The Memory of Fire

by Callie Bates

  Bardas is frowning at me, concerned. “Didn’t the bells trouble you?”

  I’m not about to confess my secret, so I just raise my eyebrows. I settle down at the table, reaching for the jug of beer. “Not significantly. But a little jot of madness is healthy in a person, don’t you think?”

  “Well, we must praise the gods we tracked you down at last,” he says. “Thank you, Felix, for arranging this meeting.”

  “Since I’m here,” I say, “how can I help you?”

  Bardas taps his fingers on the scuffed table, a thinking gesture. “We can’t risk the Saranons continuing on their current path. It was brave of you to destroy the ships—a bold statement. All of Ida’s talking of you.”

  Felix grins at me—pleased with himself for spreading the news effectively—but I feel less warmth. I watch Bardas, and sip the beer.

  “It was brave,” he says again, “but now the witch hunters are rounding up people across the city. You encountered them, I’m sure. You’ve made yourselves targets—not only you, but anyone who seems mildly suspicious. You’re going to get caught, and you’ll be taken to the Frourio with the rest of them.”

  I must be staring. So they are keeping the prisoners in Ida. “That sounds a lot like a threat.”

  “It’s a fact. The emperor has more men and more power, and your sorcerers are simply not powerful enough to stop him.”

  “We destroyed the fleet,” I point out. “No one’s discovered us yet.”

  He lifts an eyebrow. “They’ll be looking much harder now. You need help.”

  I hear Felix draw in a breath. I’m thinking of Alcibiades Doukas on the streets with his men; of the people shackled in the wagons, their heads covered. Bardas is right, of course—it could be us. But even if Felix trusts him, I don’t understand this.

  “Why?” I say. “Why help? Why put yourselves at such risk?”

  His gaze shifts back and forth before settling on mine. “Because we believe in reform, the same as you.”

  I’m sure he does. But I’d also bet my life that he’s withholding some other secret.

  “We’re prepared to offer supplies. Food.” He grins. “Razors. We can funnel you munitions, of a limited variety—”

  I fling up a hand. “We’re not starting a civil war!”

  He looks incredulous. “Then what are you doing, Jahan? Do you think the emperor will simply come around to your point of view, after he tried to execute you and now you’ve destroyed his ships and killed his men?”

  I stare down at my hands. The knuckles are still crusted with Irene’s blood. “I will not condone the murder of innocent Idaeans.”

  Bardas looks at Felix, who doesn’t offer help, then lets out an exasperated sigh. “We do agree on one thing, do we not? That the Saranons will never accept our reforms?”

  Felix nods. But I think of Leontius, who talks more easily with common people than courtiers, who befriended a boy from the backwater Britemnos Isles. “Leontius…”

  “Leontius Saranon has not spoken a single word in your defense since you left for Eren,” Bardas says with increasing impatience. “If he’s open to reform, he might have damned well let us know by now. Unless you know something I don’t?”

  “No.” I can’t point to any one thing. But I know Leontius isn’t like Augustus and Phaedra, or like his father. There’s a gentleness to him that he tries to hide beneath silence and disinterest. Even though he’s rejected our friendship, I still can’t shake the belief that if I could just talk to him, I could make him understand my point of view.

  But there’s no point arguing this with Bardas. He’s saying, “Very well, then. We can also offer information—the emperor’s orders, his plans. And”—he glances significantly at Felix—“we have ways to disseminate your information. We—”

  He stops, his head cocked. “What do you—” Felix begins, but Bardas lifts a finger for silence.

  I listen. At first all I hear are the other two shifting in their chairs. Their breathing. None of us speak.

  Then I hear it. A rattle out in the cellar. A voice. “What do you keep down here?”

  A bell clangs softly.

  I’m out of my seat in a moment, moving silently to the door. There’s no question they’ll find it, if they’re looking, but if they haven’t seen it yet, I might still have time. I press my hands to the wood, dragging up energy from the pit of my stomach. There’s nothing here but a wall. Smooth blank stone.

  Even through the wood, I can feel the witch stones humming. They must have raided an entire quarry of the damned things.

  Behind me, the others have risen to their feet. Bardas mouths, Sorcery? Safe? But I don’t know what to tell him.

  Footsteps scrape on the other side of the door. I insist, yet at the same time I feel it slipping, as if the witch stones are repelling my magic. Sweat trickles down my forehead. It would be foolish, and embarrassing, to be caught like this, like a rat in the basement of the Den. I’m not going to let these bastards take any of us again.

  “There’s a door here,” a man’s voice says on the other side. It’s a voice I know, prim and overbearing. The witch hunter Quentin.

  Felix comes up beside me. He makes a twisting motion with his hand.

  I turn the latch on the door, muffling the sound with my magic. It still snicks faintly.

  “Is someone in there?” Quentin demands. He rattles the doorknob. It holds. “Open this!”

  I back away from the door, much good though it does me. There’s no other exit. Once they force the door, we’ll be trapped in here, sitting ducks for the witch hunters to claim. Won’t they be pleased to get the Korakos, the leader of the New Republic, and the empress’s troublesome cousin?

  I turn to the others, but they’re both looking at me. As if I have any better idea than they do how to save our skins.

  In the cellar, someone says, “I’ll have to find the key.”

  “Well, hurry!” Quentin retorts.

  We have a little time, then. I study the cellar: stone walls, dirt floor. If we walk through the walls, we’ll only end up in the earth, and I’m not sure how far I can transport myself and two others.

  But if we go out a different way…The ceiling is also made of old damp-looking stone. “What’s above us?” I whisper.

  The other two also stare up. “The pantry, I think,” Felix answers.

  There shouldn’t be any witch hunters in the pantry, unless they’re keen to examine jam jars. And even if Felix is wrong, we’ll be found out just the same as we would be here.

  “I’ll go first,” I whisper. I climb up on the table. The ceiling is low; I can touch it without even extending my arms fully. Carefully, I nudge aside the particles that make up the cold stone. I push one hand through. Nothing happens—I feel only warm air—so I shove the other through, then work my elbows up onto the stone. I pull myself up, feeling the buzz in my head as I clear through the particles.

  I’m in a dark room. It smells of spices. Nearby, someone’s banging pots.

  With a heave, I pull myself all the way up, then turn around to help the others through. I don’t hear any witch stones, but the bells outside are still tolling. And if they’re in the basement, they’ll be elsewhere, too. I pull up Bardas first, then Felix. Just as his feet clear the floor, I hear the key rattling in the lock below. Felix bursts up with a gasp.

  “Shh,” I say, but Felix shakes his head.

  “We can get out through the kitchen. Come on.”

  Without pausing to listen for witch hunters or guardsmen, he dashes out. I run after him. Someone’s got to save Felix from himself.

  Workers bustle in the kitchen. A boy turns to scold Felix but ends up simply gaping as Felix rushes past him. I pause, glancing back for Bardas. He’s still in the pantry, hesitating. Felix bursts away out the back door. I look back and forth between
the two of them. But Bardas is hiding a secret. I know it.

  I turn back to the pantry. “Just going to my coach,” Bardas says, eyeing the hubbub of the kitchen. People must be staring, though when I look back they pretend not to see me. “It’s at the front—by the stable. Lend a hand?”

  I collar the boy who stared at Felix. “Which wall lets onto the stable?”

  He just points, still gaping. I gesture for Bardas to follow, and stride through the sink—the dishwoman exclaims—and the wall behind it. I nearly collide with the backside of a horse. It sidles, but I edge past, murmuring to it, softening it with persuasion. Nothing to trouble you, just a friend here.

  Then we’re in the stables, and Bardas lunges for an unmarked coach waiting outside. He waves at me in thanks, barking orders at the coachman. “Home! Now!”

  I hesitate. I should get back to Solivetos Hill, but Bardas is hiding something; I know it like a whisper down the back of my neck. I just can’t put my finger on what it is. Or maybe I just don’t want to surrender to this niggling hope. I need to get back. I have to tell Tullea and the others what’s happened.

  Yet as the driver urges the horses out, I see that the back of the coach is empty. Bardas didn’t bring a footman. I find myself charging forward. I hop lightly onto the back of the coach, clinging to the bar that runs across it. Nothing more than a shadow. A loose cobblestone jolting from the coach.

  The vehicle picks up speed through the quiet streets. Wind streams through my hair. It feels a little like freedom. We rattle across the Middle Bridge, into Vileia. My hands have begun to ache from clenching the bar, but the Deos Deorum rises before us now, an edifice of shadowed galleries and darkened windows.

  I hop down as the coach slows, coming through a back gate. Nothing more than misplaced darkness. I wait while Bardas disembarks and pauses to chat with the driver, and I begin to wonder if I shouldn’t have come. Or, perhaps, if I should step out and greet him. Confess.

  Before I can, he strides away into the house. I hurry after, following the shallow light of his taper into a small courtyard, then through an open doorway and up a flight of stairs. No servants appear, and the tension between my shoulder blades eases. He did come in secret, then; no one but his coachman seems to even know he left.

  He stops at a door and lets himself through. I glimpse bookshelves and the warm glow of many candles before the door closes behind him. Cautiously, I approach.

  On the other side of the door, voices rise. I press my ear against the wood, brushing aside the particles so I can hear clearly.

  “…left me here!”

  A woman’s voice. Light. Accented. An Ereni accent.

  I must have misheard. I must have.

  “I told you, it’s too dangerous!” Bardas is saying. “If we were stopped, you’d have been recognized. Besides, you’ve been so unwell.”

  “We’re allies. Allies don’t trick each other. They don’t leave the other one behind without even telling her where they’re going.”

  I know that voice. I know it better than any sound on earth.

  But this is impossible. She’s dead.

  I’ve fallen against the door, my hands bracing me up. A din is ringing in my ears, louder than any bells, but I can feel every dull thud of my heart.

  “…found them,” Bardas is droning on, “and then witch hunters surprised us and we had to run. If they’d caught us, you’d be dead and so would I.” He pauses. “I have some news you’re going to like. About who came to the meeting.”

  No. I push myself upright. No, he doesn’t get to tell her. That’s my job.

  I fumble my way through the fabric of the door, into the library’s warmth. She’s standing in front of the fire, a woman with tawny-brown skin and riotous chestnut hair, her hands on her hips. She’s wearing a delicate mauve gown. It has ruffles.

  A noise bursts from my throat. Laughter, I realize, only slightly hysterical. I seem so far from my body. They both turn, startled.

  “I should have known,” I’m saying, “that if you came to Ida, you’d find the latest fashions.”

  Because, of course, it’s Elanna.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “Jahan,” she whispers. She’s shaking. The ruffles quiver.

  “El.” This is no simulacrum. This is her, fierce, bright-eyed. Alive.

  I start to step forward, but before I can cross to her, she runs to me. Her arms close around my neck. I hug her tight against me, not caring that Bardas Triciphes is here, not caring what he sees or what he thinks. She presses against me, whispering my name over and over. I bury my face in her hair, drinking in her warmth, the feel of her. She’s alive. Somehow, she survived.

  Here, in the Deos Deorum. With Bardas Triciphes. Who didn’t so much as mention, in the conversation we just had, that he knew anything of her whereabouts. Or that she even lived.

  Gently, reluctantly, I release her. She lets go of me at the same moment, as if the same realization has occurred to her. She’s wearing a new necklace, I see, a thick silver choker. It looks heavy against the mauve gown. But she’s here.

  Bardas has closed his mouth. He’s fiddling with his coat cuffs. “I suppose I shouldn’t ask how you got in here…”

  “I might ask why you didn’t mention any of this,” I retort. I feel out of breath. I can’t believe she’s standing before me. I want to touch her again, to reassure myself it’s real. That she’s real.

  Bardas looks at the ceiling, as if it might offer him some excuse. “Maybe I hoped to avoid this scene,” he mutters. “We had to think things through. Act carefully.”

  I can’t believe this nonsense. “You mean you had to lie to me?”

  “You claim we’re allies!” Elanna rears up, hands back on her hips. “But you didn’t tell Jahan they never executed me?”

  Bardas winces in the face of our mutual anger. “It was an omission, not a lie…”

  “We’ve spent days hoping he’s alive!” Elanna gestures at me. “You know how much he matters to me. Didn’t I tell you, if there was one thing you should do, it was to find Jahan and let him know I lived?”

  “He didn’t cooperate the first time,” Bardas retorts. “He grabbed the simulacrum and ran off with it—”

  “Because I thought you’d all been discovered!” I exclaim. “Pantoleon’s people told me none of them did it! You said midnight. I waited. I wasn’t going to leave El to rot. So I showed the entire world I’m a sorcerer, for the sake of a damned simulacrum. If you had just told me—”

  Bardas throws up his hands. “We couldn’t tell you more! What if someone had found the note?”

  “They meant to rescue us both at midnight,” El’s saying at the same time. “Me first, then you. But my mind…I couldn’t walk. Couldn’t think, even to obey commands. They had to carry me out, keeping absolutely silent, then go all the way back for you—but it took too long. By the time they returned, with the simulacrum of you, the witch hunters had found you. I didn’t know what had happened—I could hardly talk…” She stops, brushing a hand over the collar at her throat. Looks at me. Fiercely, she says, “Jahan, if I’d been in my right mind, this would never have happened.”

  “Your right mind?” I echo. Cold fear clamps the back of my neck.

  “We saved your life,” Bardas is pointing out. “Sylvia brought you back from the brink!”

  I turn back to El. Lightly, I touch the collar at her throat. She looks at me, her nostrils flared, eyes wide. Brushing her skin makes my body burn.

  But I focus on the collar. It’s not the one I snapped off in the Hall of Glass. This collar has witch stones embedded in it, three of them at the front, like rough-cut jewels, but these are not for decoration. A faint hum echoes from them. The witch hunters would have had ample opportunity to produce this new collar, after they hauled her into the attic. The bastards. How is she functioning with it burr
owing into her mind?

  “That witch hunter—the grand inquisitor—he put this on me, after you broke the other one off. Said it would silence my tongue.” Her voice catches. “I couldn’t think. My mind went numb. It was as if it erased who I was. Everything I knew.”

  She shudders, and I can’t hold back anymore. I grip her elbow. She fits her hands over mine, holding me close. “The inquisitor took the manacles off, at least. He said I wouldn’t need them anymore.” She draws in a breath. “And he was right. I don’t know how the poor boy even carried me out.”

  “Boy?” I say.

  She nods. “Sylvia—the sorceress who saved me—she has a boy apprentice who made the simulacrum. He’s the one who got me out.”

  I blink. I don’t know any sorceresses named Sylvia, much less ones with heroic boy apprentices. But then, I have closed myself off from Ida’s sorcerers. A few days in their company doesn’t mean I’ve learned about everyone.

  Bardas coughs. “Yes, Sylvia. She’s brilliant. Wonderful.”

  “I wouldn’t be standing if not for her,” El says simply. “She came with us back to Ida.”

  I shake my head, still dazed. “How did you get here? How did you get out of Aexione?”

  Elanna and Bardas exchange a glance. “It wasn’t easy,” he says. “We’ve used the utmost discretion—bringing Lady Elanna here under cover of the Saranons’ recent outing to the city. Oh, yes,” he says, in response to my look of surprise, “there’s a new play by Orovillo, and practically the entire court has come to see it. Even Prince Leontius is here. Of course, it’s also Emperor Alakaseus’s opportunity to demonstrate he doesn’t fear us…”

  I raise an eyebrow. “The attack on the harbor didn’t send him running?”

  “Not yet. But we don’t have much time. He’ll force Firmina back to Aexione soon, and limit our negotiations. That’s why we must act now.”

  Elanna leans forward, holding my hands harder. “It’s all working out, Jahan! I’ve already signed an agreement with Firmina, in Sophy’s name.”