Cast in Firelight

by Dana Swift

  “You want to try again?” I ask, gesturing to the pile of orbs and the bare spot I created.

  Riya sighs. “You know I’m not good enough with red magic.”

  I mimic her sigh. “Yeah, just wishful thinking.”

  “Fine, fine.”

  I brighten and place two orbs on the ground. “Repeat after me and remember to raise your voice as you go.”

  “This isn’t my first time, Adraa.”

  I don’t apologize—Riya wouldn’t want me to—and I begin the spell. Whispering at first and finishing in a shout, Riya and I coax our magic out. “Erif Jvalati Dirgharatrika…”

  Purple smoke billows off Riya’s fingertips, red bleeds from mine. Both color streams hit the orbs and fire bursts inside each sphere casing. My heart erupts as I watch Riya bend to pick up her orb with its tiny flame glowing inside.

  “You…”

  She blows hard on the little life and a smoky ghost floats upward in passing. “Didn’t do it.”

  I grasp my own orb, blow as hard as I can. The life doesn’t flicker. The bloodred flame actually seems to rejoice at the challenge, flooding my hand in light. With a click I shut the orb. “One done, three hundred to go.”

  “I’ll keep you company.”

  I roll my stiff pink sleeve up to let my magic breathe.

  * * *

  I had lied to my mother; it took well past an hour to make three hundred orbs of blazing and unwavering light. But since Riya stopped my sad endeavor to try to get better at white magic, I’m ahead of schedule. I sit down to rest by the central fountain dedicated to Retaw. Riya hands me a cup of water, and I chug.

  “You know, I can see why you can’t do much of anything with snow and the cold. Watching you make these”—Riya picks up a sphere of firelight—“it makes sense.”

  “Uh-huh.” The ice door of Azure Palace flits into my memory. I’ll never be able to do anything like that, and a fire door just sounds dangerous. My magic forte is dangerous. A rani is meant to snuff out problems, put out fires, not start them. And that’s what I want, to create, not destroy. That little ball of red light she holds is the first good thing I’ve been able to make.

  “I’m serious. What’s so great about the cold anyway? Who likes to be cold?” she asks.

  I give a tight smile. “Thanks.” I can’t voice my lack of progress with white magic again. When I turn eighteen in a month and a half, forty-five days to be exact, I must showcase my talent to all nine gods and request their blessing. And while it’s all well and good that I’m more powerful in fire than anyone I have ever met, the fact of the matter is that Dloc, the white god, may not accept me. And no one wants to be blasted off the podium by a blizzard. It could kill me. Or better put, the gods could kill me. If I were a normal Belwarian it wouldn’t matter. I wouldn’t attempt the ceremony, because being talented enough as an eight is amazing. But I’m almost a royal, a future maharani of Wickery, and I can’t rule unless I can control all nine types of magic and prove it to the gods and to my people.

  At first, I neglected white magic because it came hard to me. Then I schemed that being an eight my whole life meant I could get out of my engagement and arranged to marry someone else, but a few years ago I realized how important helping my country, or rather its people, was to me. I may not want to marry Jatin Naupure, but I do want to become a maharani and lead Belwar in some capacity. Passing the ceremony is more about gaining the title than gaining a husband.

  However, long ago I recognized how much everyone wants this arranged marriage to work, how good it would be for Wickery. My parents and Maharaja Naupure decided to wait until Jatin and I were older before uniting us with a blood contract’s holy and binding seal, which is normal protocol little eight-year-old me didn’t comprehend. However, that didn’t stop a verbal agreement, which is almost as binding when it comes from wizards of such power. What doesn’t help is the fact Jatin Naupure writes me “love” letters. From their perspective my parents have no reason to discourage the arrangement. One more reason to blame Jatin for this mess. Plus Maharaja Naupure actually loves me, wants me as his daughter-in-law no matter my weaknesses. But he doesn’t grasp how deep my weakness in snow delves. I stare down at my arms. One is soaked in swirls and designs, the other plain and as dark-skinned as the rest of me. Can you do it yet? Jatin’s voice jabs.

  It’s times like these I wish I were Naupurian. Jatin’s ceremony was at the academy without a big to-do and where passing is all anyone cares about. He’s been presented as the heir of Naupure since birth, both arms shouting talent, doubt unheard of. In Belwar it’s different. On my eighteenth birthday, my ceremony will be my first grand entrance to the people. I will walk the streets of Belwar wrapped in the nine colors and I will do my trial at the heart of the Belwar temple, during which I fear my one arm will convey only doubt.

  I get off the ground and pace. “Himadloc,” I send out to the bowl of water. The red strains of smoke streak through the water, and then nothing. I’m tired, I try to tell myself. I just finished three hundred firelights, I reason. The lies don’t work.

  “You sure you aren’t practicing so much because you want to be with Jatin?” Riya asks.

  I spin to give her a dirty look. “Why does everyone think that? Like it’s odd I want to be a rani and not a wife.”

  She laughs and points at my hands. Sometime during my pacing I pulled out Jatin’s letter again.

  I flinch and let the parchment drop. Then I flail as I snatch for the paper as it floats over the bubbling fountain. “Blood.” I rub my temples and slide down the closest pillar.

  Riya chuckles at my dramatic wilting and kicks my foot with her boot. “Are you still having those red room nightmares?”

  “Only one last night. But it’s not that. It’s…he’s…he comes home today,” I groan through my hands.

  “What?” she yells. I’ve surprised Riya, which is an unusual development. I peer up to take in her confusion, happy someone else feels like this is serious enough to warrant stress.

  “Gods,” she gasps, before reeling in her shock. “But we still have time.” Riya is the only one who truly understands the extent of my problem. Of course, my parents know to some degree, but they believe I’ll pull through with more practice. It’s why I’m still allowed training time in the middle of the day. I would explain to Maharaja Naupure, but a little thing called pride gets in the way, and I refuse to tell Jatin, ever. He cannot have another thing to sneer at. That’s how I imagine him writing at his desk—sneering. The boy needs an ego boost as much as I need another reminder that I’m losing. That I may lose everything.

  “Let’s get going. I want to fly, to forget about all this for a while,” I say.

  Riya nods as she examines her timepiece. “Yeah, we’re running late anyway.”

  The little stumps of our skygliders hang in the training yard attached to a wooden post. With a quick green spell, the post unravels and releases Hubris in condensed form. Riya keeps glancing at me, worry drawing her full eyebrows closer to her dark eyes. I proceed as usual, trying to convey through my actions I’m well and unafraid of my impending ceremony or my marriage.

  With a hard flick and a simple spell, the eight-inch-long wooden tube enlongates. The handle, bound in interlacing wicker, extends, and at the tail two kitelike pieces of red fabric unfold and stiffen with a snap like when the wind catches a sail. I smile at Hubris’s full form as I chant the flight spell that will cast us both air bound. Red the color of blood pools into the woven wicker, finding and soaking its way into the wood’s slivers. I add a little extra magic to take the additional weight of two saddlebags filled to the brim with firelight.

  Before settling atop Hubris, I adjust my belt and redo the knot of my orange skirt over my pink pants as Riya pulls on a purple pair. Around the palace I normally wear pants under my wraparound skirt because, well…let’s just say I�
��ve been so active and forgetful in the past that Zara never creates an ensemble without them. Riya, however, is more proper and elegant. Any outsider, though, might think I’m the more modest and traditional one, with my dedication to long sleeves. They would be wrong, of course.

  When you’re under eighteen, it’s best to wear your parents’ colors while in public. So while I’m doomed to pale-orange and bright-pink attire, Riya, who’s three years older, gets to wear whatever she wants. Like most days she sports her parents’ purple and a soft blue that looks fantastic with her light-brown skin. One day the nine-pointed sun will also be stitched to my clothing, but the royal emblem of Belwar is only donned after the ceremony. I can’t seem to get away from the fact that I’m not ready for the throne.

  I crisscross the straps of two large saddlebags around my shoulders. Riya does the same, heaving them over her head before mounting her floating skyglider.

  “Ready?” she asks. I fix the curled strap of one of the feisty bags before nodding and punching my feet hard in the ground.

  “Makria!” Riya and I shout. Frostlight petals explode into the air as we jet upward. The sticky grip of humidity loosens as the wind ruffles my blouse. The aroma of frost lingers until Mother’s factory of smells takes over. Years ago, Mother seized the east wing of Belwar Palace and converted it into a pharmacy and patient station. It can smell of anything, from rotting seagull feet to spring flora. As I glide by the roof of my home and Mother’s potion galley, the smell of lemons and fish circles through the air. Not too bad, since everything near the coast smells of fish anyway.

  Already fifteen meters in the air, I can see the line of people amassed outside the palace gates and curved around the corner. A baby wails. The elderly hobble forward. Younger kids anxiously bounce around, sent to fetch my mother’s potions. A bittersweet smile pulls on Riya’s lips as she catches my eye. I know how the lines of people looking for medicine can unwind her. They unwind me too.

  We are flying right over her father. Mr. Burman’s room is near the east wing, close enough to all the potions and pink magic to remind us that he needs my mother’s expertise to keep breathing. She knows how much it destroyed me too. He was my tutor before he became my bodyguard. He taught me how to fly. He taught me how to fight. And nine years ago, after I came back from my visit to Naupure, he’s the one who caught me crying about my Touch. He’s the one who took me aside and said, “A true rani doesn’t have to have magic or a god’s blessing. A true rani just helps the people.”

  He is one of the reasons I am the way I am, that I’m doing what I’m doing when I sneak out at night. He always knew what to say. Sometimes I do too, but today, like most, I’m lost for words for my best friend. We stream upward and eastward in silence.

  Anchored between lush mountains lies the cavernous valley of Belwar, my city and home. As we rise, I can see just how far my country extends to include the smaller villages nestled in the northern mountains and among the rice fields. But the majority of the population that my father and mother protect is here, bustling and moving beneath me and Riya.

  It’s the most diverse place in all of Wickery. Belwar has always been a shipping port calling to travelers and hagglers and foreigners. Then, five years ago, the Southern Bay Monsoon tore through southern Agsa and refugees fled here. Pire Island, right off our coast, was left without the usual shipments of agricultural goods, which sent another wave of asylum-seekers. With Mother being Pire we welcomed them with open arms.

  It would be easy for my country to segregate itself like Moolek does, based on religious tradition and forte color. Or by any other facet along which hatred likes to divide. By skin color like Agsa does, by gender like Pire Island, or by power level like Naupure. We don’t. While we might have a problem with the long perpetuated stigma against Untouched, with half the populace powerless, I’m proud. And I’ll do anything to be a “true rani.”

  Belwar may be small, a pond compared with the lake Maharaja Naupure controls or the ocean of land Maharaja Moolek governs, but it is home. The four villages, denoted in simple geographic terms—north, south, east, west—all splinter outward from Belwar Palace. I live in the center of a compass. Maybe that’s why I so fiercely want to retain my title. Being a Belwar gives me direction and purpose. Without it, what am I, really?

  I gaze westward toward Mount Gandhak, the towering volcano separating my land from Jatin’s. It is a foreboding but dormant landmark of distinction that casts a wide shadow. Was he there already?

  It takes only seven minutes of focused flying to get to Basu’s. Not enough time to clear my head of Jatin or the looming royal ceremony. As we descend into the East Village, I spot Basu’s shop immediately, a stacked, bushy fortress. Basu tumbles out and waves me down, which is quite annoying. Yes, I see you! I want to shout. Riya and I land with only a slight whirlwind of air swooping and swirling around us.

  “I was worried you would be late again,” Basu says, his tone spiked to critical capacity and tinged with impatience. What a wonderful combination.

  I smile. “I wouldn’t miss your charm and warmth, Basu.”

  Riya shakes her head, but to the untrained eye it appears as if she is only shrugging off one of the heavy saddlebags. I haul my own bag over my head, but it tugs in protest. The strap smacks my shoulder and I spin to find a little boy, about seven years old, holding one of the firelights. He reached into the bag and took it.

  “Hey! That doesn’t belong to you!” Basu roars.

  The boy’s eyes widen, clicking between fight or flight. He chooses flight. Thieves always choose flight.

  “Stop him, someone stop him.” Basu bounces into the road, waving his hairy arms to indicate the boy.

  Firelight is three coppers, literally one of the cheapest things in our country—I made sure of that. So why steal? Was the boy that poor? I drop both saddlebags into Basu’s arms. “I’ll get him.”

  “Adraa!” Riya yells.

  “Five minutes, I’ll be back.” I wave in reassurance.

  I have to know.

  “Tvarenni,” I whisper, and send orange magic to my legs to catch up. But the boy is fast like he’s memorized the twists of each alleyway. This might be more challenging than I thought. He ducks into a dark side street where a strand of villagers are washing and dyeing clothing. They yell in protest as the boy blows by sheets billowing out to dry. The path turns into hundreds of steps, pebble encrusted and moss coated. I can still see him, bouncing up, up, up.

  “Hey! Boy! I just want to talk!” I yell. He turns around, jolts, and flies even faster up the stairs. “Zaktirenni!” I shout, shooting energy into my muscles.

  I thump up the stairs and my orange magic brings me within four steps of the thief. I reach out to hook a hand around his arm when, whack, a dusty rug slaps me in the face. A woman leans out the doorway from which she threw the dust-covered thing into the stairwell. “What the—”

  I’m knocked sideways and my lungs knocked into turmoil. Hasn’t my throat already had enough of this today? Coughing and gasping, I watch as the horrified woman pieces together the person-sized object her precious rug has run into. “I’m sorry, Miss….” She begins a trembling bow, but I wave my hands.

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “But—”

  I spot the boy at the top of the staircase, peering down at me. Then he dodges to the left. “Ah no!” I spring forward, taking two steps at a time until I reach the top. And then I’m careening onto my tiptoes as several goats strut past. A bustling town square lies before me, market day in full swing. People in colorful clothing jostle one another. Vendors shout from open stalls. Large, wide bowls of fruit and different-colored spices lie on the ground before kneeling merchants. “Watch it!” The goatherd yells roughly at me for almost colliding with his livestock. This just got harder.

  “Vindati Agni Dipika,” I whisper. Tendrils of red mist unleash fr
om my hands, searching for my own creation, for my firelight. More than intuition forces my head to the left. I catch the boy sneaking around a vegetable stand, hugging the ball of light to his chest. I run forward, tumbling past people who are just standing there. Why is the market this crowded? Why aren’t people ambling around, shopping? They all stand there, frowning, as I swivel among them.

  The boy sees me coming, but I’m already close, within two body lengths. He darts into the open square. Too late I realize why no one is moving, just standing around and staring at the center path. A coach, bright blue, gold trimmed, and pulled by one large elephant, rumbles along the path. The boy glances back at me, not what he is about to run into. Everything slows.

  “Stop!”

  The elephant startles, trumpeting to the clouds. No green magic spells to combat or halt an animal come to mind. “Tvarenni!” I scream. People around me can foresee the tragedy, the bloody mess the boy is about to be turned into. Their gasps and cries drown out my own voice. Some make way for me, dodging to the side to create a clear path for interception. I push past others. Again I scream the speed spell and my body is enfolded in red. “Tvarenni!”

  The elephant jerks skyward. The boy’s hands rise. My firelight gleams, the first thing the elephant will smash. And I pour every ounce of magic I have into my muscles. I must have moved faster than ever before, because somehow I slam into the boy and twist at the same time. The elephant stomps down, an arm’s length from my head. I wince and roll myself and the boy farther to the right.