Spark and Sorrow

by Rachel A. Marks

  My heart stops in my chest at her horrible words. The warning. Burn.

  “Well, God save us,” Julius says, “I couldn’t have chosen a better time to return her to the abbey, then. Right?”

  “You’re teasing me.” Her lips begin to quiver, tears surfacing in her eyes again.

  The prince sighs, reaching out to brush her cheek. “I’m sorry, Cousin. I hear your warning. Truly.”

  She sniffs.

  “I’ll be careful,” he says, more seriously, “I swear, I will. I’ll fetch her home as soon as can be. Thank you for revealing to me what you’ve been seeing.” He gives her shoulder a small squeeze. “I know it’s hard on you, this gift.”

  She gives him a pleading look. “Don’t change course, Cousin. Don’t wait for your sister’s letter. If it must be you, then promise me, you’ll just take the girl to the abbey gates tomorrow and leave her to her own devices.”

  “Her name is Lily, Gwyn. And she’s not our enemy.”

  She looks at me again, seeing something else. Something horrible. “Yes. Yes she is.”

  *

  “This is all wrong,” I say, as the prince leads me through the halls, to the throne room.

  It’s been decided. I’m to meet the king tonight, at last.

  Dread has slowly begun to fill me over the afternoon hours since Lady Gwyndolin’s warning.

  Everything will burn.

  My mother’s words echo in my head, so similar. Return to safety before your world burns.

  What could the witch have seen? Why must everything be unclear?

  I reach up and brush the latch on my torque, ignoring the quick singe on my fingertips. My shackle should keep humans safe from my fire. And yet . . . the witch was given the warning. The gods showed her something. And it must be for a purpose. “I should leave. As soon as can be. This very night.”

  “Nonsense.” The prince brushes off my concern. “My cousin’s visions tend towards fancy.”

  “Don’t you understand? What she sees is clear. She knows what I am. I could be a threat to all of you. She sees the truth of the gods, she’s a witch, My Lord.”

  His steps falter but he keeps walking. He moves closer, hissing under his breath, “Don’t use such a horrible word. Someone vicious may hear you.”

  “Forgive me,” I say. “But it is the truth.”

  He stares forward as we walk, the tension in his jaw quickening my heart. Only our footsteps echo between us for a while. And just as I’ve decided he must be coming to his senses, settling in his mind that the witch’s warning is clear, he must let me go, he snaps, “I will not permit you to travel alone.” His tone, his insistence even after everything is unsettling.

  I watch him, confused, wondering why I can’t read him clearly. Determination tightens his muscles, his whole body speaking of the intensity behind his declaration. The tense look of him is so strong I feel as if I should move away. “I will remain at your side,” he says. “And that is all we will say on the matter.” But then he adds, as if feeling the need to give a reason for his harsh protective instinct, “It isn’t safe for a woman on the road.”

  There’s no room for disagreement, no breath of reasonable discussion in his tone. He is stone on the subject.

  “I’m not your ward,” I snap back, rankled at the way he’s suddenly lording over me. “I am not yours to care for. My prince.” I am free.

  He pauses at the door of the throne room and looks back at me. His eyes searching my face, hardened with determination. “You saved my life, strange girl. Now I will protect yours. That is the way of honor. And I will not walk away from the task in front of me—I am, from this day forward, your shadow. You will not be rid of me.”

  *

  I’ve never been in the presence of a human king before.

  Of course, I’ve never been in the presence of an Otherborn regent, either—not that I’m aware of—other than my mother.

  This human king, keeper of shires I’ve never heard the names of—such as the Shoals of Hormeath, the marshlands west of Edington, lands east of a river called, Aengley, which I believe is the same river the sisters called Tarn—this king is a strangely disappointing figure.

  His large wood and brass throne makes him seem very small. A minuscule man, a minuscule regent. He shares no resemblance to his handsome son. His body is hunched, making it hard for his head to lift fully, and his boney fingers grip white-knuckled to the fur-wrapped armrest as if to hold himself steady. He could be as old as ninety, or as young as fifty, it’s impossible to tell.

  Bloodshot eyes squint at me through long dark platted hair, his thick beard resting on a delicately embroidered set of robes. His furs do nothing to hide his fragile frame and seem to only accent the reediness of his neck and wrists. He’s . . . weak. Thin and weathered, a sour man.

  And I instantly dislike him.

  The prince bows to the king and I hesitantly do the same. The pinched man gives me an odd look and I realize my mistake; a woman is meant to curtsey, not bow. Foolish.

  “Well,” the king says, his voice scratching low in his throat, “she is most certainly fair.”

  “This is Lady Lily, father,” Julius says, ignoring the king’s observation.

  “Yes,” the kings says, looking me over as if he were considering purchasing livestock. “I’ve heard you brought this home rather than your buck—from the abbey? What the devil is a northern wench doing this far south?” He squints at me.

  “The sisters took her in after her traveling party was attacked on the road by Danes,” Julius says, repeating the tale we’d agreed on. “I’m going to return her within the sennight when I begin my journey east.”

  The king sniffs loudly and spits to the side of his throne. “You’re very sure you wish to rid us of her? It’s been a cold winter, boy. She’s not supple but we could fatten her up. Could use something soft to warm the bed.”

  My eyes widen at his insinuation. What sort of king is this?

  The prince seems unphased by the insult to my honor. He makes no hint at disapproval or even awareness. “She isn’t for us, father. She’s tied to the Church. And I know you wouldn’t wish for them to come knocking.”

  The idea of the Church at his gates seems to give the king a bad taste in his mouth. “Your sister must be pleased that the crones may be involved, pious tattle that she is. Is this her doing, you leaving my side, yet again, to return wasted goods?”

  “No, sire, this is my choice.”

  The king grunts. “Your sister’s shriveled womb has made her insufferable. You could at least father a bastard on this red bitch—she’ll be locked away in stone anyway. Won’t be any trouble.” He waves dismissively at me. “You can take the babe once its born and give it to your sister. Put a stop to all her incessant prayers.”

  I take an involuntary step back, shock and revulsion twisting together in my gut.

  “I must return her, father. As soon as can be done.” The prince bows his head again. “With your permission, of course.”

  I want to speak up, to reprimand them both. To tell them I’ll not be talked of as if I were a hound they wish to whelp.

  But the wrong move could make my escape from this place that much more difficult, if not impossible. I certainly don’t want to give this king a reason to punish me or lock me in chains. I have the suspicion he’d not blink at tormenting me.

  The hunched man looks away from his son, back to me, and his frown deepens. “Why the rush?”

  “I prefer to get her out from underfoot,” the prince says. “She prattles on worse than Aunt Maera.”

  The king snorts out a crack of laughter, but he keeps frowning at me, his bloodshot eyes scraping over my figure. “Has she got a head on her that needs a good knock? There’s plenty of time with her left ‘til the journey, I’d be happy to sort her out. Perhaps you’d like a brother.” A sneer crawls across his mouth.

  My stomach climbs into my throat.

  “I suppose you could do as you wish,” the
prince says, shocking me even further. But his voice shakes as he adds hesitantly, “The Church would want words with you if they discovered you’d stained their novice, though. That would be a bother for you.”

  The king’s narrow gaze moves to his son. “You best not be finding God on me, boy.”

  “No, sire.”

  “Your sister’s pain enough.”

  “Of course, sire.”

  “If I want to bed the bitch, I will. What’s on my land is my claim.”

  “Yes, sire,” the prince answers quietly.

  A gape at him, then direct my glare at the king, a hundred sharp words and acts of protest crowding my throat—I’ll happily claw the eyes from his head if he tries to lay a finger on me. I don’t need my powers to fend off his crooked bird bones. Prideful, disgusting wretch of a man—

  “However,” the king says, “I’m feeling generous. And you’ve done well of late, growing more in control of your men and these lands by the day. I’ll wave my right to her, give her to you. Since you look as if I’m gutting your favorite horse when I speak of getting my hands on her.” He scrapes out a laugh. “As long as you promise to jar her a bit before you hand her back. And don’t get soft on me, boy. She’s not our concern—no northerner is. Her kin have done far worse to ours. We owe nothing to her or her blood, whoever the dogs are. Barbarians, the lot of them.”

  My throat tightens, gaze darting to the prince. But his features are steady, not wavering at all as he says, “Of course, sire.”

  The king clears his nostrils and spits to the side again. “Fine, go.” He waves his hand dismissively.

  The prince bows one last time and motions for me to follow him out.

  I obey, if only to be out of the horrible king’s presence.

  Once we’re in the hall Prince Julius takes my arm as if he wants to pull me in a certain direction.

  I jerk from his grasp and walk ahead.

  He catches up to me, warily eyeing the guards we pass. “You’re unsettled.”

  “No, I’m disgusted.”

  “We should speak privately.”

  I shake my head. “There’s no need. I’m leaving this wretched place immediately. You remain here with your horrible—”

  “Enough!”

  My steps falter.

  He grabs me hard and pulls me into a room, shouting at me, “Be silent! Before I beat that smirk of your face.” Then he slams the door behind him with a loud clank of metal and wood, closing us in the room. I’m shoved away with a growl as he hisses under his breath, “Have you no sense?”

  I scuttle back, panic filling every limb. If he touches me . . .

  “You can’t speak freely in these halls, woman. Guard your tongue or it’ll be cut out by someone.”

  “I’ll not give in to your sick whims,” I say. “You and that man you call Father will never get your filthy hands on me. I’ll gut you slowly and leave you for the crows to finish the job.”

  His head pulls back, and he gapes at me for several tense heartbeats. Then he scoffs. “You truly believe I’d take your innocence like some—” He cuts off his own words and shakes his head, lips pressed together. “I suppose I should be glad you believe I’d be so depraved. It will mean my father will believe it as well.”

  I press my back into the wall. “What’re you saying?”

  He steps closer, his hands out in surrender. “The king is a brute, Lily,” he says quietly. “I am the last son alive, set to take his place. As far as he knows I must be as brutish as he is or he will give these lands to an even worse man than what you saw in that council room.” He runs an agitated hand through his hair. “I’ll not let that happen to my sister. Or the people my father is meant to protect.”

  “You were pretending.”

  “Of course,” he releases a dull breath of laughter and collapses into the chair beside him. “Don’t think me a prude. I enjoy my women. In fact, I’ve enjoyed many. I simply enjoy them enthusiastic, rather than terrified.”

  I watch him, his sunken shoulders, the defeat in his eyes. And an ache forms in my chest. I’m ashamed I fell into the trap.

  But, in truth, I don’t know him, not really. I don’t know what he might be capable of.

  “Still, what I said, stands,” I say. “I should go. Alone. You need to remain here, remain safe. Your cousin’s vision—”

  “I’ll not send you off alone because of a fanciful dream,” he says, sounding tired. “So, stop speaking of it. You’ll remain under my protection.”

  I start to protest again, but it’s clear he’ll not listen. He’s completely blinded by misplaced valor. “Very well,” I conceded instead. I’ll allow him to think I’ve chosen to obey. But the reality of what I must do has sunk in. I was a fool, letting myself think I could depend on this human. I hoped his power in the realms of men might help me in some way.

  But I am the Daughter of Fire. I don’t need anyone, king or prince, to guide me, to defend me. I need to learn to protect myself.

  “We’ll leave in a couple days,” he says. “I only need to ready a few more things.”

  I nod, pretending to give in.

  “Good.” He releases another tired sigh. “Now, if you don’t mind it would help things if you acted troubled and a bit tussled as we leave the room.”

  SEVEN

  Flight

  I wait for the moon to rise high in the night sky before I begin my escape. I tuck the small pouch of food with leftover supper inside my skirt pocket. I also slide the small silver knife I nicked from my tray into the ribbons around my waist. Then I watch the courtyard from the window, making sure all is quiet, that no one is stirring, before I leave my room, make my way through the quiet halls, descending the winding staircase, staying among the shadows.

  Once I’m in the courtyard, I approach the gate slowly, keeping an eye out for the guard. Or guards. There should be one in front of the gate. Perhaps even one above, on the rampart.

  Please, goddess, let this be simple.

  “What lass is this?” comes a sudden voice.

  I turn, trying not to appear as unnerved as I feel. The guard was standing just under the awning beside the gate.

  He steps out of the shadows, a tall broad thing, holding a jug of some sort.

  “You shouldn’t be wanderin’ ‘round here this time’a the night,” he slurs.

  “I, uh.” I finger the hilt of my knife at my hip.

  His drunk gaze falls to my hand. “Whatchya playin’ with there?”

  “I’d like to leave.” I grip the hilt, making an attempt at authority. “Please, open the gate.”

  He snorts. “You orderin’ me about, girl?”

  “Just open the gate, sir,” I say. “It’s a simple request.” What will I do if he doesn’t listen? As much as I wish to be fierce, this knife in my hand against his sword certainly won’t be strong enough. If he acts a fool until the sun comes up, I’ll be forced to escape by jumping from the rampart and praying for iron bones; the idea of hiding in the trees beyond, waiting for the slow agony of broken limbs to heal with this torque on is not a part of my plan.

  “Not gonna do that, little northerner,” the man says, shaking his jug at me, sloshing the contents. “I have my orders. No one in, no one out—exceptin’ the king or queen.” He scrunches up his face, moving closer as if inspecting me. “You a queen, red lass?” He pokes me in the chest.

  I gasp at the sudden shove.

  Heat sparks in my belly, my power straining at my skin instantly, pressing against the magic of the torque. All I see in front of me is another soul trying to trap me. A man like that horrible king. A tormentor liker Sister Agnus. A filthy, muddy, bearded and fat Sister Agnus.

  “Let me pass,” I snap. I’m so sick of them all pushing me around.

  “And if I don’t you’ll stick me with your baby blade?” He snorts.

  “No,” I grit through my teeth. “I’ll fry your bones inside your skin.” I could be horrible. A killer. If I wished to be. Most of my kind a
re.

  He laughs hysterically, the sound filling the courtyard, scratching at my frayed nerves. “Fry my bones.” He laughs louder. “What a fierce thing.” The chuckles die and a new kind of joy lights in his eyes, turning his gaze sinister. “I like me a girl that fights.”

  I swallow, stepping away quickly. “I’m a guest of the king.”

  “With that red hair, I’m sure he’s had his turn.” He moves closer, his hands out as if to grab me. “He likes his enemies on their knees. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if I took a few bites’a ya.”

  I pull my knife free and point the tip at his face. “Stay back.”

  He just keeps grinning with his line of rotted teeth.

  My heart thunders in my chest.

  “Let me pass,” I say again, but my voice falters.

  He shakes his head and takes another step closer. Closer.

  My back hits the wall.

  He chuckles low in his throat, looming over me, trapping me with his size, the smell of him coming at me.

  “If you touch me—”

  He whacks my fist, knocking the blade from my grip easily.

  Before I can react, he lunges, grabbing me by the roots of my hair, jarring me, yanking on me as he presses me into the stone. “Like this? You’ll be fryin’ my bones right now, girl?” And he smashes his mouth onto mine.

  The tang and rot of him fills my throat, visions of his intentions blossoming in my head.

  I cry out, struggling in his grip. And all he does is chuckle.

  My power rises in defense, my fire scraping at my insides with my thundering heartbeat, so strong, so urgent, my skin heating, lighting, glowing gold with the power pressing, pulling, needing revenge, the vigor of it turning into its own agony as it tries to free itself.

  Trapped.

  Fear blurs my vision. But rage quickly billows up to replace it, a dark and oily rage. It flashes red, deep in my gut, louder and louder in my skin. Harder. Pounding. Pounding in my bones.

  They’ll always try to control me. They’ll never stop.