Amber & Dusk

by Lyra Selene

  And when I couldn’t—or wouldn’t—stop, they kept me locked in my room for days at a time, conversing in hushed whispers outside my door.

  That was the first time I heard the word: legacy.

  Legacy. A word I barely recognized until a tide ago. A word I’d never uttered aloud. A word that shuddered through my bones with a familiarity I couldn’t name.

  Legacy meant magic. Legacy meant power. Legacy meant birthright.

  Only the aristocracy of the Amber Empire claimed the gift of legacy. It was an inheritance bestowed upon the descendants of Meridian, bloodline of the Scion—the great families who held court upon the Amber Empress herself, in Coeur d’Or, the palais at the heart of the Amber City.

  I wasn’t highborn. Or if I was, whoever sired me disowned me, dumping me in the shadows at the edge of the world like I was worthless. The thought stoked the ember of rage burning always within me, a bright kernel hard and polished as a ruby.

  When I opened my hands illusions spilled out, beautiful and terrible and impossible to control.

  Trees of kembric, draped in garlands of jewels.

  Bouquets of skyflowers.

  Bracelets of stars.

  I wasn’t worthless. I wasn’t an aberration, a freak, a monster. I was a legacy.

  I ran away from the Temple of the Scion because I knew I deserved better than merely being tolerated. Much as I’d tried to follow in their footsteps when I was young, I had never belonged with the Sisters, and they had certainly never loved me. They had taught me many things: that to laugh too loudly in the presence of the Scion was a sin, and that the bruises and scrapes inflicted by the ignorant village kids were my own fault, and that dreaming of anything outside the dank walls of the Temple was too dangerous to be allowed.

  They had taught me that being alive was not the same thing as living.

  They had tried to stop me from leaving, when I finally fled. They had burned the Imperial Insignia and tried to lock me in my room, panic churning their studied tranquility into chaos. But I’d escaped. Jagged satisfaction tinged with guilt burned through me when I remembered how I’d repaid a lifetime of their indifference.

  But I deserved the chance to find where I belonged. To find a world where my gift—my legacy—did not frighten superstitious Sisters or enrage cruel children. To find a world forged in sunlight and honed on dreams, as perilous and intoxicating as the colors spilling jewel-bright from my fingertips. To find a world where I wasn’t a freak or a monster.

  That’s why I was traveling to the Amber City: to join the court of the empress in Coeur d’Or. As a legacy of the Amber Empire, I would be embraced and celebrated. I would finally be around others like me, who understood what it was like to burn—with magic and wonder and the heady thrill of impossible visions.

  I twisted my hands again, and a shower of ghostly petals drifted down to brush against my lips, soft as a kiss.

  A kiss that tasted like a promise.

  A breeze scudded clouds across the somber sun, and the convoy slept.

  I huddled at the edge of a guttering cook fire, warming the gristly scraps of dried meat I’d wheedled out of Löic, the kindly drover of one of Rina’s transports. I’d tried to be tough, gnawing on bitter ginga root to keep my hunger at bay, but it was getting harder to ignore the jut of my ribs and hipbones. I was running out of food, but so was the rest of the camp. Barrels of tize diminished as stores of lavas and meat thinned.

  The convoy had trudged westward for another span, churning our spirits in its wake until they were as dusty as the earth. The hours of Matin bled into Prime, then drifted into Compline and Nocturne until the bells rang out for Matin once more. The sun appeared to creep higher above the horizon, lightening the sky to tangerine. The dusty prairie had finally given way to endless meadows of green maize swaying beneath pristine flocks of cygni soaring overhead. We passed men trudging through stunted villages. Their hair and clothes were black with smears of the soot produced in the smelting of kembric.

  But we were still nearly a span’s ride from the Amber City.

  “Sylvie?” A voice sliced through my tangle of anxiety. “What are you doing out here?”

  I whirled. Luca stood in the silhouette of the biggest transport, hair mussed. I clenched my fist around the handle of the borrowed skillet and almost tried to hide it, before realizing it was too late. Luca’s sleep-heavy gaze had already narrowed on the meager scraps of meat.

  “I told you to tell me if you ran out of food,” he growled. He crossed the space between us in a few long strides, his drowsiness dissolving into exasperation. “If this is all you’re eating, you’re going to starve before we reach the Amber City.”

  “A romantic way to die,” I said, and laughed.

  Luca didn’t.

  “I don’t want to bother your family,” I explained, sobering. “You and your mother have already done too much for me.”

  “You aren’t a bother. You need to eat.”

  “I’ll never be able to repay you.”

  “You don’t have to repay anything. We want you here. I want you here.”

  I cut my gaze to Luca’s. The scudding clouds threw pennants of light and shadow across his face, and I could almost pretend I didn’t see the ruddy flush rising in his cheeks. I looked away, and silence stretched out between us, brittle as metal hammered too thin.

  “You once spoke of a mulo, a dust devil,” I muttered, reaching for something—anything—to ease the tension. “Will you tell me the story?”

  Luca gusted a sigh, crouching to flip my scraps of meat before they burned. “There isn’t much of a story. It’s just something Tavendel mothers tell their children to frighten them into behaving.”

  “I want to hear it anyway.”

  “They say a mulo is born from dust, christened in fire, and cursed with an eternal thirst. Back home, we left saucers of wine in front of our tents, to stop the mulo from sneaking inside and drinking our blood.”

  “Wine?” A shiver curled cold fingers around my spine. “But why would the mulo drink the wine when it could sneak inside and drink your blood instead?”

  Luca’s fire-bright eyes met mine, and he shrugged. “Maybe by paying a demon what he needs, you keep him from stealing what he desires.”

  A fierce breeze kissed my neck. My palms thrummed, and I felt the dire image heaving through my consciousness. Dust. Fire. Blood. I saw its terrible eyes, ringed in fire; heard its silent, billowing footsteps; felt the metallic gnaw of its bloodlust hollowing out my stomach.

  “Home,” I gasped out, seizing that word and using it as a shield against the dream pummeling strange fists against the prison of my ribs. “You mentioned home. Where is that?”

  Luca’s brows came together, and he glared into the fire. “It’s less of a where than a who. My people—we are Tavendel. Time was, we traversed the length of the Tavend flatlands, following the rains to the best grazing. These days, few among us follow the old paths, choosing instead to seek out more lucrative trade in the cities.”

  I nibbled on a bit of jerky as cautious curiosity surged within me. I’d heard Luca mention Tavendel, but this was the first time he’d spoken of what that meant to him.

  “So you were herders?” I asked.

  “We bred and grazed horses, yes.” A sudden radiance gripped him, and he grinned. “But we were also cartographers, and astronomers, and poets. Vesh ôn Khorin, my grandfather many times over, wrote a thousand poems—quite a few are still famous, sung often among the Tavendel.”

  I tried on a smile. “Sing me one?”

  Luca uncrossed his arms and gazed at the sky. His voice spilled out, timid at first, then more confident. I didn’t understand the language, but the fire-fretted melody curled desolate against my skin. Finally, the song trailed away on a soft, low note. I shook myself, and swiped at my suddenly damp cheeks.

  “Beautiful,” I murmured. “What does it mean?”

  Luca shrugged, suddenly shy. “My Tavendel is rusty, and the translation
is complex. But it’s about something precious being stolen away, and the hollow wind at the edge of heartbreak.”

  I nodded like I understood. “Why did you and your family leave? Your Tavendel homeland, I mean.”

  Luca tensed, the muscles in his forearms going rigid as bars of dristic. I immediately regretted my thoughtless question.

  “Luca, I’m sorry.” I choked on a tough scrap of meat. “I shouldn’t have—”

  “No.” Luca’s voice was puckered as an old scar. “It’s a story that deserves telling, just so it’s never forgotten.” He paused, and smoothed his fists open onto his thighs. “I was eleven. Vesh hadn’t been born yet. My father had chosen me to follow in his footsteps as a Guardian—I would learn the ways of weaponry so that I might one day be able to protect my tribe from any dangers it might face. But first, I had to be tested. So I was blindfolded and taken into the Chabrol, a maze of rock formations sacred to the Tavendel. They left me there, bound, with no food, water, or map. I had to use my wits, my endurance, and my bravery to find my way home, or die trying.”

  You were only a child! I wanted to shout. But I bit my lip and listened.

  “It took me four days, and by the time I returned I was sunburned and bleeding and half-dead with thirst. But I didn’t get the victor’s welcome I had expected.” He paused, and the sooty dregs of some ancient shame passed over his face like ashes. “While I was gone, a Skyclad platoon had raided the camp and stolen all our horses. They slaughtered my father, as well as my aunt, uncle, and older cousins. They only spared my mother because she was heavy with child.”

  Shock and pity struck me mute.

  “Maman wept for a week, then went cold and hard as forged dristic. We walked to the nearest sand port in Dura’a, where she sold every last piece of her bridal jewelry in order to purchase a Charter Writ. Vesh was born on that first expedition to the Duskland mines, and we’ve worked to grow the convoy every tide since.” He spread his arms to encompass the tents, travelers, transports, and crates of ore. “And so I will spend my life traversing this harsh land, instead of becoming an honored Tavendel warrior like my father wished. All because the Amber Empress’s hired thugs didn’t feel like paying for fresh mounts.”

  “Luca—” I dug deep for words to express the roil of disgust and sympathy and fury souring my stomach, but only unearthed platitudes. “I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine how terrible that must have been for you and Madame Rina.”

  For the space of a breath, a pall of bitterness seemed to tower over Luca, twisting his features and hunching his spine. But in another moment it was gone, banished by the sudden carefree blaze of his smile.

  “Past is past.” He surged to his feet. “Convoy’s moving on in two hours—best get some rest.”

  I groaned out loud, pushing away the uneasy weight of shared sorrow. Luca was right—there was no point in dwelling too long on past tragedy. But as I trailed him back into the heart of camp, I wondered for the first time whether his near-permanent grin masked a different face—a face scarred by misfortune and pocked with spite.

  A face I’d glimpsed in the space between heartbeats, and hoped never to see again.

  I rode in the back of Madame Rina’s transport, teaching Vesh a silly guessing game I invented. Brightly dyed curtains swayed in the breeze, casting a patchwork of colored light and shadow. Vesh laughed as I dragged a nub of charcoal across a scrap of parchment, sketching a rough design.

  “Horsey!” he shouted, breathless. “Flutterwing! No, wait—giant!”

  I shook my head, giggling over the sound of my rumbling stomach.

  The transport swayed to a halt. The curtains trembled, and a stack of copper pots fell to the floor with a thud. Voices raised outside, then silence.

  Vesh and I stared toward the front of the transport.

  “Vesh!” Luca’s head popped between two green curtains. Excitement lit his face. “Sylvie! Come out and see.”

  I clambered to my feet, tamping down a ripple of nerves. Vesh’s small hand was hot in mine as I lifted him out to his brother. He was gone before I could blink, sprinting away to find his friends.

  “What is it?” I asked, craning my neck.

  “You’ll see.” Luca slid his hands around my waist to help me down from the transport, the touch sending a shiver lancing up my spine. He twined his fingers in mine and tugged. Curiosity and unease warred within me.

  Arrayed along a stony arête, the convoy gazed out across a valley. Grass swept away from our feet, dotted with purple heliotrope. The ruddy sun hung a few fingers’ breadth above the distant spine of ambric-streaked massifs, and nestled amid gentle foothills sprawled the Amber City, towering and glittering and vast.

  We made it.

  Sudden panic tore the breath from my throat and chilled my bones. Part of me never believed I’d make it this far. Part of me believed the Amber City was nothing more than a dream, a mythic world conjured up by travelers to soothe the drudgery of an interminable journey. Part of me believed I would wake up one Matin, blanketed in creeping shadows and surrounded by indifferent Sisters.

  I blinked to dispel the mirage. The Amber City didn’t budge, solid and commanding in its position of majesty across the plain.

  So close.

  “Vitza! Stop gawping!” Madame Rina was a whirlwind of billowing robes and tight braids, rounding up laborers and free travelers like unruly goats. “Do you want to look at it, or do you want to get to it?”

  Luca whooped, swinging up onto the roof of the transport as the ambric apparatus belched orange and the convoy trundled toward the distant city. I trotted to catch up, but the air tasted thin in my lungs and I couldn’t take my eyes off the distant glitter of domes and spires.

  It took us another two days to arrive at the gates of the Amber City, but it might have been an eternity. I did nothing but stare and wonder as the convoy crawled closer. The Amber City was huge. My mind could hardly comprehend the vast metropolis reaching up toward the smoldering sun. The labyrinth of streets and alleyways twisting and converging across the city. The bright smear of the river, its network of canals gleaming red as rivulets of blood.

  And surrounding everything, a great wall, with soaring ramparts built from black ironstone and barred in dristic. Sullen ambric lamps pulsed from stern towers, sending shards of red and gold to pierce the sky.

  I asked Luca whether an army could ever breach those battlements.

  “Any army foolhardy enough to approach the Amber City would have to face ten thousand Skyclad long before even setting eyes on the wall,” Luca laughed. “But it makes a statement all the same.”

  “Is it noisy inside?” I pressed. “Crowded? Where do all the people live?”

  “There are different quartiers, see, each with its own character.” Luca leaned close enough that his stubble rasped against my cheek. I fought to control my breathing as his hand sketched precise arcs against the outline of the city. “To the south, Unitas: a place of learning where students pore over ancient tomes written in dead languages, staining their fingers with ink and swilling kachua to stay awake.”

  “Kachua?”

  “Like tea, but black and bitter.” Luca wrinkled his nose, then pointed to a cluster of glittering spires. “That’s Jardinier, where the wealthy clothe their children in the feathers of rare birds and adorn their pets with priceless jewels. That arched boulevard is Concordat, where great fountains spew and the hooves of a thousand Skyclad destriers ring out on kembric-lined streets. North of that is the Mews, where the rich rub shoulders with the poor in vast marchés. You can buy anything: stardust, or the tears of a lovelorn maiden, or a tamed d’haka all the way from Dura’a.”

  “A what?”

  “A flying desert serpent with wings of flame and eyes so bright they’ll make a man go blind.”

  “Luca, that’s not real.”

  “How do you know?” Luca’s smile flashed before he pointed back to the city. “That chaotic mountain of shanties and hovels and ill-made huts, climb
ing the foothills? That’s the Paper City. Slums, where the poor live on top of one another, clambering on roofs and across rickety bridges. Vice goes hand in hand with poverty. You’re as likely to get bitten by a starving orphan as a stray dog.”

  But I was barely listening anymore. My eyes snagged on Coeur d’Or, gleaming at the center of it all. Set atop a rise overlooking the river, the palais of the Amber Empress seemed to shine like a sun. Built from glass and ambric and gilded in kembric, Coeur d’Or dazzled and beguiled. Crystalline towers sent splinters of light dancing across the city. A thousand filigreed arches twisted and spiraled toward the sky.

  “And Coeur d’Or? What about the palais?”

  Luca’s eyes sharpened on mine, and his smile wilted.

  “What do you care about coddled aristos dancing attendance on a spoiled empress? My friend Garan is a servant in the palais—you should hear how they prance around in silks and velvets, primping and preening and never venturing beyond the walls of their private paradise.” The rusty sun sparked in his eyes and turned his expression harsh. “Those legacied fools don’t realize how big the world is. What I wouldn’t give to have that blood running through my veins! Maybe I’d find a way to protect the world from evil, instead of holing up in a château in face paint and high heels.”

  I lowered my eyes, sudden shame battling with the hot thrill singing through my veins. Colors burned the edges of my vision: craggy violet and river red and the intoxicating translucence of seething sunlight through amber. My hands itched, and for the first time since I joined the convoy at the edge of the Dusklands, I actually wanted to show him. Show him the many-hued illusions pulsing at my fingertips, the daydream fancies beguiling my mind.

  Coddled aristos. Luca’s voice echoed in my mind, dripping with scorn. Legacied fools.

  I bit down on the colors, shoving them into the cage of my ribs.

  “Sylvie?” The brush of Luca’s palm against the back of my hand was both a question and a sort of answer. “You’re trembling.”