Soul of Cinder

by Bree Barton

  “I decided the crypt was the safest place for them. I bring them raw meat and bones whenever I can. But I know they’re lonely. Every time I tried to take them to Ilwysion, some Ember was always prowling about. And truthfully, your pups were just as impossible. Even when I tried to lure them out with treats, they refused to leave the crypt.”

  She leaned into Wulf, who rested his chin on her knee.

  “I think they were waiting for you to come home.”

  Quin couldn’t find the words. Cal had given him the greatest gift. How could he ever express what this meant to him?

  His eyes roamed the crypt, noting a bowl of water, two piles of blankets, and a chewed-up wooden ball.

  “You’ve taken good care of them,” he said hoarsely.

  “My father used to say that if we don’t do right by the smallest creatures, there won’t be any rightness left.”

  “I wish I could have met your father,” Quin said.

  Cal leaned her head against the tomb.

  “I wish that, too.”

  They lingered in the crypt, perhaps because they did not know what would come next, or how painful it would be. The silence was broken only by the dogs’ yawns and nuzzles. Later, when Quin turned those precious final moments over in his mind, he would wonder why he hadn’t heard the footsteps.

  An object rolled gracelessly across the cold stone floor. Another wooden ball, Quin thought. Though much bigger.

  “Your cousin missed you,” said Tobin, stepping out from behind a mausoleum.

  Only then did Quin realize the ball was Tristan’s head.

  Chapter 37

  Aglow

  THEY SAT TOGETHER IN the surf. Mia with her trousers cuffed to the knee, auburn curls dancing at her cheeks. Angelyne with her emerald gown pooled around her, bare toes dug into the wet sand. The two Rose girls leaning toward one another, at the lip of an ocean, the cusp of a world.

  “It’s all right,” said Mia, stroking Angie’s back. Her sister’s sobs were finally beginning to subside. “It’s going to be all right,” she said, though she wasn’t sure it was.

  Nothing had gone the way she expected. But then, nothing ever did. Just when she’d been absolutely certain Angelyne was going to kill her—as the phantoms of the four kingdoms crumbled like sandcastles—her sister had collapsed in her arms.

  I deserve to die, she’d said, and those four words struck more fear into Mia’s heart than all the other words put together.

  “I tried to save you,” Angelyne whispered, her slender chest heaving. “You and Pilar.”

  Mia fought to remember. No easy feat on the Isle of Forgetting. She struggled to parse the real memories from the unreal, holding each one up to the light.

  “The snow palace,” Angie pleaded. “Remember?”

  It was coming back to her, in shadowy slivers. Quin in the underground cave, lunging at Pilar with fire between his fingers; Mia leaping into his path, hands closing around the flames; her skin blistering, though she couldn’t feel it; scorched flesh melting away to reveal her carpals and metacarpals, hamate, capitate, scaphoid—in other words, her bones.

  And then the piece she had somehow managed to forget. A piece so pivotal it astonished her that it had fallen into the recesses of her memory, though she had a theory, a hunch, that her mind had filed it away as too painful. She was never any good at feeling pain.

  Go. Take Pilar and leave before I change my mind.

  The last words Angelyne spoke before the ground fractured beneath them. Her final gift.

  Mia’s head reeled. Angie had wanted her dead. Angie had saved her life. She had brought the four kingdoms to their knees—and here she sat, weeping at the end of the world.

  Did she deserve to die? Angelyne had hurt and killed, decimated and destroyed. She had built an empire on the bones of death.

  But deserve? Since when was Mia Rose the arbiter of who deserved to die or live?

  “I still don’t know how I survived,” Angie murmured, tugging her gown tight around her knees. She looked for all the world like a little girl at the seaside, soon to shape sand into towers. “It was only Quin and me, the cave falling down. I knew he was going to kill me. I didn’t blame him. But when I looked into his eyes . . .” Angie pressed her fist into the sand. “I saw it.”

  Mia studied her sister. “Saw what?”

  “What I had always seen in mine. There’s a kind of knowledge you carry inside you when you’ve been stripped of every kind of power. Deep in your soul, you know you’re weak.” She shook her head. “No, worse than weak. You’re nothing.”

  Angie whisked a fresh tear away. A few granules of sand clung to her cheek.

  “It was like looking in a mirror. I don’t know how else to describe it. I saw his pain and his rage. His whole life people had thought him a pitiful coward, and he was desperate to prove them wrong. I was like that, too. How could I not be? I grew up in the river kingdom, where girls were treated as less than human. They held us captive in our own homes, watched and restricted us—and we were the lucky ones. Other girls were tortured. Murdered. We all lived in fear.”

  “You didn’t have to be afraid,” Mia said quietly. “I would have protected you.”

  “That was part of the problem.”

  Angelyne gazed up at the impeccable blue sky.

  “My whole life I looked up to you. I lived for the days we’d play dress-up and dance around the cottage. But you were always happiest out in the woods with the maps and curios Father brought you. Mia Rose, Explorer of Worlds, Hoarder of Treasures. You were never afraid like the other girls. You were Father’s favorite. Mother’s, too. And so blissfully unaware.

  “Of course, everything changed the day Mother died. When she stopped her heart because I’d threatened to expose her as a Gwyrach, something died in me, too. But something also awakened.”

  Angie freed her right foot, then her left, brushing the sand off her toes.

  “How did it feel when you first bloomed, Mi? What was your magic like?”

  Mia considered it.

  “I’d get those atrocious headaches, remember? Especially once Father gave me Mother’s ruby wren. It was awful.”

  “For me it was extraordinary. At least at the beginning. I’d never experienced anything that powerful. I knew it made me wicked. I was a Gwyrach. Our own father had sworn to kill women like me. But I felt so alive. My mind was fierce, my heart courageous. For the first time, I felt like you.”

  Angie’s pale blue eyes took on a fervid sheen.

  “I had never kept a secret from you. And suddenly our mother was dead, all because I’d been afraid of her magic—unaware that I had magic. Of course, you changed that day, too. You swore your life to the Hunters, determined to kill the Gwyrach who’d murdered Mother.”

  The light in her eyes faded.

  “My heart and mind had never felt stronger. But my body was a different matter. I got the same headaches, and worse—fevers, numb hands and feet, those terrible hacking coughs. You made it your mission to take care of me. The sicker I got, the more obsessed you became with healing me—which only made me feel more weak.”

  Mia winced. Pilar had said much the same thing. Another sister she had been ruthlessly determined to heal.

  “It wasn’t until Quin smashed my stones together that I understood where I’d gone wrong. I sensed the rift as soon as it happened—and not just because the glacier was collapsing. I could feel all four kingdoms torn asunder. It was what I’d thought I wanted. To be the mighty queen, the only one who could tip that fragile balance.

  “But then I saw the emptiness in Quin’s eyes. A hunger for power that could never be sated, because the more he tried to seize it, the emptier he would feel. That was the moment I understood that death is a kind of emptiness. And emptiness will never make you powerful. True power is the ability to create.”

  Angelyne exhaled all the air from her chest.

  “Of course, by then it was too late.”

  They were quiet
a long while. Mia had a million things to say. But for once, she said nothing. She let the words rest as the tide rolled in.

  “And then you came to Prisma,” Mia said finally.

  “And then I came to Prisma. I was running from the magnitude of what I had done. But even here, I couldn’t let go.”

  She held out her hand, showing Mia her palm. Fused with Angie’s pink skin, the black gemstone had a virulent gleam.

  “Death was with me always. I had excruciating visions of each kingdom being destroyed, people screaming in pain and terror. I knew it was all my fault. In the morning I’d walk the beach for hours, conjuring the images from my nightmares, forcing myself to watch the whole world die.”

  Now Mia understood what she had seen on the shoreline: echoes of her sister’s nightmares, some true, some not. Angie needed only swipe her scarred hand over the horizon and a host of atrocities would rise from the sand.

  Mia wanted to comfort her sweet baby sister. Angie had done horrible, unthinkable things—and she clearly regretted them. Mia imagined their mother bundling them both into her arms. My little raven. My little swan.

  But even now she was falling back on old habits, infantilizing Angelyne. Her sweet baby sister hadn’t asked for comfort. She had asked Mia to remember she was not a sweet baby at all.

  Angie rose, shaking her dress free of sand.

  “I only showed you one part of my island. The most painful part. It’s getting harder to hold on to these memories, I think because I’m getting closer to being able to let go.”

  Mia stood. The way Angie said let go worried her.

  “Let go of the memories, you mean?”

  “You’ll see. It’s a part of what comes next.”

  Angelyne took her by the hand. Mia felt the cold stone embedded in her sister’s palm. She tried not to shudder.

  “I want to show you my island, Mi. Before it’s too late.”

  Angelyne’s island was beautiful. Magnificent waterfalls crashed into shallow green pools. If you looked to the very top, the sun’s glare slashed a pink star through the water.

  Angie took her to a valley blanketed with a patchwork of brilliant squares, one bleeding into the next: coral to vermilion, vermilion to violet, violet to ochre. They were blanketed with poppies, narcissus, clover—and fruit trees, too, apple and wolf peach and snow plum. Buttery sunlight scraped over the hills, turning each square into combed velvet.

  Why, in the midst of such stunning beauty, did dread coil in Mia’s stomach?

  “Look,” said Angelyne.

  Above them, a modest castle nested in the cliffside, carved from pale-green stone.

  “Aventurine,” Angie said. “I always thought it was so pretty. Certainly prettier than the ugly black Kaer. I’m glad I don’t ever have to go back.”

  “Is this where you live now?”

  “Yes.” Angelyne beamed. “Would you like to come inside?”

  In every room of the castle, Mia recognized her sister’s touch. Tapestries graced the walls, bursting with silk ribbons and peacock feathers. A spacious courtyard revealed a well-tended topiary and an orangery with garlands of scarlet stoneberries woven through the trees. Every embellishment was elegant without being ostentatious—regal, but tastefully so.

  “You must see my chambers,” Angie said, leading her upstairs to a room with a sweeping balcony that reminded Mia of their childhood home. Beside a canopy bed smothered in fluffy pillows was a vanity glittering with jewels, brooches, combs, skin greases—and a moonstone pendant that looked exactly like their mother’s. Mia felt both comforted and alarmed.

  She inhaled the scent of lilacs and lavender soap. Even here, on the Isle of Forgetting, her sister’s scent had not changed. Mia reached out and touched a braided strand of swan and raven feathers twirling from a hook. The whimsy hurt her heart. In spite of everything, all the death and destruction, Angelyne was still a fifteen-year-old girl.

  “This is how I always wanted to decorate my room at home,” Angie said wistfully. “I imagined one day I would live in a castle like this.”

  “It’s lovely,” Mia replied, unable to shake the nameless fear that had curled into her belly.

  From a nearby room, she heard a cry. The tendons in her neck tensed.

  “What was that?”

  “Oh, it’s all right. Fin’s just hungry for her breakfast.”

  She walked under an archway entwined with pink roses, beckoning Mia to follow.

  They had stepped into a nursery. Here was the fyre ink Angelyne had promised: cheerful scenes played out on the walls in moving ink, raccoons gobbling plump cherries, a scarlet bear peeking out from the snow. In the corner, a small red bird peeked out of a miniature birdcage.

  A white-haired woman sat beside a cradle, rocking it gently. Mia gave a start. She looked like an older version of their mother. A ghost version.

  “It’s about time you came back,” scolded Wynna’s ghost. “She’s hungry.”

  Horrified, Mia turned to her sister—and was transfixed by her face.

  Angelyne had never looked so happy. On the beach she’d been crushed under the weight of shame and regret. But here, in the nursery, she was aglow.

  Angie reached into the cradle and lifted a bright-eyed baby into her arms. She turned to Mia, cheeks flushed, eyes dewed.

  “Mi, I want you to meet my daughter.”

  Chapter 38

  Nothing

  “IS IT REAL?” QUIN asked.

  He gestured toward the charred head on the crypt floor.

  “Did you kill Tristan? Or is it only in my mind?”

  Tobin stepped into the light, amused. He tapped the severed head with his boot.

  “I suppose you can’t know for sure, can you? You’ll just have to take my word.”

  The head was hard to look at. Even so, Quin forced himself not to look away. His cousin was irredeemable. A rapist. A traitor. Quin had wanted him dead.

  And now here he was. Burned beyond recognition. Dead.

  Why was it that Quin felt no satisfaction, only fear?

  “It’s real,” Callaghan confirmed, her voice small but brave. Cal was ensconced in enough uzoolion to sink a small ship—and neutralize any head magic. What she saw was true.

  “You were to come alone,” Tobin said coldly. “Now I’ve found not one traitor, but two. Four, if you include the dogs. It seems little Briallihandra Mar has been keeping secrets.”

  “Let her and the dogs go, Toby. We can settle this between you and me.”

  “On the contrary. Brialli has been harboring these beasts without my knowledge. She appears to also have been harboring you.”

  Tobin took a menacing step toward them. Quin tried not to flinch.

  “Remarkable,” Tobin said. “You went right to it.”

  “I—I’m not sure I follow.”

  “Why would you? You had your eyes squeezed shut the entire time.”

  Tobin slammed his palm into the nearest tomb. Wulf’s yelp echoed through the crypt.

  “Stop cowering, son of Killian. Take note of where you are. Where you’re sitting.”

  A sick feeling crawled through Quin’s stomach.

  “I don’t—”

  “Want to remember? I don’t want to remember, either. But I don’t have the luxury.”

  Tobin lunged. Callaghan shouted, veering around Tobin, then bolted out of the crypt, the dogs at her heels.

  Good. At least Cal had escaped.

  Quin willed the fire into his hands, summoning the power of the fojuen stones around his neck, stuffed into his trouser pockets, lining the inside of his jacket.

  But the fojuen did not augment his magic.

  It augmented Tobin’s.

  “Remember,” Toby said, wrapping his hands around Quin’s skull.

  And the memory came.

  Under the plums, if it’s meant to be. You’ll come to me, under the snow plum tree.

  Quin crept through the corridors, past the grove of snow plums, and down into the crypt.
Tobin was pacing between the mausoleums, fingers tapping a nervous beat on his thighs.

  “You came,” he said simply.

  “Of course I came.”

  He didn’t know who stepped toward the other, or if they both stepped forward in perfect harmony. But suddenly their bodies were pressed together so naturally Quin wondered how they’d ever been apart.

  His whole life he’d felt soft. Helpless to escape his father’s rages, helpless to evade his carefully scripted future. But when Toby wrapped his arms around him, Quin thought for the first time that perhaps softness was a kind of strength.

  Tobin kissed him. Quin kissed back. The tension drawn taut between them melted into a melody longing to be written. His music teacher touched his chest, fumbling feverishly with his gold buttons.

  “You unbutton these every day?” Toby said, tugging so hard that one button popped off its threads and rolled across the floor.

  “My life is fraught with hardship,” Quin said.

  Tobin’s laugh was so beautiful he wanted to eat it, to move it from Toby’s mouth to his, and so he kissed him more deeply, their tongues lightly touching, until the tombs dissolved and there was only them.

  And then there wasn’t only them.

  Quin felt his father’s presence before he saw him. The hairs prickled on his neck. He’d always sworn every room grew colder once King Ronan stepped inside it.

  Tobin pulled his hands out of Quin’s curls so quickly Quin winced. Hide, Toby mouthed, and tugged him behind the closest tomb.

  Ronan didn’t see them. He charged into the crypt barking orders at his men.

  “There,” he said, pointing to the long stone slab. Only then did Quin realize the guards were carrying a body.

  From his hiding place, he recognized her. Wynna Rose, wife to Lord Griffin Rose, leader of the Circle of the Hunt.

  Griffin stood in the shadows, his face sickly gray. He took a step toward his wife’s body.

  “Leave her,” Ronan commanded.

  “Let me take her home, Your Grace. I beg of you. Let me bury her.”

  The king’s blue eyes smoldered with silent rage. Quin knew the look well.

  “She stays here. You may choose her stone. A gift far more munificent than you deserve.”