Memories of Ash (The Sunbolt Chronicles Book 2)

by Intisar Khanani

  Memories of Ash

  Copyright 2016 Intisar Khanani

  All rights reserved.

  www.booksbyintisar.com

  Cover Design by Jenny Zemanek

  www.seedlingsonline.com

  Published by Purple Monkey Press

  ISBN 0-9856658-4-X

  ISBN-13 978-0-9856658-4-5

  A portion of the proceeds from the sale of The Sunbolt Chronicles will be donated to the United Nations Children’s Fund. UNICEF fights for the survival and development of the world’s most vulnerable children. Find out more at http://www.unicefusa.org.

  1. The Ties That Bind

  2. An Unexpected Summons

  3. Magical Wards & Defenses

  4. A Mirror in the Night

  5. The Burnt Lands

  6. Spells of Stone

  7. A Feather to Burn

  8. A Desert Welcome

  9. An Enemy’s Honor

  10. Light & Shadow

  11. Stonefall

  12. Invisibility

  13. A Map of the World

  14. Seeker

  15. Old Friends

  16. Flight of the Phoenix

  17. Raising the Alarm

  18. Look Away

  19. Fire & Stone

  20. Talon

  21. A Visit in the Night

  22. Truth Spell

  23. Trial

  24. Marked

  25. A Mother’s Love

  26. Revelations

  27. Fugitive

  28. Desert Bound

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  CRACK.

  I glance up, holding tight to the thread of my spell as the mountains throw a thunderous echo back to us. My skin tingles with the brush of magic, as if unseen creatures skitter up my arms, over my back. Across the valley, forest birds take to the air, calling out as they wheel over the lake. I catch the pale white flutter of snow pigeons, the midnight silhouette of ravens, and high up the snow-dusted peaks, the great dark wingspans of a pair of griffon vultures.

  Seated cross-legged beside me on the banks of the lake, Brigit Stormwind murmurs, “That was the first ward.”

  I nod. It has been some time since a traveler came our way, but the sound of our farthest ward triggering is not easily forgotten. Without knowing who approaches our valley, finishing my casting would be reckless. I could easily leave a trace behind that a mage might notice … But I promised myself that this time I would finish.

  Before me the water lies smooth, no ripple disturbing its crystalline surface. Upon that polished expanse gleams the spell-cast image of my mother. Dressed in a pale pink kimono embroidered in shades of rose, she kneels before a tea tray, hands on her lap and face raised toward me. I have her eyes, though my skin has the desert tint of my father’s people. Her lips, neither too full nor too thin, grace her face in harmony with the gentle roundness of her cheeks, while my own features remain hollowed by the fire that once consumed me from the inside out. By her very stillness I know she has detected some trace of my spell, the ties of blood and kinship that I have used to seek her out through the shields that surround her.

  “Let it go, Hitomi,” Stormwind says gently.

  I release the tenuous thread of my casting with unexpected relief. I have attempted this spell half a dozen times now, but not once have I taken it to completion. I could have done it today had I not paused to observe her. The bitterness on my tongue has the singular taste of cowardice to it.

  My mother’s image breaks apart, replaced by the faint reflection of trees overhead. I watch the water’s movement over the multi-hued stones covering the lake bottom. In the early morning light, they’re every color of the earth: the burnished yellow of evening sunlight, a dreamlike lavender, grays dark as storm clouds and light as hope, reds both as bright as blood and as dark as death. The colors of life lie beneath the water, calling to me as if I might reach out and recover the memories I lost in ash nearly a year ago.

  “These things take time,” Stormwind says into the quiet.

  “I started the spell with enough time to speak with her. I should have gone through with it.”

  “You did not know anyone was coming.” She glances down to the water, her eyes more gray than blue in the tree-thrown shadows. “And when you seek truth, you must be ready for it.”

  “You don’t think I am.”

  “You must be ready to understand, and accept, whatever you find.”

  I make no answer. I don’t know what to say, how I would accept it if my mother truly intended to abandon me all those years ago.

  Stormwind rises, readjusting her cloak against an autumn chill I don’t feel. On the far, shore the deep green of the pines and cedars are interrupted here and there by the fiery orange and red mantles still worn by the other trees. When I first came here, Stormwind admitted she had studied together with my father, which should mean many more years of health and strength for her. But she lost a part of her youth to a breather. Her silver-white hair, the deep creases around her eyes and mouth, the way the cold touches her, all these bespeak an age she should not yet feel.

  “Let’s see what we can of our visitor,” she says. With a sweep of her hand, the surface of the lake stills. The water before us now reflects the forested path near the great deodar cedar that stands as our farthest ward.

  “Closer,” she murmurs, beckoning the image. The path reels out as if we were looking over our shoulders while riding at speed toward the valley. The cedar recedes, then disappears behind a curve.

  “There,” she says as a dark shadow obstructs the image. She raises her fingers and the image slows. But the shadow at its center persists, murky and unclear. For a long moment, Stormwind remains still. The shadow moves along the trail, growing larger in our view, but no clearer. Then she releases the image, her hand falling to her side. The waters of the lake ripple, lapping at the banks once more.

  “They’ve used a shield,” Stormwind says. “Without breaking the shield, we can’t know who comes, or how large their party.”

  “We know there’s a mage involved.”

  “That we do,” she agrees. “Which means we know we need to hide you. Come.” She starts along the path toward the cottage.

  I follow after her. “Are you sure it’s safe to meet them? I mean, why would they shield themselves?”

  “Two reasons,” she says, her voice sliding into the detached tone she uses when teaching. “To protect against attack and to keep from being traced.”

  “We found them easily enough.”

  “Because we looked at the path, not them. Had we known who they were and attempted to trace them, we would have had a hard time finding them unless without a focus for our trace.”

  Like a hair, or a well-worn bit of cloth.

  But I don’t like the idea of an unknown mage coming to Stormwind’s valley. She rarely has visitors. When she does, they are locals seeking cures. Never mages. “Are you sure you want to wait here for them?”

  Stormwind smiles, shaking her head as if my question is sweet, endearing, and very naive. “I’m not running. First, a mage would easily trace us using any one of a number of items from the cottage. Second, if they are coming for me, I would not lead them to you. And third, I am a high mage in my own right. I have done no wrong and can easily defend myself. The only thing I need to hide is you.”

  “You’re sending me away.” It isn’t a question, but a flat-voiced statement.

  “No. There isn’t enough time for that.”

  I glance up at the high ridge that divides our valley from the next. The only passable path to our cottage cuts through it. On hors
eback, moving at a brisk walk, a traveler might easily cover the distance from the deodar cedar to the ridge in an hour and a half. It would take us half that time to get to the path ourselves on foot. But our tracks would be fresh, and anyhow, Stormwind isn’t running … and I’m not leaving without her.

  “Take the books up to the loft and pack them back into the trunk,” Stormwind says as we reach the cottage. The single open room serves as kitchen and workroom and sitting room and bedroom, while the small loft above provides a cozy space for my own pallet.

  I make a round of the room, gathering the books I’ve been studying under Stormwind’s tutelage along with the charms I’m working on. Stormwind checks the charms we keep about the house, her fingers passing over them, gauging if they are hers or mine: the stone beside the hearth, used to keep the bread from burning; the glowstones in a pile over the mantle, for when we need light without the heat or flicker of flames; the seeker charm by the door, to help find wandering goats.

  I climb the ladder to stow what I’ve collected in one of the trunks against the back wall of the loft. Stormwind joins me as I finish tucking the books in, adding the bag of charms I made to the trunk.

  She shuts the lid, places her hand on top. “We’ll ward it and bind it.”

  She really is worried. I kneel beside her worldlessly. She presses my palm against the trunk’s lid and quickly traces a series of sigils on the wood with her other hand. They glimmer and send out tendrils of magic that trace the shape of my palm, flare around her fingertips, and then fade. With the trunk bound so, only Stormwind or I will be able to open it.

  She rises and takes a quick inventory of the little room. There’s a small collection of bags and boxes lining the wall beside the trunks. To my right lies my pallet with its nest of blankets. A small wooden statuette of a crow stands on a brick-sized stone beside my bed, its head bent, beak pressing a key to its breast. She focuses on it for a moment, then looks away.

  “That’s all, right?” I say, keeping my tone casual. I have no cause to hide the crow. Only she knows that it was carved by a breather, not a human. Right now the sight of Val’s parting gift is oddly comforting.

  She nods, moving back toward the ladder. “Everything else should be fine.” She pauses with her feet on the first rung. “Hitomi? You remember that you’re to act as my servant?”

  “I remember.” We’ve discussed this a few times, and I’ve played the part of serving girl during the few visits from locals we’ve had. It provides a simple explanation for all the rest of my belongings. “I am Hikaru, girl of all work, loyal unto death.”

  Stormwind chuckles. “Don’t overdo it. Since we don’t know what this is about, I want you to stay outside as much as possible today.”

  I hesitate. I could offer to collect deadwood from the forest — we need to stockpile more for the winter — but I want to stay close to the cottage just in case.

  “I’ll keep working on the roof,” I say. It’s perfect, really. We’ve spent the last two afternoons on the roof together, Stormwind teaching me what I need to know. I can easily work on my own. Best of all, I can keep an eye on our visitors. And I’ll be near enough to help Stormwind if she should need me.

  “It will keep me close but out of sight,” I press when she doesn’t answer.

  “Very well.”

  Her easy agreement worries me further. As a mage, she could easily call for a far-off servant to return. Without charms to anchor it, magic may not reliably deliver messages across mountain ranges, but a summons sent across a valley would hardly go astray. Only if she fears she won’t have the time or the leeway to do so would she need me nearby.

  The last ward triggers as I tack down a new shingle, the hammer missing the nail as my skin prickles, an electric tingling raising the hairs at the back of my neck. This ward is silent, subtle, bound just to Stormwind and me, small enough that a visitor shouldn’t notice it. I rub a hand over my neck, my eyes traveling up the path to the high pass.

  Soon our unknown visitors will enter the valley, their progress masked by the forest. It will take a little while yet for them to reach the cottage. I pound down the waiting nail and then check the next few shingles for cracks. They’re mostly in good condition, whole and still firmly attached. This past winter brought deep snows, but with just a few summer storms to cause damage, the roof has held up well since Val repaired it.

  Perched on a roof, dreading the arrival of a mage, is probably not the best time to reminisce about a breather, but I have so few comforting memories. When Val brought me here, he was the only friend I had, the only memory aside from the fire that took my previous life. I didn’t fear him as most would, didn’t fear his ability to control those who meet his gaze, to take the life of those around him with a single inhalation. I assumed that, no matter his words, he would not use these talents against me.

  As I peel off a broken shingle and check the wood underneath, I recall Val’s hands at work, his voice warning me not to trust him, the faintest of butterfly touches on my wrist as he explained how, truly, I should fear him. Now, with distance and time between us, I wonder whether I was more foolish to be hurt by his words or to keep pushing my company upon him. He knows himself better than I ever will. If he believed himself a danger to me, shouldn’t I have trusted that? Or was he merely trying to escape the thorns we had stumbled into, mage and breather becoming allies in a world where no such thing could exist?

  Even now, nearly a year since his departure, I find that I trust him, trust the kindness with which he treated me, trust the wisdom and care he showed in nursing me back to health and delivering me here, to this valley, to study with Stormwind. As she said all that time ago: A breather does not help a Promise become a mage. And yet he had. It was dangerous ground.

  I sigh, running my fingers over the weathered wood before me. There are no answers here, and Val is long gone, hidden away in the Amara Mountains with the breather prince he serves. According to my geography lessons, he is months away by horseback. I doubt I shall ever meet him again.

  I look up at the faint thud of hooves against the packed dirt of the path. A man wearing a flowing desert robe, the warm brown of rich earth, rides at a quick trot down the path from the pass, followed be a second, riderless horse on a long lead.

  I squint against the sunlight, studying the rider. He’s tall and slim, his tan complexion strikingly similar to my own, though his features are sharp, hawklike. His robe falls open in front in the tradition of many desert folk. Beneath it, he wears a long-sleeved tunic and loose cream-colored trousers tucked into riding boots. A faint line of geometric embroidery circles the collar and outlines the two buttons on the front, markedly different from the attire of the local men and women I have seen this last year.

  Strapped over his tunic, he wears a belt with a curved sword and a dagger as well as a small crossbow. Here in the mountains, there is no need for either blade. The crossbow might be useful against a larger predator, but even those are few and far between. He is not just any mage, then, but one trained as a warrior.

  I continue to check the shingles, keeping one eye on him. Stormwind steps into sight, calling a greeting as she walks to meet him. He dismounts with alacrity, the faint reverberations of his voice — deep and not unfriendly — barely audible. They clasp hands, and then Stormwind gestures to the cottage. As she turns, I see the smile that tugs at her lips.

  Friends, then. But who is he? And why would he bring a second horse?

  I watch them converse as they lead the horses around back. Stormwind seems as unruffled as always. The mage’s gait is long and easy, but when a bird takes flight from the long grasses growing near the trees, his head whips toward it. I can’t tell if he is especially on guard, or if warrior mages never really let their guard down.

  They close the horses in the goat pen, empty for the moment while our goats are out grazing. Stormwind untacks the chestnut while the mage tends to his own horse. They pile the tack outside the fence and head for the cottage
door.

  I perch sideways on the roof, digging out a bit of black rot and trying not to look as clumsy as I feel. This way, I can track them from the corner of my eye.

  They continue to chat as they walk, and while I cannot make out the words, I can hear the rhythm and tone of their voices: familiar, pleasant, as if they are catching up with an old but dear acquaintance. The sound of it eases some of my fears.

  As they’re about to pass from sight, the mage glances my way, eyes hard and measuring. I remain still, neither moving to break his gaze nor allowing my expression to shift until he steps into the cottage.

  Once the door latches behind them, I ease back on my heels, letting out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. Of course he would assess me. He’s a warrior mage, used to evaluating situations before he walks into them. And as a half-trained Promise — albeit better skilled than I was a year ago — I am still unsworn to the High Council and would easily meet his definition of a rogue.

  Perhaps I should have suggested Stormwind send me off to collect deadwood after all.

  No.

  I glare at the empty spot before me, then slap a new shingle in place and hammer it down with unaccustomed force. I’m not going to let fear drive me. And, like Stormwind, I’m not going to run.

  There’s something powerful about being high up on a roof, a great shimmering expanse of lake off to the side, forested mountains rising to frame the wide blue swath of sky. With each swing of the hammer, each nail driven home to hold a shingle in place, I feel my blood thrum through my veins. Despite the lake breeze that cools me, my tunic sticks to my back, the taste of salt on my lips. Even as my arms tire, each swing of the hammer weighing heavier, I don’t want to stop. It’s a temporary magic, if you can call it magic at all.

  The cottage remains quiet as the sun continues to creep toward noon. I descend from the roof once to refill my flask from the bucket Stormwind left. I can detect the faint murmur of voices, but with the door closed, I cannot catch the words themselves, nor can I hear any better crouched beneath the shuttered windows. It isn’t until just past noon, my rooftop magic grown threadbare and the muscles of my arms aching, that Stormwind comes outside.