by Cayla Keenan
He was halfway through propping himself up on the pillows when a door opened and light flooded into the room. Maddix groaned, throwing his unbound arm up to shield his eyes.
“You,” a voice said, not unkindly, “should not be awake yet.”
Maddix opened his eyes a crack, wincing when the man turned towards him, but not from the pain. His hand went to his throat before he remembered that his amulet was long gone.
“Sorry, I’m not very pretty to look at.” The man’s mouth quirked into a small smile. Well, half of it did. The rest only twitched, held down by raised, off-color scar tissue that twisted almost all of his face. Only his left eye and half of his mouth were spared. Maddix didn’t move, unsure whether or not he should look away. It didn’t look like any other burn he’d ever seen; twisted and writhing in such a way that it looked like the mangled corpse of something that had died on his face.
“Where am I?” Maddix rasped, his voice rough from disuse.
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that,” the man said. “But you’re somewhere safe.”
Maddix didn’t know if he believed that. “You’re lucky to be alive.”
“I feel real lucky,” Maddix said, groaning as the wound on his side twinged again. He wasn’t going to be running, or even walking, anytime soon. He could barely move without feeling like his sternum was cracking in half.
“You are,” the scarred man assured him. “A few more hours and no medic in Aestos would’ve been able to save you.”
They were still in Aestos then. Maddix filed that small bit of information away for later.
“I’m Paxton, by the way.” Maddix didn’t offer his name, but Paxton didn’t seem bothered. “Kenna will be thrilled that you’re awake.”
“Kenna’s here?”
“Yes,” Paxton said.
Maddix’s mind spun. Kenna was here. Kenna the witchhunter, with his family of witchhunters, who’d been sent to get him out of the Pavaal.
“Good, you’re awake.”
Maddix’s head snapped towards Kenna’s voice, moving far too quickly, and he winced. The world spun, and it took a moment to reorient himself.
“Not that there was any doubt. Paxton is our best medic.”
“Well, I’ve found patients heal pretty fast when they get a load of my ugly mug,” Paxton said, raising a shoulder and then dropping it. He made an effort to sound blasé, but Maddix could hear a stab of pain in Paxton’s voice. “Cruinniú maith, Kenna-láttéow.”
“Cruinniú maith, Paxton-hælend,” Kenna replied, inclining his head. Maddix’s gaze traveled between the two of them, watching the exchange. Maddix had a basic grasp of the languages spoken in Pavaal, but he’d never heard anything like that. It was a strange combination of elongated vowels and sharp consonants.
Paxton turned to go, leaving Maddix alone with Kenna. The medic raised his hand as if to douse the torch, and Maddix’s heart stuttered in his chest.
“Leave it lit,” he said, too quickly. He wasn’t going into the dark again, not if he could help it. “Please.” Paxton nodded and left the fire burning behind him.
“I know you have questions,” Kenna said once Paxton’s footsteps had faded.
“How did you know where to find me? How did you even know who I was? What—”
Kenna held up a hand, cutting him off. Maddix’s mouth snapped closed, but the questions built up on his tongue, piling up one on top of the other. “I’m sorry, but I can’t give you those answers. I don’t rank nearly high enough. But you’re safe here, and soon everything will be clear.”
“How soon?” Maddix asked. He should be grateful—he was grateful—but the secrecy was beginning to grate on him. Being naïve had destroyed his life once before, and he’d be damned if he let it happen ever again. “Can you at least tell me where I am?”
“You’re in our stronghold,” Kenna said.
“I made it,” Maddix breathed. He could hardly believe it. The thought of finally making it to the witchhunters had sustained him for so long, and a part of him had feared he would never get there.
“You made it,” Kenna agreed.
HEALING WAS SLOW going. His wounds were messy and deep, made worse by the shoddy patch job he’d done back in Pavaal, but he was getting stronger. It was a miracle that his shoulder was healing at all. His range of motion was limited, but at least he’d finally graduated from the sling. His side had scabbed and was well on its way to scarring over.
He was confined to the medic’s wing, but Maddix was allowed to take walks on his own through the halls. His record was an hour out of bed at a time, but that had been pushing it.
And still, he had no answers. Maddix was trying to be patient, but he’d never been good at sitting still and waiting around. It was something that might have made him an excellent Guard.
Finally, after nearly a fortnight of bedrest, Maddix decided to take matters into his own hands. He wasn’t a prisoner, and the guards only patrolled this wing at the beginning and end of the night shift. He had plenty of time.
Leaning heavily on the cane Paxton had provided, Maddix hobbled into the hallway. The lamps were lit, and he took care not to venture too far into the shadows. It took time, but eventually he made it out of the medical wing. He had no idea where he was going, but if no one was going to tell him what was going on, he would find out on his own.
“You should not be out of bed,” a voice said from behind him. Maddix had to steel himself from flinching and pulling his wounds open again. Paxton would be furious if Maddix ruined all his hard work.
Maddix turned to see a man dressed all in white in the half-light of the dim hallway.
“My name is Hale. I’ve been eager to meet you, Maddix Kell.”
Maddix eyed the man warily. He was very polite, but Maddix knew better than most what could hide beneath a genteel exterior.
“Generally,” the man—Hale—said, unfazed by Maddix’s silence, “when someone introduces themselves, it’s an invitation to start a conversation.”
Maddix hesitated a moment more before speaking. “You know my name, and now I know yours. We have nothing else to talk about.” It wasn’t true, but two years of prison-bred wariness didn’t disappear overnight.
To his surprise, Hale laughed. It didn’t reach the pale blue of his eyes. “True, very true. But if you insist on being out of bed, how would you fancy a stroll?”
Slowly, Maddix nodded. He was already trespassing and Hale had made no moves to turn him in. The man walked slowly, allowing Maddix to keep pace as they wound through the identical halls. With every step, more questions stacked up, each clamoring to be asked, to be answered. Maddix was almost surprised at how quickly his old curiosity reasserted itself; he would’ve thought it starved to death in the dark.
“Seems like everyone here knows my story,” Maddix said, finally breaking the silence. He had the sense that Hale wouldn’t speak again until he did. “But I don’t know yours.”
“We keep our ears to the ground, listening for anything that the demons might be responsible for,” Hale said, pleased. “A Guard going on a killing spree and claiming possession? That got our attention.”
But not your help, Maddix thought.
“We’ve been looking for the witch responsible since word reached us, to no avail. When we heard of your escape, Kenna and his family were our closest hunters. They were sent to bring you to us.”
Hale didn’t say anything else as they walked through the halls. Maddix tried to memorize the route, noting each twist and turn. He wanted to be able to get out of the compound if need be. One of the doors opened, not to another hallway but the open sky.
“I thought you might need some fresh air, considering everything you’ve been through,” Hale explained.
“You’ve got no idea what I’ve been through,” Maddix snapped, but his anger evaporated as he walked out onto the balcony. Before him, luminous in the moonlight, lay the sea. Maddix had dreamed of the ocean all of his life. Even as a greenblood Guard h
e’d imagined one day visiting the shore, maybe settling down in a port town once he grew tired of heroism. For a moment, Maddix stared, mesmerized by the light as it sparkled off the shifting water and turned whitecaps bright silver.
“We were sending hunters for you, you know,” Hale said finally, cutting into Maddix’s thoughts. Maddix blinked, turning to look at him, this blonde stranger. In the moonlight, Maddix could see an off-white scar carving a line from his temple to the back of his skull. Everyone here had scars, it seemed. He would fit right in. “It took us time, but we verified your story, and once we’d done that, we had hunters sent to the capitol to pull you out.”
Maddix had no idea what to say to that. In the Pit, he quickly learned to give up any dreams of rescue or pardon. Those who held out hope for salvation lost their minds even faster than the rest.
“You’re going to help me?” Maddix asked. It felt too much like asking for permission, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.
“We’re going to help you,” Hale agreed without hesitation. “Everyone here has been affected by the witch plague in their own way, and each has found a home with us. Some stay for shelter, others to join our army.”
“I want to join you,” Maddix said without waiting for Hale to ask the question. “I want to fight.”
“Then you shall,” Hale replied. He sounded pleased, even proud. “You’re going to heal and train, and when you’re ready, you’re going to get justice.”
Chapter Eight:
Jayin
If Jayin ever saw Maerta again—and it was starting to seem like it would be very soon—she was going to spin a glamor around her so tight the courtier would never find her way back to reality. Let Maerta see how tough she was when the walls started melting around her. It would surely be the last thing Jayin ever did, but she was starting to think it would be worth it.
She had no idea how the Palace had managed it so quickly, but somehow her picture and description had been distributed to every port on the coast. Jayin had almost been caught twice, with and without glamors, and after four days of continuous travel even small magic was hard to maintain.
She was running out of places to hide.
“Stars, help me,” Jayin cursed, knocking on the door of a falling-down house that looked like every other on this block. She forwent a glamor altogether, flipping her hood over her hair and hoping it would conceal her face.
The door opened a crack and she barely got out a “Hello, Om,” before it was slammed in her face again.
“Om!” Jayin shouted, pounding on the flimsy wood, and very aware that she was making a scene. “Omhinar Sank—” Jayin only made it through half of his—frankly, ridiculous—name before Om opened the door and pulled her inside.
“By Sestia and Horaj, what are you doing here?”
“Still swearing by the named gods I see,” Jayin said. Om glowered and the candles flickered, sending shadows dancing on the walls.
“What do you want, sahir?” Om demanded. Jayin rolled her eyes.
“And still denying your nature. Good to know that some things don’t change.”
Though he towered over her, Om flinched visibly as Jayin’s eyes raked him up and down. He had filled out since she last saw him but there was still something of the shifty-eyed teenager she knew from years before.
“You’re just as wrong about me now as you were then,” Om said. The venom in his voice didn’t keep it from shaking. Jayin bit her lip, guilt weighing her down. She never expected to see him again, especially not with the entire kingdom searching for her. It wasn’t fair, but she was out of options.
Jayin had still been training under the Kingswitch when Om showed up at the Palace almost three years ago, seeking sanctuary. Witches weren’t trusted by the dayri in Aestos, but they were valued. They kept Aestos from being dragged into the war between Vandel and Kaddah—they kept the whole bloody kingdom safe.
Witches born outside of their borders didn’t live very long. Om had lasted longer than most. Jayin was only fifteen when he showed up at Ayrie Palace, begging for shelter. He was alone, thin and smudgy, and smoke floated around him like an aura. Om denied being sahir until he was blue in the face, but he also had a nasty tendency to set things—curtains, table, and people if they were too close—on fire when he got backed into a corner.
Jayin shuddered to think of what might have happened to his parents, though there were really just two possible answers: one, his witch mother—magic descended from the maternal line—had been killed back in Kaddah, leaving him alone and unprotected; or two, he’d burned them alive. She never asked.
Om had refused the traditional tests to determine his particular type of magic, but the Kingswitch still agreed to shelter him from the Kaddahn queen. He was with them for almost a month, and after several small fires, one of which involved a very angry baker in the kitchens, it was assumed that Om was a Fire Mage.
One of the legends said that Mages were the first kind of sahir, and split the known elements between them, one for every corner of the world. Their descendants were few and far between, and they made for valuable allies. Jayin had never met a Mage before. Elementals, their less powerful cousins, were some of the most common witches around, but their powers were just in manipulation. Om and others like him could create their element out of nothing.
The Kingswitch assured Om he would be safe in the Palace, and that they would protect him against any repercussions from his homeland. But then something spooked him, and Om ran despite the Kingswitch’s assurances. Jayin was still in training, but she was called on to find him.
And she had.
“Don’t. Please.” She could remember the way his voice had shaken, just like it was shaking now. Jayin had been eager, running ahead of the team and cornering Om on her own. He looked impossibly young then, ashy hair falling over terrified gray eyes as he tried to find an escape. “Please don’t let him.”
“Who?” Jayin asked.
“Your king. He’s going to send me back to Kaddah. He’s—he’s going to let them kill me,” Om said. In that instant, he was just a boy, alone and terrified.
“The King promised you sanctuary,” Jayin said reasonably. She had no reason to doubt what she’d been told. The whole court knew a Fire Mage was among them—he’d been there for weeks. There had been uproar when he disappeared. The King and Kingswitch had been furious. Jayin assumed that it was because they hated to see a good witch go to waste. Not to mention that without control of his magic, Om was a threat to witches and dayri alike. There was nothing to suggest that the King would hand him back over to the Kaddahn to be killed and stars knew what else.
“They’re going to kill me!” Om shouted.
His hair had burst into flame and he surged towards her, stopping only when Jayin brought a knife to his throat. Heat licked at the back of her hand, but Jayin didn’t dare pull the blade away. Most witches didn’t rely on dayri weapons, trusting their powers to protect them, but energy and glamors didn’t do her much good against a physical attack. Jayin learned early on to carry a knife and know how to use it.
“They’ll kill me like they kill all of them. If your king sends me back there, they’ll take me apart piece by piece while I’m still awake. They’ll carve me up until I’m just a pile of meat on a slab.”
Om had sucked in a ragged breath, his voice breaking. The fire was doused from his hair, and he stood before her, shaking and smoking. She could see tiny beads of blood where his bobbing Adam’s apple had come in contact with her knife.
“Please.”
There had been something then, something in his face that made Jayin withdraw her weapon.
“Hold out your hand,” Jayin said. Om looked at her, his gaze heavy with suspicion, but after a few tense seconds, he extended his hand. Jayin reached for him, steeling herself for the barrage of energy she was inviting.
There was a beat, and then Om’s aura flared out, shimmering and red-hot. It took every bit of her concentration to keep it fro
m overwhelming her. Jayin wasn’t nearly as experienced with her powers back then, less able to ferret out secrets, but she could see he wasn’t lying. There wasn’t a trace of deception anywhere within him, just fear so great it was tangible. It had settled under his heart like a stone and it was killing him as sure as any blade. Breaking the contact, Jayin stepped away from him and turned back the way she’d come without another word.
Just like that, she let him go. For the others and the Kingswitch, Jayin pretended that she’d lost the trail. They had no reason not to believe her; she was young, and it was her first hunt. Her act of mercy set her back months of training, and overnight she became the laughingstock of the Palace. The Kingswitch’s favorite failing on her first mission made for juicy gossip.
Sometimes she regretted letting Om escape, but then Jayin remembered the truth in his words and the terror in his eyes, and she bore the punishment and humiliation.
That was the first time she’d defied her mandate as one of the King’s chosen sahir, the first crack in the foundation of her loyalty. It was not the last.
Jayin shook her head slightly, banishing the memory in time to see something flash in the gray of Om’s eyes. Jayin didn’t stop him as he shoved her against the wall of the tiny house, one hand wrapped around her throat. Jayin’s head hit the rotting wood with a crack, and spots crowded her vision. The moment her head stopped spinning, Om’s energy flooded in, his touch flattening her shields. Her vision tinted red, and Jayin felt her heart pick up in response to his fear.
“What do you want, witch?” Om demanded. He peered at her through the thick curtain of his hair. “I’m not going back to Kaddah, or your liar king’s Palace.” His hand began to heat up, still crushing her throat, and Jayin hissed.
“Are you done?” Jayin gasped when Om let up enough to allow her to speak. “Because if I were here to take you back, I wouldn’t have knocked on the front door.” She grimaced. “Besides, the Palace and I aren’t exactly friendly anymore. If you let me go, I can prove it.”