It Ends in Fire

by Andrew Shvarts

  “The books don’t help,” I tell Sera. “I’ll never learn to be a Wizard like that. I need to try. To enter the Null. To carve Glyphs.” I gesture to the Loci. “This is the only way I’ll ever really learn, and you know it!”

  “Alka…” she says softly. She’s just eight, but she has the patience of an adult and the temperament to match. “I know you want to do this. But Whispers said it’s not allowed. She said you can’t risk it!”

  I love her more than anyone in the world, but, Gods, can she frustrate me! I want this so badly, so badly, and I took a huge chance telling her. But of course, of course, she won’t dare defy Whispers. She’s Whispers’s favorite, her prodigy. She gets to sit with her all day in their little lessons, learning about strategy and diplomacy and spycraft. She’s being trained to be a leader. And I’m stuck staring at stupid old notes. “Fine.” I scoop the Loci back up into the cloth. “We should just do whatever Whispers says. Even though she’s not a Wizard. Even though she doesn’t understand shit.”

  I practically spit the last word at her, and I see her wince, because I know she hates it when I swear. “You’re not going to do anything reckless, are you?” she asks, grabbing my wrist. “You’re not going to try on your own?”

  “No.” I jerk my hand out of hers and sulk off into the night. “I won’t. I promise.”

  I wait a good hour to make sure she’s asleep before I try. I don’t want to do it alone. I’m scared to go into the Null by myself, but even more than that, this is something I want to experience with her. I want her to be there when I carve my first Glyph. I want to know she’s there looking after me. I want this moment to be one we share, our secret, ours and ours alone.

  But fine. She chooses Whispers over me? I’m not going to give up just because she’s a coward.

  I creep out of the camp toward a grove not far away, near a small bubbling creek. It’s a wide flat circle of dewy, moonlit grass, sparkling like stars against the night. I take out the Loci and I grip them tightly, their polished wood cold against my palms. I square my feet in the dirt, the stance described in the books. I breathe in and out, in and out, five times.

  And then I slip into the Null.

  Going in is simple, instinctive, easy. It’s not even really a conscious action; it’s more like a release, like exhaling a breath I’ve been holding. I let go of that resistance, and the world vanishes. The bright moonlit sky, the grass below, the trees and the wind and the flickering embers of the fire, they’re all gone in a rush, replaced instead by a dense gray fog that envelops me like a shroud. I gasp hard, but breathing feels different here, like I’m taking in something thicker than air, like water and smoke. Flakes of ash dance all around me, slivers of black with jagged edges that spiral like leaves. And the sound, like the roar of a river, like the howl of the wind, so loud it hurts.

  The Glyph. Right. I raise up one of my Loci, but moving here feels so wrong and strange, like I’m trapped in amber, like every single action takes a hundred times more effort than it should. Just lifting my arm is an exertion, but beyond the physical strain, there’s something else, a tugging on my mind, and I have to strain just to stay focused. I force my hand up and plunge the Loci forward.

  It stabs into the world, into the world. I’d imagined it would feel like drawing in the air, but no, this is cutting, carving. There’s resistance, something there, something soft and moist, like I’m plunging the Loci into flesh. My hand is trembling, trembling too much and it’s getting harder and harder to breathe, and now the feeling in my head is like a gnawing, like something’s eating my thoughts, eating away at me. I wasn’t ready for this. I should have waited. But no, I’m in now and it’s too late so all I can do is keep going.

  I’ve already decided what Glyph I’m going to carve: the simplest one in the notes, a ball of light. Light is harmless, after all. It’s just… light. Even if I go wrong, what’s the worst that can happen? I don’t know yet that light can turn quickly into heat. I don’t know yet how viciously light can burn.

  The Light Base is just a single vertical slash, and as I jerk my Loci down through this, this whatever I’ve stabbed, the line appears, hovering in the air, glowing the brightest, most luminescent white, so bright it hurts, so bright it’d make me cry if I could cry in this place. My mouth floods with the taste of blood and ash, and my head is hurting worse and worse, but I strain to stay on task and carve the second form, a pair of diagonal lines, one above, one below. The noise is getting louder, that rushing whir, like a swarm of insects closing in. I carve the bottom line, but, Gods, it’s so hard to move, like I’m straining against a current, like my arm weighs a thousand tons. I carve the last line, the line above but—

  My hand slips. My hand slips. The weight was too much, the noise too loud, and instead of carving a diagonal line at the top, I’ve carved a long slash down through the first Glyph, cutting clean through it. And instantly, something starts happening. Something wrong. The Glyph starts throbbing, pulsing, the air around it curdling and quivering. Tendrils of light snake through it with a desperate hunger, and everything trembles and buzzes and writhes.

  I’ve messed up. Oh, Gods, I’ve messed up. And now I’m scared, really scared. I don’t know exactly what happens when Glyphs are carved wrong, but I know it’s bad, and it’s happening now. I turn to run, and even though I’m not looking at the Glyph anymore, I can see its light, bright and hot and pulsing, and hear a crackling noise like shattering ice.

  The Glyph behind me bursts in a blinding pop. Scorching beams of white light cut through the air like spears, slicing through trees and blazing streaks through the earth. I feel a rush of heat and air that lifts me off my feet, hurling me forward, deeper into the fog and the gray, where I hit the ground with a skid. My body burns with a shivering cold. I look down at my leg and see the flesh bubbling and blistering from where a beam hit me. But even worse is the feeling in my chest. I can’t breathe, can’t scream, can’t gasp. It’s like my lungs are filled with ash, every breath a wheeze. I try to pull myself back into the Real, but I can’t. The buzzing of insects is a deafening din now, and the flakes of ash are swarming over me, crawling over me, and I swear there’s something coming at me through the fog, stalking toward me, a shape in the gray, tall and lean and bony, chittering and snarling, with far too many limbs.

  I’ve been in the Null too long. The Null is going to kill me. The Null is going to drown me. The Null is going to eat me whole.

  Then a hand grabs my arm. I look up and she’s there.

  Sera.

  In the Real.

  Our eyes meet across the hum and thrash and buzz, and I can see the blood running through her veins like rivers of starlight, and I can see her hair, brighter than the brightest light, billowing out behind her like a river of flame. She opens her mouth to scream something, something I can’t hear, but it doesn’t matter because I wrench up to grab her, use every last bit of strength I have to pull myself into her arms.

  And I’m wrenched back, hard, into the Real.

  The gray fog is gone, and the buzzing, and the roar, and that thing, whatever it was, in the fog. I’m back in the forest, and I can feel the wind against my skin again and the grass below my feet. And I can feel Sera, feel her arms wrapped around me, feel her trembling body, her beating heart. “You idiot!” she sobs. “You absolute idiot!”

  I know there are going to be consequences. I have a bad burn on my leg. The grove where I’d been standing is a blasted mess, the trees slashed apart by the beams of jagged light, the grass flattened and blackened.

  But I’m just happy to be alive, to be here, with Sera. I’m so happy she came for me. I grab her and hold her tight and cry.

  This is us, this is me and Sera. I’m the sister who swims too deep. And she’s the sister who rescues me. This is who we will always be.

  Until it isn’t.

  CHAPTER 10

  Now

  There is a precious moment when I wake up and I don’t remember where I am. In that long
, lingering second, I’m not a spy or a Wizard or Alayne or Alka. I’m just a body, savoring the soft sheets, gazing up at the smooth grain of the ceiling. That second is the best part of my day.

  Then it’s gone. I sit up and rub the sleep out of my eyes with the back of my hand. The little clock on my desk says that it’s seven in the morning, which means class starts in an hour.

  I wash quickly in the bath chamber by my room, where hot water comes surging out of polished bronze shower heads. The pipes must be lined with Fire Glyphs, warming the water as it rushes through. No one else seems impressed, so I have to pretend that I’m not, either, even though it’s quite possibly the most amazing thing I’ve ever experienced.

  Back in my room, I throw open my wardrobe to find a dozen school uniforms, all perfectly tailored to Alayne’s measurements. Buttoned shirts, made of the shiniest silk I’ve ever seen, hang alongside elegant blazers with the Blackwater crest emblazoned on the backs. For bottoms, they’ve thoughtfully provided two options: pleated knee-length skirts or long, neatly pressed pants. All of the clothes are a dark Nethro black, and buttons in the shape of krakens adorn the blazers, presumably so we don’t forget for a minute which Order we’re in.

  I opt for the pants today, and when I’m dressed, shoot a glance in the mirror. I instantly regret it. It’s not that I look bad, because I look fine, maybe even good. But seeing myself dressed like this, head to toe in the uniform of the Wizards, is unsettling. It’s like finding a note in your handwriting that you don’t remember writing, like a stranger insisting you’ve met. It’s me, but it’s not me at the same time, and I recoil, instinctively, at the sight.

  Breakfast is served in the dormitory’s common room, at a pair of long wooden tables, where I find bowls of glistening fresh fruit, creamy yogurt drenched in honey, and sizzling plates of thick fatty bacon. I’m apparently a late riser, because most of the other Nethros are already down here, all in their matching uniforms, a sea of neat black blazers. Professor Calfex sits at the head of a table, sipping her coffee while reviewing some papers, seemingly uninterested in any of us. Fyl has been seated all the way at the other end, where she’s chatting with Desmond, the curly-haired boy who’d made a beeline for the carafe. Humble servants linger around the room, refilling cups and restocking plates. I’m relieved to see Marlena among them, and when our eyes meet, she nods with silent gratitude. Then she bends over to grasp a water pitcher, and I see how she winces as she moves, the pain from her lashing.

  Bastards.

  I slide into one of the few free spots in the middle of the table, ladling up my plate as discreetly as I can. Which apparently isn’t discreet enough, because someone to my left clears their throat.

  It’s Tish, the Kindrali I met last night. Their head is shaved bald, their eyes a dazzling brown. Elegant golden tattoos envelop their hands like ivy, dazzling against their light-black skin. But it’s Tish’s voice that stands out the most: husky, smoky, and low, like they’re always whispering. “You must really like bacon.”

  I glance down at my plate, where I’ve scooped a tower of it. “We don’t have bacon like this in New Kenshire,” I lie, hoping that’s plausible. “It’s a luxury I can’t resist.”

  “I can relate,” Tish says with a smile, scooping themselves a heaping dollop of cream. “Is it true what Fylmonela says? Did you really tell Marius Madison to get lost?”

  I shoot a glance down the table at Fyl, who throws me a wink back. Her big mouth could be a problem if I want to keep a low profile… but on the other hand, it could be an asset when it comes to winning the trust of my fellow Nethros. So I offer Tish a little shrug. “I was honest.” They smile and laugh, so I lean forward, whispering low. “I take it you’re not a fan of Marius.”

  “That is one way to put it.” Tish speaks with a Kindrali accent, each syllable enunciated. “My House was once one of the wealthiest on the islands, my father a powerful merchant. Then Grandmaster Madison levied the transit tax. My father protested and tried to rally the other Lords of the Isles against the tax. So the Grandmaster sank my father’s prize vessel at sea.” Tish swallows deeply, a distant look in their eyes. “While my brother was on it.”

  “Tish…”

  Their hand squeezes mine, lightly. “Any enemy of the Madisons is a friend of mine.”

  I squeeze back, even as my mind races with possibilities. The Revenants had always operated as though the Wizards were a unified front. Is there truly this much dissent in their ranks? Are there so many who would count the Senate’s leader as an enemy? Or is it just that all the children of dissenters are put here, within the black walls of the Order of Nethro? Calfex said we were placed here because we are different… but it feels more like a matter of keeping all the troublemakers in one place.

  I don’t have time to think more deeply on it, because a distant horn blows, announcing the start of the school day, and Calfex rises to her feet, her arms wide. “Be bold, my krakens. Serve Nethro well.”

  We make our way out into the courtyard, grabbing little paper schedules with our names on the way. I glance at mine, not knowing what to expect, and the words there provide little clarity: FUNDAMENTALS OF MAGIC. GLORIES OF THE REPUBLIC. INTRODUCTORY GLYPHCRAFT. The others seem to understand what they mean, murmuring among themselves, so once again, I’ll just have to keep up.

  It’s a crisp fall morning outside the dormitory, the rising sun hidden by a thin veil of cloud, the fresh air tinged with the smell of smoke and pine. Tall trees sway on the outskirts of the campus, and dew glistens on the grass. I make my way over to Fyl and show her my schedule, which she reads with a nod. “Oh, good. We have two classes together.”

  “I’ll follow you, then,” I say with a smile. “I hear you’ve been telling everyone about me and Marius?”

  “I mean—I—well—” she stammers. “It’s a good story, you know?”

  It is, even if it might end up painting a target on my back. “Are you feeling better about being in Nethro?” I ask. “I have to say, Professor Calfex knows how to give a speech.”

  “Words are air,” Fyl replies, “pretty as they may be. When Professor Calfex convinces my parents I’m not a failure, then I’m interested.” She pauses, a pretty flush dancing across her cheeks. “That Desmond boy’s not bad, though.”

  We stroll together into the massive main building and, with just a little struggle, find our way to our first class, Fundamentals of Magic. We sit at long tables laid out in neat rows in a cozy half circle of a room. Sunlight streams in through tall windows, long golden beams sparkling with dancing motes of dust.

  Professor Hapsted is a hunched old man with eyebrows like bushy white caterpillars. He paces back and forth along the front of the room, his cane clanking loudly on the floor. “Let’s start from the beginning,” he says, a sly twinkle in his eyes, and I can tell he’s setting someone up for a trick question. “Who can tell me what the Null is?”

  A hand shoots up in the front. It’s Vyctoria Aberdeen, the bored girl from Marius’s side on the ferry, and she’s wearing the Selura uniform, a dark-blue robe with a trim of long black raven feathers. “The Null is a transitory plane of reality, existing on a liminal level between our material world and the immaterial abyss. It holds properties of both and yet is neither, at once tangible and ethereal.”

  Next to me, Fyl rolls her eyes. But my mind is elsewhere. Vyctoria is the niece of Headmaster Aberdeen, and I can see the resemblance now, in the high cheekbones, the pointed chin, the gray eyes. Does she have any idea the kind of man her uncle really is? Would she even care?

  Professor Hapsted, for what it’s worth, doesn’t seem all that impressed. “A pleasantly technical answer, Lady Aberdeen, and one, I imagine, of no meaning to most of the others gathered here.” He’s got her there. “If I may, with a bit more poetry: Think of our reality as a house. It has walls. A roof. Windows. A floor.” He raps his cane on each, demonstrating. “To the Humbles out there, this house is all they will ever see, all they will ever know. As far a
s they can tell, the house is all there is. But we Wizards… we know there’s more.” He grabs a wooden panel of the wall and jerks it aside, revealing a dusty, narrow cavity behind it. “We can slide into the hidden places between the walls. We can lift the floorboards and move through the crawl spaces. We can see the beams that built the house, admire its bones, the dirt beneath the floor. The Null is the realm of the Gods, where they once lived, and while there, we can see how they built our reality, how they erected those beams, those walls. The Glyphs are the language of the Gods, and they used that language to build our entire world. We can’t quite do that, and yet… we can still leave a few Glyphs of our own. And in doing so, we can channel their ancient language to change the world itself, to create fire and light and ice, to bring life and rain down death.” Hapsted slides the panel back into place, and it would’ve been a slick move if he didn’t fumble a little.

  I raise my hand. “If the real world is the house, and the Null is the hidden spaces within the house… then what’s the outside? What’s beyond the Null?”

  Hapsted shrugs dismissively. “No one knows,” he says, and he’s half turned around when someone else in the room speaks.

  “I do.”

  The voice comes from a table in the back of the room, and when I crane my head to look there, I find a familiar face. Prince Talyn. He leans back in his seat, hands folded behind his head, lost in the long braids of his hair. The Javellos uniform comes with a dark-green blazer but Talyn hasn’t bothered to wear it, heading out instead in a loosely draped silk shirt, its low collar showing off the curve of his collarbone, the soft hairs of his chest. His eyes flash to mine, and my cheeks burn.

  I imagine what Sera would do if she could see me, blushing at a glance from some handsome prince in the middle of the most important mission of my life. She’d drown me in a creek.