The Memory of Fire

by Callie Bates

  Aunt Cyra’s gaze seems to mark too many of my thoughts. “It’s not too late to go back to Eren.”

  “And put Elanna through war if I could end it?”

  The look on her face tells me what she thinks of my odds. “In Eren,” she says, “you would be able to protect her.”

  “She doesn’t need my protection. She needs this alliance, if I can achieve it.”

  She gives me a long stare—so long I start to fidget underneath it. “I know I’m putting you at risk,” I begin, fumbling with the words, “so I’ll go, if that’s better—”

  “Absolutely not,” my aunt says. “You are staying right here. I’ll do what I can to help. But if things get bad, I’m fleeing to Eren with you.”

  I smile, though it feels forced. “I may have to impose further on your generosity. Lathiel…” I pause. Even after six years together, I feel small and strange when I tell her that Madiya whispers into my head. That it feels like a violation I can’t resist, and yet at the same time I feel I should answer it.

  But hope has brightened her face. “Is there news of him?”

  “I went home—looking for Rayka—but the witch hunters found me there. I’m hoping Lathiel hid himself on my ship and followed us here.”

  Aunt Cyra’s lips twitch. “You encouraged your youngest brother to become a stowaway?”

  I laugh. “I suppose I did.” At least, unlike most stowaways, he can make himself invisible.

  “Of course I’ll welcome him.” She shakes her head at me. “Isn’t that what our lawyers have been fighting for all these years? Come along, enough pitying yourself. You need rest.”

  “Thank you.” I follow her to the door. “Aunt…”

  She looks inquiringly at me.

  I gesture toward the bathing chamber. “I’m afraid some of your hothouse plants met with a rather…abrupt demise.”

  Her lips press together, but then she simply sighs. “I’ll see to it. Good night, Jahan.”

  * * *

  —

  I LIMP BACK to my bedchamber. Some industrious servants have put a fire in the grate, and a platter of food and tea sits on the table. Carefully, I close the door. It’s strange to be back in this house; I was fifteen when I last stayed here for any length of time. I was hollow inside when I came, sick and trembling, racked with guilt that I’d left my brothers. Aunt Cyra nursed me back to health and, once I looked less gray at the edges, introduced me to everyone she knew. Many people remembered my mother, and I couldn’t stand their condescension. Their polite concern. I escaped to Ida as soon as my aunt let me, to study at the university. There, no one had known my mother; no one pitied me for being raised in the Britemnos Isles, far from civilization. No one asked after my father, or my brothers. Sixteen-year-olds aren’t commonly admitted to the university, but Aunt Cyra knows nothing if not how to pull strings. I got in.

  I still miss attending lectures and digging through the university archives with Pantoleon, drinking beer in the student watering holes, and soaking up all their ideals for changing the world.

  All that changed once I went away to my military duty. Once Leontius decided we were the best of friends.

  I stir sugar into my tea. Once more, I have to lean on my aunt’s generosity, this time in the face of the emperor’s ambivalence and Leontius’s anger. But there is nowhere else to go.

  A clock ticks on the mantel. It’s long past ten. Elanna will be waiting for me at a mirror somewhere in Eren, irritated and worried that I haven’t contacted her in days, since the bells ended our first contact aboard the ship.

  I quiet the bedchamber walls, even though it leaves me feeling thin, and approach the great gilded mirror hanging between two swagged curtains. I touch the glass. “El.”

  There’s no answer. The mirror shows only my own, rather haggard, reflection, my skin a paler olive than usual from the Ereni winter and the days in the belly of the ship. A bruise darkens my jaw. Some ambassador I make. I look like I got in a bar fight, and I feel exhausted into the marrow of my bones.

  “El.” I insist this time. “Elanna.”

  But there’s still no response.

  I push aside the worry tightening my shoulders. Anything might have happened. She might have been called to a different camp on the Tinani front and forgotten her hand mirror. She might be exhausted from traveling. It might be any one of any number of things.

  Still, I don’t like it.

  There’s another name I need to try. I sigh. “Rayka.”

  But of course he doesn’t reply, either.

  Only Madiya’s voice whispers into my mind, as if from a great distance. Jahan.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “Look at this,” Aunt Cyra says when I enter the breakfast room, lit by late-morning sun. We’ve both slept till nearly noon; my body still aches from the pummeling I took yesterday. Perhaps I could heal better out in the garden, but I wince at the thought of draining the plants of life. How El would despise me.

  My aunt tosses a newspaper down on the table before me. Whatever it is, her chin is tucked in with disapproval. “Here.”

  I pour myself a thick jet of hot black coffee—the coffee in Eren is a weak, disappointing thing—and lift the newspaper. The headline catches me like a blow to the chest.

  Jahan Korakides: Hero or Traitor?

  “Evidently your friends Phaedra and Augustus Saranon made quick work of your return,” Aunt Cyra remarks.

  I drop numbly into a chair, unable to stop myself from skimming the article.

  Jahan Korakides (“the Korakos”) returned yesterday from his sojourn across the sea, where he forsook our glorious empire for the infamous Witch of Eren. Witch hunters escorted him from the Britemnos Isles and, though he now walks free among us, he was seen to be examined by the Grand Inquisitor Alcibiades Doukas, surely on charges of consorting with witches…

  “The Witch of Eren?” I say drily. “Can there only be one?”

  Aunt Cyra shrugs. “It’s a nice piece of vitriol. Everyone at court should have read it by now. Someone delivered it to our door. So thoughtful.”

  But I hardly hear her. The article confides:

  Most tellingly, Lord Korakides was seen by multiple parties to be rebuffed from Crown Prince Leontius’s chambers last night. It would seem the romance is over. Perhaps this explains His Imperial Highness’s recent melancholia; as we all know, a spurned lover may become bitter and impotent indeed, until the whole empire feels his pain.

  The bastards. Leontius is going to see this—even if he doesn’t, his siblings will make sure he hears about it. Maybe it was even Zollus Katabares who told them. Of course, Zollus may have affairs with anyone he likes and no one will raise an eyebrow, but since Leontius is the emperor’s heir apparent, tongues wag over his slightest indication of interest in any man or woman. Not only that, they’ve accused him of being unfit to wear the diadem. He’ll be utterly humiliated.

  And he won’t stand up to them. Sometimes I think he doesn’t even know how. Instead he’ll retreat even further, until he doesn’t even appear in public anymore. And they’ll win.

  “Jahan!” Aunt Cyra exclaims.

  I startle. My cup has exploded, spraying coffee-flecked shards across the pristine tablecloth. I stare at my hand, where I thought I still held the cup. I must have made it explode—with only the power of my anger? I never lose control like this.

  Jahan, Madiya whispers, a mocking echo of my aunt.

  “You’re bleeding!” Aunt Cyra bustles over, wiping the remaining shards off my fingers with a clean napkin, and pressing it down over the gash on my thumb. She glares down at me, but doesn’t say anything. Two maidservants have already come running. One cleans up the shards, while the other fetches me a fresh cup of coffee. Perhaps they think I threw the cup down in a rage. Aunt Cyra remains magisterially at my side, pressing down the napkin, until the tw
o women depart.

  “What are you thinking?” she whispers furiously. “You’re lucky no one came in and saw that!”

  “I don’t know, Auntie, I just—I—” I stop. I have to calm down.

  No. I have to find Leontius. I can’t let him weather this alone—or with only Zollus Katabares to comfort him. Zollus is probably gloating.

  I try to get up, but Aunt Cyra pushes me back down. “You’re staying right here until you eat something.”

  My stomach feels flat as dust, but I take a breakfast roll and some stuffed dates. Aunt Cyra releases me—my thumb has stopped bleeding—and returns to her seat with a mutter of “Holy Aera!”

  I look at my aunt. The skin beneath her eyes is soft, and the few strands of silver in her hair seem more pronounced. Guilt eats at me. I’ve done this to her. I brought this overwhelming worry on her by coming here in the first place, aged fifteen, and now I’ve made it far worse by returning from Eren.

  I have to make this right. Now, before the gossip spreads further. And before—I dearly hope—my youngest brother arrives with my luggage and mires us in even more trouble.

  I wolf down the rest of my breakfast, the coffee burning my stomach. My aunt scowls when I get up and make for the door. “You haven’t shaved!” she calls after me. “And that suit is out of fashion!”

  But I wave away her warnings and stride out into the bright day. I might not be able to unprint those words from the newspaper, but at least I can prove them false by reconciling with my friend.

  * * *

  —

  OUTSIDE AUNT CYRA’S house, the street is busy with pedestrians and sedan chairs, carriages and horse riders. I cross into the relative tranquility of the imperial park, where courting couples linger beside the reflecting pools and a knot of state ministers hold conference in the marble arcade. But my feet are taking me toward a high gate planted with tall exotic bushes and ferns: the imperial botanical garden. Leontius’s favorite place in the world. I’ve spent hours in there with him, digging in the dirt to plant this bulb or that, trimming branches, collecting specimens. It’s one of the things that drew me to Elanna. When I first met her, she wanted nothing more than an introduction to Markarades, the emperor’s chief botanist. I think she would have dug herself a bed under a myrtle bush and slept in the gardens if she could have. And she was so suspicious when I told her I knew Markarades. She had no idea who I was.

  I duck inside. It smells as it always does, sweetly, of climbing roses. Bees drone. A salamander darts past my foot. Leontius will be here somewhere, probably discussing tree grafting with one of the many workers.

  But he’s not anywhere among the blooming flowers. Sweat starts to build on the back of my neck. He comes here every morning, as predictable as the sunrise. This isn’t right.

  One of the gardeners recognizes me. “Prince Lees isn’t here, sir. He’s been coming less the last few months.”

  “Thank you,” I say automatically. Have I done this to my friend, somehow, driven him out of his favorite place? Several of the other gardeners have gathered on the other side of the tulip bed, whispering and glancing at me. Apparently Aunt Cyra and I aren’t the only ones who read the newspaper this morning.

  Maybe Leontius did, too. Maybe that’s why he’s not here.

  I walk swiftly out. He won’t be in the pleasure gardens—the chance of meeting courtiers he dislikes would be too high—so he must be either out riding or still in his chambers. These are the only things I’ve ever known Leontius to do on his own; he’s a creature of habit. He hates risking anything out of the ordinary.

  I hurry across the drowsy garden paths, staying as far as I can from the palace’s grand veranda, where courtiers lunch beneath parasols and striped awning. I don’t need to give rise to further rumors.

  As I skirt along the park bordering the gardens, I hear a rumble of hoofbeats. A rider trots through the parkland, too distant for me to see his face. But I recognize him all the same—short and hunched forward in his saddle. Zollus Katabares. He’s making for the palace’s western wing, where Leontius keeps his rooms.

  Zollus is the last person I want to see. But I follow him anyway. He draws closer to the gardens, but our paths diverge near the palace itself. He continues around the building, while I make straight through the Palm Garden for Leontius’s windows. I trot down the shallow stairs to a sunken garden bordering the crown prince’s chambers. Leontius’s windows overlook a perfectly round pond and a tangle of rosebushes.

  I stop short. There’s a man among the rosebushes, wearing a floppy hat. He seems to be digging in the earth. It’s Leontius, of course.

  What am I doing here? I can already see how he’ll put his back to me. I already hear his silence.

  But I have to talk to him. I want him to hear about the newspaper story from me, if Augustus hasn’t already rubbed it in his face.

  And I want to see him. My own urgency surprises me, because I never shared much of my true self with Leontius. I never offered him any of my secrets. Yet he has, in his way, been as true a friend as he could be, these last two years. I can’t believe he’s really angry with me.

  And maybe some part of me feels sorry for running off to Eren without him.

  Leontius straightens as I watch, pulling off his wide-brimmed hat and running a hand through his short black hair. The combination of sweat and pomade leaves it rumpled up. I must make some noise. He turns quickly, hauling himself onto his feet.

  I feel a smile warming my face. “Finding some treasures in the dirt?”

  Leontius frowns. For a moment I think he’s angry because I spoke first, when he’s the crown prince of Paladis—even in his grubby gardening clothes with dirt smeared on his knees and forehead. But then I think of my reassigned apartments, and Zollus’s smugness last night. Maybe it’s true: Maybe Leontius wants nothing to do with me. He looks wearier than he used to, almost less solid, as if he wants to be overlooked even more than usual.

  “What are you doing here?” He doesn’t really look at me, even though his tone demands an answer.

  “I—” I must ask him about the newspaper. But for some reason, my idiot tongue says, “I just got in yesterday. Thought I’d take a walk. It’s too lovely to remain indoors.”

  Leontius keeps looking at the shrubs. “It’s a nice day.”

  “We had few enough of those in Eren. You’ve never seen so much snow—and the cold seeps into your bones.” I’m babbling, and Leontius still is not looking at me. “I swear, I’ve eaten better in the last day than I have in six months!” Mostly because we were running out of stores this winter, and our neighbors refused to trade with us. “The Caerisians have a saying—We only eat well under a southern wind. The joke is there’s never a southern wind in Caeris. And this winter…” Why am I still talking? I can’t seem to stop. “The harvest was poor, of course. But Elanna…” No, I can’t tell him how she helped to grow wheat for our survival. “It’s a different sort of place. Not like here.”

  Now Leontius is looking at me. “Did Finn find what he wanted there?”

  He might as well have punched me in the face. Leontius never seemed to like Finn. A few times I dragged them both to a tavern in Aexione or out riding to the Horn, thinking it might do Lees good to have more than one real friend. But Leontius always retreated into himself more than ever. Because I’d known Finn since we were both fifteen, awkward outsiders in Aexione’s high society, and we shared jokes and knowledge Leontius didn’t? Damned if I ever knew. He certainly didn’t seem to give a care about Finn’s crown and our revolution when I left. Maybe this is his way of reminding me of my failure.

  “He tried,” I say, unable to force any warmth into my tone.

  We both stand there for a long moment, not looking at each other.

  Then, from the open windows above us, I hear Zollus Katabares calling, “Leontius!”

  I
swallow hard. It’s now or never. Leontius is frowning at the window, as if wondering whether he can escape—or maybe that’s just my imagination.

  “I’m not really out enjoying the weather.” Why does the truth stick so much in my throat? “My aunt—we saw a story in the newspaper. One that reflected poorly on you. And me. I wanted…”

  I falter. Leontius is staring steadily at me now. Waiting for me to finish.

  “Lees!” Zollus calls from above, impatient. He hasn’t realized we’re in the garden yet.

  Impulsively, I say, “We could go riding together. Out to the Horn, by the main road, so everyone could see us. That would silence Augustus and Phaedra’s gossip, or at least…make it easier to bear.”

  If I expected him to offer me his shy, thankful smile, he doesn’t. He just blinks. Then he says flatly, “I’m not interested in gossip.”

  “Well, gossip is interested in you. Let me make this right, Lees—”

  At the nickname, he jerks. His nostrils flare. “You do not have permission to address me with such familiarity,” he says in the cold tone he uses with courtiers he dislikes. “Excuse me. As it happens, I’m already meeting some friends for a ride.”

  He strides away to the steps leading up to his room, abandoning the hoe—and me. I stare after him. There’s a flicker of movement in the windows above. Zollus Katabares looks out at me, his eyes narrowed.

  I turn away. He doesn’t need to be concerned; Leontius already dismissed me more effectively than anyone else ever could.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I stumble back into the pleasure gardens, feeling mildly stunned. This time, I’m not careful enough; I almost plow into a cluster of young courtiers gossiping by the Naiad Pool. They recognize me with a collective gasp and all turn away at the same time.