by Rowan Rook
The guard stepped closer, one hand still on his spear.
Amaranth spared a glance at the gun in his belt before drawing in air and readying a whistle.
Something hit him. He jolted, falling shoulder first into the dirt. For a few beats, he felt nothing. Then came the heat. It spread from his arm and shook his bones. He didn't realize what it was at first. Pain. A sharp, searing pain. The breath in his lungs stifled to a gasp, his teeth clipping the sides of his tongue. For a while, the pain was all there was. The pain and his racing pulse. He fought to pull his senses away from it, to brush off the shock. Hot, sticky liquid dripped down his arm. A hand instinctively flew to his shoulder and his fingers brushed against a thin wooden stick. His closed eyes refused to look, but he knew what it was. An arrow.
When he cracked open his eyes, a stranger stared down at him—a man perched high on the branches of a nearby tree. His legs dangled in the air between them, swinging to and fro, while sapphire eyes glowered through messy blond hair. In his hands was a bow.
Amaranth grimaced, barely managing a defiant glare beneath his clammy brow. He wanted to speak, but his voice died in his throat.
...How had the stranger even gotten up there?
The Lyrum chuckled, as if watching him struggle was quite amusing.
Amaranth noticed the moon motif brooch glistening on the stranger's robes for the first time. He was staring at the Councilor of Internal Affairs.
"The Butterfly's new puppet, I presume? I know why you're here." The Lyrum's eyes glinted even as his face screwed up with disgust. "Morak Mayver is dead. We received word just this morning. You were mere hours too late."
The Lyrum seemed familiar somehow, too. ...Why did he seem so familiar?
Then it hit him. This man looked very much like the Butterfly he and Shakaya had encountered inside the Academy. He found himself focusing on this rather than the arrow or the blood or the guards. "Sylan Rita...?" he breathed.
The Lyrum's nails dug into the branch, his graceful features twisting into a reddened knot. "Do not mistake me for my traitorous brother!" He barred clenched teeth. "I am Dorzin Rita, a man of the Council. Not the fool he is!"
Two brothers—a Councilor and a Butterfly. Sylan was apparently just fine working for an organization aimed at assassinating his own littermate. Traitorous, indeed.
Rita sucked in air. "Still..." An arrow impatiently scraped his bowstring. "How about we call this your punishment?"
Amaranth ground his teeth with an obstinate grunt. Panic dulled the pain, but his arm wouldn't work. Fresh blood trickled from his grinding shoulder. Damn it. He fought with his shaking limbs. He had to get up or it was over.
A familiar chakram cut through the branch, severing the wood with a snap. The Lyrum startled, but unlike his perch, he didn't fall. His body changed shape in a fluid midair shift. It bent, grew, reformed, molding itself into a bird of prey twice as big as any Human. Its broad wings beat the sky. A shapeshifter.
Amaranth gaped when the avian Councilor dived toward him, talons outstretched and his bow in his beak. It was all he could manage to shield his face with his arm.
Claws sank into his shoulders.
Amaranth screamed, his voice sparking back to life when fresh agony mixed with the arrow's wound. He grasped uselessly at the soil and brush beneath the wind of Rita's wings. The ground below seemed to descend, but it was he who was rising. Vertigo sent the world beneath him swimming as the Councilor flew toward the clouds. He was only an unwilling passenger. When he craned his neck to find the shifter's face, what he saw wasn't the eyes of an animal, but the hateful gaze of a man. He stomach flipped with dread. ...Rita was going to drop him.
"No!" Amaranth begged, not daring to look back down at the ground so far away. The Councilor had already crested the tops of the trees. There was no way he'd survive the fall. He would splatter and shatter on the soil below. Oh Lord! His heart strangled his lungs. "Please, don't—"
The Councilor crowed with satisfaction, and all at once, his talons let go.
Amaranth fell, nothing between him and the ground but gravity. Air flew past him, too fast to let him scream. He had just enough time to see the Councilor's smug face staring down at him, already so far away, before he closed his eyes.
The impact came, sending shockwaves through his back. But... He sucked in a strained breath. Breath. He was still breathing. Still thinking. Still alive. He opened his eyes to see Shakaya's face close to his. She kneeled on the soil, her sweaty brow tight with pain. Her own breath brushed his hair. He was in her arms. She'd caught him.
Shakaya smiled weakly. "It's a good thing you're as wispy as you are."
Amaranth could have kissed her again right then and there, but his body wouldn't quite work. If she hadn't caught him, he'd...
For a while, they only stared at each other, eyes stretched wide.
"We're not done yet," Shakaya reminded. She slid Amaranth onto the soil and forced herself up, wincing when she straightened the knees that must have buckled when she caught him. She glowered up at the Councilor, her blue eyes like ice.
The shifter's screech could have been a curse. Rita circled above them, his talons flexing and curling as if already imagining his next attack.
Amaranth breathed, trying to calm the clamor in his chest. Shakaya was right. This wasn't over. They still had to fight. He pushed himself up and reached for his gun with his good arm, aiming it up at the Councilor. His trembling fingers struggled to hold it steady.
Rita screeched, but this time the sound was different—a low pitched caw, repeated twice. It almost sounded like...
As if following an order, three guards burst through the thorns, spears held out in front of them.
"Shakaya!" Amaranth shouted. He instinctively thrust out his arm, summoning a blaze.
The guards jumped away, but the reprieve didn't last long. One of the Lyrum kicked off with his heels and charged toward him. A surge of water, summoned by Translation, turned the fire to hissing steam. Amaranth braced himself, fumbling with the gun. But it wasn't a spear that crashed toward him—it was the Lyrum's head, hitting the ground beneath him with a crimson splash. The rest of the body followed instants later. Amaranth shuddered, daring himself to look at Shakaya.
Her chakram's blades were painted red. She spared him one more glance before whirling on the rest of the guards. She spun away from arrows of ice like a dancer, countering with a slice that split open a Lyrum's chest. Another guard called up vines from the soil and puppeteered them like snakes.
Seizing a chance to help, Amaranth reached out and disintegrated the ivy with a flash of fire. He gawked, in spite of himself. This was getting easier. The dizziness was less overwhelming. He was becoming increasingly comfortable with using the flames, and he wasn't sure if he liked that.
The third and final guard fell to the ground in two separate pieces. Fresh blood stained Shakaya's armor. An arrow blazed toward her back.
"Look out!" Amaranth shouted.
Shakaya reeled, reacting on instinct. Her chakram blocked the arrow before she hurled the blade in the opposite direction, toward whoever had shot at her.
A monster screeched with a man's fury, fleeing with powerful wingbeats. Rita.
Shakaya leaped up and grasped for his talons, dagger in hand. Her fingers only brushed against feathers.
Rita returned to his Lyrum form and landed on a high branch. "You won't have me. Not you, not Sylan, not anyone else." His fighters tightened around his bow.
Amaranth rushed the tree. He barely felt the pain anymore, not beneath the rage. He unleashed a blast of fire with all the strength he had left. The flames sharpened, cutting through the trunk like a knife that turned anything it touched to ash.
Rita didn't manage to shift before the collapsing tree sent him toward the ground with it. Silence followed the thud, wooden slivers and red sparks sent into the sky.
Amaranth and Shakaya only stared. The stillness persisted. Had the Councilor been crushed?
Amaranth's eyes flew up to find the beast circling above them. Blood dripped from a gash on its side and its wings beat weaker, shaking as they worked to keep its mammoth body off the ground. Rita's black eyes pierced through him with undisguised defiance. Hatred.
Then the Councilor ascended, flying further into the forest.
Amaranth realized what Rita was doing a moment too late. Shakaya took one last shot with her chakram, but the bird was already too high and too far. The injured Councilor had retreated, and without wings, there was nothing they could do to stop him.
Shakaya hissed a curse and retrieved her chakram, spitting at the foliage.
Amaranth groaned and sank to his knees. The more the adrenaline dulled, the more the pain seeped back into his senses. He clutched his shoulder and leaned against what remained of the fallen tree.
Shakaya stopped, the winter in her eyes melting into worry. She hurried over and studied him, poking at his wounds and the scarlet staining his shirt.
He realized what she was going to do, but didn't have time to protest. "Wai—"
She ripped out the arrow lodged in his shoulder. He hissed, wincing as blood spilled from the gash it left behind. She steadied him with her free hand. "It doesn't look deep."
Shakaya was no doctor, not at all, but she had seen her fair share of combat wounds. He would have thought it better to leave the arrow in and stabilize the injury, but she didn't seem to think that was necessary. Now, at least, he could only hope she was right. "You'll be fine, but it needs to be bandaged. We can treat it once we're somewhere safe."
Amaranth shook his head and spoke through clenched teeth. "What about the other Councilor?"
She frowned. "I haven't seen any other escapees. No one fled from the main entrance."
He looked back at the hideaway's burning entrance. The tree that had once concealed it was withering fast, flames devouring its roots. Not even water Translation could save it now. Before long, the whole thing would hit the ground.
Amaranth pushed himself up and stepped forward, but Shakaya grabbed his good arm.
"If they're still inside, they won't last much longer. You set the fire—you'll still get the Inkwell if it finishes them."
"What if there's another exit? What if we missed them?" Amaranth's sweaty brow furrowed stubbornly. "Rita must have used one. Even if the Councilor is gone by now, perhaps I can figure out which direction they fled if I search inside."
Shakaya glowered at him like he'd gone mad. "Ama, you can't. That's—"
He reached toward a burning branch and pressed his palm against the flames.
It didn't hurt. It was hot, but there was no pain. It was a strange sensation, perhaps—heat without burning. It didn't feel natural...at least, not by Human standards. It was just like in the Hazza mines, when he'd closed his palm over a flame inside it and it hadn't harmed him. This fire burned wildly, far beyond his initial spark, but it made no difference. The Academy's labs had conducted many tests between Translation and its user. Matter and energy generated through Translation had, at the very least, a much more muted impact on the creator. He knew this fact well, but experiencing it himself on such a scale was altogether different.
Shakaya gawked, her muscles slowly relaxing.
"It's all right. It's hot, but it doesn't burn." He returned his hand, pale and unharmed, to his side.
She shook her head. "The Not truly is impressive. It's almost as if you were one of them, yourself."
Amaranth looked away, his gaze set on the burning hideaway. "Let me go. I'll be back quickly."
"It's not worth it," Shakaya decided. "You might be immune to the flames, but that doesn't mean you'll be immune to the smoke."
Was that true? The scientist considered it for a moment. Technically, he only generated the fire. The smoke—a product of the fire, itself—would still choke his lungs and eat his oxygen. He recalled an experiment: His colleagues had locked a Lyrum in an airtight cell burning with its own flames. The Lyrum had died from smoke inhalation, the body removed from the chamber without a single burn on it.
He managed a smile for Shakaya. "I'll be careful. I'll stay close to the ground and I won't linger long."
"Ama..."
"I can't let this all be for nothing." Not now, when he'd finally dug into his determination, when he'd crumble if he didn't keep charging forward, when he didn't have time for regrets.
Shakaya let him go.
Amaranth moved quickly, tucking away the pain. He fought through his instincts and crawled through the flames, into the stone stairwell hidden beneath the tree. His eyes burned as he emerged into the tunnels below, smoke smearing the shadows with shades of orange and gray that made it difficult to discern anything at all. He stayed low and held his good arm over his mouth. Heat washed over his back and painted sweat on his brow. The fire flickered like the fluorescent lights above the Academy's laboratory. From what he could gather through his watering eyes, the hall had been made of wood and stone. It seemed beyond what Lyrum could accomplish on their own. Humans must have built it under Lyrum orders. If that were the case, the subterranean structure had to be centuries old.
And in less than one hour, he'd destroyed it. He'd set it ablaze, just as the Council had the Anwell house. A strange surge of power and satisfaction rivaled the fire.
He didn't hesitate, hurrying through the hall as he would any other. All he had to fear was the smoke, and the faster he got in and out, the better. His throat already itched for oxygen, and with his injuries, he was hardly in a position to push himself.
As Amaranth walked, the flames seemed to part for him. It seemed he still held a weak grip over them. Fascinating. His subconscious was controlling his movements, his Translation. The effect wasn't strong, but it was enough to keep the flames from devouring his clothes. At worst, he'd end up, well, bare, by the time he emerged, but that was hardly desirable. Especially when he was carrying one thing of value—the red ribbon still tucked inside his shirt pocket. A pang of regret hit his chest. Had he thought about it, he would've had Shakaya hang onto it.
He kept moving, the embers hot beneath his bare feet. There was nothing left of his shoes, but his skin was as pale as ever, untouched by anything but dust. He didn't have time to let sentimentality get in his way.
Amaranth stopped by the exit Rita had likely used—a tunnel beckoning to the north, near where he'd taken the arrow from the shapeshifter's bow. Once inside the hall, the hidden exits weren't actually hidden, at all, and there was just one more. The second tunnel led to the west. Perhaps the Councilors had retained the sense to flee in separate directions. Satisfied with this bit of intel, he turned away, ready to get the Hell out of there.
At least, before he noticed the clanging. A loud, repetitive thud reverberated through the tunnels, and it came from somewhere inside that second escape route. He turned back and strained to see through the smoke. His first thought was that it was machinery malfunctioning in the heat, but then he remembered where he was. Machines were a foreign concept in Riksharre, even more so than Translation was in Elavadin.
Could someone still be inside? And could that someone be...?
He dashed into the tunnel. The flames thinned out, but the noise grew louder. It wasn't long before he found a silhouette in the smoggy orange light.
A Lyrum woman struggled with what looked like a trap door above her head. She shoved against it, but it refused to lift more than a few inches before thudding down with a clang. Perhaps a rock or fallen tree blocked the exit from above. Either way, she couldn't open it, and with the flames filling the main hall, she was trapped. There were times when the species's physical weakness truly was a curse. In this case, it would be a death sentence.
"Shit!" she spat, shaking her head and glowering at the door before turning toward the flames. Her eyes met his. She froze.
A strange, wicked smile creased his lips and he stepped closer for a better look at her. An ele
gant robe trailed around burned ankles. Red light glittered on a brooch in the shape of a star. She was the third Councilor—the Councilor of the Author's Affairs.
"Guards!" she screamed, backing away. No one answered. She must have found herself separated from her would-be saviors during the fire. "Guards!"
Amaranth slid the gun from his belt and she flinched at the sound as he removed the safety. She eyed it uncertainly, as if not sure what she was looking at. It was a Human weapon. Perhaps she truly didn't know. His cold eyes spoke a much more universal language.
"Who are you?" she shouted. The smoky air left her gagging.
Amaranth didn't answer, but he knew who she was, he realized. Kaida Torus. She was the daughter of Neema Torus, who'd served as a Councilor alongside Mylo Mayver and Olgin Anwell. Kaida had been only a child then, but there was a time when he'd known her well enough to share a simple greeting when they'd passed on the street.
Unfortunately for her, he wasn't the same person anymore.
Amaranth raised the gun in her direction. He needed to finish this quickly. He had no time for hesitation in smoggy tunnels. "It's frightening, isn't it?" He shot her a sour smile. "I'm sure the Anwells were frightened, too, when your mother set their house on fire in the middle of the night."
She gaped. "The Anwells?" Her voice was incredulous as it was afraid, "Is that why...?"
Is that why he was doing this? It wasn't, actually. At least, not in totality. He was doing this for the Inkwell. All the same, it was satisfying to let her think that. To let her believe this was an act of revenge.
He nodded. "Unlike them, you, at least, deserve it. You call yourselves rulers, but you're only monsters. Monsters who kill your own people!" He tried to ignore the irony in the accusation.
"That was years ago! I... We... We had nothing to do with that! I was only a child! Dorzin was only a toddler!"