A White So Red

by Krystle Jones

  “There wasn’t much the Thesperians could do to fight back. They said as people began filing into the streets, screaming and panicking as they realized they were under attack, regiments of black-armored soldiers poured into the city, armed with spears and swords. The people ran to them, crying for help, and that’s when the massacre started.” His voice broke on the word “massacre.” “The first sword fell, running right through a Thesperian – a child.”

  Natalia closed her eyes, trying to block out the image. Caspar’s fingers dug into her back, and she felt him tense as Malachite went on.

  “The crowd split, half of them trying to fight back while others grabbed their families and ran, trying to escape. Those who resisted were either quickly slain or forced into the church, where they were locked inside while the army set the place on fire.

  “Those who managed to get away retreated into the woods, where my men found them on one of their hunting rounds and brought them here.” He wiped a hand across his creased forehead, rubbing one of his temples with his thumb and middle finger. “There was no mistaking it: Those were the Queen’s guards who attacked the city.”

  “Bitch,” Caspar spat. “What kind of ruler slaughters her own people?”

  “The kind who wants to send a message,” Malachite said, catching Natalia’s gaze for a second before looking at Wormwart. “Could you excuse us please?”

  Wormwart looked from Malachite to Natalia, his eyes grim, and then promptly began ushering the dwarves out. “Go on, the lot of yeh! Make yerselves useful.”

  The tent quieted again, save for Natalia’s shuddering breaths. Everything shook; her hands, her arms, her legs. She couldn’t stop it. Caspar rubbed her arms, but she barely felt it. “This is my fault,” she whispered, her eyes stinging with hot tears. “That little boy died because of me.”

  “No,” Malachite said fiercely. “He died because a tyrant grew fearful she was going to be knocked from her pedestal.”

  Silent tears ran down her cheeks, and she pressed her lips together, holding her sobs at bay. It’s my fault, it’s my fault, it’s my fault. “But why? What does she have to fear from me? It’s not as if I have an army to storm her castle with.”

  She knew Nefrim wanted her heart – desperately, judging from his deteriorating form – but she hadn’t thought the Queen would stoop to such cruelty.

  “You want to know what I think?” Malachite said, eyes narrowing. “I believe she did it to draw you out. She knows you have a heart and that you have feelings, and she’ll use those against you if she can. If she can’t find you, then she’ll hurt the ones you love to bring you to the castle.”

  “Like smoking out the enemy,” Caspar said. “Hunters use that trick. They’ll drop a lit torch down the hole of an animal’s den to force it to the surface, where they can kill it.”

  “That’s awful,” Natalia whispered.

  “It’s the truth,” Caspar said. “And that’s what she’s doing.”

  “She also knows you’re the only person capable of stirring hope among the people,” Malachite added quickly. “And she’ll do anything to keep the rebellion at bay.”

  Sorrow and confusion overwhelmed Natalia as she let that sink in. Part of her was still reeling from the fact her home was burned to the ground, and that the Queen had committed mass genocide against her kinsmen.

  Caspar removed his hand from her back, leaning forward with his chin propped between his fists, brooding. Malachite was also silent, looking more somber and appearing about as dead as she felt inside, like someone had carved out her heart.

  He sighed. “My dear, I am truly sorry for the fate that’s been laid upon you. Taking down the Queen will be an extraordinarily difficult task.” He smiled warmly. “But I know it would not have been given to you if you weren’t equally extraordinary.”

  “Why do you care so much about me?” she asked, her voice coming out cracked because her throat was so swollen with the effort of containing her grief. It had been years since she cried in front of anyone; showing any kind of weakness back at the castle meant lashings or beatings.

  “Thesperia, despite its flaws, has always been my home.” His eyes twinkled. “I used to be the High Priest.”

  Foggy pieces of her past tried to surface in her ocean of memories; at last, one cleared enough for her to make out who was in it. “You were the man who led my christening ceremony when I was a baby.”

  He nodded, eyes shining. “That’s right.”

  That’s why he looked familiar.

  “I thought men of the cloth weren’t allowed to have children,” she said, not realizing how rude it sounded until Caspar awkwardly cleared his throat.

  A wistful smile came across Malachite’s face. “The sanctity of marriage has never been frowned upon by our church. Children are a blessing few men of my stature get to have.”

  “So not everyone can get married and start a family?”

  “Oh, anyone can. Some just choose not to.”

  “Why did you come to the forest?” Caspar asked, interrupting her next question.

  Malachite’s gaze snapped to his. A frown formed on his lips. “When the Black Witch took the throne and brought in her power-hungry, corrupt circus of conjurers and sorcerers, she ordered the priesthood disbanded. She stripped us of our powers and sentenced us to death. ‘I am the only religion you need,’ she told me, snatching the rosary from around my neck.” He made a similar motion, mimicking the Queen’s actions. “It was later that night we found out she meant to have us all executed. We had no choice but to run.”

  “Then you stole from her storehouses.”

  “Tch,” he spat. “Taking what rightfully belongs to the people is more like it.”

  “Why didn’t you ever go back for your families? What about your friends?”

  “Believe me, we tried. But we also realized we were outnumbered ten to one. To enter the city grounds again would have been suicide.”

  The strain in his voice spoke volumes for how hard it had been for him to leave his family behind. She could certainly relate to that.

  “But enough about me,” Malachite said, waving his hand as if to blow away the conversation like smoke. “It’s you who is important.” He stared at Natalia in awe. “You have no idea what it’s like seeing you here in front of me. Breathing. Alive. The people have prayed for this for years.”

  She forced her eyes to his, to meet his frightening loyalty head-on. “For what?”

  He paused, looking at her as if it should be obvious. “For hope, my Lady.” He stood. “The blood on your clothes surely feels uncomfortable by now,” he said, walking to a beaten sack and digging through it. When he straightened, he had a lovely cream-colored peasant blouse, a brown leather corset, and crimson leggings in his arms.

  “They belonged to my daughter,” he said, handing them to her. “I’m afraid the corset will be a bit loose. The laces ran off somewhere in the woods the night we first came upon this place.”

  She looked over the clothes, admiring the curling flower and vine pattern carefully inlaid on the corset to either side of where the strings would be secured. These clothes had not come cheap, as to be expected of a High Priest’s daughter. “Where is she?” she asked.

  Pain flashed through his eyes. “She’s dead,” he said quietly. “She was killed by the Queen the day they exiled me, as a reminder of what fate I would face should I return.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Natalia said. “I didn’t mean to stir up any bad memories.”

  Malachite smiled, though there was a sad tilt to it. “You couldn’t possibly stir up any bad memories of my Liliana. My sweet, dear Lily.” He sighed. “She would have been about your age, if she were still alive.”

  He motioned for Caspar to stand. “The prince and I will leave you to change.”

  Caspar stood and gave her one last reassuring yet weary smile before following after Malachite, who unfastened the flaps of the cloth, letting them fall and make a sort of enclosed, private space. />
  Natalia sat there for a minute, running her fingers over the flower pattern.

  Then without warning, her grief broke through her mental barriers, and she slumped over the corset, hugging it to her chest and sobbing uncontrollably. Years of fear, grief, and sorrow over everything the Queen had done poured out of her, spilling onto the worn leather. After there was nothing left inside her but an aching, empty feeling, she sat up, took a deep breath, and closed her eyes.

  No, there was something there. This emotion was scorching, full of rage and resentment. It wanted vengeance, not just for her, but for Lily, Malachite, Tristan, and the homeless Thesperians gathered in the cave like stray cattle.

  Her nails dug into the corset, shaking with anger.

  How dare you. You think you’re untouchable in that high tower of yours? Just watch: I’m coming for you, and when I do, you won’t be able to stop me, and you won’t be able to hurt anyone I care about ever again.

  She stood abruptly, too restless to remain sitting down. She never noticed how cracked and dirt-packed her nails were until she tried undoing the string attached to the horn. She really had no nails left to speak of; part of the string was frayed from scraping at it before it finally came undone and she sat the horn on the floor. She peeled the ruined dress off and pulled on the cream blouse. The corset was a bit loose, though not so much that it was uncomfortable. On the contrary, the leather was soft and much more bendable than she thought it would be.

  She eagerly slipped on the crimson tights, which were also soft and finely threaded. After removing the belt from atop the crumpled dress, she wrapped it around her waist and secured the horn to it. Her braid was a mess; redoing it took a while because her hair was so matted in places. She pulled on her boots and gave herself a minimal once-over, running her eyes over the ensemble from corset to boots. Her fingers trailed along the bare spot on her chest where the necklace would have been. She made a mental note to ask Caspar about its whereabouts later.

  Lifting up the flap, she emerged from the tent and looked around for the others. Some of the noise had died away, replaced by sobbing women and hysterical children. Groups of people hovered together, holding onto one another as their faces twisted in pain.

  Her jaw clenched.

  I’m going to kill her.

  She never thought herself capable of flat-out murder, but in that moment, she knew she would have no trouble plunging a knife straight into the Queen’s heart, maybe even while smiling.

  “Lady Snow!”

  She turned to see Malachite striding toward her. He paused for a moment, looking haunted for a few seconds as he took her in, but then he blinked and smiled at her.

  “There’s someone who will be very happy to see you,” he said, placing a hand at her shoulder and directing her to the far corner of the cave.

  She smiled half-heartedly, too distracted by the itch in her fingers to wring the life from the Queen, and hoping her baby sister was still all right.

  They arrived at a blue tent sandwiched by a pair of torches. Malachite lifted the flap, holding it open for her while she stepped through the opening.

  There wasn’t much inside the tent; a few items, like pillows and clothes, were piled here and there, but otherwise it was bare. A small fire was lit at one end, filling the enclosed space with warmth, though her skin still felt chilled. A boy sat cross-legged on a pillow in the middle of the floor. His hands were lifted, as if cupping the air in front of him. Green light swirled between his hands, which glowed bright green, and a dagger made of light appeared in the space.

  She watched, mouth open, fascinated by the sight.

  “Tristan,” Malachite said, breaking his focus.

  The dagger disappeared, and the boy’s hands stopped glowing as he whirled around. The moment his eyes landed on her, they became big as saucers and a deep blush stained his cheeks. “Sn- Snow!” he stammered.

  “What were you doing just now?” she asked.

  “It’s called Conjuring, or making solid objects out of magic.” Tristan turned away quickly, his spine suddenly rigid. The blush still hadn’t left his cheeks. “I’m not very good at it, not yet anyway.”

  She smiled. “Then perhaps we can help each other. Can you teach me?”

  She thought his head would explode. “I – I love you! Shit!”

  “Tristan!” Malachite snapped.

  “I meant, ‘I’d love to,” Tristan quickly spat out, turning even redder.

  Malachite snorted, which sounded suspiciously like laughter. “I’ll leave you two to practice,” he said, turning to walk away.

  Natalia caught his eye. “You knew I needed this.”

  He smiled. “I thought you could use a distraction.” He brushed away a few tears that hadn’t dried on her cheeks, winked, and then walked out.

  Tristan stared at her for a few awkward seconds before quickly sitting down on the floor. “You can have the pillow.”

  “Thank you,” she said, suppressing a smile. She walked over to it, crossing her legs and resting her hands in her lap. “So how do we begin?”

  “All right,” he said, his voice bursting with excitement. “First, you have to be completely blank.”

  “Blank?”

  “Yes. As in, don’t think about anything.”

  “Oh, right.”

  “Now,” he said, holding his hands out in front of him like she’d seen him do earlier, “you have to imagine the weapon. Like this.”

  He stared intently at the space between his hands and his face went blank. Green light sprang from his glowing fingertips, swirling and massing together in the shape of a knife. With his jaw flexing, he reached toward the handle with one hand, but the moment his fingers touched the knife, it disintegrated. He sighed. “I haven’t been able to make it solid enough to grab. That’s the hard part.”

  She nodded. “I see. Well, it was a spectacular display of magic. You’re very talented.”

  That seemed to cheer him up. “Why don’t you give it a try?”

  “Me?” She pointed to herself.

  “Well, I don’t think the pillow’s going to suddenly Conjure anything.”

  He’s flirting with me.

  “Very funny,” she said, giving him a look that produced another blush from him. It was a far cry from the sullen, fierce young man she’d met back at the cottage. He actually seemed more like a kid now.

  She held her hands in front of her like she had seen Tristan do and closed her eyes. Little by little, she pushed away the sounds of the crowd, focusing only on her breathing. Her mind went silent, and she felt the hum of energy as it sizzled along her veins and tendons. The image of a knife, the blade no bigger than a few inches, formed in her mind, red-hot and shimmering. Opening her eyes, she fixed her stare on the space between her now glowing hands. Strands of magic churned in the air, radiating from her fingertips. She latched onto them, weaving them into the shape of a knife. The strands wove together like fabric, and the blade of the knife gleamed as if it were real, only made of some scarlet steel.

  Holding her concentration steady, she slowly reached out and rested the tiniest bit of her fingertips along the handle. It was brilliant red, like bloody fire, and she was surprised to find it felt cool to the touch. Her fingers slipped over the handle, grasping it for a few seconds before her concentration wavered and the knife dissolved into a pile of glittering red dust that faded into nothing as it collected on the floor. She let out her breath, not realizing she had not been breathing until she noticed the ache in her lungs.

  Tristan’s jaw hung open. “That was incredible!”

  She flexed her fingers, which had suddenly stiffened. “It was… something. I wasn’t able to grasp the knife, or at least, I couldn’t hold onto it.”

  “What you did was amazing. Do you realize how long it took me to be able to form something even remotely resembling an object? For the longest time, all I could produce were swirls and intangible shapes. Have you tried this before?”

  She shoo
k her head. “No,” she said meekly.

  His eyes bulged. “Really? Incredible.” He sat back, blinking and looking a bit more somber. For a moment, she thought she hurt his feelings or he thought she was a show-off, but then he said, “Lily was good at Conjuring too.” He eyed her ruefully. “Those are her clothes.”

  “She was Charmed?”

  Mutely, he nodded, his gaze far away and very sad.

  “Are you mad?” she asked at last. “That I’m wearing her clothes, that is?”

  A slow smile came over his face. “No,” he said calmly. “It just feels a bit odd seeing them worn again.”

  Natalia nodded. She could understand that.

  Tristan unfurled his legs and stretched across the floor, lying on his back with his hands on his stomach. He stared thoughtfully at the top of the tent. “I’ll never forget the day she died.”

  His face whitened with fear and Natalia grew cold all over. I’ve seen that color of fear. Did he see his sister die? Did the Queen have her killed right in front of him?

  One look at Tristan’s trembling hands provided all the answer she needed. Natalia’s hands formed fists, shaking with rage.

  Stiffly, she lay on the floor and tried to relax into a position similar to Tristan’s, turning on her side toward him and propping her head up with her hand.

  Stay calm. There’s nothing you can do about the Queen right this second.

  “I know what it’s like to lose someone you love,” she said quietly, feeling her anger subside somewhat. “It’s a feeling that never quite goes away, but the pain lessens over time.”

  Tristan’s eyes misted over.

  Slowly, she reached over and grabbed his hand, giving it a squeeze. “I’m sure if Lily could see you now, she would be very proud of you.”

  Tristan turned his head and looked at her, a warm smile spreading over his face. “I hope so.”

  “I know so.”

  Natalia let go of his hand and sighed, lying full on her back. It felt great to be lying down. The muscles in her back and shoulder blades at first protested but then began to unwind.

  “Who did you lose?” Tristan asked.