by Mary Taranta
“Chadwick thinks Merlock knows we’re coming,” I say at last.
North sighs. “Of course he does.” He glances over. “I was seven years old when the monks legitimized me,” he says. “My mother was livid. She would have raised me a bastard, my blood a weapon, and my mission a secret. Instead I was made a prince. The monks thought I would be a beacon of hope, a possibility of a future in which Merlock could be killed. Instead they made me a target, an excuse for all the anarchy since I was just a child. I was forced to hide in the palace to avoid being hunted like my father, either by the hellborne hoping for a widespread Burn, or by the people still hurting from his betrayal.” Sighing, he drops his chin toward his chest. “But I didn’t even know if my father knew I existed until recently.”
I watch him from the corner of my eye, mulling over his speculation. I wonder if I should mention what I saw the other night, Merlock watching a flickering memory of his son playing in the hall, asking North to speak to him and let him go. “I think he’s always known,” I say. “And maybe in some twisted way he’s just trying to save you.”
North snorts, derisive. “By killing Avinea?”
“By warning you that even kings are mortals,” I say, “and mortals were never meant to wield magic. Apparently no one’s seen him since the Burn began—”
“Because he couldn’t bear to face the consequences of his choices. He’s a coward.”
“You said yourself, the Burn originally spread because fortune hunters got infected and poisoned the earth where they were buried.” Giving him a pointed look, I say, “Merlock was never the one expanding the Burn, and there has to be a reason. Maybe that reason was you.”
North shakes his head. “You give him far too much humanity, Miss Locke.”
Perhaps he’s right. After all, my mother tried to kill him—more than once. And while the mystery of my mother has been unraveling thread by thread, slowly reshaping the way I once saw her, I’m still too close to see a pattern. Between her and Merlock, they can’t both be heroes, and a selfish part of me wants my mother to be right, for Merlock to have always been the enemy.
I wonder if North feels the same in reverse.
We lapse into silence. Then North shifts, pointing ahead. “There it is.”
I frown, seeing nothing but shadow. But then it appears, like one of Rook’s mythical giants, hunched on the cliffs overhead: the castle of Prevast. Built of dark stone, it rises from the earth, stretching toward the stars with dozens of towers and spires. A veranda juts out over the water, supported by arches carved from the cliffs themselves. One of the castle towers rises higher than the rest. A watchtower.
“It’s beautiful,” I say.
“It’s dead,” a voice says flatly behind us.
I stiffen as Rialdo saunters up to the railing, flicking ashes into the water below.
“There’s dignity in death,” North says, “when the alternative is to suffer.”
“Dignity?” Rialdo scoffs. “Almost a million people lived up there and Merlock left them all to rot. How many of them died with grace? How many were Burned alive?”
“Too many, and all innocent,” North says, dipping his chin into the collar of his coat. “The city was protected by magic for years without fault. Yet as soon as Corthen began stealing that magic, the provosts said the spell was weakening because the king was weakening. The cowards who believed them fled. Those who remained loyal to my father stayed.” He shakes his head, lips twisted in distaste. “Merlock was a hero once, but his people abandoned him because he wasn’t infallible. And in his fury he Burned them all, even those who would have fought for him.”
“He was complacent,” Rialdo says. “His brother was a threat, but he refused to acknowledge that until it was too late.”
“Like your father refused to acknowledge Bryn until she became more powerful than him?” I ask.
He straightens, eyes flashing, but North cuts in. “Merlock knew Corthen never had a chance,” he says softly, his words nearly torn loose by the wind. “Like most second-borns, Corthen was a mere shadow of his brother. War was the only way he would ever earn glory.”
Rialdo rolls his eyes at the implication that he, too, is merely a shadow of his father, or now, of his youngest sister.
North watches the castle recede back into the night with a rawness in his expression that hurts. “People are impatient,” he says. “Their temperaments are fickle. When Merlock returned from the war overseas, ready to embrace the people he loved, he found a city that had turned its back on him in favor of his brother and the promise of something more, something better.”
“Was Corthen better?” I ask.
North shrugs. “Corthen was a thief and a liar,” he says. “He had no magical abilities of his own, and yet he managed to convince the kingdom that Merlock was weak and defenseless. He appealed to Avinea’s insatiable greed by promising egalitarian access to magic he didn’t even have. No more provosts, no more touchstones. Magic everywhere, for everyone.”
“Then you don’t blame Merlock for destroying everything?”
“I didn’t say that,” he says. “Merlock didn’t have to kill his brother to keep his crown, but he did it anyway, to prove his power to the people. And it poisoned his heart. That he blames Avinea for making him do it, rather than accepting responsibility, is entirely on him.”
I shiver, hugging myself. “Showing mercy could have saved him.”
Rialdo flicks his cigarette into the water and pulls away from the railing. He smirks, but it barely conceals a newfound tightness in his expression. “Mercy is for those who lack conviction.”
North waits for Rialdo to disappear belowdecks, spreading his slender hands across the railing. “Mercy is often the more difficult choice. Sparing Corthen’s life would have made Merlock look weak. And more than anything, he was afraid of looking weak.”
I shove my hands into my coat pockets. “I think Merlock wants to be found,” I say again. “Maybe after all these years he’s looking for your mercy. Or forgiveness.”
North grunts in derision. “Then he’s going to die a very disappointed man.” Glancing over, he forces a smile. “Thank you for your help this afternoon.”
“Of course. That’s why I’m here.”
“Of course,” he repeats, but his smile drops as he lapses into silence, staring out across the inky sea.
* * *
After another miserable day at sea, it’s almost dark again by the time Davik calls out the warning that we’ve reached our destination. There’s no harbor ahead, only a small alcove carved into the cliffs, with decimated piers half-crumbled into the water. Not broken from the Burn but from the sea and a lack of maintenance. We’ve passed a handful of fishing villages like this already, safe pockets of land protected by the rocky walls around them—like Brindaigel kept safe in the mountains, but in miniature. Villagers fled years ago out of fear of being trapped, but a few houses remain, elevated on stilts, emerging from the thickening fog. Other houses, farther back, are built into the cliffs themselves, their roofs green with moss, and white from the ash that falls from above like snow.
No one speaks as we navigate closer and drop anchor a safe distance away from any possible shoals or rubble unseen in the water. Adrenaline hums through me as I realize that this is the moment that changes everything. For all Chadwick trained his men against the hellborne, there was little he could do to prepare them for the Burn. If Sofreya’s spells don’t hold, we’ll all be poisoned slowly, potentially without notice, until we’re too far inland and too infected to turn back.
Davik and her brothers remain on board, but the rest of us drop rowboats into the water, loaded with enough supplies to drag our back ends lower into the water.
The fog thickens as we strike sand. The six soldiers begin unloading cargo and stacking crates inside one of the cliffside houses. Its door is warped out of its frame, the window glass is splintered but still holding strong, and inside is warmer than expected, despite hard-packed dirt f
loors and damp walls that have sprouted with moss and small mushrooms. Rotting fishing nets hang from the walls, slick with algae and a crusty buildup of salt.
“It’s only temporary,” North says with a bracing smile, eyes catching mine.
I shrug off his apology. “You’ve never seen the Brim,” I say. “This is luxury.”
Nobody else seems to agree. After the tidy barracks of the palace, dirt floors and damp walls are hardly appealing, and some argument ensues over who gets to lay their bedrolls on the two bed frames remaining, and who is relegated to the floor.
“We won’t be sleeping here,” Chadwick finally says, ending the disagreement before it turns physical. “Catch your breath and say your prayers, because we leave in a few hours.”
“What, in the dark?” Rialdo asks, concerned. Even those of us raised in Brindaigel know the horror stories of what happens in the Burn after dark—when the hellborne are far more active. Far hungrier.
“In the dark,” Chadwick agrees. “The ash we unsettle won’t be as easy to see, making us harder to track.”
“And won’t that precaution be negated by the magic spells we’re all wearing?” Rialdo asks darkly.
Nobody replies, but it’s an understood possibility the soldiers have prepared for, evidenced by the weaponry they strap to their backs and hips. It is not so much if we fight the hellborne, but when, and how many.
Due to my limited training, Chadwick refused me a sword, allowing me a matching set of daggers instead. But I have my own unique armor: a breastplate with hammered iron in the front and a leather holster in the back, intended to mute my mother’s spell and keep me from being dragged across the Burn by accident. The breastplate will also keep the spell from potentially draining too quickly. We have no idea how long it will last.
I feel foolish pulling on the armor while the others are all dressed smartly in their matching leather tunics and boots, but it’s my own fault. North wanted me to learn how to control the spell to unfurl it more slowly, but like my training with Chadwick, three distracted weeks with Sofreya produced unsatisfactory results, so here I am.
While the others double-check their packs and eat a quick meal, I duck outside to the empty beach, eager for a moment alone and room to breathe. My nerves are beginning to fray from such close quarters, and I need them to be steady before we enter the Burn, or my anxiety will pull the poison through my blood even faster.
The water is barely visible through the fog, but as I draw closer, the waves fall into focus, washing ashore with white ribbons of foam. Stones and a thick layer of broken seashells are left behind, and I crouch out of reach of the tide and pick through the sand, unearthing an unbroken snail shell colored sunset orange and pearly pink, a shock of color against the faded world around me.
A souvenir for Cadence.
I didn’t cry when Cadence told me she hated me, and I refuse to cry now, not with the Burn waiting at my back. And yet, cradling the shell in my hands, I once again acknowledge that I may not be the one to give it to her, that I might not make it back alive. This fact has always been a worry, needling at the back of my mind, but now it feels more definite, unarguable. Our final words to each other were far from forgiving, and I inwardly chastise myself for not trying harder, for not pushing further, for leaving her to Bryn—
“You shouldn’t wander away from the others.”
I startle as Chadwick emerges from the fog, armed for battle. “The fog is thick,” he says, “and plays tricks with your eyes. There’s old magic in the ground above us, Locke. You can’t always trust your senses.”
I nod and pocket the shell as if it’s a promise, stepping past him toward the camp. We haven’t spoken since the night I failed at becoming North’s proxy, and I can’t help but feel like he blames me for being weak. Compared to his six soldiers, fully trained, ready to die, I feel like a fraud.
“Locke.” He stops me, a hand on my arm. “You don’t have to do this. I asked too much of you the other night; it wasn’t fair to expect that sacrifice. If you need to be back in New Prevast with your sister—”
Ostensibly it sounds like a token of peace, an easy out for me and one that sings to the ache in my heart. But honestly, it’s the same concern he voiced at the palace: If I’m going to be a liability, I’ll be left behind. It would be insulting, if he weren’t so practical.
“We all have obligations in life, whether we choose them or not,” I finally say. “Finding Merlock is apparently mine. Cadence will survive until I come back.”
Chadwick nods and thumps my arm once in a gesture of awkward truce; I’m gratified he doesn’t remind me that the odds are stacked against us ever coming back. Lies are easier to believe when left unchallenged. “The others are waiting,” he says.
When we emerge from the fog, I see North standing at the center of a loose circle of Chadwick’s handpicked soldiers—Gideon, Terik, Jarrett, Cohl, Elin, and Sull, all of them with more than five years of training. But with the addition of Rialdo to the party, Sull, the youngest, will stay behind to guard the supplies. Like Tobek, he doesn’t take the new assignment well, glowering at the others, who share a nervous energy.
While North is not dressed in uniform, he still looks imposing, regal, like a leader. His eyes meet Chadwick’s and he nods once as he takes a breath.
“Here it comes,” Rialdo mutters.
“I want to thank all of you,” North says, looking each of us in the eye. “What I ask of you is not easy, and is not guaranteed. That you’re here in spite of the risks is a testament to your courage and your dedication to restoring Avinea. Such sacrifice will not be forgotten.”
The soldiers murmur acknowledgment but Rialdo audibly yawns, earning a reproving look from Chadwick. Yet unlike the tepid reaction at the harbor, North’s words seem to energize the soldiers.
Still, the procession up the cliff is quiet, solemn, each of us lost in our own thoughts—our own doubts. By the time we reach the top, my nerves have sharpened into dread, and I survey the Burn spread ahead of us. Even knowing my limited role in this expedition, I feel exposed, vulnerable.
The feeling seems to pass through the group, as everyone fully realizes what we’re doing. We are not the first contingent to enter the Burn to search for Merlock. Years ago, when the Burn was still new and Merlock still more man than myth, rich nobles—both from Avinea and from other power-hungry continents within reach—funded expeditions to find Merlock and reclaim the magic the kingdom so relied upon. Avinea’s best soldiers crossed into the Burn, believing themselves invincible and their king a weakened coward, easy to find, easy to kill.
None of them returned.
There are no surviving journals or notes from these failed expeditions for us to study. No warnings for us to heed. Our plan is reliant entirely on whispered rumors and educated guesses. Yet this isn’t a riot in the city, or a hellborne attack on a farming village, which are small, easy to manage battles. This is the Burn, a plague born of corrupted magic, and our only defense is more magic, provided by a king that no one had even heard of until three weeks ago, dispensed by a woman with barely any training.
In this moment we all realize: Plans are easy in the safety of the palace. Faced with reality, even a solid strategy can begin to fray. And if nothing else, every one of us knows the danger of loose threads and frayed edges.
With embarrassed glances several of the soldiers check and double-check the spells Sofreya cast across their forearms. Even Rialdo is strangely quiet, pale as his hand rests on the pommel of his sword.
“Locke.” Chadwick gestures me forward.
Moment of truth. The others shift, curious as I unbuckle my breastplate and set it at my feet. Drying my hands against my trousers, I step forward, shoulders back and chin raised, defiant of Chadwick’s limited expectations of me, defiant of the soldiers’ distrust of my role. Sofreya stands by, ready to intercede if something goes wrong, but the ash gives way to the earth below. Grass springs forth, and, emboldened, I take another step.
>
The familiar itch starts beneath my skin, a strange, welcome heat that spreads from my heart throughout my body. And then the thread of magic unspools and I surrender myself over miles of misshapen terrain, toward a watchtower that rises from the ash like a skeletal tree. I quickly note an abandoned settlement at its feet, and a campfire somewhere near the tower, flickering shadows across barren walls. The mountains are far to my right, no more than black peaks against the starry sky.
Satisfied, I withdraw one of my twin daggers and pierce the pad of my thumb. The pain slams me back into my body, and I stagger into Sofreya’s waiting arms.
“Well done,” she says.
“Did you see him?” Chadwick asks.
“Let her breathe!” Sofreya shoots him a scathing look as she buckles my armor back into place and then forces a canteen into my hands. I dutifully take a sip, but quickly press it back to her, trying to ignore the way the others look at me, a mixture of curiosity and fear.
“What just happened?” Gideon asks, but North overrides him, map already open.
“Watchtower,” I say, describing the scene as best I can, ignoring the way the others’ eyes prickle my skin.
“Is she hellborne?” Elin asks.
“Just a magician,” Jarrett says.
“None of us are magicians,” Gideon cuts in, eyeing me skeptically. “That’s the point. So we don’t steal the magic and disappear with it.”
“Then what is she?”
“A valuable asset to the expedition,” Chadwick says, silencing his soldiers with a scowl.
“Dorrent is northeast of Oksgar,” North says. “It’s the closest watchtower within range.”
“So he’s still on the move.” Chadwick frowns over the map, tracing a line between Oksgar and Dorrent.
North nods grimly, folding the map closed. “You were right,” he says to Chadwick. “If we had sailed to Bresdol, we would have been two days behind. From here we can move northeast and we might have a chance of intercepting him.”
