by Bree Barton
Pilar waited for the but. The part where the Shadowess ripped into her for teaching her son something that—how had Celeste put it?—hinged on physical violence and aggression.
“You know,” said Muri, heaping sugar into her coffee mug, “I used to do a little sparring myself.”
Pilar stopped, her fork halfway to her mouth.
“It’s true. I may not look like much now, but back when I was a little spryer—and my knees hadn’t staged a full-fledged revolt—I loved a good fight. Long before I was the Shadowess, I would stop in at the Gymnasia whenever I came to the House. There’s nothing like the satisfaction of working up a good sweat.”
Wary, Pilar chewed a mouthful of salted pork, then stabbed another.
“I thought you don’t approve of violence.”
“Violence?” She shook her head. “When I think of someone being violent, I think of intention. There is an intent to do harm. Violence is by nature destructive. As I see it, sparring is creative.”
“Then why did you let your precious Keeper close the Gymnasia?”
The Shadowess’s gaze was steady. She set down her spoon.
“I didn’t know Celeste had closed the Gymnasia. By the time I did, it was too late.”
Pilar dropped her fork, which landed with a clatter.
“What kind of Shadowess are you if you didn’t know that?”
Pilar saw the hurt flash across her face. But Muri didn’t pull back. She leaned forward.
“Can you tell me what happened, Pilar? All the details you can remember. This is important.”
“Why?”
“Because Celeste is not who I thought she was. She’s hurt a lot of people. And I will fight any battle, bad knees or no, to make sure she never hurts anyone in the House again.”
Pilar remembered every detail.
Over the course of her story, she watched Muri’s face. The Shadowess swung from shocked to furious to heartbroken, and a hundred shades in between. She interrupted Pilar only to ask for clarification—except for the times she muttered “outrageous” or “unbelievable” under her breath. Twice she swore. Then immediately apologized.
It was the rawest, foulest, least Shadowess-like Pilar had ever seen her.
She loved it.
“I am so sorry, Pilar,” Muri said when her story came to an end. By now the Shadowess was on her third mug of coffee. Pilar had switched to hot cocoa. Because why the hells not?
“Celeste’s actions are inexcusable. This goes much deeper than I knew. I am, quite frankly, horrified.”
“What do you mean, deeper than you knew?”
Muri stared hard into her mug, as if she’d find the answer there.
“The night you left the House, Stone said something that greatly troubled me. He said you told him the Keeper had kissed your cheek and read your mind. To my knowledge, Celeste did not have magic, and never had. We welcome magicians to the House, of course, but we ask that they acknowledge their gifts when they arrive, and then carefully consider the ways in which they use them.”
“Sounds like Celeste did neither.”
“When she first came to the House, she worked as the gardener. She had a gift for cultivating plants and flowers—a non-magical gift, she said, though now I wonder. Last year, when my Keeper passed away unexpectedly, Celeste positioned herself as a viable candidate.
“By then she and Shay had spent years in the House. She knew our people and our practices. Because we needed a Keeper and I did not have adequate time to vet other candidates, I said yes—against my better judgment. Even then I had my doubts. I knew her to be somewhat intrusive, the sort of person who always thinks they know best. But she assured me she was working on it. And the House is nothing if not a place for people willing to do the work.”
She leaned back. Let out her breath.
“I have launched a full investigation into Celeste’s behavior. Others have begun to step forward to share the ways in which she has abused her power as Keeper. She has been actively undermining all my best hopes and intentions for the House. I have worked to foster a community of openness, exploration, and—above all else—support. What you have offered Stone, Shay, and the other young women and men is a community. You’ve empowered them, making them feel safe and seen. Why would I want to take that away from my child? Why would anyone?”
Pilar grunted. “Ask Celeste.”
“Needless to say, Celeste is no longer welcome at the House.”
Muri rotated her coffee mug first one way, then the other.
“This has been my greatest challenge as the Shadowess. Especially now, as our world changes around us. I have tried to do everything at once, from the highest goals and missions of the House—our promise to our guests and residents, as well as to other kingdoms who need our help—all the way down to knowing which resident will break out in hives after eating tajin. I clearly should not have spent so much time on the tajin.”
It wasn’t a great joke, but Pilar smiled. Muri smiled back.
Then she grew serious again.
“People who are hungry for power are always threatened by those who truly have it. You have great power in you, Pilar. Celeste wanted to take that power away. In so doing, she hurt everyone. My son, her own daughter. And you. I am truly sorry.”
The words landed in Pilar’s ears like a foreign language. Had her own mother apologized to her like this? Ever? It was almost uncomfortable.
“Is that really why you came here? You rode a pink kama through the desert to say sorry?”
“Some apologies are worth a trek through the desert.” Muri tapped her finger on the lip of her mug. “But that is not the only reason.”
Here it comes, Pilar thought. The agenda. The real reason the Shadowess had come to Glas Ddir.
“I rode through the desert,” she said, “to ask if you would consider coming back.”
Pilar blinked. Surely she’d misheard.
“Back to the House?”
“Yes. I never wanted you to leave. That was Celeste’s lie. Her attempt to make you feel unwanted.”
Starved for attention. Girls who pretend to be victims when they are anything but.
Pilar searched Muri’s eyes for the coldness she had seen in Morígna’s. But she saw only warmth.
“I don’t know your history, Pilar, and I don’t need to. If you someday choose to share it with me, fine. If you do not, fine. What I want to assure you is that I will work harder to identify the ways in which the House is failing its mission, and where I am failing my mission. I would like your help in ensuring the House of Shadows remains a haven of safety and support.”
The words were coming swiftly. Comforting. Disorienting. Pilar couldn’t guzzle them fast enough.
“We are, as it so happens, currently in need of a Keeper.” Muri took a breath. “I would be honored if you would consider stepping into the role.”
Pilar was speechless. Not in one million years would she have expected this.
“I would only ask that you come to me the moment you get even the faintest whiff of someone misusing their power. I think you have a gift for discerning the rotten heart of even the most sweet-smelling apple.”
“I’ve had some practice.”
“I wish you hadn’t had cause to learn. And yet those experiences are a part of you. They have sharpened you into a keen blade. If I am to keep the House a safe haven for all, I need a blade like you as my Keeper. Soon my second term will come to a close. Between then and now, I want to do everything I can to put strong structures in place before the next Shadowess or Shadower is appointed.”
Pilar pushed her plate aside. Thinking. She was honored by the offer. But something about it didn’t sit right.
“I don’t think Celeste in the role of Keeper is your problem,” she said slowly. “Sure, Celeste is a demon witch. She’s the worst Gwyrach who ever Gwyrached. But I think the real problem is the role itself.”
The Shadowess looked at her, curious.
“Tell me m
ore.”
“The way I see it, two people have power in the House. The Keeper is appointed by the Shadowess, and the Shadowess is appointed by the Manuba Committee. Who are they again? Because I’ve yet to find someone at the House who’s actually met them. But they’re supposedly old and wise and important, so they appoint whichever Shadowess or Shadower they think is most qualified. In other words: who looks good on paper, not who the people choose. Don’t get me wrong: you’re not a bad person. You’re good at what you do. But what if the next Shadowess isn’t? What if they hurt people, like Celeste? There’s no one to hold them accountable. Two people with absolute power really isn’t all that much better than one.”
The Shadowess held her gaze. Pilar watched Muri turn the words over and over in her mind. With each turn, something else seemed to click into place.
She took off her glasses. Set them down beside her mug. Pilar had started to recognize the gesture. The glasses came off when Muri was about to say something important.
“Great sands,” she said. “You are exactly right.”
Pilar almost laughed. Not the appropriate reaction. But she’d won the argument so easily, it wasn’t even an argument.
“I would now like to revoke my offer,” the Shadowess said. “The offer of Keeper, anyway. I’d like you to come back and help me reconfigure the system, with a focus on accountability of power.”
Pilar leaned back.
“What would that look like?”
“I don’t know yet. We’ll have to figure that out. But we would build a new system, together. And I’d love to hear from the younger members of our community about what they want and need. They already like and trust you, Pilar. How validating for them to share their thoughts and ideas with their favorite fight teacher, then see those thoughts and ideas implemented throughout the House.” Muri’s face brightened. “We can start by reopening the Gymnasia. Expand it if you like—there is plenty of room. You are welcome to whatever resources you need.”
Pilar was having a hard time paying attention. Not because she didn’t like Muri’s proposal. The opposite. She was imagining a Gymnasia twice the size. Double the sandbags. Thicker floor mats for softer falls. She pictured more students pouring in, her brood growing so large she’d have to hire Shay and Stone to teach some of the new recruits.
She felt a sharp pang.
“If Celeste isn’t at the House anymore, does that mean Shay isn’t, either?”
“No child should be punished for their parents’ crimes. Shay is old enough to make her own decisions. The doors of the House remain open to her.”
Pilar grinned. Not just for herself. For Stone. He’d have a chance to apologize to Shay for the things he’d said. Confess his true feelings. For all she knew, he already had.
Muri was smiling, too. She picked her glasses back up.
“There is much work to be done. And much is being asked of us, more than ever before. The four kingdoms need healing. Our world needs healing if we are to survive. So, too, do the young men and women of the House of Shadows. They need a place where they feel safe and strong. They—we—I—need you.”
Pilar didn’t have time to let the words sink in. Behind the Shadowess, Mia stood in the doorway. Her face drained of blood.
She said something. Or maybe just mouthed it. Whatever it was, it wasn’t good.
Pilar stood. Locked eyes on the Shadowess.
“Thank you,” she said. “I mean it, Muri. Thank you. But I have to go.”
She turned and followed Mia out of the inn.
Chapter 47
Tomb
“I CAN’T PUT IT into words,” Mia said, leading Pilar through Killian Village. “I just have to show you.”
Mia still couldn’t believe it herself. Her exhaustion had caught up with her in the hat shop; she’d staggered out into the morning sun, made a few wrong turns, and dead-ended in an alley reeking of excrement and old fish. This was the village she remembered, a warren of huts and hovels she’d only briefly glimpsed when she and Quin escaped.
That night he’d confessed he sometimes went into Killian Village, doing what he could to make amends for his father’s policies. Why had she not asked him what he did, or whom he helped? Why had she failed to ask him so many things?
She would do everything differently, if she only had more time.
Heavy with regret, Mia had traced an uneasy path through the village, until a white-haired woman selling flowers hissed, “Where are your mourning sleeves, girl? The king is dead.”
The words made the wound bleed anew.
The king is dead.
Quin is dead.
Miserable, she had started wandering toward the eastern road.
That had not been the right decision.
“Where are we going?” Pilar said, as Mia dragged her along. Rose was holding on tight—annoyingly tight—as they stumbled over the uneven cobblestones. Add that to the many failures of Clan Killian: their roads were absolute shit.
“Are you taking me to the eastern road?”
Pilar knew the road well, having tripped down it a hundred times as a scullery maid. The Kaer was so awful she would sometimes hide food stores in dark cupboards so it would appear they had run out, just so she’d have an excuse to leave the castle.
“I’m not taking you to the eastern road,” Mia said. Which was, in a sense, true.
They were coming to the edge of the village, where the huts thinned out at the foot of the northern peaks. Thousands of years before, Clan Killian had commanded Glasddiran stonemasons to dig a castle out of the rock, leaving a black scab on the side of the mountain.
The crush of panic was upon her. Mia could no longer avoid it.
“Look,” she said, pointing.
Pilar followed Mia’s finger. She nearly choked.
There was no eastern road. No mountain.
“No Kaer.” She swallowed. So the river guide hadn’t lied. “It’s just . . . gone.”
They stood side by side, awestruck. The entire landscape was transformed. So much so that, if they hadn’t been there before, they never would have recognized it. The saw-toothed mountains had been tempered into gentler versions of themselves—their rough edges smoothed, the steep crags filed down to softer slopes. Some hills were blanketed in green grass and varicolored flowers; others were inky black, stippled with charred tree stumps.
“So the rumors weren’t rumors,” Pilar said. “About the fires.”
“Fires can be good,” Mia murmured, partly to remind herself. “They’re part of a forest’s natural life cycle. The fires burn up old dead trees and competing vegetation on the forest floor, leaving more resources for the survivors. Many ancient trees have bark so thick they can survive the flames.”
“Never hurts to have thick skin,” Pilar quipped.
Mia sucked in her breath. “I think I see the ocean.”
Pilar squinted. “Really?”
“Right there.” She gestured toward a limpid line on the horizon. “The Opalen Sea.”
Rose was right. Pilar could see it now. The rolling hills stopped abruptly at a gash of silver.
She fingered the bloodbloom charm in her pocket. Now she understood why Mia liked it. Just knowing it was there made her feel calmer, even as she swayed a little on her feet.
Why did she feel so unsteady? Pilar hated the Kaer. Hated it as Ronan’s scullery maid, hated it even more as one of Angelyne’s enkindled. But it didn’t feel right that something so big could vanish so completely. Especially if it meant Quin had vanished, too.
“I don’t get it,” she said. “It looks completely different. Like the mountains were never even here. Since you seem to know a lot about forest fires . . . they can’t do that, can they? Dissolve a bunch of thousand-year-old rocks and then sprout some nice flowers?” She frowned. “You’re not using head magic on me, are you, Rose?”
“Not unless I am inadvertently also using it on myself.”
“How could the northern peaks collapse without cr
ushing Killian Village?”
Till the northern peaks crumble.
Promise me, O promise me.
Mia saw Quin’s eyes. Scintillating green.
Another wave of grief crashed over her.
She should turn around. Go back. Being here, this close to Kaer Killian—or rather, the ashes of Kaer Killian—was too painful.
“We should go up there,” Pilar said.
“Why? It’s gone. He’s gone.”
“Maybe he’s buried up there. That would make sense, right? That they’d build some kind of shrine? We could . . . I don’t know . . . pay our respects.”
She could tell Mia didn’t want to. Pilar didn’t really want to, either. But to stand there, feeling helpless, realizing Quin had been erased without a trace? Surely that was worse.
“Look!” Now it was Pilar’s turn to point. “Do you see that?”
Mia trained her eyes on the spot Pilar had indicated. In the middle distance, she saw movement. Blurs of color on a green plateau. And—now that she was looking for it—a narrow white path winding toward them like a strip of gauze.
“There are people up there,” said Pilar. “And we’re going to find out who.”
The people were children. A dozen, maybe two. They wore brightly colored costumes and jewelry, one girl sporting a wig of wild red curls. A blond boy ran around a rough-hewn stage, screeching, then somehow got his foot caught in the blue pendant dangling from his neck and went tumbling into a group of girls. He looked so pleased with himself when he landed at the girls’ feet, Mia wondered if he’d planned it.
“Children,” called a matronly woman from the edge of the stage. “Children! I ask that you please gather yourselves. If we cannot pull ourselves together, there will be no performance tonight.”
A hush fell over them.
“Good. Thank you. That’s much better. We’re going to take it from the top of act two.”
Mia exchanged glances with Pilar. What had they stumbled into?
“Oh, hello there,” said the woman, noticing them for the first time. “Are you here from the Council? Quin said he’d be sending two members up for a preview.”