Fire & Chasm

by Chelsea M. Campbell

  “Yeah, right.”

  “It looks worse than it was. I mean, seriously, Leora. If I’d hurt myself that badly, do you think I could have hidden it from you?”

  She sucks in a deep breath, thinking that over, then lets it out slowly. “You’re right—you’re a terrible liar. And you’re kind of a baby when you get hurt. Like when you fell from that tree, I could tell you were crying.”

  “I was not.” But I grin at her, glad that she’s teasing me instead of getting mad.

  “Whatever.” She rolls her eyes and punches me in the shoulder. “And get dressed already. You think I like seeing you in your underwear?”

  I can hope.

  But I keep that thought to myself. Instead I sigh and scan the floor, catching sight of a scrap of red peeking out from under the bed. I grab my robe and pull it on, then reach for my belt. I hesitate before buckling it, considering leaving the knife behind. But of course I’m bringing it. My hands are already shaking, wanting to touch it so badly. To feel its fire in my head and to forget about the scars on my wrists and my ankles, and the fact that I never noticed them. That even thinking about them fills me with a raw, primal terror I’ve never felt before.

  I don’t want to think about them or how I got the scar on my arm.

  And I especially don’t want to think about Leora seeing me almost naked and not caring. Or saying she doesn’t.

  Because she might have been right about the scars, but she was wrong about one thing. We don’t tell each other everything.

  One of us is a murderer in love with his best friend.

  One of us has secrets to keep.

  There’s a trapdoor in a closet behind the chapel that leads down to the basement. The Fathers and Mothers keep it locked, and no one is supposed to open it. Ever. But a locked door can’t stop Leora, and ever since the Fire deemed her worthy and granted her its gift, exploring forbidden places has become our favorite hobby.

  It’s dark down here in the church basement, the only light the single candle I’m holding. My heart races from the thrill of trespassing on forbidden ground. Of digging up other people’s secrets instead of worrying about my own.

  “And over to your left you’ll see a, um, thing. That they used to do stuff with.” Leora waves her arm toward what looks like an old iron stove, her voice echoing throughout the mostly empty room.

  “Some tour guide you are.”

  “If someone would hold the candle better, then maybe I could see. This used to be a dungeon, you know.”

  “In the church?” I glance around, holding out my candle to try and peer into the dark corners of the room. It looks more like a storage cellar to me. There’s the dusty stove off to the left that probably hasn’t been used in ages, and then there are some shelves along one wall. Nothing looks particularly sinister.

  “The Church is apparently full of surprises.” She lowers her voice to a whisper, even though no one could possibly hear us. “Like I started to tell you earlier, the king and queen are all pro-wizard now, supposedly because of some scandal. But it’s not true. It can’t be.”

  “What can’t be true? And look, there’s a door over there.”

  “That one must lead to the dungeon.” She grins at me and crosses over to it, waiting for me to bring the candle before putting her hand on the knob. She licks her lips and concentrates, and a second later I hear the click of the door unlocking. She makes a big deal of dusting her hands off. “You know how we were talking about wizards and how they’ve been . . . disappearing?”

  Cold air blows through the door as she pushes it open.

  “Wizards. Disappearing.” Never heard of it.

  “Come on, don’t just stand there. Unless you’re afraid?” She locks her arm with mine and pulls me through the doorway. Her fingers graze the scar on my left arm, which aches a little from the wet and the cold.

  There’s a hallway. Dark and empty, with a dank, musty smell. Our footsteps echo off the stone walls. The light from the candle doesn’t reach nearly far enough to see what’s at the end of the hall.

  “Great,” Leora says. “This is just a boring old basement.” But she presses closer to me, clinging to my arm and jumping at the slightest noise.

  “This is a church, Leora. What did you expect? They don’t torture people—what would they have needed a dungeon for?”

  “The least they could do is have something interesting down here. And I know they don’t torture people. They don’t murder them, either, but that’s what the wizards are saying. That . . .” She pauses and shuts her eyes for a moment, and I know she must be thinking of her father and what might have happened to him. “That members of the Church have been killing them. In cold blood.”

  I suck in my next breath the wrong way, so that I’m suddenly coughing and choking on my own saliva. “That’s crazy.” My voice sounds too high-pitched. She’s right about me being a terrible liar. But she said members, plural. Not one acolyte, not one altar boy with a knife. They don’t know it’s me.

  “Agreed. It sounds more like what wizards would do, not the Church.” She moves toward the end of the hall, her footsteps slow and cautious.

  “We could turn back,” I tell her. “If you want. It’s just a regular basement, after all. They probably only keep it locked so couples don’t come down here to . . .” I trail off, my face getting warm. “You know.” What Rathe thought we were doing earlier.

  “Oh, yeah, it’s so romantic. All this dust and these spiderwebs that keep touching my hair really set the mood. And I’m not turning back—not on your life—so keep walking, Altar Boy.”

  My tongue feels heavy and too thick, so that it’s hard to say the words, but I make myself do it anyway. “So you think the Church is responsible for murdering wizards.”

  “That’s what the wizards are saying. But I can’t believe it. I won’t.”

  “Do they know who it is? I mean, who they are? Supposedly?” My stomach twists into a thousand knots. Of course they don’t know it’s me, because if they did, she wouldn’t be down here in this basement with me. She wouldn’t be walking arm in arm with a murderer.

  “No, because it’s not true. And the fact that the wizards are making this claim and they don’t even have a suspect makes it all sound even stupider, and—” Leora jumps as there’s a skittering sound. “By the Fire, what was that? Something just ran across my foot!” She grabs my arm extra tight and presses against me, like I can save her from whatever’s lurking in the darkness.

  And okay, maybe I can see why couples would come down here. “Probably a rat.”

  “A rat?!”

  “Yeah, well, what kind of dungeon doesn’t have rats? You’re getting the full experience.”

  She loosens her grip on me. “I think we’ve established this is just an ordinary, rat-infested basement. The church doesn’t have a dungeon, and they’re not responsible for killing wizards. That’s just . . . It’s crazy.”

  “And if it was true? Ow!” She pinches me, hard, on the arm.

  “Why would you even say that? I just go to school here, but you, you’re wearing red robes and lighting candles every morning. This is your life. If the Church was responsible for murdering wizards, it would mean it was corrupt. So corrupt that the king and queen would be right for . . . By the Fire, they’d actually be right for siding with the wizards, of all people. And we couldn’t stay here. Neither of us could be part of something like that.”

  “Right. Of course not.”

  “It’s a just a cheap ploy by those blue-robed bastards to get the Monarchy on their side.”

  “The Monarchy was already on their side—they just made it official. The wizards are out there torturing people every night, and I don’t see the king and queen doing anything about that.” I guess if you pay enough taxes, you can get away with anything. The Monarchy must know how the wizards are abusing their authority. Maybe that’s the point. Let the wizards keep ordinary, Fire-gifted citizens in a state of perpetual fear and just look the other
way. But just because the wizards are hurting people with the king and queen’s silent permission doesn’t make it right.

  We finally reach the end of the hall. There’s a door. A wooden door half rotted away.

  Leora coughs and covers her nose to block the musty smell. “I opened all the others. It’s your turn.”

  “Oh, I see. You might finally have found your dungeon and you’re too scared to open it.”

  “Only one of us ever mentioned turning back this whole trip, and it wasn’t me. You’re the one who’s scared.”

  “I didn’t say I wanted to turn back. I was offering you the chance, since you, you know, seemed kind of terrified.”

  “You shut up this instant, Altar Boy. I’m not afraid of anything.”

  “Great. Then open the door.” I step back, gesturing for her to have at it.

  She glares at me, the candlelight flickering across her face. A rat squeaks somewhere behind us. The dust that’s settled on my skin starts to itch, and cold air rustles across the stone floor.

  Leora might have said she’s not afraid of anything, but I watch her steel herself for this. She presses forward, cringing as she puts her hand against the rotting door and pushes it open.

  And that’s when I run my finger down her spine, and she jumps and screams bloody murder. “Az!” she shouts, whipping around to yell at me as I try not to laugh and fail miserably.

  “I thought you weren’t scared of anything?”

  “Right now you should be scared of me.” She smacks me in the arm a couple times, and I’m laughing so hard I end up dropping the candle.

  It rolls past the doorway, into the room, but miraculously doesn’t go out. I rush after the candle to save it—it might not be much light, but it’s better than having to find our way back in the dark—and as soon as I bend down to grab it, a draft makes the flame flicker, then die.

  And in that moment, as I’m plunged into complete and utter darkness, I feel like I’m in another place and another time. I don’t know where I am, but I’m not at the church. And despite the fact that there’s no light, I see a chair in the middle of the darkened room. A thick, heavy stone chair with straps on the arms and on the base. The kind of straps meant to hold down a person, to capture his hands and feet and keep him there forever.

  The scent of blood fills the air, so strong I can taste it. Old, decaying blood that makes bile rise up in my throat. A wave of overwhelming, suffocating fear fills my lungs, replacing the air. Not just in me, but in the whole room. I want to scream, but I can’t. I can’t make a sound—I can’t even breathe.

  Then the candle’s flame flickers back to life. I’m on my knees, in an empty room in the church basement. There is no chair. Rat droppings litter the floor, but otherwise, there’s nothing here.

  I suck in air like I’ll never get another chance, and I pick up the candle, careful—so, so careful—not to let it flicker out again.

  My other hand goes for the obsidian at my waist. Its fire flows through my veins, purging away all the terror. I let its heat rage inside me, spreading to my head, burning away the image of the chair with its straps. And the thoughts that lurk just beneath the surface—thoughts of the scars on my wrists that I never let myself see before today.

  “Az . . .?” Leora’s voice is barely more than a breath, and still it sounds loud and startling. “What just happened?”

  She tries to put her hand on my shoulder, but I flinch and feel my stomach twist in on itself at the threat of anyone touching me. I’m on my feet in an instant, and I see her eyes widen at the sight of the knife. “Don’t.” The word is out there, hanging in the air before I can stop myself. It doesn’t sound like me. More like a scared, desperate kid. Someone who might totally lose it at any moment.

  “Okay,” Leora says, taking a step back, her hands out in front of her. “But, Az, you’re scaring me.”

  I laugh. A low, menacing kind of laugh. “I thought you weren’t afraid of anything?”

  A whimpering sound escapes the back of her throat.

  I realize I’ve moved closer to her, forcing her back against the dank and dirty wall, the knife burning so hot in my palm and in my brain that I’m hardly aware of what I’m doing.

  I swear under my breath and throw the knife to the ground. My hand starts to shake and I clench my fist hard to keep from reaching for it again. “Fire take me, Leora, I’m sorry. I didn’t . . . I would never . . .” I move toward her, one hand clutching the candle, the other reaching out to her.

  Some of the horror on her face drains away, but she still keeps her distance from me as she scrambles from the wall, not letting me touch her.

  My wrists suddenly itch like crazy. I scratch at them, drawing blood, tearing at the skin, but unable to make it stop.

  Leora puts her hands to her mouth, watching me with tears in her eyes. Watching me like she’s seeing me for the very first time. “Az,” she says, one of the tears sliding down her cheek, “what happened to you? When you went into that room . . .?”

  “I saw something. In the dark.” I make myself stop scratching, even though the itching hasn’t stopped and it’s driving me mad. I bend down and grab the knife, hurrying to sheathe it before I can give in to its fire. Even if I want to so very badly. Even if it’s the only thing I want, except . . . Except for her. More than anything I want her to stop looking at me like I’m a wild animal. I want to comfort her and tell her everything’s all right, even if it isn’t.

  “You saw something,” she says.

  “All this dungeon talk must have gotten to me, that’s all. Come on.” I notice how far down the candle’s burned and silently pray to the Fire to keep it lit. Not that it will listen—not to me—but I do it anyway, out of habit. “We should get out of here.”

  “Yeah, sure. This place is giving me the creeps.” She hugs herself, rubbing her arms, and walks beside me. Not pressed against me like before, but close enough that our fingers occasionally brush against each other. “But I still want to know what you saw that scared you so much.”

  I stop and turn toward her, our shadows flickering together in the candlelight, blending so well that it’s hard to tell where one of us stops and the other begins. Sharing the same darkness. And in that moment I could tell her. I could hand over a piece of myself and tell her exactly what happened, except . . .

  Except how can I, when I don’t even know?

  “It was nothing,” I tell her, letting my fingers brush up against hers and linger there. But if it was nothing, I wouldn’t have needed the knife. I wouldn’t be reliving the shock of horror I felt when I looked into that pitch-black room and saw that chair.

  If it was really nothing, it wouldn’t be burning me from the inside out, haunting me with every heartbeat. Burrowing into all of my thoughts, lacing them with dread and the sense that something terrible happened.

  That it’s all going to happen again, and that there’s nothing I can do to escape it.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  That evening, the High Priest approaches me in the chapel while I’m sweeping out the fireplace. We’re the only people in the room, so when he says, “I know all about you,” I know he’s talking to me. Even if I wish he wasn’t.

  He’s been here a day, and I already wish he’d never come at all.

  I keep sweeping up the ashes, watching dust particles swirl in the air and pretending I didn’t hear him. I remember the hungry way he looked at me, when he accused me of having a guilty conscience. In front of everyone. I don’t want to be anywhere near him, least of all alone with him.

  “I know how Father Moors found you, and I know all about the skill the Fire’s given you,” he says.

  As if he didn’t make that perfectly clear before. “I’m trying to do my chores.” I scratch the side of my face, then catch a glimpse of how much soot is on my hands.

  “You mean ‘I’m trying to do my chores, High Priest Endeil.’ And those are first-year chores, boy. You’re not in your first year. I know—I remember when F
ather Moors found you.”

  Sweeping out the fireplaces is a job usually reserved for new acolytes, but I needed something to take my mind off what happened in the basement. And the fact that I have no idea what happened last night, but I’m supposed to go meet a wizard tomorrow who knows who I am. Who I really am.

  My worst enemy knows more about me than I do. It was either sweeping up ashes or touching the knife. Getting my obsidian fix is inevitable, but after what happened with Leora, I’m trying to resist. At least for another hour or two. When all the fireplaces are clean, and I have to go back to my room and be alone with my thoughts, then I know I’ll give in. I’ll choose the darkness, just like that. Just like it’s chosen me.

  But that’s none of High Priest Endeil’s business.

  “It was three years ago, and I’ve been keeping up with you ever since. After all, someone with such skill with obsidian gets my attention. So does someone with no memory of where this skill came from.”

  I don’t know what he’s getting at, but whatever it is, I don’t like it. He’s used to getting his way, and he wants something from me. “I have other fireplaces to attend to.”

  I move to leave, but he grabs my arm, not letting me take another step. Every nerve in my body comes alive, and it doesn’t escape me that it’s my right arm he’s holding, so I can’t reach for my obsidian. Not without putting up an obvious struggle.

  “It’s a tough subject, I’m sure,” he says, moving his hand to my shoulder, as if he was just trying to comfort me, not control me.

  But my stomach twists in disgust, and I don’t believe that for a second. “It is,” I say. “And I’d rather not talk about it. High Priest Endeil.”

  Concern flickers across his face. “You see, Azeril, I would like very much to talk about it. The two of us have a lot in common. The Fire’s granted us both very interesting powers. Powers that raise us up above everyone else. The Fire bestows minor gifts on the common person. Farmers, acolytes, the Fathers . . . even the royal family. Those traitors who’ve sided with the enemy. They have only a hint of the kind of power we have. That has to tell you something. Believe me, Azeril, when I say you’re meant for much better things than sweeping out fireplaces.”