Soul of Cinder

by Bree Barton

  All the moisture evaporated from Mia’s mouth.

  Quin.

  How was she supposed to hold that name in her head? The blistering hope bound up in those four letters? She could not, would not dredge him out of the tomb, only to bury him again.

  “Wait,” Pilar said. “Quin told you that?”

  “Well, yes.” The woman looked slightly irritated. “If you’re not from the Council, I’m afraid I am going to have to ask you to leave. You can come to the main performance tonight with the other villagers. Now if you’ll excuse—ah, there he is now.”

  Mia didn’t look. She couldn’t. If she did, it might not be real.

  For years after, she would regret that it was Pilar who turned first. Pilar who saw him. Pilar who spoke his name.

  “Quin?” Pil said.

  And it was.

  Chapter 48

  Shattered

  THE MOMENT WAS INFINITE. In truth it could only have lasted a few seconds. But when the sisters turned toward him—Mia with her wild curls, Pilar with her proud jaw—Quin had the strange sensation that all three of them had been cut loose from time. They were players in a tableau vivant, perfectly preserved under glass: a moment that would stay with him forever.

  Quin had known the sisters were in Glas Ddir. He’d spent the better part of last night in negotiations with the Shadowess and her ambassadors, ensuring them that, yes, Kaer Killian had ceased to exist, as had the reign of Clan Killian; no, he was not a tyrant brutalizing his people; and yes, he would welcome both their counsel and assistance, insofar as these aligned with his own plans for reparations.

  These reparations had been physically exhausting, mentally draining, emotionally taxing—and by far the most rewarding efforts of his life. He felt sometimes that he had lived more in the last month than he had in the eighteen years before.

  And yet, in spite of all that, he still had not anticipated how terrified he would feel, a crate of theatrical props tucked under one arm, as he beheld Mia and Pilar on a sun-dappled hill. The last they’d seen of him, he had been trying to kill them. The last they’d heard from him . . . he had still been trying to kill them. He would rue that cursed letter for the rest of his days.

  “I . . .” he stammered. “I . . .”

  Where to begin? How to begin?

  “Suffice it to say, I owe you both—”

  The apology screeched to an ignominious halt. Pilar was barreling toward him. So swiftly he thought she might tackle him to the ground. She’d be well within her rights.

  Quin would not retreat. He was resolved to face her anger head-on, to pay the price for his own actions. He came forward stiltedly, still adjusting to his new gait—and then he saw her eyes and knew she wasn’t going to attack him. Quite the opposite. He was so overjoyed, so grateful, that he dropped his crate of props, throwing his arms wide as she plowed into them.

  He had forgotten her scent. A touch of sweat and fire. He’d missed it.

  “I can’t believe it.” She pulled back, roughening his curls. “Don’t you ever die?”

  He knew then that it would be all right. That whatever happened between them—including what already had—things would even themselves out. Not to imply it would be easy. He did not take lightly his turn beneath the snow palace, how he had loomed over Pilar, lifting his sphere of fire. He could spend three lifetimes doing penance and it would still not be enough.

  He bowed his head.

  “I owe you precisely one million apologies, Pilar, I—”

  “Stop. Don’t ruin the moment.”

  He couldn’t suppress a smile. She was still Pilar d’Aqila. The love he’d once felt for her was not gone; it had simply grown into a different shape. From the joy on her face, he sensed that, one way or another, the Doomed Duet of Pil and Kill would find a new harmony. Albeit with some discordant notes.

  As for Mia . . . he was not so sure.

  “Quin,” she said. Softly.

  She took a careful step toward him.

  “You’re alive.”

  Over the last month, Quin had spent countless hours imagining the moment he saw Mia again. Ruminating on what he would say and how he would say it. He had even rehearsed.

  Now that the moment had arrived, all his preparations promptly went up in flames.

  She felt like home.

  Mia was the home he’d longed for, not the dark and fearful home he’d known. He had not expected how desperately he would want to wrap her in his arms and bury his face in her curls. He’d missed her gray eyes and sweet freckles, her fierce independence, her mind working even now to parse the logic of finding him alive. He knew her like he knew his own soul.

  Or did he? What if the Mia Rose he’d known was not the Mia Rose who stood before him? They had lived whole lifetimes since they’d last seen each other. He had cheated death and created himself anew. Something told him she had done the same.

  And so he willed himself still. Sheer agony, but essential. He would let Mia come to him, if she so chose.

  She did not so choose.

  Her face remained passive. Inscrutable. Quin’s heart plummeted into his ribs. How could he blame her? Last they’d touched, he had burned the flesh off her hands.

  “Well, this is quite the performance!” said Prenda, and he gave a start. He had forgotten that the tableau vivant was not, in fact, just the three of them: it included the entire ensemble of orphans, along with Prenda, their mistress of the pretending arts. The children sat and stood in clusters around the stage, all rapt as they watched this real-life drama unfold.

  Quin blushed fiercely. Here he was, the props master, facing off with his two former lovers in front of an audience of children.

  He cleared his throat.

  “Let me just . . .” He stooped and began hurriedly scooping the props back into the crate.

  “I’ll help.” Pilar crouched beside him. “What’s all this, anyway?”

  “The children are putting on a production,” he said, grateful to have something to talk about. “They’re performing tonight for Natha Village.”

  “Natha Village?” Mia echoed. She’d crept a few inches closer. Unless Quin had imagined it.

  “Yes. The Council officially renamed Killian Village after taking a public vote.”

  He thought he saw a flicker of interest in Mia’s eyes, but it faded quickly. If her goal was to keep her face unreadable, she was succeeding. The uncertainty was driving him mad.

  “In the old language,” she said, “natha means ‘snake.’”

  Pilar snorted. “You named it Snake Village?”

  “I like snakes!” piped one of the orphans.

  Quin sighed. “I’ll bet you do, Victor.”

  To the sisters he said, “The name was chosen by popular vote. We are the river kingdom, remember, and the Natha is our most prominent river. It was the chief source of trade and commerce under Queen Bronwynis’s reign. Our hope is that trade will soon flourish once again.”

  Quin stood, hefting the repacked crate under his arm.

  “Give me one moment.”

  He moved toward the stage, acutely aware of his leg, and also relieved to have a moment to catch his breath. How had he ever merged Pilar and Mia into the Twisted Sisters? When he looked at Pil, he felt a jolly camaraderie. When he looked at Mia, he went weak at the knees.

  The orphans were making noise again, as was their way, their chirps and chatters offering a welcome reprieve from his reunion.

  Victor climbed onto Quin’s shoulders as he set the props on the stage.

  “Children,” Prenda said. “Children.” She shot Quin a beseeching look. “You are a tremendous help, and an even more tremendous distraction.”

  “Yes, yes, I know. We’re leaving.”

  He unhooked Victor from around his neck and faced the sisters. Pilar was grinning, clearly amused. Mia was a blank wall.

  “Come,” he said, walking toward them. “It’s been a while since you’ve both been here, and much has happened. I’ll sho
w you everything you’ve missed.”

  Quin was proud. He’d never been prouder of anything in his life.

  As he led the sisters through Natha Village, he delighted in showing them the various components of reconstruction. “We hand out fresh provisions every morning,” he said, pointing to the old brothel. “And over there, see the tavern? We’ve repurposed the kitchen to provide hot meals to anyone who needs them. Too many Glasddirans have gone hungry for far too long.”

  He took them to the hospital, the site of his own convalescence, now bustling with other patients in need of care. “We treat anyone,” he explained, “whether they have coins or not.” Then to the industrial district he had affectionately dubbed Karri Row, a thriving guild of brewers, butchers, blacksmiths, and dairy farmers manufacturing all his sister’s favorite things: malts, meats, swords, and stoneberry flambés. “The goal is to offer work to those who seek it. In so doing, we stimulate our own economy—and make our exports more attractive to potential trade partners. Two birds.”

  He turned to Mia. “Griffin Rose has been a great help to us. Your father knows the trade routes well, having traveled them so many . . .” Realizing his mistake, he turned to Pilar. “Your father, too, I suppose.”

  Quin saw a glimmer of interest in both their faces. Perhaps even hope. He imagined they had plenty to discuss with Griffin Rose. Would they choose to forgive their father?

  He winced. Would they choose to forgive Quin?

  “Wait until you see this,” he said, eager to change the subject. He led the sisters down to the riverbank, where he showed them a new water-filtration system he’d been experimenting with. When he pumped the lever, bright orange water spurted out.

  “A work in progress,” he said, sheepish.

  “What about the children we saw earlier?” Pilar asked. “Are they one of your good works?”

  “I believe you cannot rehabilitate a kingdom without providing entertainment and artistry. I’ve always been fond of the theater, and as I saw it this was a way to bring the pretending arts back to Glas Ddir. The children have been rehearsing very hard for tonight’s performance. You should come.”

  Pilar grunted. “Will the performance be better than that orange water?”

  “I certainly hope so.”

  Quin considered circumventing the Old Towne, but decided to guide them through. This was the oldest part of the village, a neighborhood many still considered to be dangerous.

  “We’re trying to stabilize the area,” he explained. “Make it safer for all. Illicit enterprise flourished under my father’s reign, as you might expect. When a king violates the rights of his people, those violations spread like a virus. It’s only a matter of time before they infect others.”

  As he led the sisters back to the new heart of Natha Village, they fell quiet. Pilar had kept up a lively banter for most of the tour, which only underscored Mia’s silence. At each new place, Quin stole covert glances, hoping to see a hint of a smile. But Mia remained stoic.

  In the village square, they stopped to rest at the rosewater fountain. Quin’s leg ached, as it always did after a long walk. He heard a yip and looked up, expectant.

  “Wulf!” Mia cried. “Beo!”

  Quin’s heart soared at the joy in her voice. His dogs were happy, too. Ears pricked, they trotted toward Mia, skipping over him entirely.

  “I suppose I see whom they prefer,” Quin said, hoping for an opening.

  Mia steadfastly ignored him. She cupped Wulf’s chin, scratching him behind the ears, just the way he liked.

  “What’s that?” Pilar said, pointing to the two-story structure across the street.

  “We call it the Bronwynis Chambers. It’s where the Council meets. When my aunt was queen, she appointed a council of eight people to help her rule the kingdom.”

  “Lauriel told me about it,” Mia chimed in, to his surprise. “It was Queen Bronwynis who said, ‘If we don’t invite peasants to sit at our table, how will we learn what they eat?”

  He nodded. “An apocryphal story, perhaps, but I’ve always liked it. I know she appointed five women and three men. It’s recorded in the histories.”

  Pilar arched a brow. “How many women do you have?”

  “Four. And four men. A fair divide.”

  “Plus you the king.”

  “I sit on the council,” he said, “but I am not the king.”

  How to explain to the sisters the manifold epiphanies he’d had over the last month? About power, duty, politics, love?

  He still marveled that a twelve-year-old had taught him the greatest lesson. That’s the thing about power, Callaghan said. It corrupts even good people. Those were the words he’d had in his heart as he hurled his raging flames into the northern peaks. Power was by nature corruptive. The only way to ensure that kings in lofty castles would not abuse their power and exploit the people down below . . . was to ensure there were no kings, and no castles.

  His first step had been to renounce the throne. Easy enough, considering there no longer was one. Then, as his body began to heal, he had turned his attention to the Glasddirans. Though he was confined to bed at his physicians’ insistence, his brain churned relentlessly. He often lay awake until the wee hours of the morning, concocting some new plan to bring relief to his people.

  The most surprising thing was that he was good at it. Wildly good. In addition to his gifts in music and the pretending arts—not to mention his ability to whip up a feast fit for a non-king—he had a natural talent for public works.

  Growing up with his sister, he had never imagined he, too, might make a good leader. Karri had excelled at diplomacy and statecraft, which had never been his style. And, as he knew from his short-lived bid for tyranny, he made a gods-awful tyrant. But when it came to the well-being of Glasddirans? Providing care and succor, putting strong checks and balances in place, and dismantling an old system? Creating new practices that would benefit all people, not just the rich and powerful? He was a bottomless fount of ideas.

  “If you were in the Kaer when it fell,” Pilar said, “I don’t understand how you survived.”

  “I don’t, either.” He had recounted the story a hundred times. “I saw the rocks plummeting down. Felt the Kaer coming apart under my feet. Then everything went black.”

  He patted his leg.

  “When I woke up, this was buried under a boulder, every bone crushed. Femur, tibia, fibula—I’m sure you’d know all the names, Mia, though try as I might I can’t hold them in my head. I’m just glad I got to keep it. For a while they weren’t sure.”

  Though he tried to do it with a dose of humor, it was still hard to talk about his leg. He vacillated between anger and acceptance, resignation and gratitude.

  So far no one had been cruel. If anything, the people around him had adapted more easily than he had. “So one leg’s a little shorter,” Callaghan said. “It isn’t like you’ve changed!”

  Sometimes when he looked at his reflection, he saw Tobin staring back. At the beginning he had dreamed about him every night; now it was only every two or three. It haunted him how, in that final moment, he had searched Toby’s eyes for a flicker of warmth, starved for comfort as the Kaer crushed them from above. Or perhaps what he’d really been seeking was forgiveness.

  He hadn’t found it. Tobin’s eyes had been cold. Hateful.

  Quin grieved the loss. He imagined he would for some time. It broke his heart that Tobin had clung to power till the bitter end. In spite of how their story had come to a close, Toby would always be his first love. A love he’d been ashamed to feel—and that his father had extinguished with hate and fear. As long as Quin lived, he would fight to ensure the children of the river kingdom never felt that shame.

  Perhaps love was like a rose. Love should always be allowed to grow, between whomever chose to grow it. All that mattered was how well you tended it.

  “Why the mourning sleeves?” Mia asked, jolting him back to the village square.

  He let out his breath
.

  “I told people not to wear them. I had renounced both the Killian crown and the royal colors; the sleeves were nugatory. But they insisted.” His cheeks reddened. “It became something of a movement. People said it was the perfect symbol for putting the old world order to rest.”

  “We thought you were dead, Quin,” Mia said. “I thought you were dead.”

  She stared at him with such intensity it knocked the air from his lungs.

  On the hill he’d felt a kind of transparent wall between them. Even as he stared into her gray eyes, she had hidden from him.

  Now the wall shattered. He was defenseless under the ferocity of her gaze.

  “Do you two need a moment?” Pilar said.

  “No,” Mia said curtly. She rose. “You stay. I’m going.”

  “Going where?” Quin called after her, aware of how pitiful he sounded.

  He needn’t have worried. She walked away too quickly to hear.

  Chapter 49

  Wide as the Sky

  “I SHOULD GO AFTER her.” Quin stared at Mia with such painful longing, Pilar worried for his health. “Should I go after her?”

  Pilar kicked off her boots. Stretched out on the fountain. Stared up at the sky.

  “Give her time. She’ll come around.”

  She had wondered how she’d feel, seeing Quin again. Never had she shared so much of herself with another person. And it had been her choice. That was the thing. Instead of having something taken from her, she had chosen to give it.

  But the moment she saw him on the hill, holding a box of stick arrows doused in fake blood, it confirmed what she’d known for months. The pleasing shivers were gone. Her body didn’t hum with pleasure. More of a nice, steady thump in her ribs: the feeling of seeing an old friend.

  Honestly? She was relieved. She had too many plans, too much to do, to throw shivers and hums into the mix.

  “Are we going to talk about it?” Quin said.

  She groaned. Just when she’d gotten settled.

  “Of course you want to talk about it.”