Where Dreams Descend

by Janella Angeles

  Canary’s face lit under a small, devilish grin. “We need to play like we’re fighting for something, otherwise it’ll make for a boring game.”

  “A more dangerous one, maybe.” Ira stared hard at the cards before them. “Don’t joke about making deals here. It’s bad luck.”

  “Don’t worry, seamstress. I doubt we’ll be resorting to any blows over wounded pride. In case my opponent is a severely sore loser.”

  Kallia rapped her nails against the table at the challenge. “Fine, what do you want?”

  For how eager she was to stake a prize, the other girl thought long and hard, conferring with her gang in a glance. “What are you willing to play for?”

  Kallia couldn’t back down. A challenge always called to her. The game Ira described seemed easy enough to understand, and Kallia was a fast learner. She was used to mastering games she’d never played.

  “Performers,” she declared. “Your musicians perform with me again on the next show night, just as before.”

  Canary let out a small laugh. “You mean those top hats haven’t demanded our exile yet for ruining their first night?”

  A slow smile played on Kallia’s lips. “If they haven’t managed to get rid of me yet, you have nothing to worry about.”

  With a slow nod, Canary accepted the terms. “Fine, but if I win, you have to perform with us when Rayne unleashes the circus onto the streets.”

  Whatever chaos that picture implied, Kallia didn’t bat an eyelash. “Deal.”

  The flame-eater perked up in her seat. “So, what are we to assemble in this round?”

  “Thought you’d never ask,” Ira tsked, looking between them. “I’d like to assemble a royal court. King, Queen, Crown Prince, and Crown Jewel. Dark suits all throughout.”

  “And the dark suits are?”

  “Look at your cards.”

  Kallia lifted her set, fanning them out against her thumbs. She skimmed the corners of her ten cards: a Queen, King, and Servant card with black triangles by their letters; a Knight and a four set against a red square; a Prince, a five, and an eight adorned with red circles; a single star, and a black star card with a seven.

  “They say the hand you start out with in any game says a lot about you.” Ira watched their faces carefully, before she fished through the main deck for a card with a red circle at the corner. “For the light suits, we got circles—which stood for Coins, the suit of the Ranzas.” She picked up another. “Then the square represented Shields, for the Fravardis.”

  “And the dark suits…” She shuffled both back into the deck. “The ones with the black triangles symbolized Flames for the Alastors. And stars will always mean Stars of the Vierras.”

  Kallia remembered the names of the families, the suits representing them all within her hand. Her selection wasn’t half bad to start with. If she drew a certain pair of royals missing from her set, she could easily complete the Court of Flames. The Alastors.

  Game on.

  “Shall we begin?” Ira gestured to Kallia first. “Pick from the deck, and decide if you wish to keep it. If you wish for the chance to draw three, you’d have to make a consecutive set, regardless of suits. Be it one, two, three, or five, six, seven—I trust you both can count.”

  Both players shot her a glare before resuming their strategizing.

  It was still so strange to Kallia, to be a player in the game. She wasn’t glancing down in passing to see who courted a lucky hand. She held her own cards, and she carried that giddiness quietly as she reached for the first card from the choosing deck.

  Crown Prince of Flames.

  Kallia bit the inside of her cheeks, keeping her face steady.

  This was going to be so, so easy.

  As if a little unsure of herself, she blew out a long breath, carefully looking at all her cards one by one.

  Canary yawned. “Any century now, prima donna.”

  “Oh, all right,” Kallia sputtered, throwing her single star card in the middle before nestling the newly drawn Crown Prince beside the corresponding King and Queen. One more, and she’d have a full court.

  Ira studied the tossed card, while Canary let out a little whoop.

  “Thank you kindly.” She dragged the single star card to her side before placing her own two and three of Stars right beside it. “Count ’em. I’ll take my cardsss.” She hissed with so much emphasis that Kallia snorted.

  “I’d say I never pegged you as a peacock kind of player, but I’d be lying.”

  “Confidence is key in winning. You know that,” Canary sang, taking the first three cards from the top of the main deck. When she turned them over, she gave a small, delighted noise. “But how are the other showmen peacocks you’re running with? I’ve seen sewer rats with more stage presence.”

  “Exactly,” Kallia said. “It’s going to make things that much easier.”

  When it was her turn, she grabbed a card, hoping for the Crown Jewel to show itself when she flipped it: The Huntsman of Coins.

  She restrained herself from throwing it back with a frustrated growl. No one watched her more closely than Canary, who added, “Still. Even if they are buffoons, be careful. Outside of these parts, we don’t get many chances in this industry. If any. Not like they do.”

  “Think one of them is going to try and knock me out?” Kallia tossed the Huntsman onto the table’s surface without care.

  “I would be shocked if the majority hadn’t tried already,” Canary said. “Judges included. I’m not too familiar with their work, but from the looks of them, they could’ve never done what you pulled off. Beware the wrath of old dogs.”

  “They’d do better to beware of me.”

  It didn’t take long for Kallia to have her turn at braving the deck. Most of her picks ended up being numbers and nonroyals, but she was satisfied to see the same pattern with Canary. Based on the cards thrown so far, she must’ve been itching to complete the Court of Stars or Coins.

  “I heard there’s a young judge,” Ira said. “That he comes from the Patrons of Great.”

  “And here I thought you didn’t care about Spectaculore at all.” Kallia’s humor died instantly at the thought of Demarco. She’d done everything she could to push him from her mind, but his eyes from the night he visited haunted her. The way they seared and searched, determined to do something she wasn’t quite sure of.

  “I don’t care about your little show.” The seamstress aimed a dirty look her way. “We’ve never had a Patron in town. Never had a reason for them.”

  “He’s not a Patron, he’s a performer. And young enough that he’s probably staging a comeback,” the flame-eater quipped, unenthused. “Though why he’d choose this as his platform, I’ll never understand.”

  Kallia looked down at her hand thoughtfully, still holding out for the Crown Jewel of Flames. She deliberated like a wolf waiting to strike, but this was not a hunt she could control. Not with her curiosity piqued. “Why did he stop in the first place?”

  Canary’s forehead creased as she assessed her. “You mean you don’t know? It was all over the news, years ago. What, were you exiled from civilization?”

  In a sense. “Oh just tell us. Ira’s clearly dying to know, as well.”

  “Don’t group me with you, girl,” Ira scoffed, though she’d pressed forward subtly.

  With a sigh, Canary tossed a card out. “I don’t follow magicians that much in the papers. Most are greasy pigs who just party, not very interesting. But Demarco had an angle, as a son among the Patrons. If Patrons are the law and order of magic, then performers are the chaos. Which came with a special kind of spotlight. Up until the very end.”

  Kallia picked a new card from the deck, instantly throwing it back when it wasn’t the Crown Jewel of Flames. “You make it sound so morbid. It’s not like he’s dead.”

  “Not him.” The other girl’s face’s fell. “In his last act, there was an accident. His assistant.”

  A short gasp came from Ira. Kallia’s muscles seized. �
�What sort of accident?”

  “Something to do with a broken mirror—I honestly didn’t want to know the details.” Canary shuddered. “Sad thing was, Demarco and his assistant were really close. I think that’s why he stopped performing rather than simply get a new one. Sometimes you can’t do magic anymore without certain people in your life. Sometimes you just … don’t want to.”

  The knot in Kallia’s stomach had tightened tenfold, pressing into her like a knife.

  How many times had she asked him why he didn’t perform?

  How many times had she taunted him about it?

  “So what, you forsake magic only to become a judge of it instead?” Always the skeptic, Ira rapped her fingers against the table. “That sounds logical.”

  “I don’t get it, either. But that’s all I know.” Canary shrugged, motioning for Kallia to take her turn. “Enough about Judge Demarco. Let’s play.”

  Kallia stretched her neck, realizing the Conquerors had dispersed from over their shoulders. The tables were a bit emptier than when she’d entered, and she suddenly wished she were no longer here with the turn this game had taken.

  Without thinking, she tossed out her Crown Prince of Coins onto the unruly pile of numbers and faces.

  Canary let out a victory screech.

  “Yes!” She gleefully seized the Crown Prince, slamming her cards against the table. She pumped a fist in the air. “Court of Coins!”

  “Congrats. Encore,” Kalla spoke drily. “You deserve it.”

  “Oh, don’t be down. Even prima donnas have to fail at something.”

  “I did not fail.” Glumly, she tossed her cards to the table. “Though I am without performers now, so excuse me for sulking.”

  Canary’s sharp victory smile rounded in amusement. “Just because you didn’t win doesn’t mean you lose us. We’ve been dying to get back on that stage and see those judges weep.”

  A spike of relief went through Kallia, bubbling into a laugh. “You’re obnoxious, you know that?”

  “Couldn’t have you going all soft on me.” The girl shoved her good-naturedly in the arm before turning toward a Conqueror who’d tapped her on the shoulder. Kallia reached out to help gather the chaos of cards into order, only to find Ira pausing at the incomplete Court of Flames.

  “Interesting,” the seamstress muttered, drawing the last card waiting in the main deck. The Crown Jewel, of course. She pushed it in Kallia’s direction to complete the set. The Court of Flames, at last.

  “What?” Kallia said, unnerved by the storm of emotions flashing across the woman’s face. “What do they say?”

  Before she could linger on the dark crowns of the royals, the intricate black lace-work flames bordering the sides, Ira swept the entire row back into her hand. “You were looking for the hand of the Alastors. That says enough.”

  The master of the House watched night rise outside his window, over the Woods and past the glimmers of a cityscape that towered like blades above the forest.

  Another day, another night.

  For the past few days, he’d distracted himself by devising new tricks for the stage. With the wave of a finger, he conducted instruments to bend to the new, changing melodies in his head. He stole the shadows of objects and gave them new masters—a candle casting the shadow of a goblet, a stack of books showing that of a sword’s. He’d destroyed the grand chandelier hanging from his ceiling again and again, only to piece it back together in one snap many times over.

  All to put off creating a new headliner.

  The club had gone long enough without one. The people could only be amused by simple drinks, games, and memories for so long. She wasn’t returning, and there was no hope of that changing after his last visit. Her fury, the hatred with which she regarded him now. It burned all the ways she’d looked at him once, and the memory sliced at him every day since.

  He’d waited long enough.

  He needed a star.

  An illusion.

  How she would laugh, if she could see him now: designing someone to take her place, resorting to deception to keep his club afloat.

  Or perhaps she would regret, if only a little.

  Her joy hadn’t all been pretend.

  Raking a hand through his hair, he paced over the broken glass covering his room. What had been real and what hadn’t no longer mattered. The one real person in his life was no longer beside him, and he knew what he had to do.

  Grudgingly, the master delved deep into his memory, plucking a figure like a flower from a garden. A dancer like her, but from a long time ago. He couldn’t fully remember the face or how they’d met, and that was almost more preferable. He covered the blank slate with a mask, crafted her in his mind more easily than he could’ve imagined. No memories or thoughts, no emotions or bonds to cloud her purpose.

  It was easy to build a performer like this, nothing more than the shadow of a person.

  With a snap, the illusion vanished from his mind and took shape in the center of the room, a specter at first. A faded figure slowly gaining more color, more shape. More life.

  Her bare feet solidified over the floor covered in glinting shards. The sea of broken crystals from the crashed chandelier he hadn’t bothered to clean up yet. And as she walked upon them, pointing and flexing her toes, she uttered no cry of pain. No blood, no skin torn to the bone. She was just as much a part of his game of destruction and creation as the chandelier was. Foolishly, fixing one thing made him believe he could fix everything.

  A lie he often told himself, whenever he looked out to the gates of the city. Small and quiet in the distance, but he knew better. Each time he’d made his rare visits over the years, he couldn’t leave fast enough.

  The horror lying beneath that place.

  The pieces he hid, to keep them there.

  The master sipped from his glass as he turned from the window and avoided the sea of broken crystals. With a snap, they rose like frozen rain around him and the illusion, who wordlessly watched him, unaware of the floating glass. At his command, they lifted up to the ceiling to re-form their original shape. Piece by piece, they linked back into the chandelier it once was. Grand, glorious, and fragile as the day he’d first acquired it.

  It was only a matter of time before he broke it again. With the second show night looming over his head like a storm, it would probably be sooner than he thought.

  It was far too late to stop the game. From here, it couldn’t touch him. A mercy of the Woods he wouldn’t take for granted.

  The master couldn’t return now. He wouldn’t.

  Even if they found her, if they hadn’t already.

  21

  Kallia wiped her dirty palms over her thighs, raking in a labored breath. She relished the satisfying burn of her muscles. Like dancing for hours until only the inevitable ache could stop her.

  She hopped on the stage, waiting for the worker on the ladder reaching the elaborate proscenium of cards. The rust and wear across the shapes were hardly noticeable to the audience, but Erasmus demanded the entire stage glitter at its finest before Spectaculore returned for its next night. They only had so many labor magicians on hand, and Kallia couldn’t help but pull back her sleeves and lend a hand when she’d entered the theater that morning.

  When the worker rose to the top of the arch, right where cards with stars danced with flames, Kallia raised her palm. Slowly, the paint can lifted to the worker, who tipped his hat at her.

  She released her hold with a satisfied exhale. Strangely enough, the sounds of hammers banging and orders shouted across the show hall brought her a comfort she couldn’t quite place. It was the music of busyness, and she loved how everything could drown in its presence. She’d been hoping it could drown the earlier parts of this morning.

  The fresh memory assailed her. With the next show only two days away, she’d felt the need to familiarize herself with the playing field once more before returning to it. As usual, she had risen earlier than Aaros. Earlier than the city, for how quie
t the world became as she flicked her wrist toward her door. The lock of her room clicked behind her.

  At that exact moment, the door across opened.

  She stilled as Demarco stepped out, casually turning his key between his knuckles until the motion paused at his notice. In the quiet, her heart pounded.

  You should be focusing on other things.

  Trust me, I know.

  The words dug under her skin. Demarco sent a short, polite nod her way before locking up behind him.

  “Good morning.” Kallia fiddled with her door handle, finding it rigid. She’d already locked it. Zarose, what was wrong with her? “Didn’t realize anyone else would be awake this early.”

  Demarco pocketed his key. “I’ll get out of your way, then.”

  At the same time, they turned down the hall. Neither looking at the other. It was awkward enough that their strides matched, side by side, all the way to the stairwell. The distance must’ve tripled since she last walked it, for the torture seemed to go on forever.

  How many times must you apologize to me before you actually mean it?

  Thank Zarose he wouldn’t look at her. Not even she could tamp down the flush of embarrassment. The emotion was as rare to her as shame, which tangled in her throat as everything about his past rushed back to her. Normally she could charm her way out of anything with a smile and a wink for good measure. Neither would work with him.

  “Where are you off to?” she asked, unnaturally chipper. Obliviousness would have to do.

  “The library.” He exhaled a noticeable breath of relief as they finally arrived at the spot where the carpet sloped down into steps. The bright foyer area of the Prima, within their reach. To spare them the pain of descending together, Demarco gestured for her to go first. Polite to the teeth, which somehow grated on her nerves more as she gave a quick nod of thanks and—

  “Kallia?”

  At the softened tone, she whirled around so fast, her neck almost cracked. “Yes?”

  Above her, Demarco still wouldn’t meet her eyes, his brow working and smoothing over again like he wanted to say something, but suddenly thought better of it. “Have a good day.”