“Papa’s dead,” I say, for the first time out loud, and putting those words into the air somehow makes them real. “Mama’s dead, too. They’re both dead!”
“But we’re not dead,” Sera says, and when she looks at me she’s somehow at once incredibly strong and desperately weak. “You’re still alive. I’m still alive. We have each other.”
Then she lunges forward and throws her arms around me, and I hug her tight and we just hold each other, two sisters, two souls adrift in a dark sea, clutching each other just to stay afloat. I have spent three days alone in a storm, unable to see anything but pain and despair, and here, here at last is an ember of warmth burning in the darkness. I don’t know it now, but that hug is one of the most important things that will ever happen. Sera and I have always been close, but from that moment on, we’re inseparable.
That hug sets me on the path that will define the next decade of my life, that will send me to Blackwater. Everything that follows, all the fire and blood and pain and love, all of it can be traced back to that hug.
“I love you,” I tell her.
“I love you, too,” she says, and her little arms hold me so close it hurts. “We’ll be all right. We have to be.”
Whispers arrives in the late afternoon, limping into the room with the steady thumping of her cane on the wooden floor. The other rebels drop what they’re doing as she enters and stand bolt upright, fists pressed to their heart in salute. Without a word, she makes her way to me, her icy blue eyes boring clean through mine. “By the Gods,” she says at last. “Petyr Chelrazi’s girls. You survived.”
“Our papa sent us here,” Sera explains, her voice trembling. “He said we’d be safe.”
Whispers lets out a long exhale. “I’m sure he said that,” she says, carefully measuring each word. “But the reality is… is…”
Her voice trails off as her eyes widen. She’s staring at me. At my arm. At my Godsmark. I pull down my sleeve instinctively, because my parents told me to never let anyone see it, but it’s too late. Whispers grabs my wrist and jerks my hand up. “Is this real?” she hisses. “Tell me!”
“Y-yes,” I stammer. “It’s real! It hurts!”
The silence in the room is so thick it’s smothering. She lets go of my hand, and I pull back, clutching it tight. She looks back at the others, then kneels in front of us. In that second, she transforms. The coldness, the stern detachment, it all melts away. She smiles, a gentle, kind smile, and wraps her arms around the two of us. “Oh, girls,” she says. “Oh, my sweet girls. You’re safe here. You’re safe.
“You’re home.”
CHAPTER 8
Now
They usher us out after the feast, and we file into the sprawling courtyard behind the main hall. Cobblestone paths cut across the grass in ornate spirals, and lanterns sway from iron posts as they blaze red and purple against the dark. I don’t know where I’m going, but the others seem to, so I walk with the crowd. There’s a clarity in camouflage, a certainty that comes from surrendering your identity, if only for a minute, to blend in with a group.
At the end of the courtyard are five large dormitories, laid out in a wide half circle. Each one is unique, with architecture befitting its deity. The Order of Vanguard stands proud and ostentatious, with elegant marble columns and billowing golden flags. The Order of Zartan looks more like a fortress, down to its rounded parapets and an array of practice dummies set up on its lawn. The Order of Selura honors water with elegant fountains and spiraling blue balustrades, while the Order of Javellos sparkles with inlaid emeralds and shimmering filigrees. And the Order of Nethro stands at the very center, dark and cold and unadorned, its flags black, its lanterns burning an impossible obsidian flare.
The students divide themselves as they approach, sixty or so to each Order. I see Marius and Dean and a bunch of others whoop as they pile into the Order of Vanguard, see the headmaster’s niece Vyctoria stroll to the Order of Selura. Prince Talyn is out here, too, walking through the awning of the Order of Javellos. Our eyes meet, and he offers a playful shrug.
“The Xintari prince strolls through the doors of Javellos, while we’re stuck in Nethro,” Fyl grumbles next to me. “Unbelievable. He doesn’t even look like he wants it.”
“I think it probably suits him,” I reply. “He was certainly quite cunning when we spoke.”
Fyl blinks at me. “You talked to him. To the prince. When? How?”
“Outside, when I needed fresh air. He’s very perceptive. Dangerous, too. And a flirt.”
Fyl’s jaw drops. “Who are you?”
We pace together toward our Order. A statue of Nethro, God of Death, stands outside, holding a scale in his bony hands, his empty eye sockets half hidden by a shroud that hangs over his face. It makes me uneasy, the way all religious sculptures make me uneasy, the way I find myself sweating and fidgeting whenever I’ve had to sit in a temple, trapped in the chasm between skepticism and belief. Religion and politics always go hand in hand; the high clerics serve the Senate, preach the gospel of the Republic, insist that it is divine will that Humbles serve and Wizards rule. For obvious reasons, I don’t believe that. But I can’t just renounce the Gods the way some of the other Revenants do, or accept that it’s all a lie. I feel the Gods’ power run through my veins every time I carve a Glyph, and I’ve spent enough time in the Null, seeing those terrifying shapes pass just beyond the veil, feeling that raw, ancient energy.
It was Pavel, of all people, who offered the best explanation, one night as we sat together gazing out at the ocean from the deck of a ship. The way I see it, the Gods are like the tides, the moon, the stars, he’d said, eyes glassy, cheeks red. They exist, all right. Of course they exist. You can see them, right there, with your own two eyes. But if any man tells you he knows why they exist, what they want, what their purpose is… well, that man’s either a liar or a fool.
We pass the statue and walk up the stairs and into the dormitory itself. The first room we enter is a common area. Tall bookshelves line the walls, stacked dense with tomes. Leather couches covered with fluffy pillows fill the room. A bar rounds a corner, covered with tall multicolored bottles and crystal carafes. Portraits of accomplished Nethros line the walls: stern-faced Wizards in black robes; bearded, scarred men; and willowy gray-haired women.
It’s a very nice room, but the air of the crowd around me is gloomy, despairing. No one speaks. A few students slump down on the couches, heads in hands. One, a chubby boy with a messy head of curly black hair, makes a beeline to the bar where he drinks wine straight from a carafe. I’d thought Fyl a bit overdramatic, but now I’m starting to worry. Is this Order really that bad?
As if to answer, a voice cuts through the silence. “Welcome, young krakens, to the Order of Nethro.”
An older woman stands in the room’s doorway. She wears a long black dress, one that clings tight to her lean frame, with elegant black gloves that rise up to her elbows. Her black hair is up in a bun, and her yellow eyes study us with a cold intelligence from behind a pair of gold-rimmed glasses. Her skin has a soft olive tint, and her lips are painted a crimson, almost bloody, red. The other students rise to attention as she enters, except for the boy with the carafe, who just keeps drinking.
“My name is Professor Iola Calfex,” the woman says, crossing to the room’s center. “Adjunct professor of Null studies. Scholar of Marovian history. And head of the Order of Nethro. For the next two years, you are all my wards.” Her lips curl into a smile. “Try not to look so devastated.”
Fyl snorts a little laugh, and Calfex’s eyes flit our way. There’s something about her that makes me uneasy, like she’s seeing me, seeing through me, in a way that no one else has. I tense up, but then she’s looking away again, toward the others, talking with the measured cadence of someone who’s given the same talk a dozen times. “The other Order heads are currently giving their new students rousing speeches. They’re talking about how lucky they are to be a part of their Order, singing the virtues o
f their most memorable alumni, promising them victory in the Great Game.” She folds her hands together, lips pursed into a narrow line. “I’m not going to do that.”
“Gods,” the boy with the carafe groans. “Even our own Order head knows we’re worthless.”
“Not at all,” Calfex replies, pacing toward him. “I wouldn’t be here if I believed that. I choose to lead Nethro because I believe in this Order. I believe in our purpose. I believe in all of you, in your potential.” She takes the carafe out of his hands, then turns to pour herself a glass. “The question is… do you know your potential? Your purpose?”
She phrases it like a question, but no one replies, so finally Fyl clears her throat. “Would you mind clarifying?”
“Fylmonela Potts. A delight to see you here.” Calfex’s smirk is a dagger. “And I’ll clarify by way of a question back. I assume you all saw the statues outside. Vanguard is the God of Politicians; he wears a crown. Zartan, God of Soldiers, holds a sword. Selura the scholar holds a quill; Javellos the merchant, a goblet. All very clear. And yet Nethro, the God of Death, holds no shovel, no scarab, no bone. He holds instead a pair of scales. Why?”
The scales were an unusual touch; the Gods are typically depicted empty-handed. But even as the other students look at one another uncertainly, the answer seems obvious to me. “Because Death is the great balancer,” I say, the words of scripture burned into my brain. “Death clears all ledgers. Death erases all debts. Death makes all equal.”
Calfex’s eyes narrow as they scrutinize me. “And you are?”
“Alayne Dewinter,” I reply, and dread tightens in my stomach like a clenching fist. I know that quote because it’s a standard at Humble funerals. But would Alayne?
Calfex just smiles. “An excellent answer, Lady Dewinter. You know your scripture well.” She turns back to the others, taking a small sip from her glass. “I believe the Order of Nethro exists for a reason. I believe you have all been assigned here for a reason. And that reason is balance.” She gestures up at the portraits hanging behind her. “Behind me, you do not see any famous Grandmasters or legendary warriors. You do not see any champions of the Great Game. And yet, you see truly influential people all the same.” She makes her way down the line, tapping each portrait as she goes. “Visselyn Markos mediated the Compromise of 254, preventing a civil war. Ellaro Williamson deceived the Sithartic patriarchs in 432, allowing for the conquest of the continent. Caspar Wilshire discovered how to trap Glyphfire in glass, long after everyone had dismissed it as impossible. And Genevieve Auguste…” She reverently runs a hand along the center frame, a determined woman with a pox-scarred face. “She gave her life casting the largest flame Glyph in history, setting alight the fleet of Mad Grandmaster Sethis, and putting an end to his reign of terror. Do you all understand?”
A few heads nod. “We bring balance,” the boy by the bar says.
“Exactly,” Calfex replies. “And we do all the things they won’t. The other Orders venerate one trait, and that traps them in single-mindedness. A Zartan will always stab a problem. A Selura will always study it. But us Nethros? We’re unpredictable. We find new solutions. We brave new frontiers. And we keep the rest of them in line.” She sets her empty wineglass down, turning back to us with arms open wide. “The others will say you are here because you’re outcasts, because you’re worthless, because you don’t fit in to some clear role. I say, what’s good about fitting in? I say, you’re here because you’re different.” She smiles wide, her impeccably white teeth glinting in the light. “I say you’re here because you’re interesting.”
The boy by the bar is the first to clap, and then others follow, a low cascade of applause that reverberates off the domed roof. It’s not quite an enthusiastic roar, but the mood has changed. Even I feel a little swell of pride, before remembering that Calfex is still the enemy, as much as anyone else.
“It’s a nice speech,” Fyl whispers, even as she claps. “But being different doesn’t earn your family honor. Being different doesn’t get you power. Being different doesn’t make you rich.”
No, it doesn’t. But I don’t need honor or power or wealth. All I need is to make sure the Order of Nethro wins the challenges and I get into the Senate. And if these really are the students who can think differently, who can innovate around the strong and the wise? I can work with that.
The rest of the night passes uneventfully, which is a relief because I’m exhausted. I linger in the common room, have one last drink with Fyl, and try to steer clear of Calfex’s scrutiny. I get to know a few of my other Nethros: Desmond, the boy with the carafe, quick with a joke; Jasper, a shy boy with enormous glasses who speaks like an encyclopedia; Tish, a nonbinary Kindrali who speaks softly but sees everything; Zigmund, a hulking Velkschen who laughs so loud it shakes the room. I can use them, I think. They’re not perfect, but they’ll do.
The night winds down, so we all collect our keys from Calfex and make our way upstairs, to our rooms. Mine is on the fourth floor, number 29. A single bed rests under a window. A writing desk sits against a wall, with a neat stack of papers, a quill, and a little crystal lantern that glows a soft white. At one end of the room is a wardrobe, at the other a full-length mirror. I imagine that for most of the students here, a room like this is a step back from the opulence they grew up in. But there’s no question this is the nicest room I’ve ever had.
I step in and close the door, sighing the deepest, weariest sigh of relief. I’m finally, finally alone. I can drop the mask, drop Alayne Dewinter, drop the constant pretending and preening and lying. Tomorrow, I’ll have to go back out there, but for now, for this precious now, I’m alone.
I collapse onto the bed, onto that cool, soft pillow. I close my eyes and let myself taste victory, however small. I made it. A Revenant in Blackwater. I’m in.
Sleep takes me like a gentle wave.
CHAPTER 9
Then
I am nine when I carve my first Glyph.
It’s a hot summer night, the kind where you toss and turn and wake up slick with sweat, where the mosquitos hum and buzz, where the wide white face of the moon feels like a mockery. Not that I could sleep that night anyway. Not with the plans I’ve made.
I slip out of my tent and creep barefoot across the campsite, past the flickering embers of the firepit. We’re sleeping in the forests of Galfori, our tents nestled under the tall redwood trees that reach into the skies. The Revenants I usually travel with have split up, forced to part ways after the Republic’s Enforcers closed in on us in Laroc. Most of our fighters have gone north, to liberate the Velkschen labor camps and reinforce our numbers. Meanwhile, Sera, Whispers, and I travel south, along with a small company of guards, toward the lawless swamps of Morro. But it’s a slow journey, a tedious ride across dusty backroads in rickety wagons, with nights spent sleeping in flimsy canvas tents under the stars.
I don’t mind, not that much. Sera’s there to tell me interesting facts from her books as we ride, to laugh by my side as we fish in creeks, and to snuggle up by the campfires. With Sera, I’m never alone. With Sera, I’m home.
It’s her I seek out that sweltering night. I sneak into her tent, expecting to find her asleep, only to find her sitting upright, reading a heavy history tome by candlelight. She startles and I startle and she says “Alka?” bafflingly loud, and I shush her as intensely as I can before vanishing back outside.
A few seconds later, she crawls out of the tent, her red hair wild and messy around her face. “What are you doing?” she whispers. “We’re supposed to be asleep!”
“You were awake.”
“I was reading!” she insists. “What are you doing?”
“Getting ready.” I grin. “I’m doing it. Tonight. I’m going into the Null. I’m going to do magic!”
“Wh—I—since—what?” her mouth opens and closes as she runs the gamut of emotion: confused, angry, intrigued, upset. “Gods, Alka. Why do you always come up with your worst ideas in the middle of the night?”
“Because that’s when no one’s up to stop me?” I beam back. “Come on! I want you to be there! I want you to see me carve my first Glyph!” I reach into my bag and pull out a folded cloth. Inside are my most prized, most secret possessions: Loci, two of them, a pair of crooked redwood wands.
“Did you steal those?” Her eyes go wide.
“From the armory!” I reply, giddy with excitement. “I took them one at a time, when everyone was distracted!”
“Why are you saying that like it’s a good thing?” she replies, and if a whisper could somehow be a shout, she’s doing it. “Are you out of your mind? Why would you do that?”
“I need to learn how to do magic, Sera!” I’m starting to get a little annoyed. I hadn’t planned on this much conversation. If we keep it up too long, we’ll wake someone up. “How am I going to do that without Loci?”
“From the books Whispers gave you,” she insists. “They’ll teach you what you need!”
I fight back the urge to roll my eyes. This is the great challenge Whispers faces. On the one hand, she has something no leader of the Revenants has ever had: a young Wizard with a Godsmark on her wrist, capable of unimaginable power and destruction. On the other, what she really has is a child, a child with no skill, no training, and, most important, no teacher. For me to be truly valuable to the Revenants, she needs me to learn to wield my power. But how can I learn with no one to instruct me?
So Whispers gives me what she can, what she manages to steal. Books about the history of Wizards. Dense tomes of magical theory that I can’t begin to understand. A handful of notes stolen from raids here and there, with what might be Glyphs drawn on them.
But none of that addresses the yearning in my heart, the hunger. My body burns with the desire, the need to do magic. It wakes me at night. It tugs at me during the day. It’s an itch that needs to be scratched, a thirst that needs to be quenched. I don’t know how much of it is the Godsblood and how much of it is just me. But I can’t keep sitting and reading and drawing. I need to do. And I don’t want to do it alone.
It Ends in Fire Page 8