by Mary Taranta
And then he’s yanked back by a furious Chadwick, and North stumbles off the stone he was sitting on, expression wild. I cover my mouth, and Chadwick holds a hand toward me, the other still clenched in the collar of North’s coat. Behind him, Sofreya watches with wide eyes and a jar of clean rocks clutched in one hand.
“Are you all right?” he asks.
I drop my hand. “Yes,” I say in a voice not entirely my own.
North pulls out of Chadwick’s grip and rakes a hand through his hair. His wedding ring flashes in the sunlight.
“Go back to the others,” Chadwick says to me.
“We have to turn around,” I say, pleading. “Chadwick, he’ll never make it—”
“Locke! For once, will you do as I say and not argue with me?!”
Anger rises up in response to his tone. He’s not listening to me—and he never will. Frustrated, I fall back a step and then turn, nearly bolting for the safety of the town house. North’s kiss still hums on my lips, and it makes me want to cry with frustration. Not because it was wrong.
But because I wanted even more.
It’s the Burn, I tell myself; this isn’t me. I know what I want most, and despite everything it is still in New Prevast, watched over by an executioner and a princess with a stolen crown. But I reason that Cadence can survive without me. She can’t, however, survive without North. Nobody can, except the monsters of Avinea.
And I will not let them win.
Deep down, I always understood that I was never coming back from that night in the dungeon when Alistair injected me with magic and Bryn told me I had no choice but to be her redundancy. She will never release me from this binding spell if North succeeds; she can’t risk it. Even if she agrees to leave Avinea forever, I would be right there with her, ensuring North never retaliates. All I can hope is that Cadence walks away from Bryn’s guise of friendship unharmed.
With a sharp turn, I steer away from the town house and cut clumsily through the abandoned streets of the village. With several blocks between me and the others, I finally sink to my knees, palms flattened to the ground. Wind snaps between the buildings, bitter cold despite the heat trapped in the barren earth.
Silence settles over me. Ash drifts across my shoulders, soft as snow. I feel like a broken shadow in a broken world, and the only clarity left is the weight of Chadwick’s dagger pressed against my ankle. Withdrawing it from my boot, I stare at the cracked leather scabbard against my knees until my vision blurs.
Numbly I unlatch the breastplate from my shoulder and let it fall to my side. My mother’s spell swells into action, but I pin it back a moment longer as I savor the slow burning buildup of pressure in my chest—pain that I can control to combat the pain in my heart that can’t be touched.
And then I release the spell.
The Burn dims around me as the horizon rolls closer. I can see the phantom smear of old Prevast in the far-flung distance, no more than a charcoal smudge, but the spell keeps me above the abandoned Burn, where shadowed animals roam in packs, and tribes of hellborne addicts crane their heads toward the magic brightening the sky.
The spell dips me dangerously low to the ground, but there’s nothing—no one—around me. I land on my knees, the dagger still tight in my hand. After gaining my feet, I spin in a circle. The hairs on my neck stand on end; I feel as though I’m being watched, but there is nothing but an empty landscape and a mournful wind. No landmarks, no hiding places. No Merlock.
Fear rolls down my back. Is the spell beginning to fade? Will I be able to make it back? Should I go back now, and let us take our chances through the Burn as planned? It’s a coward’s choice, and I refuse to entertain it again, even as I feel the temptation eating through my veins—the easy way out.
I make another circle, heart aching in my chest. A gust of wind blows ash into my face, and I put a hand up to block the worst of it. Something moves on the horizon, a blur of motion, and I squint for a better look. Merlock?
Shadows. As the sun dips lower in the sky, behind a haze of clouds above the horizon, the shadows begin pooling together across the dunes, knitting into place like some monstrous puzzle. They rear on bent legs, forming a hybrid monster of a man.
It takes a step toward me and splinters apart, only to reassemble in a new configuration of misshapen pieces, less a man now and more a beast, hulking and curved low to the ground. Smaller shadows crawl over larger ones, forming claws. A forked tail emerges, flicking toward the sky, kicking up plumes of debris. The only light is its slitted eyes as they turn to me and narrow with a razor focus.
The shadowbred.
My stomach plummets. I know how to fight the hellborne; in theory I even know how to fight Merlock.
How do I fight shadows?
My mother’s spell pulls me directly toward the monster, but instinct tells me to run. The shadowbred takes a lumbering step toward me, rattling the very earth beneath my feet, and I stagger to stay balanced, fingers flexing on the dagger. Anxious, I unsheathe it and brace my weight. The sun briefly reappears in between the clouds, glinting off the blade, directing a flash of light that hits the flank of the monster. The shadows recoil, exposing a narrow slit that quickly seals back together again.
It’s a minor infliction, and yet it’s proof enough: Even shadows can be defeated.
Chadwick’s voice fills my head, directing my posture, my position, my stance. Knees bent, arms loose, don’t lock those elbows, Locke.
But then another conversation fills my head, Chadwick explaining what a dagger forged with royal blood can do—including cutting through the king’s spells to his heart underneath. The shadowbred beast is monstrous and ugly and terrifying, but . . .
It’s still only made of magic. Merlock’s magic. And if my mother’s spell is leading me to this monster, maybe Merlock is hidden within it.
I raise the dagger as the shadow beast lumbers closer. The blade may cut through spells, but that doesn’t mean the spells won’t retaliate, so I keep an eye on my surroundings, marking the easiest path to run.
“Merlock!” I scream. “You want to talk? So come out and talk, you coward!”
The beast launches itself off its back quarters, blotting the sky behind it as it sails toward me. I barely have time to think, to swing before it envelops me. I slam the dagger up, and it skims down the middle of the beast, breaking the shadowbred apart into two smaller forms that hit the ground behind me and kick up a tidal wave of ash. Gold shimmers where the blade scorched the edges of whatever spell is fueling the monster and cut the threads of magic that bound it together; smoke dilutes into the air like blood.
While I’ve managed to wound it, I’ve also managed to piss it off, and now two beasts prepare for a second attack, claws digging into the earth for traction, scraping down to the barren stone beneath the Burn.
Wiping ash off my lips, I brace my weight and hold my stance, forcing a smile. An act of false courage, intended to intimidate a wavering opponent at the Stone and Fern Tavern. I don’t have to be stronger to win; I just have to last longer.
The beasts launch forward with a roar of rushing wind, knocking me to my back. I swing wild, reckless, and shadows pull apart and begin to worm into my hair, across my scalp, threading around my legs like dark ribbons, pulling tight. Gone is my forced confidence, replaced with rising panic. Stop it, I tell myself, slow down, breathe.
Blood thunders in my ears as I turn the blade to my palm, prepared to cut myself out of this nightmare. Instead, the sun emerges from behind the clouds one last time, setting the Burn ablaze in light. The shadows thin, turn translucent, disappear.
But for how long? The days are too short; already the sun is half-sunken behind the horizon.
Panting, I remain on my back, eyes runny with ash, pulse erratic with adrenaline. I laugh once, hoarse and frantic. It is not a victory . . . but it’s not a defeat. Rolling onto my knees, I sit up and adjust the dagger, opening my palm before cradling the edge of the blade against the skin. It hovers, uncer
tain, as I sense I’m not alone. Twisting, I see a figure standing on a dune behind me, brooding and dark and familiar.
Merlock.
The hairs on my arms stand on end as I rise to my feet, staring him down. No more running, I tell myself; no more fear. Whether I wanted it or not, this is my fate. Given to me by my mother, met for my sister.
But Merlock turns his back to me and walks away.
Fury floods my veins. To turn your back on an opponent like that is nothing short of arrogance, a dismissal. I am not a threat, he seems to say.
Then why doesn’t he face me?
Growling, I start running for him, legs pumping, thighs exhausted from two days of pushing through the Burn. I lower my head against a rising wind, tracking the thread of my mother’s spell as it carries me over the rise of ash—only to stop abruptly when I reach the top.
Baedan and her hellborne tribe are spread across the bottom of the rise, astride horses twisted into something monstrous by the dead magic they’ve been bred upon. Clotted fur hangs off their bony frames; they have muzzles pitted and slick with poison, and eyes that glow silver. A campfire burns in the distance behind them, abandoned now, as they chased the scent of magic toward me.
Merlock strides past them without a second glance, coat snapping at his legs. My mother’s spell hovers in his wake, and the hellborne stare at it greedily. Some try to catch it between their hands, balancing precariously on their horses.
Baedan dismounts, pulling a blade from a sheath at her hip, the iron flashing dully. A dagger forged with North’s blood, the same as the one I hold, able to kill a king. She wears an eye patch now, a square of black against her skin, to hide the socket that used to hold the eye North destroyed with magic. As Merlock continues past her, she takes a step after him, blade raised for a killing blow.
No. I will not come this close only to watch her win.
My hubris is quickly punished when Merlock jerks one hand up toward the sky without breaking his stride. At once the ground begins to rumble, bouncing loose debris, sending drifts of ash spilling downhill behind him.
Baedan freezes, but Merlock does not. He flicks his hand, and half a dozen hellborne are flung off their beasts, several yards in either direction; Baedan falls to her knees. Behind me, storm clouds roll across the sky and blot out the sun completely. With mounting dread I turn to see a new shadowbred beast pulling itself from the earth, ready to fight. Smaller, writhing shadows twist and dissipate around it, blurring the edges of the monster into a smoky haze. It tips a pointed head to the sky and opens a gaping mouth full of serrated shadow teeth.
Sainted mothers and their virgin daughters.
I move to cut my palm, but the blade is gone. The shadowbred is already barreling forward; I have no time to lose. Swearing beneath my breath, I start running downhill, directly toward Baedan as several narrow fingers of shadow stretch past me and begin to close into a fist—
“What are you doing?!”
I blink, disoriented. North is now bent over me, holding Chadwick’s dagger in one hand. He must have taken it from my body here, thereby leaving me unarmed out there. A small cut on my forearm explains my sudden return. Already he’s pressing a bandage against the wound to keep the Burn from infecting my blood.
I sit up, still tasting panic in my throat, ash in my mouth. Ignoring his question, I clutch my armor to my chest and stagger to my feet, scanning the street around me. More shadows and half-buried ruins. No sign of Baedan, monsters, or Merlock.
“You used the spell without telling anyone.” He focuses on the bandage, tying it off with tight, jerky movements. “You could have been lost out there!”
“But I wasn’t,” I say, shouldering my armor back on, buckling it shut. Now that I’m safe, I’m flooded with frustration at the lost opportunity to fight Merlock, to end this once and for all. “He was right there, North! I saw him! I could have—”
Done what? a voice whispers in my head, full of recrimination. You could have fought off the hellborne, a shadowbred monster, and survived long enough to face Merlock? He flicked his wrist, and the hellborne went flying. You need courage in the fighting ring, but delusion never wins anything.
“You could have what? Faris, what were you doing . . . ?” With my arm safely covered, North finally examines—and recognizes—the dagger in his hand. His face drains of color. I can’t meet his eyes as I snatch it back.
Chadwick rounds the corner behind us. “Corbin! What is going on?”
The captain has half a second before North launches into him, tackling him to the ground. “You son of a bitch! When were you going to tell me you sent her to her slaughter?!”
Chadwick holds off North’s attack, looking to me in surprise, and then alarm. “I didn’t—it was her choice—”
“I told you weeks ago that it was not an option!”
“You have no more options left,” Chadwick says, teeth clenched. “You are my only concern, your majesty. Locke understands that.”
“He’s right!” I grab North’s coat and drag him back as the others arrive, drawn by the shouts. “It was my decision.”
North barks a bitter laugh, bent over his knees to catch his breath. “Oh, give it a rest, Ben. We’re not children playing swords anymore. Your only concern is your own ambition. I’ve known it from the day we met.” Disgust twists his features as he looks to each one of us in turn. “You’re all out here for the same reason: a land grant and a title. You swear your fealty to me, but when the time comes, you’ll take your fistful of gold and run. Well, then go.” He waves his hand dismissively. “I don’t need you.”
Chadwick accepts Elin’s hand up to his feet. “Corbin—”
North takes a swing, but Chadwick easily steps out of range and North loses his footing, staggering forward as rage flashes across his face. “Do not address me as your equal! I am not your friend! I am your prince, and all of you”—a trembling finger wavers at each of them in turn—“are wasting my time!”
“He’s completely mad,” Elin murmurs.
“It’s the Burn,” I say desperately, reaching for him, then stopping short. Poison threads across his fingers, knotting into larger blooms at his knuckles. More creeps up his throat, toward his face. “It’s eating past his protection spells. Did you not excise him?”
Sofreya presses her hands to her hair. “Yes, but—”
But his learning that I was willing to sacrifice myself has brought everything rushing back.
“What is going on?” Cohl holds both hands out as if to keep us from attacking one another, though no one has moved.
“Our intrepid princeling seems to be keeping secrets,” Rialdo says, not even bothering to hide his smirk. “Looks like he’s not strong enough to resist his daddy’s magic.”
“Are we really going to talk about kowtowing to fathers?” I ask.
A dark expression crosses his face. “What does that mean?”
“You’re a coward like your father,” I say.
“And you’re a whore like your mother,” Rialdo says. “She got what she deserved, and you’ll be the same.”
I lunge for him, but Elin and Chadwick intervene, hauling me back.
“Don’t,” Elin warns—the kindest thing she’s ever said to me.
“Stop it, both of you!” Chadwick releases me and rakes a hand through his hair, pulling most of it loose of the ponytail. “This—this is what the Burn feeds on. This anger and pettiness. If you cannot control your emotions, we cannot continue forward.”
“Maybe that’s for the best,” Terik mutters.
“You’ve got bigger problems than moving forward,” Kellig says, wetting his lips. That desperate, greedy look is back in his eyes—the hunger. His eyes are all pupil, his voice hoarse. “You threw a lot of magic out there.”
“Baedan is miles from here,” I say darkly, adjusting my armor.
“Baedan is not the only threat in the Burn,” Kellig says, eyes cutting toward me, “and if the right tribe finds us, you’ll neve
r make it back to your ship.”
“Maybe we should leave some bait,” Rialdo suggests.
Sofreya grabs my hand and pulls me away before I can punch him. “Don’t listen,” she murmurs. “Poison on the tongue comes from poison in the heart. Not all monsters are bred in the Burn.”
I force back a cutting reply, still itching to fight, to hit, to scream. But I notice a subtle shift in dynamics as the soldiers exchange looks of matching shades of exhaustion and suspicion. Their faces are closing down and they seem to edge closer together. Us versus them.
“We’ll return to New Prevast,” Chadwick says, rubbing his mouth. His long hair hangs loose against his face, and it’s strange to see him so rumpled, with his tunic hanging out from beneath his uniform jacket. “We’ve made too many mistakes already; we can’t risk more. We’ll return with the queen and an army and proxies—”
“No!” North grabs Chadwick by the front of his coat. “We do not turn back! We’re too close.”
“These are my soldiers,” Chadwick says, voice dangerously low. “Their lives are my responsibility. They will not die because we were too stupid to admit defeat.”
“Baedan saw Merlock,” I jump in. “She was right there with me! We don’t have time to go back!”
Chadwick clenches his teeth and shoots me a look as sharp as daggers.
“This is ridiculous,” Rialdo says. “You’ve already sacrificed one man for this madness. How many more before you’re satisfied?”
“Gideon was not sacrificed!” I round on him, furious at how easily he manipulates his words into weapons. “You all saw what happened. It was the Burn! It could have taken any of us! And this is the Burn too. This is not who North really is! The poison is destroying all of us, not just North!”
It’s a useless argument. They know so little of North beyond whatever Chadwick may have told them and a few short weeks of shared preparation. Their prince was too long away from the palace, his absence too long seen as cowardice. Their faith is entirely in Chadwick, and it appears to be to fraying.
