The Memory of Fire

by Callie Bates

  The other sorcerers are stationed throughout the streets and barracks, sowing confusion, misdirecting anyone bound for the harbor. I hope we trained enough, and that the early hour—and luck—are on our side. The illusion of fog isn’t hard to maintain, but it needs to disguise a large area and fifty ships. None of us have the reach to set the ships on fire from shore. Even getting this close might not be enough, if we can’t call upon enough power. We talked of burning them—the explosion would be impressive—but it would have required too much control and skill, which the other sorcerers don’t yet possess.

  No, ruining the fleet is up to me. The others simply must ensure that no one notices until it’s too late. Then Felix’s people will get to work, telling the world what I’ve done. If the emperor hated me before…

  I focus on the matter at hand. If the fog falters, I can maintain it. I’ll make it work. I’ll have to.

  I’m not going to let damned Alakaseus Saranon win this game.

  The sailing boat continues to thread between the hulls. I wonder how many men are on these ships, if any. That was part of the reason for not burning them: We didn’t want to cause loss of life if we didn’t have to.

  The harbor is sheltered enough. None of the sailors should drown. Elanna wouldn’t want me to murder men who are merely doing their duty. Of course, she could have managed all of this alone, from shore. I can see how her eyes would have gone distant, luminous, as she called upon the power of wood and water. How the whole harbor would have shaken and transformed itself. How she’d have turned to me afterward, with that private smile she only ever seemed to give me. There, she’d say. How did you like that?

  But now she’s gone, and I must do this alone. Without her. For her. I swallow hard.

  Beside me, Sabina drums her fingers on the gunwale. She’s been tasked with persuading everyone that we’re not here. Agapetos steers the boat. I need to focus on our plan. We have to account for the displacement of water and the difficulty of navigating our craft amid sinking ships. We’ve decided to start at the outer ring of ships and work our way in. As we approach the outermost vessel, I expand my mind to hold its shape, the weight of it in the water, its hulls and masts, the precision of nails and tar pulling the whole together.

  It would be easiest, of course, to let it burst apart, an explosion of wood breaking at the seams, but that would draw attention. And if anyone is sleeping on the ships, it might kill them. Plus, I need to get Sabina and Agapetos out of here alive. It doesn’t matter so much what happens to me.

  So I murmur to the nails and tar. I draw on the elusive power of the water, and the hum of energy in my own body. This is going to leave me thin and hollowed out—but that doesn’t matter. The boat seems to exhale as the tar softens and the nails begin to loosen and water creeps up through the cracks between the boards.

  I release my hold on the nails. The ship will burst apart on its own now, sending hundreds of tons of ammunition to the bottom of the sea, without the ammunition needing to be lit. Sabina rubs her palms over her eyes.

  “Only forty-nine more!” I whisper with a grin. Agapetos snorts, and Sabina rolls her eyes.

  We move to the next, and the next. Such a careful process is impossible to hurry. The sky has begun to lighten, but the fog holds. The harbor remains quiet; only waves slop against the ships and a few gulls cry.

  I’ve lost count—twenty or more down. Agapetos steers us to the next, working our way slowly back into the harbor, toward the quay. “We’re nothing,” Sabina chants under her breath. “Nothing, nothing, nothing.”

  It’s a bit distracting, but I push her voice out of my mind. I loosen the nails. The ship begins to buckle as water slips in belowdecks.

  A shout overhead. The echoing thud of feet running over the deck boards. A bell clangs.

  “Damn,” I mutter. Looks like we’ve found an occupied ship.

  They can’t see us, I remind myself. Sabina’s taken care of that. Most likely they think some kind of accident is causing the ship to admit water. “Go,” I whisper to Agapetos. If this one ship sinks more slowly than the others, if they rescue some gunpowder from it, it’s not much of a loss.

  We cut away toward the next ship, just as there’s a whisper of sound behind us. I glance back. Where the awkward angle of the illusory fog ends, a man is peering out one of the starboard ports, straight at us.

  He doesn’t know what we’re doing. We might be resupplying one of the other ships, for all he knows.

  “Hey!” he calls.

  Sabina sucks in a breath through her nostrils. “We’re nothing!” she whispers fiercely, but I can feel her insistence fraying as she stops believing it works herself. Agapetos hurls us toward the next ship, his muscles straining as he wrestles with the oars. I reach for the nails and tar, though my body already seems to be vibrating, like a string plucked too many times. But we have to hurry now. That man’s going to sound an alarm.

  But this ship is occupied, too. “Hello?” a voice calls overhead.

  “We’re nothing,” Sabina whispers, but there are tears in her eyes.

  “Agapetos, get us back to the quay!” I whisper. “Hurry!”

  I gather all the remaining ships in my mind, but they overflow, too many objects gathered in my hands.

  “Who’s down there?” the man above us calls out.

  I grab onto half the ships and yank the nails from the boards. With so many, it’s impossible to be careful. A ship to our left booms, as loud as if we’d fired upon it. Another collapses in on itself, shocking a wave up through the water that kicks us back among the other vessels.

  The fog is thinning to the consistency of milky glass, full of stranger angles and edges yet. Tullea and Irene must have been startled by the explosion; they’re losing control. On a deck above us, two sailors stare down at our boat from an intact ship. Agapetos is desperately trying to correct, even as more ships pull apart and water slaps us back and forth, ramming our boat into the hull behind us. Overhead, the sailors begin to shout. But the boards are buckling, and I can no longer see them.

  I take hold of our boat with my mind, the remaining ships be damned, and compress space. We’re thrust closer to the quay, but another unexpected wave throws us off course.

  The fog evaporates. Men are running onto the wharves, shouting, trying to man dinghies to get out to the fleet.

  “They see us!” Sabina gasps, pointing.

  A man at the end of a pier has run down, balancing a musket in his arms. He’s aiming to shoot.

  I compress space again just as the gun explodes. I yank the boat over to the other side of the harbor, the movement so forceful that we’re shunted onto a gravel spit. Agapetos swears. Above the spit is an abandoned pier and the wall of the squat watchtower. But there’s no time to free ourselves from the spit, even though we’re still several feet from the shore, because people are shouting to our right, racing along the quay in every direction. We don’t seem to have been spotted yet, but it’s impossible to tell. Another gunshot explodes.

  No—it’s one of the magazines on the ships. I spare a glance behind me. Smoke towers from a ship into the air. A man is screaming. People are running.

  Then another ship explodes, across the harbor. Alone. Spontaneous.

  Who’s doing this?

  But I don’t have time to stare. I fling myself overboard into the shallows, Agapetos and Sabina on my heels. The water surges into my shoes, dragging on my trousers, soaking them up to the thighs. I heave myself onto the pier and reach back to help the others up after me. Another ship explodes in a rush of smoke and fire. None of them have this much power—do they?

  But then more gunfire erupts nearby. Tullea, Irene, the others. They better not have gotten captured.

  Behind us, the harbor is a smoking chaos, fire catching from mast to mast. The other ships are breaking apart, their boards thrust open by the
force of water. The few still intact are being rammed by debris. Several vessels have already been swallowed up to their masts; some planks drift, scattered like chaff on the choppy waves. Sailors are shouting, diving overboard. The fires burn and burn.

  No one has yet reached our pier. The cannons on the watchtower above us can only shoot well over our heads.

  There isn’t a good way out, but I’m overcome by an idea. If I can compress space horizontally, why not vertically as well?

  “Take my hands,” I say to Sabina and Agapetos. They do, baffled but obedient. “And let’s run!”

  We race toward the wall. The moment my foot hits a bottom brick, I compress space. Gravity tugs us back toward the pier, their combined weight draws on my arms, but I insist.

  And I stagger onto the top of the wall, falling over the crenellated battlements to the walk where guards patrol the harbor. I see only one man right now, some distance from us. The other guards seem to have all run down to the quays.

  “I think I’m going to be sick,” Sabina says. Agapetos just seems stunned.

  “You’ll have to do that later.” I nod at the single guard, who has backed up and is now leveling his musket at us. “Go!”

  We take off in the opposite direction from the guard. At the next tower, there are stairs down to the street. We run down them, back into the streets of Ida, and even though my lungs are burning, even though my feet squelch with each step, even though our plot didn’t go quite according to plan and I don’t yet know what’s become of the others, I start laughing as I run. Because what was I born for, if not for this?

  * * *

  —

  TULLEA AND IRENE aren’t at Solivetos Hill, though the other sorcerers have all gathered, mostly unharmed. My drying trousers stick to my ankles, and the aftereffect of draining my own power makes me light-headed. But I find myself turning straight around and running back out into the street, Sabina and Nestor at my heels.

  Somewhere, a lone bell tolls. Strange—it’s alone. It’s not on the hour; all the others rang out a few minutes ago.

  I find myself running toward it, back the way we came, toward Naval Harbor. Pedestrians dodge out of my way. I’ve forgotten to even make myself unnoticed, and now it’s too damned late. Just a gust of wind, I insist, but my mind is stupid with weariness. I don’t know what power I’m even pulling on.

  “Tullea,” I call. “Irene!”

  Neither of them answers.

  Sabina catches up with me. “This is my fault!”

  I shake my head, just as Tullea’s voice pulses into my mind. Jahan!

  I reach for the thread of her voice, letting it pull me down the street, narrowly missing a fruit seller and a boot shiner. The area near Naval Harbor is rougher, full of laundry blocking out the sky and women with wary eyes watching us from doorways and upper balconies. We’re near the Frourio prison, and many men who live here work there as guards.

  Through an alley. I emerge into another street—and I see them staggering toward us. Tullea’s arms are covered in blood, but it’s not hers. She’s supporting Irene, whose steps are weak. Sagging. She’s taken a shot in the gut.

  But she lifts her face all the same, and sees us. “Sabina! Jahan!”

  Sabina cries out. I’m running toward them.

  Another bell tolls. Again, and again. Nearly overhead. Nestor gasps behind me.

  Then more bells ring. Smaller ones, but no less demanding. They’re nearby, drawing closer. Witch hunters.

  I grab Irene bodily from Tullea and hoist her over my shoulder. She’s limp, and the hand that clutches my collar is cold and clammy. Too cold, for someone who’s been running hard.

  But Tullea’s looking over her shoulder. Her face is stricken with fear.

  I look. Bells ring. Three witch hunters are striding through the streets, people shuffling out of their way.

  “Go!” I shout at Sabina and Nestor. Tullea’s already weaving some illusion, her hands busy, trying to create the image of us fleeing in the opposite direction. But the bells and witch stones must be working against her; the illusions shatter and break. She staggers as if in pain.

  All the gods. I grab her arm, pushing her after the others, and swing to face the witch hunters, Irene heavy on my shoulder. One of them pauses and stares at me—a large man. It’s Faverus.

  It’s only a moment’s hesitation. But it must be enough.

  One of his fellow witch hunters cries out. A tavern sign has catapulted from a wall and barreled into him, smashing him in the ribs. He crumples to the ground. Faverus swings back, wide-eyed, to crouch beside him. The other stares between his fallen comrade and us.

  But I don’t even see him. I’m staring at a doorway, where a boy is standing. Watching me. A thin, eighteen-year-old boy, with lank dark hair, a shabby coat, and my own pale eyes.

  The other witch hunter lurches toward us, but the boy snaps his fingers. The cobblestones buckle in front of the man. He stumbles, and I hear the sick crunch as he breaks an ankle. He tries to push himself upright, but the cobblestones keep shifting under him, and he cries out. What is the fool trying to do, bury this man in the street?

  Of course he is. And he wouldn’t have any compunction about setting a gunpowder magazine alight and burning up an entire ship.

  But he’s here. He’s free. Alive. Safe.

  Someone grabs my arm: Tullea. “Jahan, run!”

  “Yes—” I begin. But my brother…

  But when I look back at the doorway, it’s empty. He’s gone.

  Only the creeping vines covering the wall show evidence of his presence. They’re blackened—charred to husks. The two witch hunters lie, their bodies ruined, in the street. He must have stolen their own power to work his magic against them. I can’t tell if they still live.

  I’ve hesitated too long. Irene is moaning softly on my shoulder. Faverus stares up at me from between the bodies of his fellows. Soon others will join them—not only witch hunters, but the city watch, the imperial guards.

  I turn and run, pulling persuasion around me. Nothing but the wind. A student running late to class.

  “What happened?” Tullea demands when I catch up to her on the next corner. “Was that you?”

  I glance over my shoulder, awkwardly, feeling Irene’s blood soaking into my shirt. Her fingers are tight in the back of my coat. But no lank-haired boys linger in the street behind us. “…Yes,” I say slowly.

  Tullea gives me a skeptical look.

  But I don’t respond to it, because I finally see—really see—what surrounds us. All the plants along the street have shriveled. A tree stands hollowed out. Two beggars have collapsed on the cobblestones. A woman crouches over them. “They’re not breathing!” she says, her voice shrill with fear.

  I drew on energy as I ran to make my magic, not even wondering what it was. Tullea drew on energy to create her illusions. And this is what we’ve done.

  Realization hits her at the same time. She grabs my elbow. We exchange a single, terrified glance. We should help, somehow. We should fix this. But how do we fix what we’ve destroyed, without more destruction?

  The woman in the street is pointing at us. “It was them!”

  Tullea yanks on my arm, pulling me into motion. We run, Irene’s weight heavy on my shoulder. I clamp persuasion around us, this time careful to use only my own power. My gut roils, from effort and guilt. Perhaps the beggars will yet survive. But I may never know.

  Finally, the bulk of Solivetos Hill lurches up between the buildings before us. We duck inside, stopping at last.

  My throat is tight. I’ve injured people in my own city—innocents—and now, once again, I’ve lost Rayka. I should have run for him when I had the chance. I wish he’d come to me. But I will lie for him, anyway. I will take the blame for all the deaths, the injuries, the damaged plants. I’ll kept his secret, because
that is the one thing I can do for my brothers, whether they know it or not.

  * * *

  —

  I CARRY IRENE up into the heart of the temple, placing her carefully on a burlap sack beneath the dome. Sabina flings herself down beside her, gripping her hand tight, kissing her forehead. “It’s going to be all right,” she’s whispering.

  But Irene took a lead ball to the gut. It’s not going to be all right. Her eyes stare, glassy, at the ceiling. Crimson blood is already soaking through the bandage wrapping her abdomen.

  I rub my hands through my hair. All the gods. The woman needs a surgeon to save her, or laudanum to help her go.

  “We need a physician,” I tell Tullea.

  She’s already shaking her head. “We haven’t had one among us since Leukos died. And to bring someone here…”

  The streets will be crawling with witch hunters and militia by now. We needed to have taken precautions for medical help before launching our attack, not now. Not when it’s almost too late. Not with the whole city out for my blood.

  I look at the sweat slicking Irene’s staring face. We all knew the risk we took. But it’s different to see it claiming her. Difficult not to think of Finn, of the carnage on that battlefield in Caeris. Of the beggars in the street, and the witch hunters Rayka killed without remorse. Impossible not to think of Elanna, whose corpse I never even saw, who died without me. She would want me to save Irene. She would tell me to do something.