Prize of Night

by Bailey Cunningham

  Then she walked over the hill to place the call.

  Sam sat down. She nudged something in the grass with her shoe. It was a piano key. She rubbed off some of the dirt and held it up.

  “Is this important?”

  Andrew stared at it for a long time, as if unable to comprehend what it was, exactly. Then he took it from her, letting the moonlight touch the ivory.

  “That’s what they say.”

  He remembered Septimus screaming. Find the horn! It was cold in his hand, slippery with blood. Smoke everywhere, and a smell like the end of the world. He’d seen Felix for a moment, only to lose him. The memories were burned around the edges, like abused parchment. Septimus had carried the body. No. It was Skadi. She’d lifted it with no expression, no hint of strain. The brass foxes at his feet. Eumachia crying, but Latona had her by the arm. Smoke. Hundreds of eyes watching. Hunger and questing curiosity. Gore-slick armor, a forest of cries. The bundle in Skadi’s arms. And where was the knife? How had he lost it? Why did they trust him with bright things?

  “What did he say to you?”

  It took Andrew a moment to realize that the question was meant for him. “What?”

  Shelby turned. “He said something. I couldn’t hear it, because I was too far away. But he was looking at you. What did he say?”

  I told you.

  “It was too loud to hear anything,” he said. “But I think he was happy.”

  “What was that song?” Sam asked. “Was it—a blessing?”

  “I think it was different for everyone.”

  “What did you hear?”

  Andrew looked at his hands. “There were no words. Just a feeling. I knew—who I was. Who we were. For that second, I knew. And I wasn’t afraid.”

  “When you were mostly dead,” Shelby said, “we tied you to him with a belt. And he rode that way. He couldn’t believe how light you were.”

  Babieca had been light in Skadi’s arms, or seemed that way. Latona’s expression had been a mystery as they’d carried him through the smoke. Out of the chaos and toward the edge of the world. Even now, the memories were fading. Eumachia’s broken cry. The knife in Mardian’s hand, as if it had never left. Babieca’s astonished laugh.

  Andrew leaned over the body. It was hard not to touch, and he was surprised by the desire. He knew there was no warmth left. But he wanted to reassure himself that something was there. He brushed the hair with his fingertips. It was soft, limp. Doll hair. The body seemed to forgive him this trespass. He followed the curve of the breastbone, to the ruin of the heart. He remembered the feeling of being in those arms. The darkest moment of the night, and his head in that warm crook, drifting, half-asleep.

  I’m essential, am I?

  The tomcat smile. Knowing the answer.

  You’re the song that begins it all.

  But he’d been wrong about that. Not a song of beginnings. No one should ever trust him again. But the song was still in his ears. The mouth on his. The wild roll and the woven quiet between them. And the salamanders, so demure. The feeling that everything could be saved, if the night, and the wheel, if only the wheel, if.

  And now Ingrid was walking back down the hill. How long had she been gone? He couldn’t say. Had she actually left? It seemed as if she’d always been there, ghosting around the edges of their family. Now they were four. Or maybe less. Any of them could walk away. There was no shame in that kind of logic, not now.

  “What did you tell them?” Shelby asked.

  Ingrid blinked, as if she hadn’t heard the question. She stared at the object in her hand. How did this get here? The slim brick that could solve anything. But it was just her phone, and she realized that. Her expression changed.

  “Something,” she said. “I don’t know.”

  Shelby frowned. “You were gone for a while. You must have told them a lot.”

  “It was only a few minutes.”

  “No. It was a long time.”

  “Really?” Ingrid shook her head. “I don’t think I said much.”

  “We found him in the park,” Sam said. She hadn’t spoken in a while, and her voice was strangely loud in the clearing. “That’s the story? Just that?”

  Shelby shrugged. “There’s nothing else.”

  “What was he doing in the park? Without his clothes?”

  “The police will draw their own conclusions,” Ingrid said.

  “But they’ll know that he died tonight. They know those kinds of things.”

  “He died in another world,” Ingrid replied. “Who knows what they’ll find? Dust from Anfractus, maybe. Living smoke. This is where we found him. This is the only story that we have. If we say it enough times, it will be true.”

  “Isn’t that—what do they call it—perjury?”

  Shelby turned to her. “If you want to go, just go. We won’t say anything.”

  Sam looked down. “That’s not what I meant.”

  “It’s fine to be worried about these things. You should be worried. None of us will think less of you if—” She made a vague gesture. “It’s fine. It’ll be fine.”

  “You don’t need me.”

  Shelby blinked. “What?”

  “That’s what you’re really saying. We don’t need you. That’s how you’ve always felt.”

  She winced slightly. “That’s not true.”

  “It is. But it’s okay. I’m with you now, and I’m not going anywhere.” Her expression was grim. “We carried him this far. I’ll say what I have to say. You don’t have to wonder about me anymore. I’m part of this company.”

  His replacement.

  Andrew couldn’t help thinking it. Sam balanced the equation. She made them a true company again. He wasn’t sure what he felt about this. All he could see was the pebble between the toes. But he couldn’t touch it. Not anymore. It was like a piece of writing now. The type was set. Nothing could be redacted.

  Strangely, he thought about Carl’s apartment. The dust bunnies, waiting for him to come home. The blast radius of his bedroom. The books that he’d stolen from the library, tucked into inoffensive corners. The tin can on the balcony, where he ashed quietly, when no one was looking. The whole place humming unexpectedly with love, washed in red light from the sex shop below. He imagined how long it would take to collect the remains, all the dust and papers and broken things that even he’d forgotten about.

  Sam crouched next to the body. She was only partially looking, the way you might watch a coyote who was following you home. Her expression was difficult to read. Not fear, exactly. Something closer to disbelief. But there was also a dark gleam of curiosity that made its way to the surface.

  “I thought it would be different,” she said. “The first time I saw this. I thought it would change everything. My cousin. She had pancreatic cancer.” Sam swallowed. “It wasn’t good. And afterward, when I saw what was left of her, I thought it would be something. Like an answer, or maybe an argument that I couldn’t win.”

  Strange to think that, among them, it was Sam who’d seen a body before. The cry in her voice earlier had suggested that this was all new. But maybe it just brought back memories that she didn’t want to deal with.

  “Was it?” Shelby asked.

  Sam looked at the canyon in the body’s chest. “No. I don’t know. They say that something leaves. That it’s smaller. Not them. But it was still her. I was twelve years old. When they put her in the ground, I thought she’d wake up. I listened at the window.”

  Andrew struck the tree. First with his hand, then with his head. The pain dazed him. It was hot and sweet. He would have done it again, but Ingrid grabbed his arms. She was surprisingly strong, even on this side of the park. Still dizzy, Andrew stared at the tree bark. It was spotted with blood. He touched his throbbing forehead, and his fingers came away wet. He thought he might be sick.

 
“What was that?” Shelby demanded.

  His tongue was thick, which made it hard to speak. “I . . . don’t know. I wanted to do it. I wanted to hurt. Everything in me is screaming to do it again.”

  “But you won’t,” Ingrid said gently. She had one cool hand against his forehead and was stroking it absently.

  He shook his head.

  Ingrid let him go. He sat down on the grass.

  “I used to think,” he said, “that the world was full of falcons and fur-lined cloaks. That it was like a medieval poem. All you needed was a good dictionary.” His eyes, which normally demurred, moved across the faces staring at him with surprise and concern. “Is this what it is? How it works? Because I don’t understand. He knew I didn’t like tomatoes, so he picked them out of my sandwich. Ate them right in front of me, like he was taking a bullet. He liked dogs, and buttons, and when he was drunk, he taught me how to say bad things in Spanish. I can still hear him. And I don’t understand how this works. It’s not in the dictionary.”

  They were silent for a while.

  “Why do you think he did it?” Shelby asked.

  Andrew didn’t quite comprehend the question. “Who?”

  “Mardian.” She nearly choked on the name. “Felix was supposed to be the sacrifice. But it could have been anyone. Why did he do it?”

  “To hurt us,” Ingrid said.

  “No.” Andrew looked again at the tree. “Not us. Me.”

  Shelby gave him an odd look. “I know what I said before. But this isn’t your fault.”

  “Isn’t it? I scarred him. I shamed him. It wasn’t Roldan. It was me.” Andrew shook his head. “He was the basilissa’s ensign. He followed us all the way to the university library. And I’d forgotten it all. I was so stupid. The power was there, and I just—” He shook his head. “He screamed. I remember the smell. And the salamander, breathing fire. When I saw him again—as Aleo—I knew. His face was unmistakable. All those lies about fomenting revolution. He never stopped being her engine. It wasn’t enough to kill Felix. This was his revenge. We burned him and left him for dead.”

  “He was trying to kill us,” Ingrid said. “What else could you have done?”

  Andrew shrugged. “Anything? But Carl kept yelling about the salamander. And I thought”—a smile quirked the edge of his mouth—“he sees it too. It was such a relief. And for a moment, I thought the fire would just dance around us, and we’d all be okay. But lares are hungry. I should have known that.”

  He believed in meter, and mosaics, and the sound of dead languages coming back to life. He believed in libraries, and bars where you could be anyone. He believed in the compassion of stories, even the bad ones. Beyond that, he wasn’t sure. He’d also believed that his mother was gone, and now—it wasn’t simple. He couldn’t dive into the water and wash himself free of these doubts. Simple had never been possible.

  “They’ll be here soon,” Ingrid said. “The paramedics.”

  “Is our story straight?” Sam asked.

  “None of them are,” Andrew said. “But they’re what we have to work with.”

  Now he could hear the sirens in the distance. And there wasn’t enough time. There was never enough. He couldn’t say it all. He couldn’t disturb that smoothly punctuated sentence. No time to hold the hand, to kiss the mouth, to breathe, breathe, hoping for the heart to sing. Wasn’t that what it was for? Couldn’t he still hear the song everywhere, in his bones, in the leaves, moving the world?

  The sirens drew closer. He could see the flickering lights at the edge of the clearing. In a moment, there would be strangers here, taking apart the silence. There would be questions and the straightening of stories. The lies that they lived with.

  Blue light dazzled the trees. This had been him. Insensate on the ground, his lungs full of water. Still swimming. But he’d come back. Did he remember? Was there something he’d seen in that ocean, something to change him forever? It had seemed like a second, like a wave of time, crashing over him until he was dark sand, abalone, all inside.

  “They’re here,” Ingrid said.

  He surfaced, water in his mouth, the song in his ears.

  It was time.

  2

  There was a difference in the streets. It wasn’t a perceptible shift so much as a subtle change in vibration. People gathered near the white paving stones, murmuring in what shade they could find. They wore hooded expressions and spoke in low voices. More than a few were masked. Night was on its way. Soon the sky would turn on them, red-rimmed clouds swallowing the sun in anticipation. The shadows would grow longer. Dove song among the insulae would be replaced by the trill of breaking glass. The people of Anfractus—some of whom weren’t, strictly speaking, people—recognized that something was coming. Nervous machines skittered across the cobblestones, trying to keep up with their makers. The street-side popinae were shuttered, while the tavernae remained open under guard. No one wanted to spend too much time outside if they could possibly help it. A storm seemed to be brewing in the heart of the world, and they could feel it in the gray spaces, the cracks between the stones. A celebrant was selling half-priced garlands. Soon her stock would have to be replenished.

  The lares were also out. Gnomoi lingered in the alleyways, tasting the bricks. Their dark eyes might have been blind, but Aleo couldn’t tell. Perhaps they saw everything. Undinae hissed among the fountains, their webbed fingers gripping the marble rims. He could no longer hear what they whispered. That gift had been lost. But he could see them now, and he wasn’t sure which sense he preferred. They watched him with their lamplight eyes, their graven faces, closer to stone or seaweed than flesh. They too were waiting. The smoke above them had become a constant presence. He adjusted the ivory horn on its leather strap. Septimus would demand its return, but for now, it was his to wear. The caela watched him from jewel-encrusted clouds, drifting near. The oath had not failed. But to whom did they pledge fealty? All he could remember was blood and smoke.

  It wasn’t long ago that he’d been running downhill, away from the Arx of Violets. Now he was walking toward it, climbing the shallow steps that led to the wealthiest quarter of the city. He could see the firewalls that crisscrossed the Subura, dividing it from the stately homes of the elite, with their servants and painted blue doors. He nearly turned around. It would be a simple matter to visit the black basia. To seek answers. Felix would be in the undercroft, licking his wounds. The briefest of detours. His hand strayed to the dagger. He’d pressed it to the pale neck of the meretrix. He’d steadied himself. The blade feather-light. Anything was possible in that moment, beat thin, like brittle foil.

  But it would not be that simple.

  He kept walking. It was not smart to be here, exposed like this. Not their most sterling plan. Success meant stealing time, and possibly even answers. Failure was a cell in the carcer, whips and starvation, a final, guttural yes in answer to whatever questions they posed. He would not be able to endure torture. He’d died once, and now, a stubborn part of him clung to this second life. It was a persistent desire that would eventually betray him.

  The lemon trees were fragrant. He heard the lapping waters of the fountains, the rustle of silk as a domina passed him on the street. Her hair was covered by a jeweled scarf, and gold flashed on her bare arms. She belonged here. Aleo wasn’t so sure if this was his home, or if he’d lost it in a bet. The wheel crackled with light as it turned above him, singing on its world-axle. He was a small thing moving in the middle-yard below, while Fortuna looked on. Had she spoken to him once? He had a very dim memory of her voice. But it was so faint that it might have been a dream. Maybe she’d spoken to the other one. They shared space in this life, but there was almost no trace of him left. Just a pale outline, beginning to crack beneath the force of the sun.

  The path narrowed. Soldiers in burnished loricae emerged from the line of trees. They watched him closely but didn’t reach f
or their weapons. Latona was curious. She wanted to know why he’d come back. He’d spent some time in her palace, and the one thing he’d managed to glean was that she enjoyed puzzles. That curiosity was keeping him alive. He didn’t nod or make eye contact with the guards. He pretended that they were lemon trees with sharp branches. The gate was in his sight.

  Violets carpeted the walls of the arx. They flamed in purple profusion, spreading across wood, stone, and glass until they were a part of everything. He trailed his hands across the bloom. The petals were soft. Most of the beauty in this city was dissimulation, but these, perhaps, were a rare exception.

  The guards admitted him. The sun was sinking, and it painted their armor, flickering across the gold and enamel of their stylized buckles. The barest word from Latona would send his head rolling among the red horseshoe arches. He couldn’t afford to look at anyone, to register any expression. He remembered the shock of the crowd when Felix had been unmasked. The gleam of his eyes, the curls against his brow. He could never again be what he was. They’d seen him, judged him. What remained?

  He passed through the courtyard, with its brightly painted walls and soaring ceiling. Lanterns burned in subtle niches, throwing light across the colored expanse until it danced before his eyes. Two salamanders were basking in a corner. He nodded to them, and they flicked their tails. Being an oculus was somewhat like being a shepherd of spirits. He couldn’t speak with them, not in the strictest sense, but he could influence them. The lares would follow him down the corridor—he had only to wish for it. But what they did next would be their decision. That was the tricky bit. Latona didn’t understand this. You could raise an army of lizards and water sprites, and even a dragon made of smoke, but following and serving were different concepts entirely. The lares would follow her, because she smelled like power, because her actions might benefit them. But they wouldn’t serve her. Whatever they did, once gathered, was their decision. If the salamanders had a purpose, they remained silent about it.