Memories of Ash (The Sunbolt Chronicles Book 2)

by Intisar Khanani

  “Then she will not harm us now. Cut her free.”

  I catch the glint of a dagger from the corner of my eye, and then Brightsong takes my good arm, my left, and lays it on the ground beside me. Then there are hands on my right arm, carefully lifting away blood-stiff fabric. I press my lips together on a scream as the clots rip free from my wound. The muffled, swallowed sound of my cry fills the small room.

  “Water,” Brightsong says, the word a command. “For drinking, and a kettle of warm water to clean her arm. At once.”

  Osman Bey rises, moves away. The door opens and closes. I lie still, feeling a slow fire beginning in my hands, my fingers, as they come back to life.

  “I am sorry,” Brightsong says quietly. “I don’t dare lay a sleep on you, give you anything too strong — or you might slip away entirely. I will numb the area but it will not take away all sensation. You will have to bear some pain.”

  She lays her hand upon my arm, and this time coolness radiates out, soothing and sweet. In the quiet it brings, I can feel the scrapes on my elbows, the tingling pain in my hands, the bruises growing along the lines of my fingers where I slammed them against the wall, the egg-shaped lump over my ear where Osman Bey hit me. But all of these are small, minor nuisances in comparison to the pain Brightsong has taken away.

  She sings as she works, weaving the beauty of her voice together with her magic to staunch the new trickle of blood. Her song swells strong and clear as she burns away any infection or contaminants, then turns deep and gentle as she holds a hand over the open wound, letting her magic wash over it. I latch onto the sound of her song, using it to anchor me against the whisper of pain I can feel through the numbing magic she used.

  “The muscle is partially torn,” Brightsong breaks her song to tell me. “To heal properly, it must be sealed back together again. The bolt missed your tendons and arteries. You are very blessed.”

  As her magic seals first muscle and then tissue together, I try to focus on the idea that life is a much better thing for me than death. Tears leak out the corners of my eyes as the pain digs its claws in, piercing through the numbing magic. Her song is steady and true, thrumming through me, but I am waking to realities that it cannot touch. My failure, my capture, means that all those who aided me I may now betray. Stonefall. Jabir. The Degaths. At least Kenta may escape. I can only hope Stormwind got away.

  “There,” she says, sitting back. “I’ll see to your head and hand once we have you settled in the infirmary. Osman Bey.” She transforms his name into an order.

  “I would advise against it.” His voice floats down over me, thickening in my ears like thistledown. “She should be … we can guard against escape.”

  Brightsong’s voice flickers in and out of my hearing. Perhaps she laid a sleep on me, or perhaps this is what pain and blood loss does. “If you … unlikely … prisoner then?”

  My eyes drift shut as Osman Bey answers. I catch a couple words through the thickening air: wards, Council.

  My breath rustles through my lungs, creating an ebb and flow of pain that finally gives way to emptiness.

  I wake to the scent of lemon, bright and fresh and invigorating. Multi-hued light fills my room, a window somewhere to my side throwing shards of red and blue and yellow on the wall before me. I breathe slowly, aware without shifting of the pain slumbering within me.

  I lie on my back, face turned to a blank wall. With each breath, the muscles of my shoulder and arm shift, pain flickering along my right arm. It feels as though someone took a coal and traced a line of fire across my arm. And the whole of my body aches, no doubt the result of being pushed by Val to move beyond its natural ability.

  I try, discreetly, to look past the foot of my bed without lifting my neck very much. The pain shifts, flaring up, and I freeze, my eyes coming to focus on the door barely visible above the blankets folded at my feet. A pair of lycans stands guard, facing me.

  I don’t recognize them, at least not immediately. They regard me wordlessly, then one of them turns and leaves the room. I lay my head against the pillow, breathing shallowly. I can’t move my right arm —it must be immobilized to keep my wound still — but I can move my fingers easily enough. My other arm is laid out straight, my hand resting on a pillow or towel of some sort. When I try to move those fingers, new flickers of pain make themselves known, far less painful but distinctly there. My hand feels stiff, awkward. I cannot quite form a fist.

  I let my eyes drift shut and take stock of my situation. I have one good hand attached to a wounded arm. I won’t be able to pick locks. I might not be able to stand if I’ve lost too much blood. Balancing and all. I squeeze my eyes tight, trying to focus my thoughts. It’s daylight. If Stormwind is still free, then she should be safe. I can’t escape now, but I doubt that anything too serious will be done to me while I appear so weak. At least not at once. I need to wait and plan.

  I hear the faint sound of the door opening, footsteps approaching.

  “You’re sure she woke?” a woman’s voice asks.

  “Aye,” one of the lycans responds.

  “Did she speak?”

  “No,” the other says.

  A finger brushes my cheek. I jerk involuntarily, then grit my teeth against the resulting shock of pain. When I force my eyes open, the same healer mage who first treated me is studying me, eyes shadowed and a deep line forming between her brows.

  “I’m glad you’ve woken.” Her voice is cool, wholly neutral. “I am Mistress Brightsong, head healer-mage of the Mekteb. I need you to drink a potion that will help your body replenish lost blood. I have a second for the pain, if you wish it, and some broth to feed the rest of you.” I watch her mouth moving. It seems like a great many things to do. “We’re going to help you sit up.”

  Sitting up, I feel terribly exposed before my lycan guards. I wear only a light tunic with its right sleeve cut away, and a pair of drawstring pants I don’t recognize. Feeding myself is out of the question, for my good hand is attached to my badly injured arm, now bound in a sling to protect it. My left hand is swollen and colored a lovely variegated purple and blue from when I beat it against the wall.

  Brightsong offers me the blood loss potion first, then the broth, with two pieces of bread dipped in it to add substance, and then the second potion. And two glasses of water at my request. It takes an exhaustive amount of effort to down it all.

  “What … time?” I ask when I am done, my voice rough despite all the liquids.

  Brightsong tilts her head, her gaze steady on my face. “Late afternoon.”

  “Where?” I have vague memories of being shifted, voices speaking over me. I knew I was being moved and I didn’t care where at the time. But I don’t recognize this place.

  “The infirmary. Our mages have placed wards on the room and you are under continual guard. I would not recommend attempting to leave.”

  I’m not sure I can even stand right now. “The prisoner?”

  Her jaw tightens. “That is not for me to discuss.”

  “No,” agrees a voice from the door. “That would be for me to discuss.”

  I swing my head ponderously toward the speaker, knowing who I will see: Osman Bey. With his velvet and leather armor and array of blades, he looks right at home between the two guards. And the three of them seem completely out of place in this bright, cheery room. The sight of him, with his golden eyes glittering in the light, sharp and hard as glass, rips away the muffled sense of security I’d managed to wrap around myself.

  He steps forward, nodding to Brightsong. The right side of his jaw is bruised nearly purple. I stare at it as he says, “I’ll require a few words with her.”

  “Of course,” she says, stepping aside. “She’s weak, though, and should not move at this point. You will refrain from hurting or upsetting her.”

  Osman Bey turns his head to regard her as he passes. I can’t see his expression, but Brightsong returns his look with that same unnervingly neutral mask.

  He sits on the
stool Brightsong vacated, pulled even with my pillow. “I am Osman Bey, captain of the Lycan Guard,” he says, his tone cold. “What is your name?”

  Captain. I should have guessed it from how he ordered the other lycans away the first time I met him in the garden.

  I don’t want to lie to him, but refusing to answer won’t do me any good. “Zainab,” I say finally.

  “Family name? Or mage name?”

  I shake my head.

  His eyes narrow. “I expect it’s irrelevant. What were you doing in Shahmaran Hall?”

  I close my mouth on my answer, bite my lip gently to remind myself to think. I don’t know how much he knows, or if they’ve caught Stormwind. I can’t give away anything. “Just looking,” I say slowly. “Did you catch her?”

  Osman Bey shakes his head once. “No.”

  Thank God.

  He leans forward, intent on me. “Do you know where she went?”

  “No.” Not once the phoenix took her to Kenta.

  “But you were there to help her.”

  I almost smile. They still haven’t figured out how we did it. “Yes,” I tell him. This is a secret I can’t keep. I was seen by too many people, and the Council will get the truth from me one way or the other. But, really, I admit it because he told me about Stormwind. It’s only fair that I give him one truth in return.

  His face hardens. “Why?”

  There is something odd in his tone, an emotion half-hidden beneath his tightly coiled anger. But he’s not really ready to listen, and I’m not willing to lie. “I already told you,” I say finally.

  His gaze narrows as he tries to recall our past conversations, the words I used when he caught me.

  I let my head loll back against the pillows, the weight of my exhaustion pulling at me. Better to let him think I’ve simply had enough of talking for now.

  “If you can provide any information on the whereabouts of the fugitive, the Council may be lenient with you.”

  We both know that’s a lie. I don’t bother answering.

  He sits back, glances toward Brightsong. She raises her eyebrows, expression still cool. With a sigh, Osman Bey rises from his stool. At the door, he looks back once, frustrated but uncertain, and then he is gone.

  Brightsong helps me lie down again before departing.

  He has honor, I remind myself, cheek pressed against the pillow. Only a man with honor would force those boys to show respect for a servant. If he asks again why I came to help Stormwind, perhaps I will answer. If he’s ready to hear me.

  The wards on my room are complex, layered, and keyed to me. I reach out to touch the walls — a somewhat awkward feat given my wounds, the placement of the bed, and the watchful eyes of my guards. The magical lines that flare up are anchored through sigils and wards on each wall, all of them formed of pure energy except for the one nearly two arms’ lengths above my bed. It has been inked on the wall with dark, uneven brush strokes. I can’t tell much without actually touching it, but I don’t like the look of it at all, not its shape, and certainly not its brownish-black color.

  I can tell that I don’t have the mastery required to reshape the wards enough to get past them. At least one is designed to turn back on me any magic I might release — a safeguard against my attacking the guards. The door’s lock is warded against prying, though the sigil on the door itself looks similar to what was used on Stormwind’s cell. Apparently, they haven’t yet recognized its inherent weakness. Unfortunately, there’s always at least one guard in my room with me. With wards blocking even the simplest sleep spell, I have no chance whatsoever of getting past them and through the door. And certainly no chance of walking out an open door unobserved.

  If I escape at all, it will not be from this room. Which means I must plan for the worst possibility of all: that I won’t escape on my own. I have no way of knowing what Kenta is doing, or if he will attempt to reach me. Perhaps he’s been counting on my using the phoenix feather, but my boots are neither on my feet nor anywhere I can see in the room. Asking the guards about my boots would merely assure that they’d find the feather now if they missed it before.

  I stare at the ceiling and work through my options again and again, looking for anything I might have missed. By the time Brightsong brings me another potion and more food, I still have as few ideas as I started with.

  I greet her quietly, pushing myself up to lean against the pillows, and realize I need to get to a washroom.

  Brightsong sets down her tray, regarding me carefully. “Will you need to relieve yourself before eating?”

  I nod, my face heating. I’m not sure if I’m strong enough to leave the bed yet — I might be able to manage, but I don’t believe for a minute that they’ll leave me alone in the room to try.

  Brightsong nods and gestures to the lycans. They’ve changed shift since I first woke, and my new guards include a female lycan. The male steps out at once. The female comes forward to help me out of bed. Brightsong pulls out a shallow pan of sorts from beneath the bed and steps back.

  When I decided to break Stormwind free I gave up my right to dignity, to privacy, to a great deal of things I’ve taken for granted. I make myself do what I must, urinating into a bowl beside my bed, so shaky I need the lycan’s help, while Brightsong watches me in a detached, professional manner. Neither the lycan nor Brightsong makes any comment, sparing me from further humiliation.

  Once I am done and returned to the bed, the second guard is called back in. My arm feels worlds better, which is to say that it flares with pain only when I move. When I am still, it does not burn. The bruises on my hand seem significantly improved as well.

  “I used a few standard spells to break up the clotting and flush out the dead blood,” Brightsong tells me when I mention it. She offers me a spoon of a hearty meat and vegetable soup. I wonder if she thinks I might use the spoon as a weapon, or if she really doesn’t believe I can feed myself yet. “We’ve been trying to control the swelling in your arm. No doubt that’s benefited your hand. It should heal well on its own — you didn’t bruise the bones, just the flesh. You should have its use again within a few days.”

  “My arm?”

  “It’s mending very well. The muscle will be tight and weak where it was torn. I’ll teach you some strengthening exercises, stretches to maintain full movement.” She hesitates. “There are a few small spells that may also help, if done regularly.” I look up, but her gaze drops down to the bowl. She knows as well as I that I can’t expect to be cared for so well. There’s no knowing where I’ll be in a few days. The High Council won’t wait much longer before putting me to trial, and after that — I’ll either be dead, mad, or a source slave, with no one to do little healing spells for me regularly.

  Still, I’m grateful for her intentions. “Thank you.”

  “It is my duty to aid you,” she says, the lines of her shoulder tight. Perhaps her help isn’t voluntary. I can’t assume she doesn’t consider me a criminal and a rogue mage. She’s just a very good healer.

  There’s a faint knock at the door. Brightsong turns toward it with evident relief. “Come in.”

  My guards stand at attention — clearly expecting someone important to enter. I straighten in the bed, ignoring the burst of pain from my arm, and run a clumsy hand over my hair. It feels tangled and badly knotted around the shrinking lump over my right ear. Granted, I have greater worries.

  Osman Bey swings open the door. He is still dressed in the light armor he wore the last time he was here, the bruise on his jawline now a livid purple. Perhaps he’s been too busy to bother with healing spells. He eyes, shadowed with fatigue, run over me without meeting mine. He scans the rest of the room, then nods to whomever he escorts.

  A woman enters. She is short but well proportioned, her face wide with rounded cheeks and full lips, and her hands slim. By the color of her skin, dark as the deepest of woods, I would guess her to be from Karolene or one of the mainland Kingdoms near it. A colorful cloth wrap covers her hair, match
ing the hint of fabric visible beneath her sweeping emerald robes. She carries herself with authority, elegance, and a deep confidence in her own abilities.

  “Do you know who I am?” Her voice rings out clear and true in the small room. She is used to being heard, and being answered.

  I shake my head.

  “My mage-name is Talon. Until this morning, I presided over the High Council.”

  I meet her gaze, trying not to show my surprise — either that Arch Mage Talon herself has come to visit me, or that she has lost her position as first mage of the Council.

  She glances over her shoulder. “Stonefall. Is this the girl?”

  My chest tightens with shock. Stonefall? He should have left by now, escaped before I can betray the help he gave me.

  He steps into the room, his earth brown desert robes rustling. He stops at the foot of my bed, studying my face. I gaze back at him, keeping my expression blank. Whatever his strategy now, he did help me before. I won’t endanger him by speaking.

  “Yes,” he says, in a voice that brooks no argument. “This is the girl who drew the poison from my wound and saved my life.” He ignores Brightsong’s start of surprise, the slight indrawn breath from one of the lycans. “It seems I owe her a debt.”

  A debt I consider already repaid, but he’s decided to use it to appeal to Talon’s sense of honor. I don’t understand why, but I’m grateful nonetheless.

  Talon nods as if he merely provided confirmation of something she already knew. “Describe the spell that was cast,” she commands me.

  Proving I aided a mage can only help my case. My voice comes out creaky and weak. “I lured the poison out of his wound with memories of my own life. Poison is … drawn to life. Then I channeled it into a glowstone to contain it.”

  Stonefall slips the dulled glowstone from his pocket and passes it to Talon. Osman Bey tilts his head, keenly observant. She takes it, turning it over in her hand. “And then you ran,” she finishes for me.