Soul of Cinder

by Bree Barton

  She lifted the tree to eye level. Not a bird, she realized. Just a tiny scarlet bloom.

  “The flowers have healing properties,” the Shadowess explained. “We use them in the Curatorium to excellent effect.”

  Mia’s fingers closed around the tree. She felt it shrink back into an unassuming wooden disc.

  “I’d love to see that.”

  “You’re most welcome in the Curatorium. I’m sure Nelladine would be happy to take you. We’ll plan for it.” The Shadowess smiled. “As soon as the vomit abates.”

  Chapter 15

  Muscle and Bone

  QUIN HAD LONG BEEN a student of human nature. As a boy he had scrutinized his mother’s face, her violet eyes growing crueler, and had come to understand that this was how the queen had chosen to survive her husband’s hate. He watched his sister, marveling at how Karri’s ferocity of spirit and pureness of heart seemed to emerge unscathed from the battlefield of their family.

  But, most vitally, he learned to predict his father’s violence. Every nerve in Quin’s body was finely calibrated to the tone of Ronan’s voice. The king knew how to throw a fiery tantrum, but he was most dangerous when he went still and quiet. The cold, smoldering blue of his eyes was a harbinger of much, much worse than his rages.

  If Quin was exceptionally gifted at the pretending arts, his true gift lay in his ability to perceive—and adjust to—the subtle nuances of human emotion, often by concealing his own. From an early age, the young prince had learned not only how to mimic, but also how to hide.

  Now, as he paced the corridors of his own castle, Quin did what he had always done.

  He observed.

  After more than a week in Kaer Killian, he had learned many valuable things. He knew, for example, that the Embers were divided. Some felt the food coming out of the kitchens was rank and unsatisfactory; others were grateful for it. Most believed magic of all types should be condemned, but a few maintained it could be used for good.

  Quin’s revelation that Angelyne had torn the four kingdoms asunder had caused quite the stir. He heard nervous whispers about the devastation in Glas Ddir and whether the young queen’s dark magic was to blame. Quin wondered how much the rest of the Embers knew about Tobin’s raids on the surrounding villages. How horrified would they be to discover that more violence was being committed in their name?

  Quin sat and drank and made merry with them, listening diligently to their hopes and fears. He could feel himself winning them over, Ember by Ember. Many now smiled at him when they passed in the corridor. Especially the women. He took a little extra care each morning to shave his face and comb his golden curls. It never hurt, he reasoned, to be easy on the eyes.

  But wherever he sensed an opening, he planted small seeds of discord. While pretending to be united with the Embers, he quietly endeavored to exploit every fissure. He knew a fissure could be coaxed into a crack.

  “Your Grace?”

  Domeniq stood at the threshold of the drawing room, where Quin sat on his stage, a ream of parchment balanced on one knee as he jotted down observations. When Tobin had invited him to stay in his old quarters in the north wing, it had infuriated him. He did not need an invitation to sleep in his own chambers. But he had forced himself to smile graciously and accept.

  Only later did he discover that Maev and Sylvan had taken the queen’s suite, and Tobin the king’s.

  “Please, Dom. I told you to call me Quin. And you don’t have to lurk outside like that.”

  “I didn’t want to intrude.”

  “You’re not intruding. You’re a welcome change of pace.” He set the parchment aside. “Ink and paper are a lonely man’s game.”

  Dom took a step into the drawing room. His ever-present blue stone rested comfortably against his broad chest. He clasped two icy tankards of stonemalt; the sight of the sweating pewter was enough to make Quin’s mouth water.

  “No shortage of games for lonely men,” Dom said.

  “Something only a fellow lonely man could know.” Quin smiled. A real smile this time. “I’m glad you came. I was beginning to think you were avoiding me.”

  Dom shook his head. “Just had to get a few things squared away.”

  Quin’s curiosity was piqued. After Domeniq vanished into the kitchens the night of Quin’s grand declaration, he hadn’t seen him all week—until earlier that morning, when Dom had practically collided with him in a corridor. They’d greeted each other hesitantly, muscling their way through a clumsy embrace and the subsequent strained conversation.

  “I brought you a pint.” Dom set one of the tankards on the stage. “Thought you could use a drink.”

  Quin raised a brow. “Not trying to poison me, are you?”

  A shadow passed over Dom’s features. “I’ve killed enough people for ten lifetimes.”

  “Fair. I’m happy you’re not one of the Embers who would prefer me dead.”

  Dom looked around the room, his gaze coming to rest on the clavichord.

  “What kind of instrument is that?”

  “Clavichord. Believe me, it sounds just as ugly as it looks.”

  “Can you play it?”

  “I’d rather compose you a sonata with brass spoons and a chamber pot.”

  To Quin’s surprise, Dom laughed. At the sound, something that had been locked in Quin’s chest for months unlatched. Not completely, but enough to feel it loosen.

  He remembered the first time he saw Domeniq du Zol. The night before his ill-fated wedding, Quin had sat beside Mia in the Grand Gallery, his gaze inexplicably drawn to the handsome young Hunter at a table below. Dom’s brown skin stood out in a sea of freckled white faces, his crooked smile illuminating the room.

  Of course, once Zaga and Angelyne began stacking corpses in the Hall of Hands, they had forced Domeniq to do unspeakable things. As a fellow prisoner, Quin had seen Dom roaming the castle corridors, eyes glazed, mind and body not his own. But who was Quin to judge? He had done unspeakable things himself.

  “Maybe you can answer a question for me.” Quin set his quill neatly at the edge of the stage. “When did the Embers occupy the Kaer? I’ve tried to trace the general timeline, yet find myself at a bit of a loss.”

  Dom sat heavily on the clavichord bench. He rubbed the back of his head.

  “I don’t know. When I shook the last of Angie’s enthrallment a couple of weeks ago, they were already here.”

  “And then you joined their ranks.”

  Dom shifted on the bench. “There aren’t many places left to go.”

  “I’ll drink to that.” Quin raised his pint, downing a healthy mouthful. “Now that’s a fine ale. If the Embers brewed this, I have sorely underestimated them.”

  He leaned back, careful to keep his tone casual.

  “I take it they’d been gathering steam in the village for a while.”

  “I guess so. Your father was good at making enemies. No offense.”

  “None taken. It was only a matter of time before a group like the Embers came to be. What’s the official slogan?” He rubbed his temples, as if he were struggling to recall. “Ah. ‘Remember the Embers. They remember you.’”

  “I don’t really go in for slogans.”

  “It’s quite catchy. As are the little flames you carve wherever you commit an act of violence. You’ve got a catchphrase and a symbol. Why not have some tunics custom-sewn?”

  Quin had meant it as a joke, but his friend didn’t smile. Once again Dom rubbed the back of his head. Was he fidgeting from habit or nervousness? Quin hadn’t spent enough time with him to know. Though in the brief time they had spent together, he’d found du Zol to be remarkably relaxed. It was partly why Quin liked him. As they’d danced on the tavern bar, sweaty and drunk, he had marked the easy way Dom moved, the warmth kissing the air between them.

  “Tobin says you knew each other pretty well,” said Domeniq. “Before all this, I mean.”

  “He was my music teacher.”

  “Just your music teacher?
”

  “Also my friend.”

  “He told me what happened in the crypt.”

  Now it was Quin’s turn to shift his weight. “It’s not a night I like to remember.”

  His father had been mercilessly violent, but then, his father was always violent. It was Quin who’d made the unforgivable mistake. No one knew better than he what Ronan was capable of.

  Quin knew how to hide. He was, after all, a master of the pretending arts. And the very first time he’d tried to come out of hiding, the worst possible thing had happened.

  “Toby asked me to come here, you know,” Dom said. “To your drawing room. He and Maev and Sylvan want to know what you’ve been doing in here.”

  Quin folded his arms over his chest. And here he thought he’d been doing the interrogating.

  “What do you plan to tell them?”

  “That if they want to know what you’re doing, they can come see for themselves. I’m sick of doing other people’s dirty work.” He toed the bottom of the clavichord. “It’s a funny thing having leaders, when leaders are what you’re fighting against.”

  “But there have to be leaders. Otherwise the world erupts into chaos.”

  “Maybe. But not every leader has to be a tyrant.” Dom picked up his tankard, frowning at the stonemalt inside. “Or maybe they do. Even the volqanoes in Fojo are tyrants now. Big monsters blowing their lids.”

  Quin studied him. He’d heard rumors among the Embers of the volqanoes erupting, but it was only hearsay. Domeniq—Fojuen by birth—spoke as if he knew for sure.

  Before he could press the point, Dom swore.

  “Faqtan. The whole world has gone to hells.”

  Quin felt the anger radiating off his friend. It was an anger he wore, too, invisible but always present, like a film of sweat over his skin.

  “What was it like?” Quin said quietly. “When Angelyne was enthralling you.”

  “Like shards of glass in my skull.” Dom tugged at the blue stone around his neck. “She was too strong. Even my father’s uzoolion was useless. Maybe I didn’t have enough.”

  “For me it was cobwebs. My mind felt so dark and dusty I couldn’t see my own thoughts.”

  “At least she and Zaga didn’t make you kill anyone. They sent you after Mia and Pilar, sure, but you never murdered innocent people. You didn’t have to drag their bodies back to the Kaer.”

  Dom’s wide shoulders folded in, more like paper than muscle and bone.

  “I still see their faces. All the people I hurt. The people I killed.”

  “Dom . . .”

  “I know what you’re going to say. ‘It wasn’t your fault, Dom. You were being enthralled. Your actions weren’t your own.’ But those people are still dead. And I’m the one who killed them.”

  Domeniq clanged his tankard down and stared at his own hands.

  “I should have found a way to stand up to the enthrall. I should have fought it.”

  Quin had thought the same thing many times. If only I were stronger, he’d told himself. Braver. Even after Angelyne stopped enthralling him, he’d been so weak that the mere echo of her magic was enough to render him powerless.

  He raked a nail down the pewter tankard, scraping off the condensation. The wetness cooled the heat in his fingertips. Now he was stronger, and braver, and—best of all—powerful. He was the one with magic. According to the Embers’ creed, that made him the enemy.

  “How is your family, Domeniq?”

  “My family?”

  “Your mother and little sisters. Your grandmother, too. With the volqanos erupting, I take it they’re no longer in Refúj?”

  Dom bristled. “What difference is it to you?”

  “I was just wondering, since the Embers have taken such a strong stand against magic, what they would think of your family of Dujia?”

  Dom rose. He could be quite formidable, his large shadow stretching over the stage.

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “Of course not,” Quin said smoothly. “I was simply curious.”

  Dom took a menacing step forward. Quin flinched.

  But Dom only bent and swiped the tankard off the stage.

  “I’ll leave you to your ink and paper, Your Grace.”

  “I wasn’t done with that ale.”

  “I’m sure you weren’t,” Dom said, and took it anyway.

  Chapter 16

  Starving

  PILAR’S DAILY ROUTINE WAS simple. She got up before the sun rose. Threw cold water on her face. Laced her boots. If she timed it right, she could make it to the Swallow before the morning rush—meaning she wouldn’t have to talk to anyone or dodge their hello kisses. She’d scarf down a few hard-boiled eggs with jomos and head straight for the Gymnasia.

  Stone was always waiting. No matter how early she got there, he got there first. He’d greet her with a giant grin and hand her something hot. Black tea. Strong coffee.

  “You don’t drink enough fluids,” Stone said one morning. “You have to hydrate more, now that you’re in the desert.”

  “Maybe the desert suits me.”

  “Maybe you’re going to choke on those eggs.”

  He was good at making her laugh.

  Stone wasn’t a great fighter, but she liked sparring with him. He never got tired, never gave up. Still, she worried her attempts to toughen him up weren’t working. His stance was improving, as were his jabs and blocks. But the trust-bordering-on-worship he’d shown her from day one was only getting worse.

  “Where’s your head this morning, Stone?”

  “Sorry, I’m a little distracted. Celeste was leading the circle yesterday, and she said I wasn’t breathing deeply enough. That I was chest breathing, not belly breathing.”

  Pilar knew all about the circle. Stone wouldn’t shut up about it. Different teachers led the circle, and the residents who went always seemed to walk out looking happier. Lighter.

  She found it highly suspicious.

  “Chest breathing?” Pilar snorted. “What does that even mean? Don’t let her get inside your head, Stone. Why do you look up to someone like her?”

  “She’s the Keeper.”

  “Doesn’t mean she walks on water.”

  Pilar threw a light punch. He didn’t duck in time. Her fist caught him on the chin.

  “Awg!” He rubbed his jaw. “You didn’t have to punch me.”

  “We’re sparring. That’s the whole point.”

  “Be honest. I’m not bad for a big fellow, am I?”

  “Your size is a strength, I’ll give you that. But your confidence, well . . .”

  “I’m very confident!” he cried.

  She grinned. “That’s the problem. If you want to be confident, don’t let people in your head. Tell them to mind their own.”

  She came at Stone again. This time he matched her, blow for blow.

  Half an hour later, they both collapsed onto the mat, panting.

  “Better.” Sweat dripped into her eyes. She grabbed her leatherskin and gulped down water. “Who taught you that left hook?”

  “I used to have a fight teacher from the river kingdom.”

  Nell had told her this before. Even so, the water caught in Pilar’s throat. She saw the cottage by the lake. Orry.

  “She taught me a lot,” Stone went on. “I was sad when she left for Prisma. We’ve lost so many residents to the Isle of Forgetting. Are you all right, did you just choke on your water?”

  She swallowed. “Went down the wrong pipe.”

  Pilar could go hours without thinking about the cottage. She no longer saw the rafters, the violin bow, or even Orry’s face. The memories that came now were from after. The coldness in her mother’s eyes when Pilar told her she’d been raped. Morígna’s calm voice as she stood in the sanctuary, giving her own version of events. The entire sisterhood of Dujia craning their necks to see which girl was the liar.

  Honestly, sometimes she missed the rafters.

  You didn’t deserve what happened.
It wasn’t your fault.

  Those were Mia’s words. At first they’d brought Pilar comfort.

  But then the doubt crept in. What did Rose know? She’d seen pieces of the story, not the whole thing. Pilar had been infatuated with Orry for years. She liked being his favorite. She had smiled at him the first time he pressed his hand to her back to correct her fighting stance.

  Morígna’s words vied with Mia’s. There will always be girls so starved for attention they must lie to get it. Girls who pretend to be victims when they are anything but. Zaga’s voice joined the chorus: Even if what you say is true, you have no one to blame but yourself.

  Pilar had wanted Orry’s attention. And she’d gotten it.

  In their Reflections, Mia had said pretty things. But since leaving Luumia, she’d only made Pilar feel more starved. Frankly, she was relieved Mia had spent the last few days spewing chunks.

  “You in there?” Stone waved a hand in her face. “It’s like you left your body for a minute.”

  She eyed Stone. He wanted attention, too. Differently from how she’d wanted Orry’s, thank the Duj—she’d seen her young pupil drooling over a pretty blond girl in the House. But it concerned her how hungry he was for her approval.

  She crouched. “Come at me again.”

  “You sure you’re all right? We can take a break if you—”

  She pivoted, redistributed her weight on her back leg, and landed a solid kick to his stomach.

  He oofed and stumbled back. Tried to stay upright. Failed, landing on his ass.

  “Guess I’m the one who needs a break.”

  “How about a snack?” Pilar yanked him to his feet. “You’ve earned it.”

  She’d given Stone one week to impress her. One week to show up at the Gymnasia and spar with everything he had. She assumed he would get tired after a day or two, muscles sore, pride bloodied. Then she’d be free to go. Leave the House of Shadows and strike out on her own.