by Callie Bates
Jahan.
Rage bursts through me. I won’t creep into her house, like a petty thief, to steal Rayka and Lathiel from her. She gave me the power to confront her, so I’m going to use it. I stride through the trees, toward the blue door. The upper balcony sits empty, but her voice echoes in my head. Jahan.
She won’t stop me this time. She won’t twist what I’ve done. She won’t guess how my chest thrums or how terror makes my mind white.
I don’t knock. It’s locked—Madiya always locks it—but I throw back the latch with my mind. The door bursts open.
I stride in. My anger is bigger than me: a force unto itself. I let it throw open all the windows in the house, and the back door to the herb garden. I could knock the roof off. I could make the chimney explode.
But I don’t. Because the house is empty.
Jahan, she whispers.
But she’s not here. Dust lingers on the counters. Pots and pans hang tidily in the kitchen. A tremor runs through my legs. What could drive Madiya to abandon her cottage, her fortress against the world? I walk, unsteady, up the stairs. The sitting room holds the books I remember—the sorcerous texts Madiya spent years smuggling here. In the next room, the coverlet is pulled tight over her bed. The back garden is overgrown, weeds strangling the basil.
Where is she? And where is Rayka?
Madiya can’t be gone. She never leaves the island. Rarely leaves the acre on which her cottage sits, even to come to the villa, in case a stray rumor of her existence reaches the witch hunters, in case they come for her again and lock her once more in the Ochuroma.
Jahan, she whispers.
I know where she must be.
All the feeling rushes out of my legs. I sway against the wall. She must be waiting for me in the cave. Of course.
My brothers, I remind myself. I’m here for my brothers. For them, one last time, I can walk down those stone steps. I can face Madiya. Strike her, if I have to. Smash all those bottles of laudanum, and burn her notebooks.
Before I can think more about it, I stride out of the house and through the orchard. The sweet scent of the orange blossoms makes me nauseous. Ahead of me, tucked into the hillside, the cave mouth opens, a dark gash in the green earth.
I fumble for the lantern Madiya used to leave at the entrance—still hanging on its rusty nail. My hands are shaking so badly I almost drop it. I reach for the memory of fire in the candlewick. Nothing happens. I’m no longer in Eren; I’m back home, where the slightest magic takes backbreaking effort. I can feel the flame, its heat just out of reach. I reach for one of the orange trees and tug the energy out of the nearest branch, funneling it through myself into the wick. A blue glow touches it. Reluctantly, the glow transforms into flame…and the orange branch crashes to the ground, charred to a husk. Startled bees swarm from the tree’s still-living flowers. I wince. I’m glad El isn’t here to see this.
The lantern aglow, I enter the cave.
The darkness swallows me up. I hiss at the sudden cold. The steps descend, an uneven, twisting flurry. I’m shaking so hard I miss a step and nearly twist my ankle. Nearby, the waterfall roars, deafening me. All I feel is terror, and the nameless ache that seems to consume my entire body.
But I force myself down the rest of the steps, into the cave.
It’s empty.
The stone table sits, smaller than I remember, abandoned. The waterfall froths into an ink-black pool. Madiya’s shelves sag against the cave wall, poorly constructed, laudanum bottles shoved up against moldering notebooks. Candle wax coats the small, rotting worktable.
It’s just an empty cave. Hard to imagine this is what has shaped a lifetime of fear. Yet even now, the ceiling seems to press down on me.
Jahan.
I startle, swinging the lantern wildly, but her voice is only in my head.
She has to be here. Madiya wouldn’t give up. And now that I think about it, I realize where she must be. My mother’s been dead for years, and Madiya must have moved up to the house, now, to be closer to my father. Closer to Lathiel.
I charge up the steps, desperate to get out of here, dropping the lantern at the top. The flame gutters out. I race back to the holly oaks. As if I can outrace my past. As if running will get me there fast enough. As if she hasn’t already done the damage to my brothers, long ago.
* * *
—
I RUN TO the house by the route I always used: through the holly oaks to the back wall of the villa, where the crumbling, never-finished tower overlooks the sea. Rayka and I used to dare each other to climb out on the tower’s treacherous rafters. There’s a gate inset beside it; by my command, it flies open as I approach.
Coming inside, I feel as if I might be sick, though I don’t know whether from fear or fury. The garden is smaller than I remember. Paint peeling off the statues. Leaves fallen in the reflecting pool. Tiles cracked. The place looks run-down. Neglected. Maybe my father’s lawyer wasn’t lying when he blustered about Father’s poverty. Somehow it makes me angrier than before. What has Father been doing with Mother’s inheritance—using it to buy food and pay the servants while he huddles in his study reading arcane texts? Or using it to support whatever experiments he and Madiya have planned?
“Madiya!” I shout. “Madiya!”
Jahan, she whispers.
But she doesn’t appear. The balconies sit empty. No woman rushes from the house, her golden hair a preoccupied tangle.
Where in the name of all the gods is she?
A knot of silence edges toward me, unspooling from the tower.
“Madiya!” I shout again.
This time a door does open. A man peers out. It’s the steward of the house; I recognize him. “An intruder!” he calls behind him, just loud enough for me to hear.
Abruptly, I feel a fool for standing in the middle of my father’s garden courtyard, calling Madiya’s name like a child. I take my fists off my hips and approach the door. “Kemal! Don’t you know me? It’s Jahan.”
The man stares. “Master Jahan?” He begins to laugh. “After all these years, you still haven’t learned to use the front door?”
I force a grin. “I wouldn’t want to shock you by coming in the expected way.”
He shepherds me into the house. I’m embraced and kissed on either cheek by the old servants and the cook. Even my former tutor, Master Tavanius, comes down so we can bow to each other. He teaches Lathiel now.
There is no sign of Madiya. Not even her scent lingers in the house.
Why haven’t I come back before now, the servants are asking, why did I never write? Unspoken: Why did I never send my poor father money when I had the crown prince of Paladis for my dearest friend? Why have I, instead, dragged him into legal arguments over the terms of my mother’s will? Why did I never bestow any favors on the people I left at home?
“Is my father here?” I ask, at last. “And Lathiel? Rayka?”
They all grow quieter. “We heard that Master Rayka left the Akademia,” Kemal says. “Did he not find you in Eren?”
My hands go cold. He has to be here. What has she done with him? “I thought he had come here.”
“No. We haven’t seen him in two years.”
I rub my scar. They don’t seem to be lying—and why would they?
Madiya hasn’t come out to gloat over my return. If she hasn’t appeared, and neither has Rayka—and Lathiel remains stubbornly invisible—then there’s only one person left to turn to.
The steward seems to have reached the same conclusion. “Your father is in his study. I’ll take you to him.”
My gut tight, I follow him up the staircase, noticing the frayed carpets, the worn cloth on the walls. Father has always wanted to live in a princely manner, but our family—as he never fails to remind us—has been robbed of its rightful wealth and prestige by our Paladisan overlords. Our own ancestor betraye
d us. Not only this, but the singular Britemnosi god has been supplanted with multiple Idaean ones. Even the Britemnosi language is now subservient to that of our rulers.
The thing is, I agree with him about the latter. Our people shouldn’t have been forced to denigrate our own beliefs or our words. And we shouldn’t still be secondary citizens of Paladis, denied full citizenship unless we apply for it. But as a boy, I didn’t miss the wealth or prestige I never had, and which, for all I know, our family had never really possessed. And I can’t say I admired my father’s plan to regain it.
Kemal pauses before the doors. I gather my breath. But I shouldn’t have bothered, because as soon as I walk in I feel like I’m fifteen again. The study looks smaller than I recall. Shabbier. My father, seated behind his desk, looks grayer. Spectacles pinch the end of his nose. He flicks a glance toward the door and keeps reading.
My hands curl into fists. He always did this to me—always forced me to speak first, so that I was the one making trouble and he could be the one to punish me for it. This time, I’m not falling for it.
The silence at my back shrinks against the cold silence in the room.
“I’ll bring tea,” Kemal says, and backs out.
My father still doesn’t set down his book. “Should I summon my lawyer?”
Hatred socks me in the stomach, old and ugly. It takes me a moment to recover. “Yes. You can add abduction to your list of offenses.”
At that, he looks up. His brows knit; he’s puzzled. Genuinely, it seems.
“Rayka,” I elaborate for him, unable to suppress my sarcasm. “Surely you noticed that he came back?”
My father looks annoyed. “Why would he come back? I told him not to return if he left.”
Of course he did. I look at his phlegmatic, careless face. It’s hard not to want to punch it. “Where is…she?”
“Madiya?” His gaze flickers toward the door. He’s always been a bad liar. “She’s…visiting a friend.”
“A friend?” A snort of laughter escapes me. “Madiya doesn’t have friends. She has experiments.” I pause, eyeing him. I’ve always wondered just what kind of relationship he and Madiya enjoyed in their long hours alone—reading arcane texts, supposedly. “And…benefactors.”
He doesn’t even have the grace to look chagrined. He just shrugs.
I bite down on my impatience. “Is this friend in Pira? You could give me the address.”
“So you can harangue her? I think not.”
“Maybe I’ll go door-to-door. Or stand in the street shouting her name.”
Now he shifts, uncomfortable, and fiddles with the chain of his pocket watch. The fear of discovery has always motivated him. “That won’t work. You’ll only embarrass yourself.”
“So she’s not in Pira,” I say. “Is she on one of the islands?”
Again, he shrugs. “I’m not privy to her whereabouts.”
A bold-faced lie. I fold my arms, fixing him with a stare. He and Madiya always shared everything. I can’t imagine that has changed. “Is she even on the Britemnos Isles? When is she coming back?”
He doesn’t answer, but the shifting of his gaze tells me I’ve guessed the truth. She’s gone—off the islands entirely. Or at least he believes she is. But if Madiya isn’t here, then how can she be calling me? Even now her voice murmurs at the back of my mind, lifting the hairs on my neck. She’s never left Pira since she took refuge here twenty-five years ago. I don’t see any reason for her to leave now. And where would she go? Nowhere is safe for someone like her. Both her and Rayka disappearing is too coincidental. She might be here, hiding, waiting to spring on me.
The silence behind my shoulders shifts away toward the door.
“Where’s Lathiel?” I ask, curious to see if my father can sense him. Despite his obsession with it, Father’s never exactly had a bloodhound’s sense for magic.
He makes a disinterested gesture. “Here, somewhere.”
“You’re not concerned he might have disappeared like Rayka?” I ask drily. It’s comforting, in a way, to know that my father’s preferred son is of slightly less interest to him than his book.
“Lathiel isn’t—” he begins, then bites off the words. I’ve irritated him, at least. He purses his lips, then says, as if it is slightly distasteful but must be offered, “Stay to dinner. Stay the night. You can see him then. And we can talk about your recent exploits in Eren. This Caveadear waking the land.”
I stiffen. I should have known he’d be curious about Elanna. She’s done what he and Madiya always dreamed of, bringing sorcery back into the world, to be practiced openly. At least Elanna never declared a desire to destroy the witch hunters, or Madiya would probably have descended on Eren and Caeris like an eager parasite. Now I see that the book he’s reading is Legends of the Great Theurges. There’s a story about Caeris in there. I know, because I’ve read every story in that book. I had most of them memorized before I ran away.
He’s noticed my discomfort. A small, pleased smile tugs at his lips. Now he says, “We thought you’d turned your back on us, Jahan. We didn’t think you had it in you, bringing sorcery back. Destroying the witch hunters.”
I recoil in spite of myself. This is all he wants, all he’s ever wanted: our family’s prestige back. Our family, the descendants of Mantius.
“I am not,” I begin, unable to stop myself, “here to further your delusions of grandeur. Stopping the witch hunters isn’t a personal favor to you and Madiya.”
He’s actually smiling, now that he’s gotten a reaction out of me. “Would you leave your Elanna Valtai to suffer? To be captured and tortured, her mind destroyed? For six years, you’ve been mere miles from the Ochuroma. Think of all those sorcerers tormented and suffering inside! Yet you’ve done nothing to help them. I thought we raised you to do better, Jahan. I thought we raised you to think of others.”
My hands have tightened into fists. This is what he always did to me, the way he always made me feel, as if I had to apologize for my existence. My eyes seem to be clouding over. I want to scream at him, the way I did as a child. But I can already hear his cool, detached response.
I stuff my rage back down, even though my throat is burning. “You’re wrong, Father.” I force my mouth into a grin. I refuse to let him see how much he’s gotten to me. “I do think of others. I think of how I’m sparing them from you and Madiya.”
Without waiting for his answer, I stride out, past the silence lingering by the door. I don’t know where I’m going—I can’t even think straight—but my feet carry me through the house, to the opposite wing, up another flight of stairs. Two doors. Our old bedrooms. I lean against Rayka’s door, breathing hard. For once, I wish he was here. He might just glower at me, but he also understands our father the way no one else does.
Father was lying about something. Maybe Rayka is here—or maybe he passed through. Maybe Madiya’s taken him somewhere. I throw his door open, my chest tight with a kind of terrible hope.
But it’s dusty and abandoned inside. The bookshelves have been emptied, the shutters closed. There’s no sign of his presence. I feel myself sag. I should be relieved. But if Rayka’s not here, where is he?
Silence occupies the threshold behind me. I try to gather my wits, but it’s ancient habit that takes me out and around to the other door. Into my old bedroom. I expect it to be the same, only emptier.
It’s not. Books sprawl open on the carpet. A cup of half-drunk tea perches on the windowsill. A plate holding crumbs braces open a map of Eren and Caeris. The bed lies rumpled, unmade.
Is Lathiel staying here? A strange feeling crawls over me. I don’t know whether I should be flattered, or whether I should take it as a sign of how very little I matter to them. Perhaps, despite the stream of alternately threatening and cajoling letters Father wrote to me, despite Madiya’s whisper worming into my mind, they never actually ex
pected me to come back.
I glance at the silence behind me, but it doesn’t speak.
I want to drop to the bed and rub my hands over my face, but I can feel the silence watching me. I don’t want to scare him off. I still can’t believe Madiya isn’t here, that she wasn’t waiting for me in the cave with opium and a smile. I can’t believe I’m standing, whole, my mind unscathed.
Then it occurs to me: There is one last place to look for the truth. I go downstairs, the silence ghosting behind me, to the two double doors below our rooms. They’re unlocked. I almost expect my mother’s things to be sitting around, gathering dust. But the rooms stand empty, the bed stripped of clothes, the vanity bare of brushes and pots and creams, the writing desk naked of paper, ink, and pens.
She may as well not have existed.
This time I do drop onto the bed. I rub my eyes; they’re dry, but they ache. The last time I visited this room, my mother’s corpse lay on this mattress. Her skin was flat, her hands folded over a bunch of flowers at her chest. The maids had dressed her in a white gown. I couldn’t cry then, either. Couldn’t think, except that it was time for me to escape the island at last. I held Mother’s cold hand while Rayka sobbed into the coverlet and Lathiel wept in his nurse’s arms. He was only six. I don’t know if he even understood what had happened.
I don’t open my eyes, but I can sense the silence standing before the vanity. “Do you remember her?” My voice is rough. It’s hard to speak.
My youngest brother doesn’t answer.
“I suppose you don’t,” I say eventually. A nurse raised him. After what happened, Mother wasn’t competent to look after a child. Besides, most of the time she forgot he was even hers. I wonder what poison Father and Madiya have fed him about me.
But then I hear a footstep. Clothing rustles.
I lower my hands.
There’s a boy in front of me. Twelve years old. Slight, with a flop of dark hair. Shoulders canted forward. Evasive eyes. As if he’s trying to tell the world there’s nothing here to see.
“There you are,” I say. My face feels warm. I’m smiling, stupid with relief.
