Splendor and Spark

by Mary Taranta

  “I’m going to run.”

  When I stare at him, incredulous, he lifts his shoulders in an elegant shrug. “Dossel won’t finance a second trip into the Burn. He’ll go himself, with enough supplies to last for weeks. It’ll be proof of how strong he is. How weak I am.”

  And to the people of Avinea, desperate for a return of magic by any means possible, it won’t even matter that Perrote isn’t their king. They’ll worship him anyway if he succeeds.

  “He’s going to come after you,” North says quietly. “He’ll want your spell to find Merlock. But Bryndalin has every reason to keep you alive. Especially while I’m gone, because that means there’s a chance that I might succeed before her father does. And she will always ensure she has an ability to negotiate.”

  “And if you don’t come back?” I ask. “You barely made it out alive this time; you need time to recover, time to plan—”

  “You’ll survive,” he says simply. “Like always. You’ll find a new way to keep Cadence safe.”

  “North—”

  “Baedan is still out there; I can’t waste time.”

  “And how are you going to compete with her? Kellig is dead, my spell is gone, you’re wandering blindly and alone into the Burn—”

  “I won’t be alone,” he interrupts. “Cohl has agreed to come. And Sofreya, as well as both of Davik’s brothers.”

  “Cohl left you out in the Burn once already.”

  “And she’s made amends,” North says. “Pickings are slim in the middle of the ocean, and I can’t do this alone.”

  “Do what, exactly?”

  A spark of light fills his eyes. “I know where he’s going.”

  I stare at him. “The spell stone under the castle? But by the time you get back into the Burn, he’ll have moved on—”

  “I can’t stop thinking about what I could have done differently to save Ben,” says North, overriding my argument. “I see it playing out again and again, every moment leading up to that instant. If I had been faster, if I had seen Baedan first—”

  “You saw what Baedan’s spell did to him. You know he was already dead.”

  He shakes away my sympathy, forcing a smile. “The point is guilt. For years my mother told me that it’s what destroyed my father. That killing his brother broke his heart and sparked the Burn. For a moment beneath the castle, I understood how easily it could happen.”

  He pulls a small black book from his pocket and opens it to a crude map he’s drawn of the northwestern edge of Avinea. Then he hands the book to me. “The night I met you, I had a lead that last placed Merlock in Pilch.” He taps a dot low on the map, near the mountains where he discovered Bryn and me in a hellborne marketplace. “A week later your mother’s spell took you outside the palace in Prevast. Now a month later, you tracked him from Pilch to Prevast again over the course of a week.”

  “I don’t understand,” I say.

  “Pilch,” he says, “is where Merlock and Corthen were born and raised. Oksgar is where Merlock killed his father when he was twenty-two, and was subsequently crowned king. The watchtower in Dorrent—it marked the outer edge of the spell that protected Prevast while Merlock went to war in the Wintirlands, and it was where the first battle between him and his brother took place when he returned.”

  Goose bumps pebble my skin, and I hug myself as he continues. “The ballroom in Prevast.” He jabs his finger emphatically. He’s breathless, and there’s a hint of excitement in his voice. “That’s where Merlock executed more than a dozen traitor provosts from the orchestra balcony in the middle of a party celebrating his victory in battle. His chambers underground, where Corthen allegedly offered a truce, at the cost of Merlock’s abdication. And then the stone he left two days ago, instructing his brother to find him in Islar—where Corthen had a secret military compound that Merlock burnt, killing more than a hundred of Corthen’s men. He’s not running, Faris. You were right.” His dark eyes meet mine, and there’s a light in them that’s been dimmed for weeks. “He’s atoning. But not to me. His guilt has consumed him so entirely that he’s addicted to the punishment of retracing the same steps over and over, trying to find the one decision that could have changed the past.”

  So it wasn’t North that Merlock was remembering in Pilch. It was Corthen.

  It seems absurd that Merlock would waste twenty years running in circles, and yet—how often have I relived that night beneath Brindaigel, cruelly wondering What if? Holding tight to Cadence instead of letting her run; turning back to join Thaelan instead of hiding from Alistair? How much could I have changed with one different decision? It’s an easy spiral to slip into, difficult to pull yourself free of.

  North exhales softly. “I have to go back. If I can’t kill him after all that he’s done, I don’t deserve this kingdom.”

  The wind snaps between us, and I drag the hair out of my face. “But where is he going after Islar?”

  He returns to his map. “By following his logical process, I can guess he’ll continue southwest. He met his brother in their final battle here, on the fields outside Arak. Three months later Corthen’s body was interred here, in Kerch. If I’m right, he’ll follow his path, and when he realizes he can’t change the past and Corthen isn’t coming back to absolve him . . .”

  “He goes back to the beginning to try again,” I say with a shiver.

  North lifts his eyebrows in agreement. The wind rifles pages of his book, flashing glimpses of pencil drawings, and, curious, I turn the page forward. And then again and again. The pages are filled with dozens of drawings of flowers, detailed as if copied from a book.

  “What are these?” I ask, transfixed.

  Sweet, awkward North emerges as he searches for an answer, reminding me of the shy first kiss we shared, when afterward he asked if he had done it right. “I wanted you to see the best of Avinea,” he says at last. “I know right now it leaves a lot to be desired, but I swear to you, if you look hard enough, this kingdom can be beautiful. It’s worth saving.”

  I study him, but his expression is guarded, prepared for the inevitable worst when I remind him—once again—that we can’t be together. Did he hear anything last night in the Burn, when I finally confessed that I’d lied? The way he waits, so nervously, denies the idea.

  Only then do I realize it’s not anger that drives me to hit him for wanting to leave, for wanting to do it alone. It’s fear.

  I can’t bear to lose him, too.

  “Come with me,” he whispers.

  “You know I can’t. As soon as Bryn realizes I’ve run off with you, she’ll retaliate.”

  “I can mute the binding spell’s effects,” he says. “Long enough for us to find Merlock.”

  “With what magic? You didn’t even make it five days in the Burn with Sofreya’s protection spells—”

  “Darjin,” he says, but it clearly hurts to say it.

  “Absolutely not. You can’t risk going back to the castle.”

  “I don’t have any other choice. I can take what magic Sofreya has left on board, but otherwise, Darjin is my only option.”

  “Then save what little you have,” I say. “Don’t waste it on me when I can’t do anything for you. Besides, it’s not me I’m worried about. Like you said, Bryn won’t kill me while there’s a chance you might succeed. But if I leave Cadence behind again, Bryn would destroy her.” And not through death; she would be more clever—more cruel—than that. She would rob my sister of what innocence she has left, twisting her into a mirror image of herself.

  “We’ll take Cadence to Revnik. Lord Inichi is well protected within the city. She would be safe.”

  Panic begins to resurface, called by the familiarity of the scene and the ease with which he deflects my protests, just like Thaelan. I’ve been here before, and I know how this ends. A choice made in haste and a consequence that will never stop screaming.

  But, I think, and it is intoxicating in its possibilities. What if?

  “No,” I say at last. “We
both know you have a better chance running now. Without me.”

  North swallows hard and slides his book back into his pocket. “I had to ask.”

  “I’m sorry—”

  “Don’t.” Sighing, he reaches out, hesitant, knuckles almost skimming my cheek before his fingers curl through my hair. “I know you made your choice,” he says, “and I will honor your request and never mention this again after this moment, but I love you, Faris. And this”—he lowers his forehead toward mine, but doesn’t touch me as his voice drops to a husky whisper—“is our good-bye.”

  I stare at his throat, stricken. What do I say to that? Do I feign indifference again, for—for what? For North’s protection? My coldness has done nothing to diminish his own warmth; for all the damage I assumed I would cause, he has not wavered from his path to kill Merlock, and I am tempted—so tempted—to simply give in.

  Twice now I have rebuked his heart and damaged my own in the process. It isn’t loving him that will destroy us; it’s the pretending otherwise. Even virtue turns to vice when taken to an extreme. Am I the ironhearted daughter my mother tried to make me, or am I nine perfect stitches and no questions asked, forever hiding like my father?

  I embrace North in a rush, fisting the back of his coat in one hand. North startles, caught off guard. He returns the hug, tentative at first, but then with more resolve. My chin fits so perfectly against his neck, but he’s already weak from his recovery. I know he can’t risk awakening the poison in his blood to the poison in mine. But I hold on, battered with grief as I close my eyes against my tears, committing him to memory.

  “Don’t ever let go of me,” he murmurs.

  “I’ll hold on as long as you do,” I reply.

  Someone clears their throat, and we break apart, avoiding each other’s eyes. Cohl stands a respectful distance away, backlit by the lights belowdecks. “Davik needs you, your majesty,” she says.

  “Of course.” North lifts a hand in acknowledgment as his eyes meet mine. He opens his mouth but hesitates, searching for the right words to say. “Lord Inichi,” he finally repeats. “Just in case.”

  I nod in understanding but can’t bring myself to speak.

  After one final lingering glance, North turns away and strides belowdecks without looking back.

  Twenty-Two

  NORTH IS GONE BY MORNING.

  I knew to expect it, and yet I feel oddly displaced, as though I were left behind by mistake and will be remembered any minute. Rialdo says nothing, but Elin is livid, storming around the galley spitting profanities and personal vows of mutiny. But underneath her anger I recognize the shimmer of fear that she chose the wrong side, and that when North returns, it will be as a king.

  Davik also says little to anyone, but her expression remains grim as she navigates the remaining coastline toward New Prevast. With no prince in the palace, Bryn will fall into the highest position of power—and through her, her father. And Perrote will not show mercy to someone who smuggled a prince off her ship.

  It’s only once we’ve passed beneath the Bridge of Ander that we notice the crowd pressed onto the docks a dozen thick, held back by soldiers in Brindaigelian colors—many of them armed with old pistols. The sight unnerves me. While Corthen had ordered a shipment of guns from the Northern Continents during the war twenty years before, it was said that most had been destroyed. With Perrote controlling Brindaigel through loyalty spells and executions, he’d had no need for them beyond the occasional show of power by his officials.

  But, like the magic, he clearly kept them for himself. That he expected to welcome North home with armed soldiers only confirms that North was right to run. Neither Bryn nor her father had any intention of wasting time in stealing this kingdom from him.

  Perrote waits ahead of the crowd, Bryn at his side. He rocks back on his heels, hands clasped behind his back, expression inscrutable as Davik jumps to the dock to tie off the ship, sleeves rolled up despite the cold, exposing her tattoos. Two fishermen weigh the gangplank, and Davik returns on board as Perrote escorts Bryn on deck, pausing to run his hand along the weathered railing. He tips his face back to the patched canvas sails before his eyes settle on all of us, eyebrow arched in silent question.

  “He’s gone,” Rialdo says, scowling as Bryn kisses his cheek in greeting. His bag is slung over a shoulder, his own uniform coat unbuttoned to the rumpled tunic underneath. Just over a week away from the amenities of the palace doesn’t sit well on him; he looks shaggy and unkempt, half-wild. Ash still streaks his hair. “He launched this morning.”

  Bryn startles, eyes sliding to me as though expecting an explanation, but Perrote’s expression doesn’t change. “I see,” he says. “And where might he be going, I wonder?”

  “One can only assume he’s continuing this madness,” Rialdo says darkly.

  “He has no magic. No supplies. And”—Perrote glances over the others on deck, taking silent tally—“even fewer men than when he started.”

  “And yet he left her.” Rialdo jerks his thumb in my direction.

  “Of course he did,” Bryn says, eyes narrowed. “He can’t save her from her responsibilities.” Her fingernails dig into her forearm, but I barely flinch in response. I’ve survived a week in the Burn. Bryn will have to do more than pinch to hurt me.

  “Then he must know where Merlock is.” Perrote watches me down his nose, eyes narrowing in thought.

  “Which means we have no time to lose.” Bryn steps forward, sliding her arm through mine, pulling me close to her side. “We’ll leave at dawn.”

  Her eagerness surprises me, since she knows her father will kill her the moment she inherits Merlock’s magic. But it also concerns me. Bryn does not play nice, and if she’s supporting her father’s plans, it’s because she has plans of her own.

  “Perhaps Captain Davik could shed some light on our missing prince,” Perrote says, and two soldiers dutifully step forward, pushing past me to approach Davik at the helm. She doesn’t resist, but as they march her toward the gangplank, she catches my eye and winks. I’m too stunned to react, envying her show of bravery when her fate is all but sealed.

  Perrote turns back to the crowd, resting his hands on the ship’s railing. “Your prince has abandoned you,” he calls, his voice strong, unrattled. “He has chosen his father’s fate: to hide from his sins like a coward.”

  I feel my entire body tense with unspoken defense, but who would listen to me? And the crowd doesn’t want to hear it. They want soldiers with stolen weapons and a man in a silver circlet with magic to spare, a ready-made king to replace their own missing royalty. Despite twenty years of the Burn, they’re still prisoners of their own vices and complacency.

  For one furious moment, I think like Merlock, They don’t deserve to be saved.

  “Brindaigel will not be so cruel,” Perrote continues. “We will adhere to our alliance and support this kingdom, with or without its prince’s help. And if that means finding Merlock and ending his cowardly bloodline once and for all . . . so be it.”

  Cheers. Actual cheers of gratitude for a man who just revealed his intention of stealing the kingdom from its rightful heir. My skin crawls with disgust, and it takes every ounce of self-control not to claw Perrote’s lies out of his mouth with my bare hands.

  “Those pistols are loaded,” Bryn says tightly, as if reading my mind. “And I need you just a little bit longer.”

  Perrote leads the way back to the docks as the crowd parts in reverence. He openly basks in their adulation with an arrogance that boggles, and when we reach a waiting carriage, he turns back to the crowd and raises his hand in final acknowledgment.

  Bryn rolls her eyes and pushes me into the carriage, then slides in beside me. Rialdo follows, sinking into the seat opposite, before Perrote finally ducks inside. His smile immediately vanishes as the footman shuts the door, and he looks at me with a terrifying loathing, as if a mask has been slipped off and a shadowbred monster were lurking beneath.

  “You know you loo
k like her,” he says. “Let’s hope you’re not stupid enough to die like her.”

  “I don’t intend to,” I say, face hot with adrenaline. “Not until I finish what she started.”

  Perrote snorts, shifting his focus to Rialdo. “Did you find Merlock?”

  “He didn’t,” I say, before Rialdo can answer. “He ran back to the boat long before North found anything. If you want to inherit Avinea, you’ll have to find Merlock yourself instead of sending a coward proxy to do it for you.”

  Rialdo shoots me a furious look, but I ignore him—and the ensuing pinch from Bryn—staring out the window to resist the temptation of shoving my dagger, still hidden in my boot, through Perrote’s neck. It’s more satisfying in thought than it would be in practice: His protection spells would spare his life, and I’d be killed immediately by his guards.

  I don’t even wait for the footman to open the door when we arrive at the palace, jumping instead onto the gravel as Bryn leans out the door behind me.

  “You have not been dismissed,” she snaps.

  “And neither have you,” Perrote says to her. “I want you in the council room immediately. And she”—he directs this to a guard—“is now a prisoner and does not leave her room under any circumstance. Somebody find my provost. I want to know if Corbin placed any spells on her before he skins her.”

  “This is still my kingdom,” Bryn says icily.

  “Let’s see how long you manage to keep it,” Perrote replies, brushing past her.

  She glowers at his back and then turns to me as if to speak. Before she can, the guard roughly grabs my arm, escorting me into the palace. I don’t fight—now is not the time—but when we reach my bedroom and I’m unceremoniously shoved inside, I’m ready to explode. I survey my small bed, the bureau, the simple dresses and the matching shoes that hang in the wardrobe. I lift up a candlestick, prepared to hurl it against the wall, when a shriek of laughter stays my hand.

  Crossing to my window, I nudge it open and peer outside to the inner courtyard and the hedge maze garden, still green despite the approaching winter. A flash of color darts in between two rows of the maze, chased by a slower, limping shadow and a ball of orange fur.