Soul of Cinder

by Bree Barton

  She turned back to her patient.

  “May I touch you?”

  The girl nodded, eyes wide.

  “Yes.”

  Mia cradled the fojuen wren in her left hand, placing it gently on the girl’s back. Then she put her right hand over the girl’s heart.

  In the Curatorium she had learned to temper and refine her gifts. Lord Shadowess had taught her to favor slow, balanced remedies over fast, dazzling cures. “True healing is not a magic trick,” he liked to say. “Nor is it about achieving high marks.”

  And so, as she held the girl’s fragile rib cage between her hands, she called on her training, her knowledge, and her magic. She closed her eyes and found what her mind alone could not see: the phlegm clogging the lungs. Quietly, steadily, she drew it downward. She coaxed her patient’s humors back into alignment, making sure to rebalance her own as well.

  It was not instant. It took time. Though, as Mia was learning, change often did. She held on to the Shadowess’s words. The only way to heal something as large as a kingdom was to heal it in a hundred small ways every day.

  The girl fell asleep in her mother’s arms, exhausted by pain and fear.

  Under Mia’s hands, her body began to heal.

  She lost track of time. After the girl came another patient, then another, a steady trickle of ill, wounded, and infirm. Each one required something different, and Mia rose to the challenge, calling on both her intellect and intuition. She thought critically, acted compassionately—and loved every second. She had never felt so vitally alive.

  Only when one of the nurses came bustling toward her, saying something about a visitor, did Mia look out the window and realize the sun had set.

  “A visitor?”

  The nurse blushed and scurried off.

  Mia had a good guess who it was.

  She scrubbed her hands in the bath bucket, then wiped them dry. Then scrubbed them again with extra soap. She was stalling. She couldn’t stall forever.

  Mia marched into the admittance room, hands still wet. After all that, she’d forgotten to dry them.

  Quin perched on a stool, a gray blanket rolled beneath his arm. When he saw her, he leapt up too quickly, the stool screeching an inch across the floor.

  “Hello,” she said. “How did you know where to find me?”

  “Pilar might have mentioned it.”

  “Might have.”

  She felt him searching her face. Trying to assess whether or not it was safe to smile. She wasn’t sure herself.

  “What is it, then?” she said briskly. “I’m quite busy, as you can see.”

  “Yes, I . . . I was wondering if . . .” He cleared his throat. “If you would consider accompanying me to tonight’s performance.”

  She raised a brow. “The children’s play?”

  “That’s right. We’ve got half an hour till curtain. They’ve been working so hard. As for the play itself . . .” He straightened. “I think you might like it.”

  He was so earnest, standing there. His charming windblown curls, and boots so black and slick, she knew he had shined them before coming. How could she say no to him?

  “Well, then,” he said.

  “Well indeed.”

  “I ought to—”

  “I should be—”

  They both stopped abruptly.

  “You go first,” he said.

  “I was just going to say that if we’re going to a performance, I should probably change clothes.”

  Quin’s whole demeanor changed. A smile illuminated his face so brilliantly Mia was certain she, too, would ignite.

  “Give me five minutes,” she called over her shoulder, walking toward the restatory. Grinning the whole way.

  Chapter 52

  Endless Opaline

  QUIN LOVED THE HILLS. During the day, whenever he felt overwhelmed by the magnitude of reconstructing Natha Village, he would hike above the hubbub, finding new trails amidst the rubble of his childhood home.

  After the Kaer collapsed, the first days were the hardest. As the physicians deliberated over whether Quin would keep his leg, he slipped in and out of consciousness, his head foggy from the medicine they gave him for the pain. He remembered Callaghan had come to see him, as had the du Zols. The twins’ banter had lifted his spirits. After Domeniq took them home, Lauriel had stayed by his side.

  “Are they still burning?” he’d murmured. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw his fire scorching the northern peaks.

  “No, darling. The fire has burned itself down to cinders. The hills are quiet now.”

  She stood, crossing the room to stoke the hearth.

  “Do you know what I have always found peculiar? In your language, you use the word cinder interchangeably with ash. While they are both something that fire leaves behind, they are not the same. Ashes are merely remnants. Cinders have life in them still.”

  “But they’re dead.” Quin fought the tears welling in his eyes. He felt so weak and helpless in his sickbed. “Cinders are useless.”

  “Insofar as cinders cannot be resurrected into the fire they once were, then yes. They are dead. But cinders have a quiet, untold power inside them.”

  She came to stand beside him. Gently, so gently, she took his hand.

  “They are still burning, darling. But they do not need a brutal flame.”

  Now, as he walked beside Mia in the brisk evening air, the hills cloaked themselves in quiet. The air was crisp and cool, stars dotting the sky like flecks of buttercream. Sometimes, on very clear nights, he could see all the way to the Opalen Sea.

  “Is that really the ocean?” Mia pointed, though as she did, a heavy cloud settled on the horizon. “Let me rephrase. Is that the ocean hiding under that cloud?”

  Quin smiled. He shifted the gray blanket beneath his other arm.

  “I desperately wanted to see it as a boy. The ocean was so close, yet so maddeningly out of reach. Those pesky northern peaks were always standing in my way.”

  “Not anymore.”

  It was strange how little they’d said to each other, in light of how much there was to say. Quin had tried to follow her lead, talking when she wanted to talk, never forcing anything. It was partly why he’d invited her to the play: so they could spend time together without Mia feeling pressured to make conversation.

  Now he doubted himself. He was terribly nervous. Should he prepare Mia for what she was about to see? He hoped she would like the performance. His secret desire was that she might even love it. But there was also a distinct possibility that after she saw the play, she would never speak to him again.

  They weren’t far now. The path wound toward the stage, irradiated by hundreds of torches. They looked to Mia like a trail of fireflies.

  Her mind was abuzz. She felt irrationally worried about things that seemed pointless to worry about. Did she still stink of blood and humors from the hospital? Should she have at least tried to comb her hair?

  The path widened and leveled out, revealing the stage.

  The zestful children were nowhere to be seen. The stage itself was swathed in a thick crimson curtain. Beside it someone had erected a large tent—the backstage area, Mia assumed. At least a hundred people sat on the grass, tittering in the restrained way people do before a performance, blankets spread on the ground beneath them.

  “Here we are,” Quin said, choosing a spot in the back. He didn’t want to make the children nervous by sitting too close. He unrolled the gray blanket to stake their claim. “Now if you’ll excuse me for a moment.”

  He hurried backstage, heart pounding.

  “Ah!” said Prenda as he ducked into the tent. She looked regal, her hair swept into a bun and skin greases elaborately applied. “It’s Quin, children, I told you he’d come backstage to see you. Quietly, please! No jumping.”

  They streamed around him, adorably nervous. He felt the pre-performance tension in the air. It brought to mind a pudding on the stove, simmering with potential. A pudding that might still very
well go bad.

  “Break a leg, everyone,” he said softly.

  He felt a tap on his shoulder. Turned to find Callaghan in full costume, sword and all.

  “Who’s the pretty redhead I see out in the audience? Is it Miiiiiia?” Cal batted her eyes so dramatically Quin laughed. “I want to meet her!”

  “If you dazzle us tonight,” he teased, “maybe you can meet her after.”

  “I was born to play this role,” Cal sniffed.

  “I know you were.” He appraised her costume. “It’s a little more like this,” he said, adjusting the longsword so it hung a touch higher from her hip.

  He stood back. Nodded his approval.

  “Perfect. You’re Princess Karri through and through.”

  This time he didn’t try to fight the ache. He missed his sister. He always would. But it was far better to see Callaghan costumed as Karri than to imagine his sister fading quietly away.

  “Break a leg, Cal. You’re going to be amazing.”

  “Just don’t you break a leg,” she quipped, as he slipped out of the tent. “You’ve done enough of that already!”

  Mia was exactly where he’d left her. He breathed a sigh of relief. A part of him had been absolutely certain she’d be gone.

  “A question,” she said as he situated himself, leaving a respectful strip of blanket between them. “What is the play about?”

  He was spared from answering. At their backs, the stagehands extinguished the arena torches, veiling them in sudden darkness. A few giddy gasps coursed through the crowd. Then the pretending torches were lit around the stage—and the curtain rose.

  Gone was the children’s cheerful platform. The stage had been transformed.

  The floors were varnished a gleaming black. Dark canvas hung from tall poles to create three opaque walls. In the center, a dangling ring of candles.

  Mia shivered. The scene felt ominous, and eerily familiar. A hideous monster loomed in one corner, a mishmash of what appeared to be fused metal tubes.

  “The children made that themselves,” Quin whispered. “It’s supposed to be a pipe organ.”

  There was a flutter of small feet as the players spilled solemnly onto the stage.

  Something strange was happening. Had Mia met these children before today? She was sure she hadn’t. Yet with every new child she felt a flicker of recognition. A girl with lambskin gloves and long ginger hair walked beside a stern-looking boy with a man’s beard drawn on his face. A puckish girl strode in with a longsword hanging from her belt. At a bronze table, a boy wearing a green jacket with gold buttons faced a girl in a curly red wig.

  A blond-haired boy—the one who had climbed onto Quin’s back that morning—sauntered in, promptly tripped on his long robes, and fell facedown onto the stage. The audience went stone silent.

  The boy jumped up.

  “I’m fine!” he shouted. “I fell!”

  The illusion was broken—but the relief was palpable. The audience let out a collective breath. Several people chuckled.

  “Oh, Victor,” Quin muttered. “A scene stealer till the bitter end.”

  Victor recovered himself admirably. He was already striding over to the bronze table.

  “We have come here today,” he crowed, “by royal decree of Ronan, son of Clan Killian . . .”

  And suddenly Mia knew why everything seemed familiar. The redheaded girl. The prince.

  She was watching her own wedding.

  Only, she wasn’t. Because she couldn’t.

  She was on her feet, sprinting out of the arena—and onto the path.

  “Mia!” Quin struggled to keep up. “Mia! Please.”

  He cursed his leg. If she kept that pace, he would never catch her. He cursed himself for thinking she would enjoy seeing their story performed onstage. Clearly she had not enjoyed it. Of course she hadn’t. Who wanted to have their own life paraded before them? He’d done everything wrong.

  But as he reached the path, just out of earshot of the performers, he saw that Mia had stopped. She was pacing back and forth. Curls bouncing furiously off her shoulders.

  “What was that, Quin? What was that supposed to be?”

  “I should have told you beforehand. I just thought—”

  “That it would be a nice surprise?”

  “I’m sorry, Mia. I am trying so hard to make things right. And I’m failing at every turn.”

  Mia peered into his eyes. As she’d sat beside him on the grass, watching her effigy totter about onstage, she had wondered if Quin was mocking her. Was this some sort of elaborate ruse? Drag her back through her own failures, her own grief?

  But now, standing face to face, she could see he was miserable.

  Mia wanted to be angry. At least she knew the weight of anger. Grief was slippery and ever changing. Just when she thought she knew its heft, grief reshaped itself.

  “The play isn’t satire,” Quin said. “I promise you that. Though with Victor slinging himself about the stage, it may well turn into a comedy by the end. I’ve done my best not to stray from the facts. It’s drama, for the most part, though there are silly bits, too. Most of the silly bits are mine. You come out looking quite heroic, actually, whereas I’m a bit of a buffoon.”

  Quin was flinging words with wild abandon, hoping the right ones would stick.

  “You wrote the play?” Mia said.

  He scrutinized her expression, pondering which answer would be least upsetting. In the end he went with the truth.

  “I’ve been writing the new histories. Our histories. I want to tell the true tale of Clan Killian, including its grisly end.”

  Behind their backs, the performance was in full swing. Victor was doing a fine job as Tristan, intoning the horrific Glasddiran wedding vows.

  Quin shifted his weight, grimacing in pain.

  “I could try and heal your leg,” Mia said. “If you want.”

  Mia wasn’t sure it was the right thing to say. But she’d been thinking it from the moment they reunited. After spending her whole day healing others, she’d be remiss not to ask.

  “Thank you, Mia. But it’s all right.” Quin’s smile was soft. “I spent so many years ashamed of my body. I thought it weak and delicate, not at all befitting a son of Clan Killian. But after the Kaer fell, after my leg was shattered, my body fought so hard. It healed from something that should have killed me. I have chosen to honor that.”

  Mia understood. Her fingers grazed the frostflower inked onto her wrist.

  “Not everything needs to be fixed,” she murmured.

  He nodded. “We cannot unmake the things that make us who we are.”

  They were quiet a moment. Gazes fixed on one another. Contemplating their next move in this fragile dance.

  Quin broke the silence.

  “Do you know where we’re standing right now? What was here before?”

  To Mia’s astonishment, she did know.

  “The Hall of Hands.”

  “Yes.” He looked impressed. “You sensed it instinctually, didn’t you? It’s hard to know for sure, of course, since there isn’t much left of the Kaer. Our geographers will never be wholly certain.”

  “I’m certain,” Mia said. “I can feel it.”

  Quin gazed toward the ocean. The clouds had thickened, masking all signs of the sea. He drew a breath.

  “I don’t want to run from my history, Mia. It’s a brutal history, written in blood. My father did terrible things, and his father did terrible things before him. The entire Killian line is one long, bloody blade. That’s why I destroyed the Kaer. I wanted to bury everything.”

  He frowned.

  “But if we keep it buried, that’s no good, either. If we hide the truths from our children, then they will end up making the same mistakes. I want us to learn from them. We learn more from our failures than our triumphs.” He brandished a hand toward the stage. “And a good story is a powerful way to learn.”

  Mia watched Quin’s face. When he talked about the children, his
students in the pretending arts, a new light burned in his eyes.

  She had known him to be many things—frosty, coy, haughty, kind. She had seen him gripped by fear and consumed by passion. What she saw now was pride.

  “Listen.” Quin cocked his head. “They’re getting to our vows. Soon I’ll have an arrow in my back.”

  Flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone.

  I give you my body, my spirit, my home.

  Quin and Mia locked eyes. It was strange, listening to their vows in the mouths of two nervous children. But it was also sweet.

  Come illness, suffering, e’en death,

  Until my final breath I will be yours.

  How true those words had been, in ways they never could have known. Each of them had suffered. They had lost sisters they loved dearly. They’d been wounded, enthralled, enkindled—nearly killed. Not nearly. Mia had stopped her own heart.

  Was it any wonder they had found solace in each other? The weight of so much loss and grief could not be borne in solitude. And so they had grabbed hold of one another, gasping for breath, like the two sole survivors of a shipwreck, certain they could not survive alone.

  Till the ice melts on the southern cliffs,

  Till the glass cities sink into the western sands.

  But it was only once they’d parted ways, Quin pulling himself from the wreckage of the snow queendom, Mia sailing west to Pembuk, that they had finally reckoned with their wounds. They had each made grave mistakes—and faced the consequences.

  It had taken far longer than Mia would have liked. But, piece by piece, she and Quin had reassembled who they were. They had, in his words, learned more from their failures than their triumphs. A lesson Mia had only just begun to learn.

  Till the eastern isles burn to ash,

  Till the northern peaks crumble.

  Quin was still the boy she knew. But he was different, too: a man she longed to know better. She held the same union within herself. The girl she’d been, woven into the woman she was. Here, in this new world, she and Quin had come together whole.