It Ends in Fire

by Andrew Shvarts

  “Are you all right?” Fyl asks, sensing something off. “Did I do something wrong?”

  “No.” I take a deep breath. “It’s just beautiful. That’s all.” I take her hand and head to the door, away from that mirror. “Come on. Let’s get to the gala.”

  I worried I’d stand out, but that fear is dispelled the second I get downstairs and see that everyone looks like this. Fyl, of course, has done herself up just as well as she did me, with a slim-fitting purple dress, its trim embroidered blue like sea-foam. Desmond is wearing a formal South Marovian suit, the kind with the ruffled collar and the high stockings and a silk coat with luminous pearl buttons. Tish wears a traditional Kindrali suit, a sheer sleeveless silver tunic that hangs over their torso like a veil, showing off all of their elegant tattoos. Zigmund looks like a Velkschen warlord of old, with a black leather cloak studded with metal, wrapped in a fur trim and trailed in a wolfskin. They all grin as they see me, Tish clapping me on the back, and Zigmund letting out a howl, which I think is acceptable up north. I grin back, maybe genuinely, and together we all make our way to the Main Hall.

  I had thought it was fancy the first night when we got here, when the hall was set up for the feast. But as we stroll through the wide doors, my jaw drops, because the hall doesn’t just look fancy, it looks impossible. It’s already packed with dozens of students, a sea of trailing gowns and pristine suits. The air is thick with the pulse of magic, hours and hours of labor from the adjunct staff. The floor has been altered to look like the night sky, a vision of stars and comets and planets, twirling and shining beneath our feet. Hundreds of multicolored lanterns twirl on invisible string, casting the room in beams of red and violet and pink. Ribbons of emerald light twirl and dance through the air, like serpents chasing their tails. Tables are laid out against the far walls, offering mountains of spiced meat and creamy cakes and ripe, juicy fruits. Humbles in formalwear stand by every pillar, holding bottles of sparkling wine that they pour for anyone who passes by. Music sounds around us, a beautiful orchestral waltz. Even with everything I know about how magic works, I can’t make sense of this, can’t figure out where the Glyphs end and the hard work of Humble labor begins.

  Looking around, I can see all the usual faces: Marius Madison boasting away in a silk suit emblazoned with gold trim, Vyctoria Aberdeen quietly observing in a stark blue gown, even Professor Calfex reclining on a bench in the dark corner of the room, a goblet of wine in her hand.

  “Well?” Fyl says. “You can say it. I was right. You’re happy you came.”

  “Ask me at the end of the night,” I say. “Now if you don’t mind, I’m getting a drink.”

  Wine sounds nice, but I’m mostly interested in who’s pouring it. Marlena stands at the far side of the room in a crisp white suit, her hair up in a high ponytail. I cross the room to her, weaving through the dancers, and her eyes light up as they see me, her lips crinkling into the faintest smile. “May I offer you some wine, my lady?” she asks, a touch too playfully, and I wonder if maybe she’s had a little bit herself.

  “Gods, yes,” I reply, leaning back against the table next to her. “I think you can drop the formalities, by the way. No one can hear us over this music.”

  “Whatever you say.” She hands me a goblet of wine, and I see her eyes roam over me, lingering for just a moment. “You look beautiful. Truly. Like a goddess made flesh.”

  “Everyone looks beautiful when they’re wearing clothes this expensive.”

  “Maybe. But not as beautiful as you.” She glances down, biting her lip, and I feel my cheeks burn. “I’m glad you’re here,” she says. “It’s nice to talk to someone without plastering on a fake smile or worrying they’re going to grope me.” Marlena rolls her eyes. “If I may be honest, you Wizards may love Founders’ Day… but we Humbles dread it.”

  “I can imagine,” I say. Marlena’s gotten much more casual when we talk, opening up more about what it’s like being a Humble here, bringing me into that world with its secrets and fears and resentments. She’s still holding a lot back, of course, but the veil is slipping. It makes me miss the Revenants, miss our motley mob, miss all my Humble friends.

  “Attention, attention, beloved students and teachers!” A voice booms from the front of the room, and the music instantly stops, as if it had never been there. A bright white light illuminates a stage at the room’s end. Headmaster Aberdeen wears a full-length robe, and as he paces forward, I realize it must be infused with Glyphs; its surface changes colors as he walks, a vivid turquoise, then a fiery red, then a soothing cream. His long gray beard hangs down to his waist in dozens of interwoven braids, and a circlet of silver, studded with gems of every color, adorns his brow. He looks like a Wizard out of the storybooks, like one of the First Fathers. “Welcome, welcome to the Founders’ Day Gala!”

  Everyone claps and cheers, even Marlena. I force myself to, even though I can still feel his hands on my shoulders, still feel his rank breath against my ear. “I know you all want to get to the dancing and the feasting and the merrymaking, but first, an order of business,” Aberdeen says, and raises a hand. Behind him a banner unfurls, and on it are the sigils of the five Orders, alongside some numbers. Our scores from the First Challenge. “Here is where the Great Game stands.”

  Nethro—11

  Javellos—7

  Zartan—5

  Selura—5

  Vanguard—2

  My gaze is on the board, but I can feel the eyes of the room light on me, can feel the stares and the whispers. Two months have passed since the First Challenge, and everyone still can’t believe a world where Nethro sits at the top and Vanguard at the bottom. I relish that feeling, drink it up. Let them stare, let them whisper, let them gawk. I’m just getting started.

  “But the game changes fast, as all games do,” Aberdeen continues. “It is thus with great honor that I announce the Second Challenge here tonight! Two weeks hence, we shall all convene for a trial of wits and cunning, a test of magic and wisdom! The Second Challenge shall be… the Maze of Martyrs!”

  A nervous titter runs through the room. I lean back to Marlena and whisper, “What the hell is the Maze of Martyrs?”

  “It’s one of the harder challenges,” Marlena replies. “When we did it last, fourteen students were seriously injured and five died. One was never found.”

  Before I can ponder that, Aberdeen claps, and it somehow sounds like thunder. “But enough talk of competition!” he proclaims, and raises his hand high. Behind him the banner changes, rethreads itself before our eyes, the scorecard vanishing, replaced by an image of ten old-fashioned Wizards clad in long robes and pointed hats, holding hands in unity. “Let us come to the purpose of this great day. Five hundred years ago, ten great men came together, joined in vision. Where the world was all conflict, they saw a path to order. Where the continent was all chaos, they saw… a Republic. Today, we gather to celebrate these men! Today, we honor the First Fathers!”

  Everyone cheers again, so loudly the room shakes, and the music mercifully drowns out any more speechifying. “I think I’m going to need more wine,” I say through my forced smile.

  “You might want to hold off,” Marlena replies, looking just past me. “I think your night is about to get interesting.”

  I turn around and there he is. Prince Talyn Ravensgale IV, strolling through the crowd, his eyes locked firmly on mine. He’s wearing a modern suit that clings tight to him like a shadow, its smooth silk the vivid burning red of a desert sunset. His jacket flows long after him like a cape, and the polished obsidian buttons on the top of his shirt are undone, exposing his taut chest and slim collarbones. Rings of onyx and ruby gleam on his fingers, and a ceremonial silver chain hangs across his chest, dangling tightly from each of his shoulders. His hair for once is unbraided, and his face is painted, lips gold, eyes framed by a horizontal band of vivid blue.

  My breath catches in my throat. He looks good. Gods, does he look good.

  “Lady Dewinter,” he says, h
is voice smooth and low, as he extends a hand. “May I have this dance?”

  I can feel the heat of people staring, and I see Marlena glance away. There’s a pang of guilt there, the memory of her hand on my cheek still electric, but I push it aside. This is different. Talyn’s a Wizard, hell, a prince. He holds the power here. I’m no danger to him.

  I can do this. No. I want to do this.

  I take his hand and let him pull me to him, onto the dance floor, as the music rises to a familiar upbeat tempo. The Martecisto. An old favorite.

  We step toward each other, chest to chest, our hands raised and our palms touching, then we move as one to the side and back. “I see you know this one,” Talyn says.

  “Well, of course,” I reply. “Everyone in the Republic does.” Every Wizard and noble, anyway. I spent two years training with Whispers on all the things I’d need to know to fit in here, which included a month-long stretch on dances of the nobility. “The real question is, how do you know it? I can’t imagine it’s popular in your kingdom.”

  “Surprisingly, it is,” Talyn replies. Our bodies move together perfectly, rotating in a delicate circle like two candles in a spinning chandelier. “One of the few Marovian imports that caught on. Your ambassador introduced it at one of my mother’s garden parties, and it became all the rage among the court.”

  “And that’s where you learned it? From our ambassador?”

  “No, actually.” We step away, just our fingertips touching, then draw in close again in a rush. “From his daughter.”

  I know exactly what game he’s playing, but I play it anyway. “Now I understand. You dance the Martecisto with all Marovian girls.”

  His mischievous smile shines white in the light. “Just the ones I really like.”

  My heart leaps, just a little, and a flush burns my cheeks. Which is absolutely ridiculous because I know he’s just an irredeemable royal flirt and also I’m supposed to be focusing on my mission. I force an eye roll, pushing away the tiniest bit and now we’re hitting the fast part of the song, where the tempo rises, where we weave back and forth, my feet between his, hands releasing and clasping, circling and oscillating. All the couples around us speed up, too, a flurry of whirling skirts and crisp suits. We’re two bodies in a sea of motion, two stars in a spiraling galaxy.

  It ought to be beautiful.

  It is beautiful.

  That’s the problem.

  I always struggle with this part a little. The footwork is so damn precise, and there’s so much happening with the hands. I slip up just the tiniest bit, my heel digging into Talyn’s toe, but he doesn’t even react, just slides gracefully aside like it hadn’t even happened. He’s dancing here just as much as he was dancing back in the tavern when we dodged Dean’s punches, his movements graceful and effortless, like he’s not even trying. “So let me get this straight,” I say as we near the climax, moving faster and faster, and I’ve actually worked up a sweat. “You’re a prince, a fighter, a dancer, and a flirt. Is there anything you aren’t good at?”

  “As a matter of fact, there is,” he replies, and pulls my hand up high to twirl me around, once, twice, three times. The world spins, and my dress flares out wide and beautiful, and then I fall back into his firm arms in a low dip that leaves me staring up into his eyes. “I’m not great at making friends.”

  “That makes two of us,” I reply, and pull myself back up, straightening my dress. Everyone applauds, whoops, and cheers, and the band, wherever it is, adjusts for the next song.

  “The Martecisto is lovely but so brief,” Talyn laments. “I don’t suppose you’ll permit me another?”

  I shouldn’t. I really, really shouldn’t. And it’s not just because I don’t want everyone in the room to gossip about us, and it’s not just because I know I ought to be planning with Marlena for this next challenge. It’s because I actually want it. I want to stay and dance with him, I want to keep feeling his skin on mine, I want to press myself closer to him and soak him up. It’s not something a Revenant on a mission should do, not something that serves the cause. But it’s something I want, something I crave. I want to feel his touch, to savor his eyes on me, to have just another minute in his arms.

  It’s been so long since I’ve done something for myself. It’s selfish. It’s reckless. It’s absolutely the wrong choice.

  “Yes,” I say. “Just one more.”

  The music strikes up, and now it’s a slow song, a low melodic ballad sung by a woman with a haunting, smoky voice. I’d expected another waltz, but this is more intimate, more personal. The lights dim to a gentle pink. The couples around us either split apart or come closer together, a make-or-break decision I’ve already committed to. I feel Talyn’s arm slide around my waist, his wide hand on the base of my back, as he pulls me in close, right up against him, my chest flush with his. I suck in my breath even as I lean forward, wrapping my arms around his shoulders, pressing my face into the crook of his neck, my cheek resting against the bare skin.

  “I don’t know this song,” he whispers, because the mood in the room is too charged for talking.

  I don’t recognize it, either, but there’s something deeply familiar about it, like a song that’s been trapped on the tip of my mind. I close my eyes, trying to focus on the lyrics, even as I can feel Talyn’s heart beating in his chest, feel his breath on my forehead. “It’s an old Marovian love story, from the days of the First Fathers, about two Wizards from rival families who fall in love.”

  “How does it end?”

  “Like all love stories,” I reply. “In tragedy.”

  “You Marovians and your tragedies. What’s so wrong with a happy ending?” The music is slowing down around us as the other couples come together. I can see Marius and Vyctoria, swaying gently, eyes shut, looking genuinely happy. Zigmund’s with a brawny Zartan girl. And behind them are Fyl and Desmond, Gods bless them, dancing together, and Desmond leans in and kisses her, just once, timidly, and then she pulls him in and kisses him again and again and again.

  Talyn slides one hand up, along my side, and my whole stomach tingles with a thousand tiny lightning bursts. “Gods,” he says. “You’re so beautiful it hurts.”

  My heart leaps into my throat. I should go. I should walk away now before this goes any further, chalk it up to a moment of weakness, get back on mission. But I love the way his eyes look, the way his hand feels on my back, the way his hips press into mine. “Talyn,” I whisper, and then I lean forward and my lips brush against his and my whole body burns and I’m doing this, I’m really doing this, I—

  Then the chorus of the song hits as the singer’s voice rises to a mournful wail, and I suddenly remember exactly where I’ve heard it. It was from Sera. She was singing it to herself on that night, that last night, as we rode up to the manor, singing softly under her breath as we sat cramped in the back of the wagon. Whispers had hushed her, and she’d said it was just to keep herself calm, and then—

  The image floods my mind, violent, invasive, the image that I spent so much effort forcing myself to forget, the image that’s the absolute last thing I ever want to think about: Sera lying on the floor of Von Clair’s study, blood bubbling out of her cracked lips, sobbing as the flames envelop her.

  I jerk away like I’ve been stung, and I can feel my stomach drop and my heart slam against my ribs and the whole world throbs red at the edges, like it’s pulsing with blood. My breath feels ragged, my knees weak. No no no. This can’t happen. Not here.

  “Alayne?” Talyn asks. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” I stammer, and just getting those words out feels like forcing hot coals through my throat. My entire body wants to collapse in a heap of panic. I can feel the faces all around me, feel the heat of their eyes, and the lights are spinning, and the music is getting louder and louder and louder, and I wobble on my feet and all I can see is Sera’s face. “Fresh air,” I choke out as I shove past a baffled Talyn. “Need fresh air.”

  It’s a blur from there
. I fly out of the hall, my dress flaring behind me like a cape, my body lost to me. I stagger into the night, but there are people outside, too, lovers walking hand in hand in the quad, so I rush aside, off campus, into the forests to the north. I keep running until the lights of the campus have faded to a faint glow, until the music and the chatter are just a distant murmur. Then and only then do I collapse onto my knees in the fresh snow, slumping against a tree’s thick trunk.

  “Keep it together,” I whisper, “come on,” but Gods, my heart is going to explode, and my breath is trapped in my lungs and I can’t stop shaking, I can’t stop shaking. I dig my bare hands into the snow, and it’s cold, so cold it hurts, but that pain is something I can latch on to, something I can use to drag myself back into the world.

  Let your thoughts go. Take in only what you feel.

  The shivering wind against my face.

  The smell of the trees, rich cedar, smoky and deep.

  The freezing pain in my hands, sharp and real.

  I anchor myself in that, and bit by bit, I’m able to get myself together, to still my heart, to find my breath. I push Sera back down, down into the depths, push the past into the past. I regroup and collect.

  I’m a Revenant. I’m a girl on a mission. I’m Alayne Dewinter. I can do this. I can do this.

  I stand up, exhaling sharply, my breath hanging in a white mist in front of me. Gods. Look at me. All alone in the woods, my beautiful dress caked in frost and dirt, my hands blue and raw from the cold, my cheeks streaked with tears. I look like a ghost from a horror story, a vengeful spirit who haunts the night. I actually laugh as I pull myself up to my feet.

  That’s when I realize I’m wrong. I might look like an absolute mess, but I’m not alone.

  There are three of them. Three figures, boys, I think, wearing long black robes that turn them into dark silhouettes. They stand together in a line maybe thirty feet away, silent, eerie, just staring at me in the pale moonlight. A chill runs down my spine as I press myself back against the tree. I blink, trying to make out their faces, but then I realize I can’t because they’re wearing masks, pale faceless white, featureless save the eyeholes.