Memories of Ash (The Sunbolt Chronicles Book 2)

by Intisar Khanani

  There are a few last memories, moments that I can no longer place in time: wandering a lush, flowered garden with my father tall and gentle beside me. Kneeling before my mother to recite a lesson I no longer recall. Drinking spiced coffee from a blue-rimmed cup in a busy marketplace. Bits and pieces, shards of the whole.

  Through Stormwind’s tutelage I’ve recovered this much, and only this much. Most of my memories may never return. There will always be gaps in my knowledge of the past, gaps in who I am. This is the price of my bolt of sunlight, its single flash of irrevocable destruction. As I lie wrapped in my memories, I know that I’ve gathered as much as I can from the ashes.

  Now I must remake myself, drawing upon the lessons my body retains: the clever fingers of a thief, the quick instincts of a girl growing up on the streets of a strange city. I cannot ever truly know who I was. It’s time to discover who I may yet be.

  Hoofbeats echo across the mountainside, urgent staccato drumbeats.

  I crouch beneath the low-growing boughs of my tree and peer through the needles. The sun has risen high enough to cast its light upon the forested slope, shining bright upon the rocky mountainside further on. The riders high above me slow their horses as they enter the trees, the path more pock-holed and dangerous than the scree-covered trail they just traversed. Foolish of them to have pushed their horses even there. They’re in a hurry, and no one hurries down these paths.

  I wait, breathing slowly, and catch a glimpse of cloth flapping. Robes? I can’t be sure, but I don’t need to be. I already know. A handful of locals live on the mountainsides before Stormwind’s home, and almost none beyond. These riders want to get to her valley very, very badly. Blackflame must have sent them as soon as he learned where she lived, perhaps urged them on when the mages failed to locate the mirror. I clench my jaw, anger sparking within me. How dare he?

  The riders continue on, the sound of their passage overloud in the sudden absence of birdsong. I hold my breath, wound tight with fury. The Council is worth nothing if they allow this—and they do, for how else would Blackflame have discovered Stormwind’s home?

  I wait until the thud of hooves fades to stillness and the birds begin to speak again, then push myself to my feet. I don’t have time for anger right now. I can’t afford to be anywhere nearby once they realize I’ve already left.

  Sonapur is the only place with a portal, the only way to Stormwind. A few quick calculations tell me that even if the mages turn back the moment they reach the empty valley, their horses will be too tired to make the return trip at such a brisk pace.

  As long as I keep going, I should reach Sonapur before them.

  I travel through the day, stopping only twice for twenty minutes’ rest. In the late morning, I feel the skittering, skin crawling sensation of the ward at the great deodar cedar triggering. Whatever doubts I might have held regarding the riders evaporate at once. Around noon, the wards on the cottage itself flare. I stumble to a stop with a rush of vertigo, the blood running cold in my veins. Then the wards are gone, their magic blasted to shreds. I bend over, my hands clutching my knees, shaking as my connection to the spell disintegrates. It takes me a few breaths before I can walk on, my legs not quite steady beneath me.

  I reach Sonapur near twilight. Evening flows down into the wide vale, the western mountains silhouetted against the failing light. The great snow-covered peaks far to the north have begun to fade from view. Bright points lie scattered across the plain, twinkling cheerily. The markets will be closing now, the carpet weavers and wool dyers and spinners and shawl makers going home for the night.

  Below me, the river I’ve followed these last few hours widens, pouring into a great lake dotted with lily pads and the faint smudges of lotus flowers. Docks stretch out from the shore, many of them crowded with fishing boats, a few with larger, merrily painted houseboats.

  My path descends to the lake and joins a hard-packed dirt road that runs alongside it. At the edge of the forest, I kneel beside a spindly pine tree and trace a sigil upon it. I don’t put much magic into it; the brush of cool valley air and the rustle of leaves is enough for my purposes. When I walk on, I leave behind a ward no stronger than a glowstone, charmed to alert me to those who pass down the path behind me. Within a day it will run too low on magic to maintain itself, but a day is all I need.

  I follow the road into the town, pulling out my glowstone as night descends. Though Sonapur is settling down, there are still people moving about here. I could easily ask for directions, but instinct tells me the fewer people who remember me, the better. At any rate, I can’t get too lost. If memory serves, all the major roads intersect at the great square where the portal stands.

  As the road widens, the tightly packed mud-brick buildings with sloped wood-shingled roofs begin to spread out and then are replaced altogether by free-standing homes, multi-storied buildings, and well-made workshops. The dirt road is replaced by cobbles. At the last of the buildings facing the great square I pause, leaning against the wall.

  The central area of the square has been designed as a park, with cobbled pathways and benches and a fountain. A row of lampposts bearing glowstones provide ample light to the groups of men seated around game boards of some sort, drinking tea and conversing. They act perfectly normal, but they leave a wide gap between themselves and the boundary wall of the portal, far to the right.

  The portal itself is nothing more than a threshold with neither door nor room to call its own. Instead, a few stones on either side suggest a wall that never was, and the stones of the portal rise between them, straight and simple, the clean work of an expert mason long gone. A low wall encircles the structure with carved gates on either side, the far gate opening directly to the road. No doubt the wall itself is mostly for show, the portal protected by wards to keep trespassers at bay.

  Inside the enclosure stands a mage, his back to the portal, his cloak hanging open to reveal his robes and the hilt of the sword at his side.

  The sentry means that accessing the portal will be somewhat more challenging than I’d thought. I should have expected it, but part of me hoped I would find it unguarded, as it had been when Stormwind and I visited in the spring.

  Bolstered by the appearance of a trio of older women strolling the paths and the apparent respect with which the men greet them, I leave the street for the garden. I stop before the first of the food vendors. He pushes a cart with a built-in bowl of coals to keep his wares warm, and for a copper happily fills a tin dish with chole for me.

  “The guards are new,” I say, nodding toward the portal as I take the food.

  The man pauses, but doesn’t look over his shoulder. “Yes,” he says with clear displeasure. “It’s mages’ trouble, and none of us are happy to see it here. Were you planning on traveling, daughter?”

  “No,” I lie. “Just passing through.” I take a bite of my food. It’s delicious, the chickpeas tender and the spices warming me all the way down to my belly. “They don’t sound like they’re here on behalf of the High Council.”

  “They’re not,” the man says. “We’ve heard of mages being their own problem, but it hasn’t touched us here before. These men won’t allow anything through, not even a message to the Council itself. Best steer clear of them, daughter.”

  “Yes,” I agree, and wander over to a bench to sit and eat. It’s sound advice, but there are more mages on my heels. I’ll need to pass through the portal before I get caught between them. Especially if they’re Blackflame’s lackeys, come to destroy what they can.

  The portal is easy enough to study from the tops of the surrounding buildings. The mages below, for all their constant vigilance, never look up. There are two that I can see from here, one on each side of the portal. I sit for a full half hour, observing them and hemming Stormwind’s robe. Not once do the guards raise their eyes to the rooftops. Nor do the others who frequent the gardens, the vendors keeping their attention for their customers, the men focused on the games they play.

  Onc
e I finish sewing, I take the back stairs down to street level and make my way through quiet thoroughfares and small alleys until I’m far enough from the portal that my magic will be difficult to detect. I scale a low building and settle myself at the center of the flat roof. The streets here are near silent, the residents gone to bed. As long as no one heard me climbing, I doubt I’ll be found out.

  Retrieving my string of wards, I loop them around myself and close the silver clasp. The spells activate at once, a momentary flicker of magic that recedes into a faint hum barely detectable even to me. I wait, listening for any sound of alarm.

  Nothing.

  Perhaps this task will be easier than I’d hoped. I set to work on a series of charms, half listening for movement. The shield built into my wards should keep the vibrations of my magical workings from reaching the mages back at the portal. Regardless, nothing I’m making should be a great enough casting to be noticeable. No doubt some of the charms used daily by the locals would draw more attention.

  Still, I work as fast as I can. I finish within a quarter of an hour, scoop the charms into my pockets, and disconnect the wards.

  It takes me nearly an hour to visit the three rooftops I’d chosen from among the buildings across the garden from the portal. On each I leave a small pile of charms and smokers. By the time I finish, my feet drag and my head feels heavy. I make my way around the garden by back streets, returning to the rooftop I’d used to spy on the portal. From this vantage point, the gardens lie quiet, the last of the vendors packing up their carts and heading home. The mages still guard their gateway, though they no longer stand. Instead, they sit with their backs against the stone, legs stretched out.

  Now would be a good time to put my plan into action, but I’m already weary from a full day’s travel on almost no sleep. Better to rest a few hours and make my attempt when I have enough energy to run, and keep running. I stretch out, using my pack as a pillow. If the mages who rode to Stormwind’s valley return, the ward I set at the pine should alert me with enough time to try the portal before they arrive. I’ll have to trust in that.

  I wake with a start while the sky is still dark. It takes me a moment to identify the sound that alarmed me. Then I flip on my side and spot a cat prowling through the broken bits of furniture piled along the roof’s back wall. Not my ward at all. It takes a little while for my heart to slow.

  It’s time to move.

  The mages are still on guard, sitting with their backs to the stones, though it looks as though the one facing my direction may have nodded off. I’d have to stand beside him to activate the portal, though, which I’m not about to do. Just as well I have a distraction planned.

  Downstairs, I press against the wall of a teahouse, closed for the night, and peer around the corner to the portal. No change. I reach out with my mind, letting my magic ride the faint breeze, high and light and easy over the rooftops until, just there, I find the first small pile of charms.

  I take a deep breath, listening to the quiet of the night. The first birds have begun to chirp, but the houses remain dark — at least for now.

  With a single twist of power, I activate the charms. They explode in rapid-fire succession, sending pinwheels of green and red and orange flame twisting through the sky, their sound ricocheting off the buildings around us. The display might warrant irritation from the mages, but the blanket of black smoke swirling down from the rooftop will assure their prompt attention.

  The guards at the portal pivot to stare. A third mage, hidden until now behind the low boundary wall, leaps to his feet, shouting to the other two. A moment later, the pair departs, racing toward the far end of the square. The remaining guard rubs his face and goes to stand before the gateway, facing the direction of the disturbance. I smile tightly. One is better than three.

  As the windows of the teahouse brighten, I reach out again, setting off the second set of fireworks and smokers. Dark smoke roils up over the far buildings, lit from within by bursts of heat and light. The remaining mage takes a few steps away from the portal, his back to me.

  Already people are pouring out of their houses, men shouting questions as they gain the streets, women pulling their children back inside. I step into the road and move briskly past a knot of men staring up at the fading conflagration, letting those who race forward to offer help speed past me. As I walk, I weave a shield around myself that’s faint as the first light of dawn, the flimsiest of protections but something I can easily strengthen.

  A few paces from the back gateway to the portal, I reach out a final time, carefully now — so carefully, because the mages will be watching for magic — and set the last stash alight. Screams ring out in the park as smoke engulfs a third rooftop.

  A group of men converge on the mage at the portal, shouting at him across the barrier of the enchanted wall. He snarls back at them, one hand on the sword at his side, the other held before him in warning. The men’s faces look sallow in the early light, their voices hoarse with anger and panic. I feel a twist of guilt at the fear I’m invoking, but it’s too late now to change my course.

  Three more steps and I reach the gate to the portal enclosure. I set my hand on it, guessing that the lock will be spelled. Mages would hardly be bothered to keep a key for each portal they wish to travel through. Thankfully, the sigil for open glows in my mage sight. I trace it quickly, keeping an eye on the guard.

  He shouts at the men, gesturing for them to stay back, his attention so complete he doesn’t notice the faint breath of magic as the sigil releases the gate to me. I step inside, leaving the gate open, and pad over to the portal, moving slowly even though I want to run. It’s vital that those who see me think I’m not inside the enclosure, that I’m on the other side of the wall. That there’s nothing for them to see here.

  Gripping a smoker in my hand, I approach the stone sides of the portal, using their bulk to shade me from the mage’s sight. I inhale and gather the magic I’ll need to activate the portal — the age-old air, pine-scented and river-damp, the growth of moss on the stones underfoot, slow and sure.

  “You!” A glance shows me the mage turning toward me, hand extended. Behind him, the group of men stares at me, mouths agape. “Halt!”

  I smack the smoker against the side of the portal, smoke enveloping me at once. Now. Sensing the sigil glowing pale blue in the stone, I pour my magic into it as I trace the lines as fast as I can, my eyesight clouded by darkness. Open, I command — and it does.

  A force smashes into my shield, tearing through it and knocking me sideways against stone. Swallowing a cry, I push myself off the arch and stumble through the portal.

  The world disappears. I’m floating, suspended in night, portals shining all around me like distant stars in foreign constellations. I find the one to Fidanya with hardly a thought. The spider-silk path between us beams bright and strong. It has obviously been traveled by more than a few mages recently. And another one about to come in after me, no doubt.

  Tightening my focus, I lean forward. The magic of the portal grips me at once, pulling me along until I’m spinning through a vortex of flickering lights — doorways and their pathways racing by, perhaps even other travelers. I’ve experienced this rush before, a lifetime ago when Blackflame sent Kol and his retinue through a portal to their home. Then, it shimmered past me and I barely caught more than a flash of dizzying lights.

  Now, though, I need to concentrate. The mage will likely have entered behind me. Like me, he’ll have identified which path was last used. The moment after I step out of the portal, he’ll follow me out, and I won’t be ready to defend myself. Not against a warrior trained to attack. I need to escape him before then.

  As I careen forward, I widen my focus, pressing outward with my mage senses. Three more paths cross mine before my destination. The first hurtles past before I can assess it. The second is bright and shiny — but the last, to my left, glimmers pink so faintly I almost miss it. I swerve onto it with a magic-fueled leap that nearly sends me fl
ying into darkness, the light around me devolving into tangled strands that pull at my body. My bones slam against the sack of my skin as if they might rip through.

  I scream into the void, pain obliterating my concentration. Black spots streak across my vision. This is why portals are dangerous. I can feel myself sliding, the route as slippery in my mind’s grasp as fine thread.

  No. I cling hard to the portal with its ancient path, push back with all my force, ignore the pain, staring wide-eyed past the darkness that blurs my sight. For a single agonizing moment, I teeter on the edge of a nightmare precipice. Then the momentum of my new direction sucks me in, steadying me as it pulls me forward into a new vortex of light twisting around me.

  The open portal flashes before me. With a gasp of relief, I tumble through it. But there’s no city on the other side of this portal, no crowds to lose myself in or alleys to flee down. There is only sun and dust and the broken walls of a forgotten fortress, silent as a tomb.

  I take two shaky steps forward into the debris-strewn courtyard. Agony ripples out from each strained joint, tendons and muscles pulled nearly to snapping.

  I gulp down a breath, assess my surroundings. The stone portal stands at the center of an interior courtyard, littered with broken tiles and stones from the surrounding walls of a great fortress. The sun is already bright overhead. The air tastes of dust, hot and bereft of moisture. All around stretches a vast quiet: nothing moves, no bird chirps, neither leaf nor cloth rustles in the wind. This is hardly a welcoming land.