Splendor and Spark

by Mary Taranta

  Then, remorse. Is he still alive, or is it too late to try to save him?

  Why should I? a bitter voice whispers, and I hate the way the thought spreads so easily through my veins. Kellig made his choice; the consequences are his to face. In the hall the murky light flickers and dims, then disappears.

  The shadows are coming.

  Bloody fingertips tent along the edge of the doorframe as Kellig tries to pull himself to his feet, but fear eclipses all else. I lean over his body and pull the door shut, crushing several of his fingers in the process. Trembling, I back against the opposite wall as Kellig continues to scream at me. He pounds on the door, but his efforts are weak and getting weaker; above his cries I hear the hiss of shadow, loud and getting louder.

  Kellig renews his efforts, fear edging his voice. “You—selfish—bitch,” he slurs, gasping between each word. “Open—the—”

  He begins to scream.

  I cover my ears, sliding down until my knees are pressed to my chest and I can feel my heartbeat ratcheting against my spine.

  And then silence.

  It presses down on me from every angle, eerie in its absoluteness. I swallow hard and lower my hands, watching the door with my breath trapped in my throat. The dagger can cut through the shadowbred, but the dagger is buried in Kellig’s chest, and I’m not ready to risk getting it.

  The seconds add up to minutes, and nothing comes sliding through the door in search of me. Slowly I unfurl, and my heartbeat evens out to a dull throb in my shoulder. I tip my head back, to the glimmer of light somewhere above. The light catches on flecks of ash floating lazily in the air, illuminating them like starlight.

  But the light goes out above me, too immediate to be sunset.

  Goose bumps race down my back as I hear the phantom scrabble of shadowed claws clicking down the wall. I jump up and open the door, scan the hall, step over Kellig’s body, ready to run.

  But the dagger.

  I hesitate, torn, before I look back. When will I ever have the chance to face Merlock again?

  I don’t want my ability to murder a man efficiently to be the lesson I remember Chadwick by. He taught me far more—and far better—than that. A blade forged with North’s blood, with enough blood to conduct a bloodbound ceremony hidden in its handle, would be deadly if left in the wrong hands. Not to mention, the dagger is my only defense. It would be stupid to abandon it, and I have made too many mistakes already.

  Reluctantly I return to Kellig’s body, corroded now, and stripped of skin. I have to brace a palm against his chest to wrench the blade free, and when it releases, I stagger back as fast as I can, turning my head to vomit. Dimly I’m aware that the blood spilling from my shoulder feels cold; my fingers feel numb. I’ll freeze down here if I don’t start moving.

  After an agonizing moment of debate, I take his coat, too.

  Nineteen

  SLOWLY I LURCH BACK TOWARD the main tunnels, limping slightly, stopping constantly, listening, forever listening. When I reach the rotunda, I survey North’s destruction with a sense of detachment.

  Someone’s coming.

  Every inch of me wants to collapse in frustration and exhaustion. Will the gods never grant me mercy? But my heart still beats, and so, gritting my teeth, I pick up speed.

  “Faris!”

  North. I turn as he enters the rotunda, relief carved across his face. The poison is gone, I realize, but so is most of his color. “Faris,” he repeats, more softly, jogging toward me.

  I meet him halfway, and strike him as hard as I can, again and again and again until it breaks everything left inside me and I sag against him, choking on dry sobs.

  North holds me up by the elbows while leaning back to avoid my weakening blows. “Faris, please don’t—”

  “Don’t you ever do that to me again! You never leave someone behind!”

  North steadies me, eyes wide. Wounded. Confusion slowly gives way to remorse, and he seems to wilt where he stands, too old and too young at the same time. “I’m sorry. . . . I—I was coming back; the poison needed to be excised, and—”

  “I didn’t know that!” I fight out of his arms, then stagger several steps back. “I didn’t know if I would ever see you again!” Frustrated, I take another swing, hitting him in the shoulder, my own shoulder howling in reply. “Damn it, North!”

  That same soft scuttling I heard in the lift has followed me here. I look past North, to the tunnels behind him. The shadows seem to swell, and despite his proximity, the candles along the wall go out, one by one in an unwavering line moving toward us.

  “We have to go,” I say. “Baedan’s already in the tunnels; she might even be ahead of us.”

  “Faris.”

  I give him a look that cuts off whatever apology he was preparing to give. It wouldn’t be good enough. Not in a million years.

  “You’re bleeding,” he says desperately as I begin yanking candles from their holders. We’ll need the light out in the Burn. “We can’t risk going anywhere until we cover the wound.”

  “We can risk the sewers,” I say darkly, and start moving.

  North stays a step or two behind me, stopping when I stop, following where I lead. I don’t look at him, but I feel him watching me. When we reach the bridge, he sacrifices more of our precious magic to open the gate, and we bypass the bodies of Baedan’s men, only to stop at the six-foot span of missing floor. Vertigo strikes when I see the water below; panic flutters. I squeeze my eyes shut and blot out Chadwick’s face, replacing it with Cadence’s. I have to get home now, for her. No matter how much it hurts.

  I barely make the jump, my feet sliding out from under me on the landing, spilling me hard onto my shoulder. I don’t move, even after North lands beside me. Instead I rest my cheek on the icy marble, seeking relief from the burning in my skin. North touches my back, but I shake him off, finally dragging myself to my feet.

  I don’t feel safe until we’re deep within the belly of the city. Only then do I stop at a wide junction, with half a dozen tunnels branching off in all directions at all different heights. After positioning a candle for light, I sink onto the raised lip of stone framing a central drain. North carefully sits beside me, still watching me warily.

  “I’m not going to break,” I say.

  “It’s all right if you do,” he replies.

  I shake my head tightly, refusing to yield to my tears.

  North doesn’t say a word about my newfound coat as he helps me out of it, leaving me shivering in my blood-soaked chemise—my tunic carelessly discarded in the ballroom. A glance to my mangled chest makes my stomach turn, and I look away, swallowing back too much saliva. It’ll take more than eleven stitches to sew me closed again.

  We don’t mention the deeper scar it leaves: Without the spell, there’s no second chance at finding Merlock. If Baedan picks up his trail again, she’ll find him long before we have a chance to return with more supplies.

  After pulling on his gloves to avoid our infected skin colliding, North cleans my wound with water pooled at our feet, then bandages it with a strip of his own tunic. His touch is gentle but proficient; he works with a methodical grace, but there’s a careful guard between us he doesn’t dare broach. Overhead, shadows flicker and dim in the candlelight as I roll my guilt across my tongue, softening the edges like a rock worn smooth by the river.

  “You were right,” I finally say, my hands squeezing my knees so tightly, my knuckles turn white. “My mother wove her spell with Merlock’s blood; it could have been a powerful weapon. Had I let you take it from me in New Prevast, you would have known what to do with it; it wouldn’t have been wasted. Chadwick was right: I never should have come.”

  “Faris.”

  “He asked me to kill Merlock before we left,” I continue. “I couldn’t do it. I put you in danger—all of Avinea in danger—because I thought I would succeed.” A bitter laugh escapes me as I shake my head. “My arrogance is going to kill everyone. Except Merlock. You were right: It is selfish
to sacrifice the many to save the few.”

  “Faris.” A hard edge enters his voice, forcing my eyes to his. He shifts his weight, our knees striking against each other. Eyebrows knitted, he brushes hair away from my temple, the leather of his glove clammy against my cheek as his thumb follows the curve of my face. “Saving Avinea was never your responsibility. Nor your mother’s.”

  I stare at him, flooded with remorse. “Cadence is my responsibility,” I say. “And I’ve just condemned her.”

  Without waiting for his reply, I retrieve our candle, grateful for the pain in my shoulder to keep me focused on what matters now: surviving.

  Wordlessly we continue through the tunnels, pushing as far as possible before taking shelter in a half-collapsed tunnel far from the castle, still slightly warm from the Burn overhead. North watches as I stack a series of stones at different intervals, a security system I picked up in the Brim. If anyone tries to enter the tunnel while we sleep, they’ll knock the stones loose and we’ll have a brief window of warning.

  Neither one of us mentions that if something finds us, we’re already dead.

  Despite the warmth of the tunnels, there’s a warning chill to the air that burrows under my coat, into my blood. North and I avoid each other’s eyes, but we cannot avoid the inevitable: We need each other to stay warm.

  “We can sleep back-to-back,” I finally say. “That should be safe enough. We’ll have to take shifts to keep the candles lit.”

  North nods agreement. “I’ll take the first one,” he says, ever the gentleman. “You need some sleep.”

  I’m too exhausted to argue, so I lie down on the ground, closing my eyes as he positions himself beside me. Even through our coats I feel his bones, and my stomach somersaults. Is he also thinking about that night we spent in his wagon, pressed this close together?

  The tunnel echoes with eerie noises; small somethings scuttle in the dark. I’m almost asleep when North asks, “Who got left behind?”

  I tense, eyes flying open. “What?”

  “Back there, beneath the palace. I’ve never seen you so angry. I deserved it, but . . .” He shifts his weight, his hip angling into my back. “Who got left behind?”

  Just the memory of his leaving makes me angry again, and my hands curl into loose fists beneath my cheek. “I did.”

  Months have dulled the edges of Thaelan’s memory into an ache, like a fading spell buried in my skin, but as I unravel our history, the memory brightens again. North listens to our story and never interrupts, and my voice is raw by the end of it, my heart hollow. But I’m oddly comforted, too. Alistair knew pieces of me through Thaelan, but to confess to North every truth and every lie we told somehow validates that Thaelan once lived, that he was loved.

  And that letting him go is the right thing to do.

  “When he left for the barracks that night, I didn’t know he wasn’t coming back,” I finish. “I never said good-bye.”

  Shadows inch closer, waltzing with the guttering flames of the candle positioned by our heads. Even more shadows pool down the walls around us, dripping like ink.

  “I was coming back for you, Faris.” North says.

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “I will always come back.”

  “Don’t say that. You cannot promise the impossible.”

  He turns, propping his weight on one arm as he looks over my shoulder at my profile. “I wanted to kill someone,” he says. “I wanted someone to suffer for what happened to Ben. I stupidly thought if I could find Baedan . . .” He bows his head, guilty. “But I didn’t. I only came back because of you.”

  “No,” I say, emphatic, rolling onto my back to see his face. “You came back because it was the right thing to do. Don’t make me the reason for your actions; I cannot be the reason you fail.”

  “I would have walked away in that instant, abandoned it all,” he says. “Ben was right. We needed more men. More magic. We needed to come back with a better plan—”

  “It’s not your fault that he died.”

  “Don’t absolve me,” he says tightly. “Hold me accountable for my sins. Ben trusted me with his life, and I betrayed that trust. I ignored his advice, his orders, his actions—I let my vices win. And tonight . . .” He breaks off, shaking his head, turning his face away. “I was no better than my father.”

  “Don’t do that.” I sit up with a flash of concern. “That is poison in your blood, do you understand me? Guilt runs stronger than any magic, and if you let it, it will kill you. You are our king, North, but Chadwick—any of us—would have died for you, not for that but because you are our friend.”

  North dips his head. “Merlock knew I couldn’t kill him. Even before I did.” He looks at me from beneath his knitted brows. “I’m terrified that my heart is too weak for this world.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “Your mother died to protect you,” he says. “You would die for Cadence. But even now, after all that he’s done, I can’t help but wonder why my father would choose this as his legacy, over me. I actually thought he wanted to speak to me, to make amends . . .” Snorting, he shakes his head and sucks in a deep breath. “It’s ridiculous, I know, because I will kill him. I just wanted the chance to forgive him first.”

  I resist the urge to embrace him, desperate to feel his weight, his heat, his being, this sad, lonely boy with the odds perpetually stacked against him. Nobody would bet on him in the fighting ring, and yet I’m all in. I’ve seen the iron underneath the fear, the determination and sincerity with which he speaks of saving Avinea, no matter how indifferent its people are to his sacrifice. Instead I hover my hand above his heart. “This has never been your weakness,” I say.

  “What if I’m really just like him?” North asks. “What if this is just the beginning? I feel it in my blood, Faris; it’s all there, waiting. The anger. The selfishness. It’s getting easier and easier to lose control. Sometimes I almost wish I would. If I had magic in my blood the way he does—”

  “But you won’t give in to it.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because you were born the only heir to the throne. You had the privilege to do anything you wanted, and you decided to be North. Hero of Tobek the apprentice; caretaker of Darjin the magic tiger; friend to Captain Benjamin Chadwick”—my voice hitches, and I pause—“saving grace to Faris Locke; and above all else, the rightful King of Avinea. You could have hidden away, safe in the palace, like they think you did, but instead you gave up everything. You love this kingdom more than it will ever love you, and that is why you will never be your father. We lost Chadwick today, and yet here you are, still standing, where your father would have broken. Because you will always be North. Steady as a star.”

  His fingers unfurl, just enough that his fingertips brush the edge of my knee. Not an accident, an acknowledgment.

  “My need to leave Brindaigel was only an idea,” I add. “There was never really a plan for what came next, and that’s why it failed. If you want to save Avinea, you need to know what happens next, because I guarantee that Bryn and her father already have their next five moves planned.”

  He speaks to his chest, head still bowed. “Tell me what to do.”

  “Survive.”

  “You make it sound easy.”

  “We’re in the sewers of Prevast, trapped in the Burn with no guaranteed way home,” I say. “There’s nothing easy about it.”

  North nods as his eyes meet mine again. I recognize the look, the wanting. “Faris,” he begins.

  But surviving starts here. Now. “Good night, North.” I turn around again, resettling myself. A moment later he turns away as well.

  Twenty

  AFTER A FEW SHORT HOURS of sleep apiece, we continue forward, eventually emerging from the sewers on the outskirts of the city. Dawn has broken, but the sky is storm-gray and ominous, warning of a change in the weather.

  After double-checking that all our wounds are covered tightly, North fumbles in his
pocket for any remaining spell stones that might still have magic in them. Our eyes meet above the span of his palm with mutual alarm. One stone, two people.

  It’s not nearly enough.

  “I can repurpose some of my own spells,” he says with a forced smile to hide the fear in his eyes. “We’ll be fine. It’s not that far.”

  It took us two full days and one endless night to reach the city, and that was with Sofreya’s protection spells still holding strong. Mine might last another day or two if I can keep my vices tempered, but North’s are long gone by now, with the amount of poison he’s pulled in and pushed back out of his body.

  Yet at his insistence I expose my forearm so he can cast a renewed protection spell to replace Sofreya’s faded one. When his bare fingertips brush my skin, a warm rush of desire floods through me, and my heart quickens in reply. I close my eyes, grateful that he’s not an intuit and cannot tell what secrets my blood hides.

  Once free of the city, we stand on the edge of a vast expanse of horizon that is broken only by the occasional tree or crumbling building, with the ocean spread to our right. There are miles of ash and shadow, full of poisoned wolves and deadly magic. We can risk heading east, a longer journey toward the edge of the Burn, or backtrack south in the hopes that the Mainstay has not yet set sail. In the end, we choose the slim hope that Davik will still be anchored.

  Decided, our eyes meet with mutual misery at the daunting task ahead.

  We start walking.

  Even with the protection spell, the Burn scorches through the soles of my boots; the ash that settles against my skin burrows deep. With no canteens and no water, the sea becomes cruelly mocking, so close and so useless. I’m staring at it with a dry throat and parched tongue when North stops to check if the infection has made any progress beneath my skin.

  “What about you?” I ask, my voice harsh, cracked. My clothes stick to me, damp with sweat. The entire left half of my body buzzes.

  North displays his hands: swollen and shaking but clean of any poison. He smiles, but it’s a shadow across his face, barely there and gone. The mountains that have emerged on the horizon don’t move any closer, but the city has fallen too far behind. We’re caught somewhere in the middle of nowhere, and exhaustion settles over me, mental and physical. The ash becomes a tempting pillow, and I resist the urge to pitch myself into a dune and let the Burn sing me lullabies like my mother used to do.