or coils, or lopped off entirely. Countless languages and dialects twined together in a low, resonant hum. The people bustling around her hailed from all four kingdoms—including, to Mia’s surprise, her own.

  She drank in the enthralling blend of sight and sound. A note of music echoed through the hall, followed by another. She followed Pilar’s gaze to a group of children holding an array of string instruments: mainly lutes, with a sprinkling of cellos and violins. Pilar was no doubt thinking of Morígna, her violin teacher, who had so devastatingly betrayed her trust. Mia’s mind sorted swiftly through appropriate words of comfort.

  Pilar seemed to sense her watching. She jerked away from the child musicians and kicked at the floor. Even the ground was a visual feast: as the pale rose glass hovered inches over the orange sand, it mellowed to a deep, sunbaked crimson.

  “Blood-colored,” said Pilar. “Very comforting. Where’s that sheep going?”

  Mia blinked. A bearded man was leading a sheep on a rope.

  “To the Curatorium, probably, see its hind leg?” Nell motioned to the bandage wrapped around the sheep’s femur. “The House is home to many lives, not just human, and the Shadowess has a soft spot for vulnerable creatures. Some people abandon their old or sick animals on the front steps, it truly breaks my heart. But there are always physicians and healers in the House—Curateurs, we call them—who tend to the animals, in much the same way they tend to the elder and ill residents who’ve traveled long distances, hoping to be healed.”

  As they watched, the bearded man tugged on the rope. The sheep let out a short, sharp bleat.

  “If he doesn’t want a hurt sheep,” Pilar muttered, “maybe he shouldn’t yank so hard.”

  “Nelladinellakin?”

  A woman with pale, cream-colored skin and a long yellow braid stood perfectly still. She had stopped so suddenly that a family nearly collided with her. The father muttered something, then redirected his brood.

  “Great sands, Nelladine,” the woman breathed. “Is it really you?”

  And then she was gliding forward, arms outstretched, kissing Nell on each cheek before pulling her in for an exuberant hug.

  “Celeste,” Nell said, the name muffled in the woman’s thick blond braid. It was hard to tell her age; close up, Mia could detect light creases around her bright blue eyes, but her charming upturned nose made her look younger.

  Celeste pulled back, eyes glistening with tears. She cupped Nelladine’s face in her hands. For a moment, Mia thought she saw Nell’s shoulders stiffen. Then she seemed to relax.

  “Let me look at you. You’ve grown even more beautiful! Can you imagine? You’re just glowing, glowing with it, truly. She’ll be so happy to see you. Stone’s here—you have to go straight to him or he’ll never forgive you. He’s in the Swallow, per usual. That boy can eat!”

  Nell smiled. “Some things never change.”

  Celeste turned abruptly to Pilar and Mia, as if seeing them for the first time.

  “Kaara akutha to Manuba Vivuli! Welcome to the House of Shadows! Forgive me—I’m just so delighted to see Nelladin-ellakin after all these years. I’m Celeste.” She beamed at them. Then prompted, “And you are?”

  “Pilar d’Aqila.”

  Celeste leaned forward, hands outstretched. Pilar flinched.

  “I don’t want—”

  But she wasn’t quick enough. Celeste kissed one cheek, then the other.

  “It’s the way we say hello in Pembuk! A kiss on each cheek. It’s really quite nice. I’m just so excited to meet you all. The kosmos does provide!”

  Mia let her cheeks be kissed, then extended a hand.

  “Mia Rose.”

  “A Glasddiran and a Fojuen!” Celeste clucked. “What a journey you’ve been on. As the Shadowess says: all those who come to the House of Shadows are those who belong.”

  “I thought I’d show my friends around,” Nell said.

  “I’ll lead the way! You’ll find some parts of the House significantly changed since you left, especially with so many new guests—and the refugees, of course.”

  Mia raised a brow. Before she could ask about the refugees, Nell interjected.

  “That’s all right, Celeste. I’m sure we’ll find our way.”

  Something simmered just beneath the surface of the conversation. Mia couldn’t quite put her finger on it. Celeste was obviously more thrilled to see Nell than Nell was to see her. Why was Nelladine, normally so effusive about everything, holding back? She couldn’t tell if it was about Celeste specifically, or about the mysterious reasons Nell had chosen to leave.

  Celeste waved them off.

  “Don’t worry, you’ll be seeing plenty of me. I’m the House’s Keeper, I make sure everything stays in orbit around here. Someone’s got to keep the celestial bodies afloat!”

  They watched her scurry off, yellow braid swinging.

  “So you’ve met Celeste,” Nell said dryly.

  “What’s a Keeper?” Mia asked, curious.

  “Every Shadowess or Shadower appoints a Keeper to help manage the various activities and offerings of the House. Celeste was definitely not the Keeper when I left.”

  “Better question,” Pilar said. “Is the Swallow where the food is?”

  Mia could say this much for Pilar: she was not constrained by decorum, nor did she ever lose sight of the prize.

&n
bsp; When Nell nodded, Pilar smirked.

  “The kosmos does provide.”

  Chapter 9

  The One They’d Come to See

  PILAR’S INSTINCTS WERE SPOT on. A building with glass walls, floors, and ceilings? The House of Shadows was disorienting as hell.

  That said, hardly any of the glass was transparent. It wasn’t opaque, either, but somewhere in the middle, every hall a different color. They’d round a corner where a green wall met a blue one, casting a turquoise glow. Pretty, she had to admit. Despite the ceiling being one large skylight, the building stayed nice and cool.

  Many of the walkways inclined downward or upward, mirroring the strange shape of the walls. She spied dozens of murals: happy scenes painted by children, or possibly adults with zero painting skills. Oceans, forests, flowers. And so on.

  Pilar’s stomach tensed at a lakeside cottage. Would she ever see a cottage without imagining Orry inside it?

  Her boot stuttered on the floor. She caught herself.

  “Don’t worry,” Nell said. “You get used to the glass.”

  “You sure do know your way around.”

  “I should, considering how many years I spent roaming these halls. Celeste is wrong, it hasn’t changed at all.”

  “Years? I thought you said residents were always coming and going.”

  “Look! The Manjala.”

  Nell was dodging the question. She stopped in front of an egg-shaped door. Annoyed, Pilar peered through the glass.

  Inside was a large circular room with curved wooden walls. The Manjala, apparently. The vaulted ceilings reminded Pilar of the sanctuary on Refúj, where Morígna had gathered all the Dujia and turned them against her. Some sanctuary that turned out to be.

  But whereas the sanctuary was always dark and foreboding, this room was bright and clean. At the front stood a tall woman in a white tunic and short trousers. She balanced on one leg, arms extended in a V. The sole of her left foot pressed against the inside of her right thigh.

  Intrigued, Pilar mashed her nose to the glass. A dozen people faced the front, mostly women and a few men. Each stood on a gray wool blanket, mirroring the tunic woman’s pose. Some better than others. One bald man wobbled wildly, arms flailing in the air.