Cast in Firelight

by Dana Swift

  Kalyan seems to absorb my words, to weigh them. “Maybe one day, after all this, I could help you with that.”

  My birthday is ten days away. So though my heart hurts to admit it, I doubt that will ever happen. Yet we stand in this shop as if the future is open and what-ifs can be purchased off the walls. Mittal and Muni’s does that, makes you feel like with the right skyglider you can fly off and do anything.

  “Okay!” Mittal yells, swooping through the air. “Dual-streamlined extension, wind curvature, Naupure’s highest-quality silk, and braided porous sites for quick infusion.” He brandishes the skyglider. “Or as I like to say, the best I’ve got.”

  It’s a thing of beauty. Stained red wicker. Sleek lines. Etched in the braided fibers are Touch designs that I’ve learned mirror those on Mittal’s own wrists. I hand Kalyan his skyglider. “Like it?”

  “I’ll let the expert decide,” he concedes.

  Mittal coos at this proclamation and whacks his fist against the countertop, thinking Kalyan means him. “I like this one.”

  And just like that, my haggling flutters out the window, but at least I get Mittal to throw in wood cleaner and two sets of bubble air masks for high flying. But the little man knows he got us good; I’ll never live this down. Mr. Mittal even waves as we leave, wooden fingers knocking against one another.

  Kalyan buckles the skyglider to his belt. “Don’t think you’ve gotten away with it.”

  I look over. “What?”

  He smirks, actually smirks. “How many, Smoke?”

  I carry on, barreling through the crowd. “Gods, you’re persistent.”

  “Come on.” He steps in front of me, arms open in a shrug. “I did almost die for you last night.”

  “Ah, I’m never going to hear the end of that, am I?” I duck around him. “How about this, I tell you and we don’t bring that up ever again?”

  His boots crunch in the dirt behind me. “Just to clarify, do you mean the part where I threw myself in front of that arrow or the part where we slept together?”

  My pulse jumps. I hold myself back from clapping a hand over his mouth, instead going for a casual wheel around to make sure no one heard. “We didn’t sleep together,” I whisper-yell. “And both. We never mention either of those things!” He’s driven me to panic.

  Kalyan whistles. “It must be even worse than I thought.” He pretends to ponder before, “Deal.”

  I stop, the market bubbling with barter and gossip. A troop of monkeys skirt along rooftops, adding to the chatter. “Thirty-seven,” I mumble.

  He leans down, invading my space. “What was that?”

  I fold my arms. There isn’t a way out of this. “Counting today.” I nod to Hubris the Third hanging from my belt. “It’s thirty-seven,” I annunciate. “Happy?”

  He doesn’t have to answer. He smiles and it’s so blazingly joyful. There is something wrong with him if this measly piece of information makes him this pleased. And maybe myself for letting it infect me, too. “You never disappoint,” he says through his smile.

  Twenty minutes later, I’m sneaking into my room and falling into bed.

  And I can’t sleep.

  You never disappoint. I don’t fully believe him, of course, but still—I don’t disappoint. The females populating the kitchen would say Jatin’s fake love letters that jabbered on about destiny would be considered more romantic than that statement. But for someone who feels like a disappointment and is struggling to never do so again? Kalyan’s words produce…comfort.

  I grab a pillow and yell into it. This is wrong. All wrong. My birthday approaches like a wild storm. I fight Beckman tomorrow. And I’m in love with a man I have no right to be in love with. Everything seems to be teetering on an edge and about to crush me. Yet, I still fall asleep imagining the warmth of my blanket comes from a different source.

  Sims may be a sleazy Vencrin abettor, but he sure knows how to market a fight. Slogans such as rising fire against the insurmountable monsoon pepper the walls in fake blood splatter. Black magic illusions of Beckman and me trying to rip each other apart artfully dazzle the crowd in anticipation. It shakes me to the bones, but it’s impressive all the same.

  One foot settled into the stench of the Underground, and Kalyan and I are already surrounded. Voices question my mental state, how I plan to win against the biggest fighter in cage-casting history. Kalyan, after that one fight, has risen through the ranks at the Underground, a personal favorite with witch viewers. Or at least with the few we have. Several female figures lob their support for the White Knight. Kalyan only frowns and points to the board, showing them he’s obviously not on the roster. It’s nice to pinpoint jealousy in the swarm of other emotions swallowing me. But once I shrug it aside, three other emotions wreaking havoc with my body demand attention. Fear clouds. Anxiety swirls. Anger bites.

  I can’t take it anymore. With a wave of my hand, I swerve through the mirth and retreat to the locker room. Normally, I would be happy to have a fan base because that means I’m more valuable to Sims. And more valuable to Sims means I can get more intel. But tonight? Tonight irritation and fear grip me like a second skin. Most of these wizards and witches have no idea what kind of operation they fund when they gamble here. These same people buy my firelight and pay taxes. Also, like me, they have no idea what kind of man Beckman truly is.

  I shove the door to my room open and it slams against the wall. Sonna, a fellow female fighter, sits on the bench, meditating. One eye pops open as I enter.

  “Hey, Smoke. Still dealing with those anger issues, I see.”

  “Hey, Mist.” I follow her gaze to the dent in the door. “That wasn’t me. This time…”

  She laughs lightly and closes her eyes again. Blue smoke rises and falls from her arms like they’re breathing.

  The door opens again and Kalyan enters. He nods to Sonna, then turns to me. “Hey. Why did you leave?”

  “Just wanted to get…settled.”

  He shakes his head. “I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have to do this. It’s not too late to back out. Maybe you should.”

  We stare at each other. “I can’t.” I miss this fight and Sims will hunt me down personally. I just have to get through it and not die.

  “Could you two look at each other somewhere else? And you do know this is the women’s locker room, right?” Sonna snaps.

  Kalyan looks left and right for a second, placing himself. “Oh, right. I’ll be on the upper deck.” He squeezes my hand and leaves.

  I turn to find Sonna watching me. “You guys really are the perfect couple. He’s powerful and you’re pretty,” she says.

  “What?” I stare at her. “First, we aren’t a couple. And second, I’m powerful too. Shouldn’t that be why we’re good together? I mean, we aren’t even a couple, but if we were I would contribute more than just being pretty—”

  “Jaya, I was talking about your personae. Smoke is alluring and sexy; White Knight is the powerful hero. Sims set it up like that, right? All that heteronormative crap.”

  “Oh…yeah, sure. Smoke and White Knight work…for the audience.”

  “Huh, so you do have a thing for him, then.”

  “No, I, ah, didn’t understand what you meant when—”

  Sonna laughs, a nice light laugh if it weren’t aimed at me. “That bad, huh? Well, I wish you luck. Cage casters have the worst egos.”

  “I’ve got to get going.”

  “Good luck out there, kid.” Her expression says the unspoken: you’ll need it.

  “Thanks, you too.” It seems wrong to endorse Sonna’s pounding Navin, but for cage casters that constitutes bonding.

  As I push past the second curtain the roar of the crowd hits me. Cheers, sweat, the sloppy drunkenness all vibrate through the floorboards. “Smoke, Smoke, Smoke.”

  As I walk toward the ring, m
y memory flashes to Rakesh on the upper dock. His sticky, ugly words. His hands. His implication that I could not win, that I could not overpower him. The grip on my arm until Beckman had helped throw him off. Beckman had been there ever after. And then I had put on a mask, painted myself in an illusion of confidence until it seeped into my bones.

  Beckman waits in the dome and I step inside to meet him. Why did I let this happen? Why did he have to be working for them?

  “I don’t want to do this, Smoke,” Beckman groans as he bends his knees into a fighting position.

  “Yeah, me either.” The dome latches above with a thunk. For the first time in the ring I’m not angry. Fear lines my stomach and squeezes. Confidence leaves me on each exhale. Before, I could always envision my opponent as one of the men who hurt Riya’s father. Now all I see is a father and my friend. Who tends to Beckman’s injuries after a fight? Surely not one of his daughters…

  I’ve seen his family. His youngest girl is obsessed with pigtails and rainbow ribbons that bounce along her back. Most little girls like rainbow-colored material before their Touch or forte presents itself. Riya loved to wrap them around her wrists and pretend she could cast all nine colors with me. And I’m supposed to label a man like Beckman a traitor.

  I’m thinking about Riya too much because suddenly I see her, envision her in the crowd. She scowls like I know she would if she ever saw me in the Underground, bleeding and in pain for the amusement of criminals. I stare harder and the faces blur.

  “Are you ready for the showdown of champions?” the announcer roars. The crowd responds in kind.

  A cloud of blue smoke wafts above Beckman like a wave. Focus, Adraa! Riya isn’t here. I conjure up my own magic and it swarms and lashes to look like fire.

  The crowd cheers as blue and red streams blend into purple in the middle of the ring. The announcer drums up Sims’s marketing material. I catch a joke about my height and stature even though I’m tall for a witch. Another about this being the show of a lifetime, about Tsunami dousing my flames. And yes, it leans hard on sexual innuendo. I tune it all out, awaiting one word, one sound.

  “Fight!” the announcer yells.

  Beckman leaps forward, a long staff in hand, one of his trademarks. I duck under his swing. Blood, really? Bringing out the staff first thing? Well, best to fight purple magic with purple magic. I create my own staff. But I’m not great at staff fighting, never been trained much. So when the rod slams into my stomach I’m unable to breathe, but not surprised. As I drop to the ground, Beckman rallies the crowd, and they answer.

  “What are you doing? Get up,” Beckman whispers as he turns back toward me.

  “I don’t want—” I don’t know how to fight him. I don’t even know how to think past the confusion and betrayal.

  “In here, you don’t get a say in what you want.” Beckman bends over me and the staff presses down on my throat. I kick out in alarm, casting a strength spell. But then I realize I don’t need it. To the audience it must look like he’s killing me, but the pressure isn’t full force. He leans in closer. “Fight me or both our covers are blown.”

  “You…”

  “I was hired to protect you and I will not harm my future rani, but you have to make this look good.”

  For a second I let go of his staff and it presses on my throat. I feel like all the air inside me is gone. I feel like I’m going to pass out.

  Doesn’t want to hurt his future…

  “Smoke,” he whispers urgently.

  First Kalyan and now this. Maharaja Naupure hired Beckman to protect me.

  “Adraa.”

  I whip my eyes to his and the truth is embedded there. The truth and the lies.

  “Puti Pavria!” I shout as loud and with as much intention as I can. My magic blasts from under the staff and a wind tunnel shoots up and out. Beckman goes along for the ride, straight to the top of dome, where I keep him plastered. I’ll pretend. I’ll more than pretend! With a twist of my hand, I release the air and Beckman thuds to the ground. I rush to him.

  “I saw you at the Vencrin warehouse. Why were you there?” I hiss when I get close.

  “To protect you.”

  What? “I don’t need your protection.”

  He slams his elbow into my side, and I crumple backward. “Yes. You do.”

  I whirl and punch. He blocks. “Why should I trust anything you say?”

  He slips around me, pulling my arm into a lock. “Because. I know everything and you are still alive.”

  I shake my head.

  “Think, Smoke,” he whispers in my ear. “How else do you think you fooled Sims all this time? Why do you think Belwar guards were there the very night you decide to raid?” He pushes me away and I stumble.

  I twist back. “And the posters?” I ask as we circle one another. “You were the first I saw with them.”

  “Trying to get ahead of them, to stop production. I was too late.”

  Do I believe this? My gut says yes, but anger seethes. “I could have done this on my own. I didn’t need—”

  A volley of water catches my foot and jerks upward. With an echoing thump to the tune of the crowd screaming “Tsunami!” I land on my back. “Yes. You did,” he says.

  I jump up, flying with fury. The moment on the upper dock crashes into me again. Rakesh’s strong grip on my arm. Beckman tearing him off me. The fear. No, the terror. And now, I don’t know what’s worse, the thought I was only saved because of my title or the knowledge that I’m a girl who’s accomplished nothing. Vencrin still fill the streets. Drugs still flow right outside this arena. And I don’t have any clue where my firelight is being taken.

  Rage surges. Something snaps. They thought I needed protecting. They thought I couldn’t do it.

  “If you were truly here to help, then why didn’t you?” I ask, pain choking the syllables. Swords materialize in a blazing swirl of red. I whack away at my fury and the colors converge in purple sparks between us.

  “I had a mission,” Beckman growls.

  “As do I.”

  Swish, a scream of speed. Parry, a clang. Retreating, fast feet kicking out. Beckman dodging, punching. The crowd soaking up my fear and violence. Pretend. A show. Our entire friendship fraying in a smash of purple smoke. With a twist I slash, and it hits its mark, right across Beckman’s chest. A streak of blood spatters the dome wall.

  No. He was supposed to parry that, guard himself. He was supposed to…

  For he is better than I am. I, who couldn’t think for the pivotal seconds when Rakesh latched on and pushed me to the ground. I, who have failed for weeks. Victim. Attacker. Savior. Vencrin. The roles mush, bleeding together as I focus on the blood.

  I stall, cast in stone, as Beckman fumbles. No! I reach out, not noticing the blue stream rushing toward me until thud, it pounds into my chest. For a second, time stops as pain erupts through me. Then I fly against the wall and my head flips back, slamming into it. My vision blurs and black dots float in front of Beckman as he steps forward, fear framing his face. I try to get up, but the black takes over.

  * * *

  For the second time in the past day I awaken to the warmth of Kalyan. This time, he stands over me, and with a start, I realize the warmth comes from his pink magic, his white smoking hands holding my head. He chants. A stabilizing spell. Kalyan is performing a stabilizing spell.

  “Hey,” I whisper, clutching his wrist.

  “Oh thank Gods.”

  Reaching for the pain in the back of my head, I rise to the familiar benches, dust, and body odor of the locker room. I’m weightless and heavy with fog at the same time.

  “Is Beckman—”

  “He’s fine. Already gone. But he explained everything. He’s not—”

  “I know. I—” I stop, seeing we are not alone. Behind Kalyan stands my best friend. So, I did see
her in the crowd; that frown was real. “Riya?” I shout a bit too loudly.

  She sighs. “Gods, I’m glad you are awake.”

  “How…how did you find me?”

  She stares Kalyan down. “I need to talk to her. Alone.”

  Kalyan gives me a look of concern. He doesn’t want to go as much as I don’t want him to. But when I nod, he raises the curtain and I’m left to explain myself.

  Riya doesn’t waste time. “You’re the Red Woman, aren’t you?”

  The air in the room shifts. The thunder of noise from the Underground falls away. I consider lying for only a second. “Yes.”

  She exhales slowly. “How…how could you do this, lie to me, go off by yourself?”

  “I’m not doing this alone.” No need to tell her for months I was unaided in the Underground, beating up Vencrin and spying on how they worked, before Kalyan joined. Though I guess I had Beckman watching my back this whole time as well.

  “Oh, not alone? I forgot. The Red Woman and Night. What do you even know about him?” Riya spits as she gestures to the curtain.

  “What do you mean, what do I know? He’s helped me.” Helped me more than she can even imagine. And not because I’m Adraa Belwar, and definitely not because someone gave him a mission like Beckman’s.

  “He’s lying to you. He’s not who he says he is.”

  “What?” Where the blood did that come from?

  “Have you seen his arms or the way he casts? I don’t think he is what he says.”

  No. I can’t let her debase the one person who fought alongside me without a hidden agenda or mission. “What are you even—”

  “Because if you let me for one bloody minute, I would be good at my job. I could protect you. But no, you have to run off and save the world behind smoke and masks.”