Xhea grit her teeth until they creaked. If she wanted to find safety below ground, she would have to go deeper than this. Down and down and down again to the levels where daylight never reached—the subway express tunnels, the storage halls, the third subterranean level of the shopping complex where few stairs led.
“I’m so sorry,” Shai said, looking over Xhea’s shoulder at the damage. “I didn’t mean . . .”
But Xhea at last processed what Shai had said before, and knew it to be true: they were only searching the places where Shai’s spirit had traveled before her death. “No,” she whispered. “Oh, no.” For there, scattered in the far corner, were beads and bits of glass, tiny gray shapes that she had once seen as yellow and blue, green and purple, tumbling over each other in ever-changing patterns. The kaleidoscope.
“Wen. They’re going to go after Wen and Brend.” The only people beyond Shai, living or dead, that she’d ever trusted with real information about her life. If anyone could betray her, it was Wen—but surely Shai’s Tower had no way to talk to ordinary ghosts. Even so, she shuddered to think how many of her private conversations Brend had been present for, upstairs or across the warehouse, if not across the table from her, pretending not to hear. Brend knew far, far too much. The only question was, what bribes or threats—or how much pain—would it take to make him talk?
With an apology to her aching muscles, Xhea turned and ran for the exit.
From the street, the warehouse appeared untouched—or no more ruined than its neighbors, artifice and spellwork mirroring their slow groundward sag. Xhea moved toward the entrance; hesitated, and drew back. She took a long, slow breath.
“What’s done is done,” she said to Shai, as if it were the ghost who needed reassurance. Xhea wouldn’t admit to fear, but as she forced herself through the warehouse’s disguised entrance, she dreaded what she’d find.
Inside, the light flickered from daylight to overcast evening and back again, as if heavy clouds sped across the sun at speeds unknown in the sky. The packed shelves looked untouched, familiar rows stretching in every direction; yet the daylight spell’s irregular strobe made everything seem strange, the edged shadows taunting as Xhea crept through the maze of shelving.
Only at the warehouse’s center did she find anything broken. Though the huge wooden table stood undisturbed, the papers and artifacts that had covered its surface were scattered across the floor. Wen knelt at the center of the mess, helplessly trying to pick up the pieces of a smashed teacup.
“Wen?” Xhea went to his side, kneeling as he did before the porcelain shards. He did not reply, did not so much as acknowledge her presence, only tried again to touch the cup’s largest piece as if with infinite care and slowness his ghostly fingers might do anything but slide through unfeeling.
Xhea knew this cup; knew too the others that lay smashed in smaller pieces around him. They were artifacts, but not merely of the city that had come before. These cups, he had told her, were from an age even older than the ruins—an age beyond remembrance—and as such were of worth beyond measure. Looking at his expression, she had wondered if their true value was measured not in renai, but moments spent dreaming of the world long before the Fall, of lives and history they had no way to envision.
In the last weeks of Wen’s life, when his death was foretold in every weakened gesture, every shallow breath, he had let her touch one of his six precious teacups. It had been the largest: a cup whose thick rim and chipped handle spoke both of inferior craftsmanship and rough handling in its centuries of existence. Even so, Xhea had known that Wen’s placing it in her hands was a gesture. Perhaps of faith, or trust, or thanks; perhaps only preparing for the possibility that he might linger in this life, and she would become his only true companion. That he’d given it to her at all had almost made her weep, holding a thing worth more than she could ever be, and all the things it might symbolize.
She recognized them now: the pale blue cup’s hair-fine brushstrokes of painted violets; the curlicued handle of the cup she knew to be red; a shard of gleaming rim that Wen had said was edged in real gold. Memory filled in color where vision gave her gray, cracks and shards and the powder between.
Wen knelt before a shard of porcelain so fine that light shone through it as if hindered by no more than a veil of smoke, a passing shadow. Again he reached for the shard, and again his fingers slipped through it as if he were the light, the smoke, the shadow.
“Wen,” Xhea whispered again, and lifted the piece from the ground. His eyes rose then, following the shard in her hands before coming to rest on her face.
“It was an accident.” His voice was as broken as the cups. He gestured toward the satin-lined box that had once held the cups in safety and now lay upturned on the floor, its lid gaping on torn ribbon hinges.
“What happened here?” Xhea spoke slowly, softly, to avoid startling him. “Where’s Brend?”
Wen’s gaze fell again to the shards, and an eternity seemed to pass in that false, flickering daylight before he spoke.
“I never thought I would see them broken.” That quiet voice, those halting words. Xhea shivered to hear them; they were no part of the Wen she knew. “They were older than me,” he said. “Older by far. I thought . . .” He shook his head. “What is it about beautiful things that makes you think they will last forever? It was just an accident, but now they’re gone.”
“If beauty lasted forever,” Xhea murmured, “my friend Shai would have lived a very long time, and I will never die.”
It was a poor joke, but just enough to make him blink. When he again met her eyes, some of the sorrow had left him. The corner of his mouth twitched, and if it was not quite the beginnings of a smile, it was close enough.
“Ah, youth. Always so confident, always so wrong.”
“Wen, what happened here?”
“I don’t know.” He shook his head again. “Brend was . . . startled. Angry, even. He left in such a hurry, and didn’t say where he was going. He doesn’t, if you’ve been gone for a while.”
“This was Brend?” She gestured to the mess.
“Yes.” Wen seemed to see the rest of the destruction for the first time, ignoring the papers and food wrappers, and instead looking at the other artifacts damaged in their fall. “Yes, this was Brend,” he said, and sighed. “Except . . . there might have been another man here too. Before.”
“How much before?” Xhea realized the question’s uselessness too late. A clear sense of time’s passage was not a faculty Wen had retained in death.
Wen shrugged helplessly. “Before.”
“Was he someone you knew? A business associate? An antique hunter?”
“No. He was tall—white haired, but not old enough to have earned it. He didn’t even look at the artifacts, only stared at the ceiling and left.”
Xhea peered upward, seeing nothing but the flat white of the ceiling and the harsh flicker of its light. “Did he break the daylight spell?”
Wen seemed to notice the failing light for the first time. “Brend must have used a lot of power before he left. Used it, or gathered it.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, but my son is the only one who can take energy from my workings without damaging them. I keyed them to him before I . . . before.”
“This isn’t damaged?”
“Just weakened. It’s reflecting things it shouldn’t—nightfall, cloud cover.”
Xhea watched the shadows flicker. If the spell wasn’t damaged—if the destruction was due only to Brend pitching a fit or leaving in a hurry—then perhaps their pursuers hadn’t managed to track Shai’s signature all the way to the warehouse. She wished she believed it.
Wen rubbed his face as if to erase the lines etched there by his long years. With a last look at the broken teacups, he rose and turned away. “Will you help me clean?” he asked. “I can’t stand to see them like that.”
Xhea nodded and dropped the piece she held, wincing at its sharp edge. She stood—and
staggered. The world flipped as if the warehouse were a snow globe and she the snow. She fell, shards crunching beneath her weight as she sagged to the floor. She couldn’t stop her head’s impact with the tile.
It was a long, dark moment before she could move, and even then she chose to remain still, grateful to lie prone while the world debated which way was up. There was a buzzing, mumbling sound. She forced an eyelid open to see the two ghosts hovering above her—in Shai’s case, literally hovering.
“It’s okay,” Xhea murmured into the tangle of her hair. “I just fainted a little.”
It wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling, trying to gather the strength to rise after an unexpected collapse, but one she’d mostly managed to avoid the past few years—when she ate regularly. There had been that package of crackers from Lorn, water drunk greedily from the bathroom tap—and before that? She cast her mind further and further back and could not be certain of her last true meal.
But she did remember an awful lot of running.
Once she was able to push herself upright, she followed Wen’s directions to a battered tin that Brend kept on a lower shelf. She helped herself to the cookies inside and was considering whether to drink or steal Brend’s half-empty bottle of whiskey when a glint from the bottom of the tin caught her eye. It wasn’t a coin, she found, turning it over in her hand, though it was about the same size and weight. One side was patterned with etching so fine the individual lines were all but invisible against the metal; the other bore only the symbol that she recognized as representing Eridian, Wen and Brend’s home Tower.
Forget the whiskey, she thought as she slipped the token into a jacket pocket. This seemed far more valuable—and easier to carry.
“So,” Wen said, “what brings you to my warehouse?” He looked from Xhea to Shai, who stood anxiously by the table, arms wrapped about her chest as if for warmth. Xhea watched as he took in Shai’s changes from their last visit, clothes and stance and attitude.
Glossing over her trip to the City, Xhea explained the trouble she’d found waiting for her in the Lower City upon her return, and her fear that their pursuers might have done something to Wen, Brend, or their warehouse.
“They couldn’t destroy this place,” Wen said. “At least not legally. Brend’s an Eridian citizen in good standing, as was I in my day. If anyone threatened or harassed him, my son would have legal recourse.”
“I’m so happy for him,” Xhea muttered, and bit down hard on an almond cookie. Of course, that didn’t explain his rushed exit from the warehouse, either.
“But all this because—what? You didn’t behave well in civilized society?”
“It’s because of me,” Shai said. “My Tower is trying to find me.”
“Ah,” Wen said, nodding. “Because you’re their Radiant?”
Shai gaped. “But I—how did you—I didn’t even . . .”
“Call it a hunch.” Wen smiled, but the expression held little humor. “Your dress had the look of something you’d wear to a last binding.”
“Yes.”
“And your Tower?”
“Allenai.”
Wen whistled. “Impressive. They would need you back, wouldn’t they?”
Xhea spoke through a mouthful of cookie. “So which of you dead people wants to explain what you’re talking about?”
Wen gestured Shai toward the table and they each took a seat, as if chairs could actually hold them. “Your friend here,” he said, “is what we call a Radiant. Or she was, before her death.”
“Never heard of it.”
“I’m not surprised. No, calm down, child; it wasn’t an insult. Even in the City, we tend not to speak of Radiants. Even most citizens don’t know much about them, beyond that they exist.”
“They’re dangerous?”
“In a sense. But they aren’t known mostly because they are protected. Highly guarded and highly prized.”
“Right. But what are they?”
Shai leaned forward, eager to explain. “Magic is life force, right? Everyone has it—or, ah, at least that’s what we’re taught,” she amended, frowning at the oddity that Xhea posed. Xhea shrugged; Shai wouldn’t be the first stumped by her very existence—and that was before her dark energy had manifested.
The ghost continued. “When your body makes more than what you need just to stay alive, then that’s power. You can trade it with others—transform it into renai—to buy things you need, or create spells to put the energy to work. If you only have enough to stay alive, then—”
“Then you end up in the Lower City, squabbling over scraps,” Xhea said. The interruption made Shai hesitate, looking embarrassed. Xhea regretted her quick words.
“Some find work in the Towers still, Xhea,” Wen said. Xhea ducked her head, almost grateful for the correction. Well, she thought, there’s a first for everything.
“Right,” Shai said. “And if your body naturally makes more magical energy—or if you earn a lot more through your work—you can do even larger spells. But when you’re not using the energy, the excess goes into your Tower.”
Or fills fountains, Xhea thought, or is burned up in flashy light shows; but this time she kept her mouth shut.
Wen added, “The more magic you make, the more valuable you are to your Tower, for just that reason.” Xhea nodded. It was one of the reasons why top-tier magical workers were among the most sought-after citizens, wooed by Towers across the City.
“So a Radiant makes the most energy?” she guessed, remembering the harsh white light of Shai’s magic as she died.
“A lot more,” Wen said softly.
Xhea turned to Shai. “They’re trying to capture your ghost because you’re insanely rich?” She couldn’t keep the incredulity from her voice. But she followed her train of thought, speaking again before either listener could refute her. “No,” she said. “You’re their mint.” The ancient word came readily to her lips, and she touched one of the coins caught in her hair, as if the feel of ancient money could make the concept more solid.
“Well . . .” Shai wrung her hands.
“Yes,” Wen said. “Part mint, part power plant. Even with the thousands upon thousands of people living in every Tower—even with all their excess magical energy fueling that Tower’s economy—there isn’t enough power. Think about it, Xhea. Think about the magic needed to keep even one of those Towers aloft. And that doesn’t even begin to touch the energy required for everyday tasks, or transportation—never mind huge energy expenditures like a takeover.”
Xhea nodded. She’d seen takeovers, where two Towers merged their physical structures, energy, and population and became something entirely new. Most takeovers were slow and graceful, completed over weeks; hostile takeovers, in which one Tower attacked and absorbed another, were faster, more brutal—and much more fun to watch.
“Towers need Radiants. They’re born rarely, and are never allowed to change their citizenship. But the human body isn’t designed to hold that much energy. So much life force . . . the magic kills them in the end.” To Shai he added, “That’s what happened you, yes?”
Shai only hesitated a split second before agreeing, but that fractional pause was enough. Shai remembered exactly how she’d died. And still, Xhea thought, she came back to me. With me. For me.
Thinking of that day, Shai’s broken body all but incandescent with magic and fever, Xhea clenched her hands into fists. At last, that bright spring of energy at Shai’s core made sense: she had fueled the healing spells, even as her magic caused the damage that the spells attempted to repair. All except the darker spells, she thought, remembering that fine, complex spellwork that had reminded her of steel lace.
“There were spells on Shai,” she said slowly, “to keep her from dying.”
Shai startled at that, looking as if she wanted to capture Xhea’s words and hide them away unsaid.
Wen made a thoughtful noise and leaned back in his chair. His chair, however, didn’t lean with him, and Xhea watched as the chair back s
lid through his body until its uppermost rung appeared through the front of his chest.
“I wouldn’t know about that, truthfully,” he said. “I was an excellent spellcaster, but this wasn’t my area of specialty. But it seems a sensible practice, does it not, to keep your Radiant from dying as long as possible?”
“But she’s dead now.”
“And glowing. I assume that’s not normal for ghosts of your acquaintance?”
“No. But without a body, without a way to find her ghost—I mean, how would they harness . . .” Xhea’s words fled as she thought: Resurrection. Hard on the heels of that thought came another: Was that what Orren had been attempting, all those years ago?
Wen raised an eyebrow. “No way to find her ghost? That explains why they wish to find you, does it not?”
“But would Shai actually be useful? I mean, the amount of magic produced by a ghost . . .”
“Look around,” Wen said. “She’s refueled the daylight spell as we talked.”
Xhea blinked, realizing he was right. There were no flickers anymore, no moments of darkness like heavy clouds skidding across the sun; only light streaming in from all sides, as clear and bright as if they stood in a sunlit patio. As one, they turned to Shai.
“Um . . . you’re welcome?” Shai offered, and tried to smile.
Xhea took an unfamiliar route into the ruins, picking her slow way through the broken streets. No use making it easy for their pursuers.
As she walked, her thoughts returned to her trashed hideaway in the subway tunnel. If Allenai knew that Shai’s ghost was with her, why would they attempt to terrorize her? If they were trying to find Shai or Xhea, how did ruining one of her underground havens—or setting Rown’s trained crazies after her—help attain that goal? If Allenai was as powerful as Shai implied, surely there were more effective ways to gain her assistance.
Radiant: Towers Trilogy Book One Page 15
