The Burning Sky

by Shelly Thomas

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  THE

  BURNING

  SKY

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  .....................................................................

  THE

  BURNING

  SKY

  SHERRY THOMAS

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

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  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Balzer + Bray is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.

  The Burning Sky

  Copyright © 2013 by Sherry Thomas

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.

  ISBN 978-0-06-220729-6

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  First Edition

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  Dedication

  To J, who is as kind, smart, and hilarious as he is gorgeous,

  and who has loved this story since it was but a blob

  THE

  BURNING

  SKY

  JUST BEFORE THE START OF Summer Half, in April 1883, a very minor event took place at Eton College, that venerable and illustrious English public school for boys. A sixteen-year-old pupil named Archer Fairfax returned from a three-month absence, caused by a fractured femur, to resume his education.

  Almost every word in the preceding sentence is false. Archer Fairfax had not suffered a broken limb. He had never before set foot in Eton. His name was not Archer Fairfax. And he was not, in fact, even a he.

  This is the story of a girl who fooled a thousand boys, a boy who fooled an entire country, a partnership that would change the fate of realms, and a power to challenge the greatest tyrant the world had ever known.

  Expect magic.

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  CHAPTER 1

  FIRE WAS EASY.

  In fact, there was nothing easier.

  They said that when an elemental mage called forth flame, she stole a little from every fire in the world. That would make Iolanthe Seabourne quite the thief, gathering millions of sparks into one great combustion.

  That flame she sculpted into a perfect sphere ten feet across, suspended above the rushing currents of the River Woe.

  She beckoned with her fingers. Streams of water shot up and arced over the fireball. Stray droplets gleamed briefly under the sun before falling into the flame, releasing sizzles of steam.

  Master Haywood, her guardian, used to love watching her play with fire. He had not been alone in his fascination. Everyone, from neighbors to classmates, had wanted her to show them how she made little fireballs dance upon her palm, the same way Iolanthe, as a child, had asked Master Haywood to wiggle his ears, clapping and laughing with delight.

  Master Haywood’s interest, however, had run far deeper. Unlike others who simply wished to be entertained, he’d challenge her to make intricate, difficult patterns and draw entire landscapes with filaments of fire. And he’d say, My, but that is beautiful, and shake his head with wonder—and sometimes, something that felt almost like unease.

  But before she could ask him what was the matter, he’d ruffle her hair and tell her he was taking her out for ices. There had been two years during which they’d had many, many cups of ices together, lumenberry for him and pinemelon for her, sitting by the window of Mrs. Hinderstone’s sweets shop on University Avenue, just a five-minute walk from their house on the campus of the Conservatory of Magical Arts and Sciences, the most prestigious institution of higher learning in the entire Domain.

  Iolanthe hadn’t had pinemelon ice in years, but she could still taste its tart, fresh tingle on her tongue.

  “My, but that is beautiful.”

  Iolanthe started. But the voice belonged to a woman—Mrs. Needles, in fact, who cooked and cleaned for Master Haywood three days a week here in Little Grind-on-Woe, about as far from the Conservatory as one could get without leaving the shores of the Domain. Not that Master Haywood earned enough to hire help anymore, but some housekeeping had been included as part of his compensation.

  Iolanthe dissipated the fireball still hovering in the air above the fast, white-foamed river. She didn’t mind juggling apple-sized handfuls of fire for the children, or provide a few garlands of dancing flames at Little Grind’s solstice ball, but it embarrassed her to display her abilities to this extent, with enough fire on hand to burn down the entire village.

  Unless you are actually performing at the Majestic Circus, Master Haywood had always urged her, think twice about exhibiting your powers. You never want to appear a braggart—or worse, a freak.

  She turned around and smiled at the housekeeper. “Thank you, Mrs. Needles. I was just practicing for the wedding.”

  “I had no idea you were such a mighty elemental mage, Miss Seabourne,” marveled Mrs. Needles.

  In the Old Millennia, when elemental mages decided the fate of realms, no one would have given Iolanthe’s middling powers a second glance. But these were the end days of elemental magic. Compared to the majority of elemental mages, who could barely call forth enough fire for a night-light—or enough water to wash their own hands—Iolanthe supposed her powers would indeed be considered mightier than average.

  “Mrs. Oakbluff and Rosie—and all their new in-laws—will be so impressed,” continued Mrs. Needles, setting down a small picnic basket. “And Master Haywood, of course. Has he seen your performance yet?”

  “He was the one who gave me the idea for the big fireball,” Iolanthe lied.

  The villagers might suspect Master Haywood to be a merixida addict who neglected his sixteen-year-old ward, but she refused to portray him as anything other than
a most solicitous, attentive father figure.

  In the seven years since his troubles started, she’d developed a certain demeanor, a second personality that she wore like an exoskeleton. The Iolanthe who faced the public was a darling: a confident, outgoing girl who was also wonderfully sweet and helpful—the result of having been deeply cherished her entire life, of course.

  She had grown so accustomed to this exterior that she didn’t always remember what truly lay underneath. Nor did she particularly want to. Why fester in disillusion, bewilderment, and anger when she could float above and pretend to be this sunny, charming girl instead?

  “And how are you today, Mrs. Needles?” she turned the questioning around. Given a choice, most people preferred to talk about themselves. “How’s the hip?”

  “So much better, ever since you gave me that joint-easing ointment.”

  “That’s wonderful, but I can’t take all the credit. Master Haywood helped me make it—he’s always hovering about when I’ve a cauldron before me.”

  Or perhaps he’d locked himself in his room for an entire day, ignoring Iolanthe’s knocks and the trays of food she’d left outside his door. But Mrs. Needles didn’t need to know that.

  No one needed to know that.

  “Oh, he’s lucky to have you, he is,” said Mrs. Needles.

  Iolanthe’s cheer faltered a little—did she ever fool anyone, in the end? But she remained resolutely in character. “For running a few errands now and then, maybe. But there are far easier ways of getting chores done than raising an elemental mage for it.”

  They chuckled over that, Mrs. Needles good-naturedly, Iolanthe doggedly.

  “Well, I brought you some lunch, miss.” Mrs. Needles nudged the picnic basket closer to Iolanthe.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Needles. And if you’d like to leave early today to get ready for the wedding, by all means, take as much time as you need.”

  That would get Mrs. Needles away from the house before Master Haywood awakened testy and disoriented from his merixida-induced stupor.

  Mrs. Needles placed a hand over her heart. “That’d be nice! I do love a wedding, and I want to look my best in front of all those fancy city folks.”

  Rosie Oakbluff’s wedding was to take place in Meadswell, the provincial capital sixty miles away. At the wedding, Iolanthe would light the path on which the bride and groom would walk arm in arm toward the altar. It was considered good luck for the lighting of the path to be performed by a friend of the bride rather than a hired elemental mage, and no one minded too much that Iolanthe was less a friend to the bride than someone trying to bribe the mother of the bride.

  “I will see you at the wedding,” she said to Mrs. Needles.

  Mrs. Needles waved, then vaulted, leaving behind a faint distortion in the air that quickly cleared. Iolanthe checked her watch—quarter to one in the afternoon. She was running behind.

  Not just for the wedding. She was at least half a term behind in her academic reading. Her clarifying potions kept failing. Every last spell from Archival Magic fought tooth and nail against her efforts at mastery.

  And the first round of qualifying exams for upper academies began in five weeks.

  Elemental magic was elder magic, a direct, primordial connection between the mage and the universe, needing no words or procedures as intermediaries. For millennia subtle magic had been the pale imitation, trying without coming close to matching the power and majesty of elemental magic.

  But at some point the tide had turned. Now subtle magic possessed the depth and flexibility to suit every need, and elemental magic was its clunky, primitive country cousin, ill-adapted to the demands of modern life. Who needed fire-wielding elemental mages when lighting, heating, and cooking were all done with much safer, much more convenient flameless magic these days?

  Without a sound education in subtle magic, elemental mages had pitifully few choices in careers: the circuses, the foundries, or the quarries, none of which appealed to Iolanthe. And without stellar results on the qualifying exams and the grants they’d bring, she would not be able to afford to attend an upper academy at all.

  She checked her watch again. She’d run through her routine for the lighting of the path one more time, then she needed to check on the light elixir in the schoolroom.

  A snap of her fingers brought a fresh sphere of fire five feet across. Another snap, the fireball doubled in diameter, a miniature sun rising against the steep, treeless cliffs of the opposite bank.

  Fire was such a pleasure. Power was such a pleasure. Would that she could bend Master Haywood to her will just as easily. She laced her fingers, then yanked them apart. The fireball separated into sixteen trails of flame, darting through the air like a school of fish, taking fast turns in unison.

  She clasped her palms together. The streams of fire formed again into a perfect sphere. A flick of her wrist had the fireball leap high in the air and spin, tossing out countless sparks. Now her hands pressed down, half submerging the fireball into the river, sending up a huge plume of hissing steam—there was a large reflecting pool at the wedding venue, and she planned to take full advantage of it.

  “Stop,” said a voice behind her. “Stop this moment.”

  She stilled in surprise. Master Haywood—he was up early. Dismissing the fire, she turned around.

  He used to be a handsome man, her guardian, golden and fit. No more. Limp hair hung about his pale face. Bags drooped under his eyes. His thin frame—he sometimes reminded her of a marionette—looked as if it might rattle apart with the least exertion. It never not hurt to see him like this, a shadow of his former self.

  But a part of her couldn’t help being thrilled that he had come to watch her rehearse. He hadn’t shown much interest in her in a long time. Perhaps she could also get him to help her on some of her coursework. He’d promised to homeschool her, but she’d had to teach herself, and she had so many unanswered questions.

  But first, “Afternoon. Have you had anything to eat?”

  He shouldn’t have vaulted on an empty stomach.

  “You cannot perform at the wedding,” he said.

  Her ears felt as if they’d been stung by bees. This was what he’d come to tell her? “I beg your pardon?”

  “Rosie Oakbluff is marrying into a family of collaborators.”

  The Greymoors of Meadswell were rumored to have turned in more than a hundred rebels during and after the January Uprising. Everyone knew that. “Yes, she is.”

  “I did not realize,” said Master Haywood. He leaned against a boulder, his face tired and tense. “I thought she was marrying a Greymore—from the clan of artists. Mrs. Needles corrected my mistake just now, and I cannot let agents of Atlantis see you manipulate the elements. They would take you away.”

  Her eyes widened. What was he talking about? If Atlantis had a special interest in elemental mages, wouldn’t she have heard about it? Not a single elemental mage she knew had ever attracted Atlantis’s attention simply by being an elemental mage. “Every circus has a dozen mages who can do what I do. Why should Atlantis pay any mind to me?”

  “Because you are younger and have far more potential.”

  Two thousand years ago she would have not have questioned him. Differences among realms then had been settled by wars of elemental magic. Good elemental mages had been highly prized, and great elemental mages, well, they’d been considered Angels incarnate. But that was two thousand years ago.

  “Potential for what?”

  “For greatness.”

  Iolanthe bit the inside of her lower lip. Merixida, in sufficient quantities, caused delusion and paranoia. But she’d always secretly adulterated Master Haywood’s homemade distillate with sugar syrup. Did he have a stash somewhere she didn’t know about? “I’d love to be a great elemental mage, but there hasn’t been a single Great for the last five hundred years anywhere on earth. And you forget that I can’t manipulate air—no one can be a Great without having control over all four elements.”

&n
bsp; Master Haywood shook his head. “That is not true.”

  “What is not true?”

  He did not answer her question, but only said, “You must listen to me. You will be in great danger if Atlantis becomes aware of your power.”

  Iolanthe had volunteered to light the path at the wedding. She could only imagine what the bride’s mother, Mrs. Oakbluff, would think were Iolanthe to suddenly announce, hours before the ceremony, that she had thought better of it.

  Her pocket watch throbbed. “Excuse me. I need to take the light elixir out of the cauldron.”

  She’d also volunteered to take care of the wedding illumination. Silver light elixir was the current craze; but a light elixir that emitted a true silver light without any tinge of blue was both difficult and time-consuming to make—and once mature, radiated for precisely seven hours.

  The entire enterprise was fraught with the possibility of failure. Iolanthe had started with five batches, and only one had survived the curing process. But the risk was worth it. The Oakbluffs wanted to show their much wealthier in-laws that they were capable of putting on an impressively elegant wedding, and a successful batch of silver light elixir went a long way toward achieving that goal.

  Iolanthe vaulted, hoping Master Haywood wouldn’t follow.

  It was spring holiday; the schoolroom was empty of pupils and their usual clutter. The equipment for the practicals was located at the far end, underneath a portrait of the prince. She uncovered the biggest cauldron and gave its contents a stir. The elixir stuck to the spatula, thick and opaque like a sky about to rain. Perfect. Three hours of cooling time and it should begin to radiate.

  “Have you heard anything I said?” Master Haywood’s voice again came behind her.

  He didn’t sound angry, only weary. Her heart pinched as she unpacked the sterling ewer Mrs. Oakbluff had given her for the light elixir. She didn’t know why, but she’d always felt a nagging suspicion that she was somehow responsible for his condition—a suspicion that went deeper than mere guilt at not being able to take care of him as she would like to. “You should eat something. Your headaches get worse when you don’t eat on time.”