by Callie Bates
I swing past them with every shred of confidence I possess. Nothing to see here.
My shoulders tense. But the men don’t shout after me, or follow.
I don’t dare to break into a run. All the same I’m breathless by the time I reach Wisteria Street. It’s quiet. I let out a breath.
Then I see the two men standing in front of Pantoleon’s house. The landlady hesitates on the threshold, holding a broom to her bosom as if it can defend her. A bell clinks softly as one of the men shifts.
A hand captures my sleeve. I’m dragged backward into a cramped space between two houses, hardly enough to be a passage. Pantoleon clamps his other hand over my mouth.
I shake him off. His eyes widen so I see the whites of them. And how angry he is. How afraid. The combination swallows up all the space in the alley, leaving precious little for me.
“Witch hunters are at my house, Jahan!” he whispers furiously. “You didn’t tell me they’d executed your sorceress, or that they’ve realized you’re a sorcerer—”
I swallow. I wish I could fade through the walls surrounding us, but I don’t. “I may have left out a few salient details.”
“A few?” He stares at me. “If I’d been home a few minutes earlier, I’d be under arrest.”
I can’t meet his eyes. With a noise of disgust, Pantoleon turns back to the alley’s entrance, ignoring me now. I say nothing.
I’ve brought this danger on him. On Pantoleon, whose father was dragged away with a sack over his head when my friend was ten years old. No one could believe that Pantoleon’s mother didn’t know his father was a sorcerer. She lost her job, a well-paid one as a notary. They lost their house. She moved the children to the country outside Hepsabah, to work the barley fields. And Pantoleon learned to hide his magic, to bury it deep, so that by the time he was of age to enter an essay contest for a position at the university of Ida, most people had forgotten the scandal surrounding his father. But there is still magic in him, even if he refuses to use it.
The witch hunters would destroy him. The way they did Elanna.
But how did they even come to be here? I suppose someone might know that Pantoleon and I are friends, yet no one in Aexione has even met him—except Aunt Cyra. She wouldn’t betray me, or him. Someone might have found his name by searching through old letters of mine, but surely that would take hours, and presence of mind.
Unless someone saw us talking at the Deos Deorum…one of Phaedra’s spies. I could easily believe that Leontius’s sister has identified all my friends, their homes, their professions, and their lovers—anything she could use against me, when the opportunity suited her.
Pantoleon peers into the street and bangs his palm against the wall. “She let them inside.”
“Then we can get out of here,” I point out. I got Pantoleon into this mess. I’ll get him out even if it means sacrificing myself.
But the thought catches me. Would I sacrifice myself? I’ve always been able to talk myself out of anything. Heal any wound that needs healing. Whisper any persuasion. Remove any memories.
Except now the world knows what I really am. The rules have changed, and I don’t know how to play the game.
“Come on.” Pantoleon grabs my elbow. I let him drag me out into the street, hurrying around the corner. I call persuasion around us—only students, late to class. The way Pantoleon’s going, a blind man could see we’re criminals. Above the rooftops, Solivetos Hill rises. I can see the abandoned temple, its old dome half shattered like a cracked egg. The soft morning light makes it glow.
Pantoleon drags me around a final corner, and I realize the hill is our destination. The temple sits at the end of the street, its pillared entryway opening like a maw into the steep, wooded hill. Stairs angle down from the summit of the hill, where the dome seems to float over the treetops.
I slow. “Are we supplicating the gods?”
Pantoleon just grunts. He glances about furtively at the houses abutting the hill. The front balconies are deserted, though voices carry over from the back gardens.
I pull the persuasion tighter around us. “No one sees us.”
He scowls. “How can you be so certain?” But then he strides off into the shadow of the portico without waiting for an answer.
I follow him. The columns tower over us. I thought that we might find beggars camped out under the dry roof, but the portico and vestibule are empty. Our footsteps echo in the massive round chamber; an oculus stares down from the high, domed ceiling. The floors are patterned in a mosaic lost to the dim light, and the walls are studded with pearls and shells, but no furniture remains. Even the ashes are absent from the hearth.
“Tirisero,” I mutter. The abandoned temple is dedicated to the god of failure. It seems appropriate. Paladisans no longer worship him, of course; Paladius the First forbade his veneration since it might imply he wasn’t invincible.
Pantoleon strides on, as if he’s seen it all before. I sigh and pursue him through a high doorway. The corridor is pitch black, but we emerge quickly to the bottom of the stairs. I crane my head back to see the top of the hill. The staircase looks steep enough to put a god out of breath.
My friend has already started up, oblivious.
“What are we doing here?” I call after him. My voice sounds too loud, even though the place is deserted.
Reluctantly, he turns. “It’s one of our safe places. Where we hide sorcerers.”
Then he continues on without another word. I close my mouth and follow. It’s a long slog. By the time we reach the top, my thighs are burning and my lungs feel like they’ve been stomped on.
Pantoleon bends over, wheezing. With an effort, he says, “Your sorceress…”
“Elanna?” I say. Hope electrifies me. I grab his arm. “What? Tell me! What did you find out?”
He shakes his head. The pity in his gaze is jarring after all his anger. “Jahan…they executed her before dawn.”
“That’s what the newspapers said.” Hot fury seems to explode behind my eyes. “Did you even ask your sorcerer friends? Did you even try to find them, or did you just—”
“You have no right,” Pantoleon flares, “to talk to me this way. After everything I’ve done for you! Of course I found my friends. I asked everyone I know. None of them had anything to do with it. None of them even knew she’d been caught. None of them saved her. She’s dead, Jahan, and that’s all there is to it.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Is Elanna dead? I refuse to believe it. I’m going to march up to Aexione now. I’ll use all my power, now that the whole damned world knows I’m a sorcerer. I’ll bring the walls of the emperor’s palace down around him.
I’m going to destroy that man. Single-handedly, if I must.
But then a laugh falls out of me. I’ve staggered into the domed building, blinded by rage. My hands are fisted in my hair, as if by yanking it out I can pull free some of this burning anger. Except my anger’s no use. I’m no use. I can’t march up to Aexione and level the palace. I’m Madiya’s damaged goods, and I don’t have that kind of power. Perhaps I could, eventually, level the palace, but it would take hours. Days. They’d shoot me dead long before that.
Elanna can’t be gone. She can’t just die. Not on a scaffold. Not by the emperor’s will. It’s not right. It’s not what’s supposed to happen. We were supposed to escape together, back to Eren and Caeris. Fight together. Survive together.
And now they’ve killed her.
I stare around the empty temple. Part of the ceiling has toppled inward, felled by an earthquake. The tiles lie shattered upon the floor mosaic. The shells embedded in the walls hold jagged shadows, like knives. I can’t breathe properly; my heart raps an uneven rhythm.
Jahan. Madiya’s voice whispers in my mind.
Not her. Not now. I dig my fingers into my scalp. I want to claw at the holes in my memor
y, rip them open so I can see, at last, what she made me do. I want to tear her voice out of my head. I want to take away her memories, the way she stole mine, and my brothers’, and my mother’s—but I want to leave her aware that I did it.
Except I don’t know how to stop her. I don’t know how to fix things, or how to save my brothers. I can’t even bring Elanna back from the dead. I’m digging at the roots of my hair like a lunatic.
Perhaps this is why I was never able to give El the commitment she wants, the honesty she deserves. Because I am not a whole person, and I never will be. Madiya took that from me, but somehow I can’t shake the feeling that it’s my fault. That I did something to deserve it.
I’m going to take this empire apart, starting with the top. With Alakaseus Saranon himself. Then I’ll find Rayka. And together we’ll destroy Madiya.
My head feels clear. Bright. I have a purpose. I’m going to find El’s body and give it a proper burial. I’m going to take Aexione apart. Brick. By. Brick. Even if it means they shoot me. I can heal myself. I can survive it, and I have to, because I’m coming for Madiya. And this time, she won’t be able to stop me.
I storm back outside. Pantoleon is closing his satchel, squinting down the long steps to the city below.
“You’re going back down there.” My shock makes it a statement, not a question.
He doesn’t look at me. “You hardly need me to watch over you.”
The rage blooms again, swelling my head. “There are witch hunters in your apartment, Pantoleon! They know who you are. They’ve gone through your things!”
“I’m not a sorcerer.”
I stare at him. And he accuses me of being willfully blind? “It wouldn’t matter if you could turn rocks into gold bullion. The witch stones still affect you. The bells—”
“I can withstand them. I won’t have my life—my career—compromised. I have a lecture on civil law to deliver this afternoon, and I’m damned well going to be there. My students depend on me.”
“And you accuse me of denying what I really am and living a lie? This is hypocrisy, Pantoleon, and it’s going to get you killed. Imprisoned, at the very least.”
We stare at each other for a long moment, the anger taut between us.
“I am not living a lie,” he says quietly. “I am teaching students about the laws they should rightfully understand and use. I am helping those who would bring a revolution to Paladis like the one you began in Eren. We are completely different. I have no desire to be a sorcerer. You are one, and you insist on hiding it. You insist on hiding everything about yourself. You claim you’re helping Eren but really you’re only helping yourself maintain this ridiculous charade—”
“Stop. It.” I grind the words through my teeth.
He raises his eyebrows. “Good. You’re angry. For once in your life you didn’t turn what I said into a joke.”
I clench my hands into fists. “I—”
“Maybe you’ll finally realize all this isn’t a joke,” he interrupts. “Our rights. Our freedom. Our lives. Maybe you’ll finally do something that makes me proud to call you my friend.”
He might as well have punched me. And while I stand reeling, he marches away toward the steps. “I’ll be back after nightfall,” he calls over his shoulder. “If it’s safe.”
My legs carry me forward after him, but he glares back at me. I stop myself. I can’t let him go into this much danger. But if I go with him, I put him into even more danger.
And he doesn’t want me. He doesn’t want my help.
In the end I simply put my back to his retreating figure and stare across the open hill. Wind kicks up over the bald rock, carrying the briny scent of the sea. The sun gilds the masts of distant ships in Naval Harbor.
I’m alone. The realization hits me for the first time. I’ve lost Elanna. Leontius won’t speak to me. I put Aunt Cyra in mortal danger. Rayka has disappeared without a word because he has such little regard for me. Lathiel didn’t follow me to Aexione. Firmina and Bardas proved that they can’t help me despite their goodwill. Now Pantoleon is only helping me because he feels obligated to, thanks to our friendship.
Pantoleon despises me.
I walk back into the great temple, out of the wind, and I drive my fist into the old chipped mosaic of Tirisero holding a snake. The pain seems distant, dull. It can’t mitigate the anger that pulses through me. I march around the temple. A stone font sits in front of me, beneath the oculus, covered by a heavy lid. For a brief moment, awareness flickers through me. As if the font sees me, the way the stone circles in Eren seem to. As if some potent life lingers within it, and it recognizes me.
But when I tramp closer, the sensation ebbs. I study the font warily. The figures on this side seem to recall Tirisero’s exploits—or his lack thereof. Words march beneath in archaic Idaean: THE SECRET FLAME.
It figures that I’m stuck here with the damned god of lost battles. I raise my hands to strike the font, but stop myself. Useless Tirisero doesn’t deserve my anger, and even if he’s a forgotten god, it’s still blasphemy. I pace, instead. I should have gone back into the palace the moment I recognized the simulacrum. I could have saved her. I could have, but I didn’t.
I work my hands through my hair, again, again. Tirisero smiles benignly at me from the font. “If you’re going to take Elanna from me,” I snarl at him, “at least let me save Eren.”
The world knows I’m a sorcerer now. And even if it didn’t, the emperor would never have acquiesced to my plan. He was always humoring me. He was always going to send the black ships, and Euan Dromahair.
All the gods, I am everything my father accused me of being, and more. A fool, begging the god of failure to help me.
Jahan. Madiya’s voice. Jahan!
“No!” I shout. My voice rings, hollow, off the vaulted dome. “Leave me alone! Shut! Up!”
Jahan, she whispers.
“No!” I shout again, and then I fling the word at her across the tenuous connection we have. No, Madiya.
Jahan.
No.
I funnel all my anger at her, all my impotent fury, into an arrow. I pack it with all the power I can. Then I shoot it from my mind to hers. It scorches and burns. The very stuff of my mind seems to rip. I clasp my head, gasping. The burning lingers, an intangible pain.
But her voice is gone. Silenced—for the moment, at least.
A chunk of plaster falls from the ceiling and shatters two feet away from me. I back out into the noon glare of the sun. But the temple doesn’t collapse.
When I look around, I see what’s happened. The grass is singed to nothing, the wild poppies nothing more than charred husks. A mulberry tree is cracked and smoking, as if from fire. The juniper bushes have wilted.
I pulled power from everything I could. I’ve killed half the plants on this hill.
It’s a good thing Elanna can’t see this. I couldn’t bear her sense of betrayal.
There’s nothing I can do. No way to repair the damage. The font inside the temple, whatever it might be, can’t hold the power of the stone circles in Eren and Caeris. If El saw me now, she’d know what I really am. A thief.
All the gods, what a fool I am! I’d rather have Elanna see this than lie in an unmarked grave, executed by the Saranons.
The fabric of my mind feels tender. Burned. But it doesn’t do enough to placate the anger still inside me. I feel as though my veins are on fire. As though, if I tried, I could burn the whole city down.
But instead I pace beside the old parapet, staring down at the distant harbor. No plan comes to me. The ships are making ready to sail, but Elanna’s past saving. I am left alone with the reality of what I have done, and the scar from a wound I don’t remember receiving.
* * *
—
A CLATTER BRINGS me awake into a dim gray dawn. I’m off the rough pal
let bed and onto my feet before I even come to my senses. I’ve hardly slept, starting awake at the slightest noises, when I wasn’t whispering promises of revenge to Elanna or staring burning-eyed into the dark. Now I listen hard. Perhaps it’s only a squirrel.
No—footsteps scuff. Someone’s coming into the honeycomb of rooms behind the temple. I don’t hear a bell, but it might be a particularly stealthy witch hunter. Or a watchman. Or even an ordinary thief.
I have no weapons—the most unprepared criminal who ever escaped the emperor. I press myself into the wall, trying to meld my skin and bones with its fabric.
The intruder curses. It sounds like he stubbed a toe.
And I recognize his voice. I separate myself from the wall and march toward him.
“I didn’t know if you’d come back,” I say. My mouth feels strange and crabbed. I’m trying to smile, I realize. Even though, at the same time, I want to shout at him.
He’s here, though. Someone came back for me.
Pantoleon must have dropped a candle as well as stubbed his toe; he’s crouched over, fumbling for it. He glances up. “There you are. You buried yourself deep in here.”
He throws something at me: a loaf of bread wrapped in brown paper. I press my nose against it instinctively. It’s still warm, but the smell turns my stomach. I don’t remember when I last ate. I don’t have any desire to eat now.
I give Pantoleon a hand onto his feet, and press the bread back at him. “You eat first. Were there witch hunters at your apartment?”
“My landlady let them up. They had a warrant. But they didn’t find anything.” He looks away, his mouth hard. “That didn’t prevent Ida’s chief of police from interrupting my lecture and interrogating me, however.”
I feel sick. “You shouldn’t be here. It’s dangerous—”
“They let me go, Jahan.” He gives me a mirthless smile. “I told them what I thought of you.”
