Ignite the Sun

by Hanna Howard

  He gave a half shrug, half nod.

  “Thank you,” I said, as sincerely as I could.

  He met my eyes and smiled—not his usual teasing grin, but a new, almost bashful one—and inclined his head before bending back over the stew.

  I was intrigued by this bout of humility, but a sudden memory drove everything else from my head.

  “That urn!”

  Yarrow raised an eyebrow.

  “She had an urn with her in the ballroom! A black one. Was that meant for me?”

  Yarrow shook his head. “I doubt it. She’s often seen with it—even in portraits—and I’ve wondered before if destroying it would weaken her or weaken her Darkness. We’ve theorized that it holds her twin sister’s ashes, the sunchild she killed to become a witch.”

  I froze, gaping at him. “Her sister?”

  He nodded grimly. “Sources in Abyssum, where she grew up, told us they were as unlike as two girls could be. The sunchild was loved by their mother, and Iyzabel was loved by a father who was deeply prejudiced against nymphs. In hating her sister, Iyzabel learned to hate and fear the sun, but we also believe she was secretly jealous of the girl’s power. When her father died, she left home and learned she could take magic for herself, use it to fight the magic she feared. Another witch with very anti-nymph views took her under his tutelage, and eventually became her lover and co-conspirator. We have reason to believe he suggested she use her own sister as her source. Since the strength of a witch’s power is directly correlated to the tie between witch and victim, Iyzabel had a distinct advantage in stealing her magic from a twin.”

  I couldn’t believe I could feel more horrified at Iyzabel than I already did, but this information certainly proved me wrong.

  “So why does she need the Darkness?”

  Yarrow kneaded his forehead. “She can no longer endure the light of the sun. Someone less powerful would simply become nocturnal, or enchant herself a patch of sky, but for Iyzabel that was never enough. I think she truly believes that sunlight is evil, destructive. When she took the kingdom, she channeled her focus in three directions: First, strengthening and spreading the Darkness, so sunlight couldn’t weaken her; second, eliminating all magical opposition to her rule, beginning with sunchildren; and third, using her powers of influence and manipulation to convince people that what she had done was right and necessary and good. An easier task, since she believes it herself. Most sunchildren are magnetic, the power of their warmth both physical and emotional, and we’re certain Iyzabel’s Darkness channels a perversion of that power. There’s almost no one willing to betray her within a hundred miles of Umbraz, where the Darkness is thickest, but if you go into the far north, the spell of her influence is easy to break.”

  I thought of Iyzabel’s court, the instructors at Gildenbrook, and Phipps and Milla—all falling over themselves to do Iyzabel’s bidding. And even me. With a flush of loathing I remembered the way I had felt at the ball, when I saw her for the first time. Like I would do anything for her.

  “Linden said something in Umbraz about the cold.” I said, looking across at him. “Something about Iyzabel’s warmth being like sweaty hands. What did you mean?”

  “You’ll see when spring comes in the north,” said Linden with a wistful expression. “It’s a completely different animal.”

  “The warmth from sunlight is hard to imagine if you’ve never felt it,” said Yarrow, “but Iyzabel’s version in Umbraz is like a crowding into a small, closed room packed with people, as opposed to sitting in front of a nice crackling fire. It’s the best she can do to keep from living in a glacier, though, and those who live there with her are so far under her sway that they don’t know the difference. And of course she tells them it’s her generosity at work.” He snorted.

  “So it’s just magic, then? Not a result of loyalty?”

  “More a way of ensuring rather than judging loyalty, I would say. Arctic temperatures have a way of making people grumpy.”

  We were silent a moment, and then Yarrow said, “Do you see now why she wants so much to kill you—and why we believe you’re the best hope for the kingdom?”

  I shook off my abstraction. “Because my magic is opposite to hers?”

  “Because it channels the very thing that weakens her power. Sunlight is like poison to Iyzabel. Linden and Merrall and I can set our magic against hers, and it might make dents here and there, but it’s like trying to fight a swordsman barehanded. You’d need just the right moment and a lot of luck to bring them down, whereas they only need one good swing.”

  I started as Linden held a wooden bowl out to me, steaming with a stew that smelled of carrots and thyme. My conviction that magic was monstrous was a habit I didn’t know how to break, but I began to understand those beliefs had been born from years at Gildenbrook and in my parents’ house, and indirectly, from the sway Iyzabel held over her subjects’ minds. I still thought my gift had horrible potential, but Iyzabel had chosen—had created—her monstrosity. And I couldn’t deny she needed to be stopped.

  Yet the idea that I had to be the one to stop her . . . surely there was another option.

  “Why did she do it?” I asked eventually.

  Merrall scoffed. “Because she is the embodiment of evil upon the world.”

  But Yarrow shook his head. “Things are rarely as simple as that. Apart from fearing the sun, hating her sister, and wanting power—and frankly, people have sold their souls for less incentive than that—I think we must assume that her formative years were . . . not ideal. I blame Iyzabel for much, but I cannot blame her for the circumstances and people that shaped her when she was young.” He laid his empty bowl down beside his rocker.

  “But she’s not young anymore,” I said.

  Yarrow shook his head, and his face darkened. Merrall made a sound like water hissing over fire.

  “No,” said the mage. “She is not.”

  22

  CHAPTER

  It was colder than usual that night—so cold my many layers gradually became ineffectual and my face started to feel numb in places. Linden banked the fire with some stones he’d carried in from the trees, and when I spread my blankets beside the heat, he tugged my bedding even nearer to the rocks.

  “The closer the better,” he said. “It’s just going to get colder.”

  I could make out Merrall’s bizarre water-bubble den on the other side of the dying fire as a glinting orb, which I supposed kept her warm enough. Yarrow’s Runepiece probably afforded him some warmth, and though I suspected I could help myself in a similar way if I was willing to experiment with my powers, it seemed much safer just to shiver.

  My blankets and cloak seemed to grow thinner and flatter when my mind wandered to the giant feather bed I had slept on at Gildenbrook. I’d swept the ground for rocks before spreading out my bedroll, but I still felt as though every part of my body was being poked by some root or lump. Shivering, I turned onto one side and faced the fire.

  And like the treacherous villain it was, my mind presented me with a most delicious and practical solution to the problem.

  Body heat. Linden’s body heat.

  No, I thought, balling my fists so tightly they shook. It was a deadly dangerous idea and would only make me ache more for what I could never have. The thought of what I had done to Linden’s face in Umbraz still made me nauseous. If emotion was what made me burn like a hot brand, I could never risk a romantic relationship. What would a kiss do to me?

  More critically, what would it do to Linden?

  Unless . . . unless I was willing to learn to control it, like Yarrow said I should.

  “Siria. Your teeth are chattering.”

  Linden’s low voice, just a few inches behind my head, made me jump.

  “It’s just the wind.”

  His laughter was quiet and slightly muffled.

  “Want to share my extra blanket?” There was nothing suggestive in his tone—nothing to imply the proposal was anything other than what a friend w
ould offer another friend—but my heart rate leapt into a trot.

  “I don’t think anyone should touch me,” I mumbled.

  There was a pause. “You don’t have to touch me, Weedy,” he said quietly. “Anyway, even if you did burn me, I’d probably thank you. I’m turning into an iceberg.”

  Cold tremors jolted through me now. I gritted my teeth to stop them from clacking.

  “Look,” said Linden, “I’m just going to drape this one over both of us and lay with my back against yours. Does that sound okay? Just to keep us from freezing to death.”

  “Okay,” I breathed. “But don’t blame me if I set you on fire by accident.”

  There was a shifting of covers, and a moment later I felt the weight of another layer settle over my blankets. Then the solid, warm feel of Linden’s back pressing up against mine.

  He was shivering almost as badly as me, and for a few minutes we rattled against each other like branches in a high wind. Finally the combined body heat seeped into us both, and the trembling subsided.

  “Thanks, Linden.”

  He laughed softly. “My motives were not entirely selfless.”

  I was sure he only meant warmth, but still, despite all my rationality and reservations, it was hard not to hope his words had a double meaning. I pressed myself the tiniest bit closer to him and let my eyes drift shut.

  I woke confused, parts of me very warm, other parts very cold. It took a moment of blinking before I realized my head was tucked beneath Linden’s chin, my nose and forehead snug against his neck. His arms were tight around me, and his breathing was deep and steady, though I could feel him trembling at the cold.

  And cold was an understatement.

  My back was numb from it, despite the combination of my blankets and Linden’s, both our cloaks, and his body heat. It felt like tiny needles were jabbing into my feet, and though my legs were pressed against Linden’s, they were icy. I was so cold I couldn’t even feel stunned at the fact we were lying curled together.

  I flinched at a draft of frigid air and realized the cloak covering my face had shifted slightly. I opened my eyes and sucked in a sudden breath: The crack was letting in light.

  Sitting up, I pushed the cloak aside.

  The dark forest was white with snow. It reflected the faint light seeping through the Darkness so that it seemed twice as bright, illuminating more than I had seen in weeks—perhaps more than I had ever seen.

  I gasped, and Linden’s steady breathing caught. He stirred, gave a jerky shiver, then groaned in piteous misery. “Oh Light,” he slurred. “I think my ears have frozen off.” He whimpered. “Everything hurts.”

  “It snowed, Lin,” I breathed, and he gave a mirthless bark of laughter.

  “Of course it did,” he croaked. “Everything’s been so easy so far—we obviously needed a bit of a challenge.”

  A giggle rose in my chest.

  “And you’re laughing,” he said, still in that deadpan voice. “My eyes are frozen shut and Siria thinks it’s funny. What a testament of friendship. See if I share my blanket with you again.”

  There was an almost undetectable change in his tone at this last sentence, the flippant sarcasm softer, and it brought reality speeding back to me. The snow’s spell broke, my laughter trailed away, and my face flooded with heat.

  Any false move, any lapse in control, and I might burn Linden to a crisp.

  Quickly as I could without seeming unnatural, I drew away from him and got to my feet, shivering hard as I wrapped my cloak and blankets all the way around myself. Linden groaned again, his body giving a convulsive shudder as he pushed himself to sitting. He blinked at me, tiny white icicles clinging to his eyelashes, and one corner of his mouth twitched very slightly. His eyes held mine for a moment, and then he looked down and began breaking the ice from his lashes with careful fingers. I let out an unsteady breath.

  A rush of heat blazed behind me with a sound like roaring wind, and I turned to see Yarrow pointing his Runepiece at the firepit. Flames leapt up on the new logs lying amid the snow-covered ashes of last night’s fire, quickly melting away the white mounds and sending up hissing steam.

  Across the circle, Merrall stepped close to the fire, hugging her bare arms. She wore no cloak, and until now it had not seemed to bother her. As I wondered whether I ought to offer her my blanket, she scowled at the fire and stepped away from it, traipsing a few steps off into the snow. I watched her thin shoes and bare legs disappear into the drifts with my mouth hanging open, but a moment later she had spread her fingers and pointed her palms toward the snow, and I remembered that snow was, after all, just a type of water.

  Merrall’s palms glowed blue, and the snow began to drift upward from the ground around her as though it were falling in reverse. At first the flakes were lazy and sparse, merely floating. But then they swirled faster, thickening, and after a moment the naiad had surrounded herself in a miniature blizzard, so her darker shape was no longer visible within it. Just as I was beginning to wonder whether she might try and travel that way, the snow settled and calmed again. Merrall emerged through the whirl of white wearing a new garment: a glittering, long, hooded cloak made entirely of snow.

  I gawped at her, but Yarrow barely glanced up. “I told you to bring a cloak,” he muttered.

  “This will be much better,” she said. “Warmer for me.”

  “Must be nice,” Linden mumbled. He’d stepped into the firepit to get closer to the new flames and was now crouching over them.

  “Can’t you make us any warmer, Yarrow?” I said.

  “My magic will only warm my own body. I can give you a hug, but I think you’d have better luck with the fire.” He raised an eyebrow. “Or your own magic.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, I stepped into the firepit too. I would try my magic, but not until I was a safe distance away from the others.

  To our relief, the snow did not stay long—though its departure pitched the forest back into gray monotony. By the end of the day it had melted into the ground, remaining only on rocks and branches. Sounds of snapping wood and falling limbs increased with the weight of the snow, and we spent half the day on edge, listening for ominous cracks overhead, ready to jump out of the way.

  Linden, once thawed, reached heights of cheerfulness even I had never witnessed. And despite the mix of awkwardness and longing that clawed at me whenever I thought of spending the night curled against him, I felt more normal around him than I had in months. Every time he caught my eye and smiled, the dimple dancing in his right cheek, more of my worry seemed to drop away.

  That afternoon, true to his word, Yarrow began what I couldn’t help thinking of as sunchild lessons. And despite my fears, I was riveted.

  He taught me history—both of Luminor and the sunchild species—and I learned that the powers of a sunchild were all in some way or another connected to the sun itself. Some, he told me, had less direct correlations someone might not understand if they didn’t know what the sun itself did: Healing, for one, because the sun was a powerful enemy of disease and promoted strength and health. For another, the ability to lift people’s spirits and improve their moods, because of the way sunlight impacted the balance of our bodies. This was the magnetism Iyzabel’s witchcraft had perverted into manipulation. Also, I could aid the growth of plants that already existed in some living form or another—different from the elf gift of manipulating them or calling them back from death.

  Flight—which I had already experienced once, briefly, at the canal in Umbraz—had a slightly more obvious connection. It wasn’t self-propulsion, Yarrow said, but rather an effect of being drawn to the sun. He reminded me that plants grew up toward the sun because they, too, drew their energy from it. “When sunlight hits you,” he said, “it draws you upward, like a flower or a tree. Only you don’t have roots, so you leave the ground.” But once airborne, I could manipulate the sun’s energy like a water current and turn myself in whatever direction I wanted, so long as I was not disconnected
from my energy source.

  Traditionally a sunchild could not fly in the shade; they needed direct sunlight to remain in the air. Yarrow looked askance at me when he said this, as though he wasn’t quite sure what to make of me. As had become usual since my transformation, his gaze faltered at first. Not that I could blame him: one look in the mirror had been enough for me. At last he said, “It’s possible that, kept in the dark for sixteen years when you ought to have been forming a dependence on direct sunlight, you . . . evolved.”

  “Evolved?”

  He frowned. “I think Iyzabel hoped her Darkness would weaken you, but it appears to have done the opposite. Your body seems to have used all that time in the dark to form a connection with the sun that can penetrate even the tiniest cracks in Iyzabel’s enchantment. Those little chinks in the armor of her Darkness were unavoidable; without any sun at all, this whole kingdom would have died in the first year of her reign, with or without false warmth. You’re lucky your body seems to know how to reach through the cracks.”

  I supposed he was right, but I was terrified to feel upward through the Darkness to test his theory. Linden’s neck and face—now healed to a mottled burgundy patch in the vague shape of my hand—bore witness to the horrors I could inflict, and the idea of doing worse to him or anyone else made me sick with dread. Yet I also couldn’t deny the allure of Yarrow’s promise that practice would make me safe. If it did, wasn’t it possible to imagine Linden and I might have a future together?

  When Yarrow stood and watched me, demanding I practice moving my energy from what he called the sunspot in my chest—where it always lay curled like a cloud of heat—to the edges of my skin and back again, I ever so carefully obeyed. This we did several times a day, with varied success. But though Yarrow told me to practice on my own as well, I only felt secure enough to do so in those rare moments when I was off collecting firewood or relieving myself: far enough from everyone else to guarantee their safety.

  For three weeks we held this pattern, and eventually it began to feel like we had been repeating the same cycle for all of time: We woke in the cold—Linden and I slept with plenty of space between us now, since the weather had thawed somewhat—and ate a hurried breakfast before hiding the evidence of our camp. We then commenced the day’s walking through the barren trees, which was no longer difficult for me, as my body had finally exchanged much of its softness for muscle. Through the day, Linden made jokes, Yarrow attempted to train me, and Merrall occasionally regaled us with strange and wondrous stories about the sea and the far South. We sometimes stopped to eat a midday meal, other times walked while we ate; and at all times, Linden’s hands twitched toward his bow, ready to shoot any small animals that might keep us from starving to death. In the evenings, Merrall found water to soak in, I built a fire, Linden prepared our supper, and Yarrow consulted his compass and map to track our course.