The Memory of Fire

by Callie Bates

  Lathiel’s gaze lifts to mine, reluctant. Resentful. “Why are you here?”

  I don’t know why I thought he might be glad to see me. I have the feeling I need to catch my breath.

  “Oh,” I say, “you know. Making sure you and Rayka didn’t burn the place down after I left.”

  His eyes narrow, as if I’m quite mad. No doubt Father and Madiya have fed him a diet starved of humor. But I shift, uncomfortable. Maybe I’ve just proved my inadequacy. I can’t ask him what I really want to know: if he’s suffocating here, what Madiya has done to him, how Father has tormented him. I can’t put words around it.

  And now I find myself saying, unable to corral my sarcasm, “When did Madiya make friends?”

  A shrug. Clearly being around Father has rubbed off on him.

  “And you don’t know where she is,” I say, in a more temperate tone. “Rayka never came back.”

  He just blinks at me, owlish.

  I study him. I recognize the sallowness of his skin. The faint tremor in his hands, the hollows around his eyes. I feel sick. “Is Father still giving you laudanum, with her gone?”

  “No.” So much disdain, forced into one word. He’s angry at me, clearly. But also, maybe just a bit, angry at the entire world. And also afraid of it.

  I rub my forehead. Father probably doesn’t even notice anything’s wrong. I don’t need to be a physician to know he’s like me, like Rayka. When I take him from here, away from the opium, he’ll fall apart.

  Guilt chokes me. I left him here to turn into this. Why the hell didn’t I grab him the night I ran away? Why didn’t I sneak into his bedroom and haul him out, whether or not he screamed?

  Because he loved Madiya with a child’s blindness. He didn’t want to leave her. He would have summoned her, and I would never have been able to get him, or myself, away. I would never have made it to Aunt Cyra’s, never have eventually been able to get Rayka out. I wouldn’t be standing here, like this, now.

  But that doesn’t excuse me. It doesn’t make this better.

  “Look,” I say, “let’s go get your things. Don’t worry about Father; I’ll take care of him. I’m getting you on a ship to Eren. I have an errand to run in Ida, but I’ll be back as soon as I can, and Elanna—”

  “You’re going to Ida?” There’s a jittery hope in his eyes.

  I hesitate. Ida’s not safe, but the gods know it’s safer than here. I would be able to keep an eye on him, then. Look after him as the tremors and cravings get worse. Keep him away from Madiya. “Of course. My ship is in the harbor. The Celeritas. I’ll take you with me, wherever you want to go.”

  “Oh.” He twists his fingers together. Another question bursts out of him, high and breathless. Scared. “Do you know how to kill a man without touching him?”

  This isn’t the question I expected. Slowly, I say, “Why would you want to do that?”

  He just stares at me. It’s damned unnerving.

  “Lathiel,” I begin, “if you want—”

  A thud sounds elsewhere in the house. We both go still. There’s a clatter, like a bell. My pulse thunders into my ears.

  Lathiel bolts from the bedroom. I leap onto my feet, following before I can even think. He’s forgotten to be invisible. He races for the foyer, straight for the ringing bells and the distant, fuzzy hum of witch stones.

  I forgot about the witch hunters in the harbor. They must really be here for me. For us.

  There are two of them, standing on the worn carpet. Kemal is there, making apologetic gestures with his hands. But the witch hunters look right past him, to Lathiel. To me.

  “Jahan Korakides?” one of them says, his tone doubtful. He’s short and wiry, with a peremptory curl to his lip.

  I can’t seem to get my mouth to work. My whole body feels numb. Witch hunters came here once before, when I was ten, the day we ran to the cave. They left a scar behind my ear and a deep, aching grief I can’t put words to.

  The stairs squeak: Father appears, a book tucked under his arm. He stares down at the witch hunters, then at me. Accusatory. As if perhaps, single-handedly, I’ve brought them here.

  “I am Inquisitor Quentin, sent here in the emperor’s name!” the short witch hunter declares, as if our attention has been taken from him for too long. “You will cooperate with me and Inquisitor Faverus! Are you Jahan Korakides?”

  I clear my throat. “Guilty as charged.”

  Both witch hunters stare. They obviously don’t recognize me. I seem to have forgotten to shave, and I’m still wearing an Ereni coat of tightly woven tweed. Then again, I’ve never had the pleasure of their acquaintance before.

  “Since you seem concerned,” I say, “here’s my seal ring.” I hold out my hand so they can admire the flying raven. Mantius’s symbol.

  Inquisitor Quentin glances up at Father and murmurs to his tall, broad-shouldered companion—Faverus, apparently. He’s going to say they’ve been looking at their records. I know it in my bones. They’ve realized a witch hunter once disappeared here. They’re here to investigate a murder, eleven years old.

  “Lord Jahan,” Quentin says, “you brought a ship from Eren to the docks. All ships from Eren must be searched and quarantined while we examine them for sorcery, and yours is no exception.”

  I seem to fall back into my body. Of course this isn’t about whatever happened when I was a child. This is about Elanna—and, if I’m spectacularly unlucky, about the witch hunters I attacked in Eren a few days ago.

  “I’m sure that’s not necessary,” I say with a smile I don’t feel. “It’s not as if we’re smuggling sorcerers into the empire; that would be quite foolish. I’ve returned to Paladis to negotiate an alliance with Eren…” I dig in my pocket for Sophy’s papers. Behind me, Lathiel is peering wide-eyed at the witch hunters. He seems too frightened to make himself invisible. I want to pass him some reassurance, but anything I say will be hollow.

  The witch hunters look at each other. Faverus says, doubtful, to Quentin, “Isn’t he a subject of His Imperial Majesty?”

  “I represent Queen Sophy’s and Caveadear Elanna’s interests as well as Emperor Alakaseus’s,” I say genially, pretending they were talking to me. “I don’t believe the two to be mutually exclusive.”

  Now everyone seems to be staring at me, my father included. Maybe I’ve made a mistake.

  Quentin clears his throat. “There is also a warrant for your arrest.”

  I’m so shocked I laugh. “My arrest? I’m no criminal!”

  The witch hunters exchange a glance, obviously uneasy, though I’m not sure why. Perhaps it’s my reputation; they’re nervous about arresting Prince Leontius’s dear friend. “We’ve been dispatched to bring you back to Ida with us. You’re charged with aiding and abetting the Witch of Eren,” Quentin says. “And your brother Rayka Korakides evaded an attempt by our people to examine him for sorcery.”

  Rayka. The fool. I should never have left him alone in Aexione. This must be why he fled the Akademia.

  Leaning down from his height, Faverus murmurs to Quentin, just loud enough for me to hear, “Perhaps we should search the house, too, and the father and the boy.”

  I draw in a breath. My legs seem numb. I could let them search the house. It’s the opportunity I’ve always wanted, presented in the most unexpected way: Father and Madiya stopped. They’ll find his library full of magical works, and the punishment will be an exorbitant fine, at the very least. He’ll be left destitute.

  But if the witch hunters discover Lathiel or I have used sorcery…

  I glance back at my brother. He’s trembling visibly.

  If it were just my father receiving his comeuppance at last, perhaps I could leave him to it. But I can’t let this happen to my little brother.

  My little brother, who just asked me if I know how to kill a man. More than anything, I can’t ri
sk him murdering a witch hunter on our doorstep.

  Which means I have to submit to them. Let them take me to prison, or wherever it is I’m going. And once again, I can’t take him with me. I want to sink into the floor. How completely I’ve failed him, again.

  But I plaster on my most charming smile and hold up my wrists. “That won’t be necessary, gentlemen. I have nothing to hide! I surrender fully to His Imperial Majesty’s will. Lock me in irons if you must and take me back to Ida. We’ll get this all sorted out quickly, I’m quite certain.”

  Lathiel quivers at my back, silent, but my sudden acquiescence confuses them. “Just come with us,” Quentin says.

  “With pleasure,” I lie. But maybe there is still a way to save Lathiel, if we are both bold enough to take the chance. If he will even take the hint. I firm up my voice, making the words almost a command. “Don’t forget to tell the Celeritas that they must sail to Ida without me. And send any possessions I left aboard to my aunt.” My father frowns at the words. He’s always despised Aunt Cyra—and feared her revealing our secrets to the world. But perhaps Lathiel doesn’t share his distrust. “How long do you expect the ship to be delayed?”

  “Depends on what we find aboard, sir,” Quentin says, with a sharp look.

  I force my airiest smile. “I assure you, there was nothing on board from Eren save me and some bottles of whiskey. Though there are a few more…fashionable coats I’d be loath to lose.”

  I gesture to my uncivilized attire, and Inquisitor Quentin relents—fractionally. “Then no more than a day,” he says.

  “Thank you.”

  I follow them outside, glancing back just once at my father and youngest brother. Father has already turned his back on us, hurrying away up the steps, no doubt to safeguard his library. But Lathiel remains, his eyes wide and frightened. He takes a hesitant step toward me. I manage to nod at him before the door slams in my face. I can only hope he understands the plan I’m offering him.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Despite the witch hunters’ claim that I will remain unharmed, I can’t stop shaking as I’m bundled into a coach and taken back to the wharves. I keep thinking about Lathiel’s wide eyes, and how my father’s first concern was for his damned books. I can only hope that my brother will follow my advice. And that we both won’t live to regret it. He’s only twelve, and I’ve just ordered him, alone, to follow me to the largest city in the world…

  The coach is close and hot. Prim Quentin seems mostly annoyed that I haven’t followed protocol, while large Faverus eyes me with something between awe and wariness. Sweat pools under my arms. The bells on their uniforms clink softly, but my mind is still my own.

  Except for Madiya whispering into my head, Jahan. I wince.

  “Aren’t you planning to examine me?” I ask to distract myself. “I might be a wicked sorcerer, after all.”

  Faverus looks alarmed, while Quentin sniffs. “The warrant says you’re to be examined by Grand Inquisitor Doukas.”

  I flinch and try to cover it by scratching my head. They’re saving me for the grand inquisitor himself? “Business must be slow these days. Doesn’t he have anything better to do?”

  Quentin just sniffs, and Faverus stares at me and then away. They’re not exactly forthcoming, but at least neither of them has mentioned that I fired a musket at some of their fellow witch hunters. Word must not have reached them yet.

  No irons appear at the wharves. The witch hunters bundle me onto their brig. The last thing I see before the witch hunters prod me belowdecks and stuff me into a solitary cabin is a swarm of their fellows boarding the Celeritas. A latch clanks on the door, but they still haven’t shackled me.

  I pace the small confines. Am I a prisoner, or a disgraced lord headed for a scolding? The comfortable cabin suggests the latter: There’s a narrow bunk, a desk, a window. Nothing to keep me here except the locked door.

  And a bell. I startle as it clanks. It hangs from the doorframe by a leather rope. A witch hunter’s bell.

  I back away so fast my legs hit the bunk and I stumble. I rip off my neckcloth, ready to stuff it around the damned clapper, when I realize I’m being a fool. If I silence the bell, they will believe I’m a sorcerer.

  It’s annoying, I decide, not disturbing.

  I stretch out on the bunk. All I can see now is my father and Lathiel. Where in the gods’ names is Madiya? She’s still hounding me: Jahan, Jahan. And Rayka—what’s become of him?

  And what am I headed toward in Ida?

  By nine o’clock, long after a tray of dinner arrived and was taken away, I’m so restless I could eat my shoes. Instead I climb up on the desk and wedge a candle between myself and the window. I listen hard, but I don’t hear anything from the cabins on either side. I tug on my own energy to muffle the walls with quiet. Only, every time the bell clanks, it rips through my sorcery as if it could puncture it. And I have no idea whether the witch hunters can somehow detect magic being used.

  I’ll have to be fast, or I’ll get caught, not to mention drained. I put my hand to the cool window glass and conjure Elanna’s face in my mind’s eye. I whisper her name. When I open my eyes, her dim image wavers in the glass. But even the poor quality can’t hide the intensity of her gaze. I feel myself smiling. I murmur, “Hello, there.”

  Did you find out she’s only a woman? El says.

  I wince. “I still remember the taste of your lips, don’t fear.”

  She rolls her eyes. What happened, Jahan?

  “She wasn’t there. Neither was Rayka.” I pause. “Some witch hunters found me. Or rather, they were alerted to the presence of the Celeritas, and the captain directed them to me. So much for loyalty.”

  But you’re not in chains, El says.

  “No.” I decide not to mention I’m due for a heart-to-heart with the grand inquisitor. El has enough to worry about. “Where are you?”

  North, near Tavistock. The Tinani have been concentrating their regiments here. She pauses. Sophy thinks I need to make a show of force.

  By which she means, of course, magic. “Will it…be enough?” Or will it leave her exhausted and drained, and still not terrify the Tinani into backing down?

  She rubs her eyes. It will have to be.

  Behind me, the bell clanks. I startle. I realize the warm protection of my muffling magic has dissipated, just as a knock rattles the door. “Who are you talking to in there?”

  “Myself!” I shout back. “I’m a very lively conversationalist!”

  “Well, keep it down.”

  The speaker moves away and I remember to breathe. Damn. The bell really does rip apart my sorcery, even if it leaves my mind intact. I’ve grown too complacent in Eren and Caeris. I’ll have to be more careful.

  I turn back to Elanna, ready to make my excuses, but her image has already vanished. Only my own face looks back at me, smeared and broken by the glass and the darkened sea.

  * * *

  —

  QUENTIN AND FAVERUS unlock my door two days later. Two days of sweltering in my cramped cabin; two days not daring to converse with Elanna; two days of endless waiting that dulls my mind and senses.

  “We’ve arrived,” Quentin says, without ceremony. He gestures me forward, then sniffs the air with some disgust. They permitted me to shave this morning—under observation—but it’s been days since I had anything like a bath.

  “It’s a new scent,” I say. “The perfumers will call it Friends of Eren.”

  They herd me onto the upper deck. Sunlight glitters off the water, dazzling me. We’ve already sailed into the Desporos Strait, where the water narrows between the Middle and Inner seas. We’re almost to Ida. I lean against the rail, trying to appear casual, though my heart lurches. Now that I’m here, staring at the snow-crowned bulk of Mount Angelos looming over the city, I feel completely unprepared. I’m still wearing Caerisian tweed,
for pity’s sake. I’ve been locked in a cabin for two days; my mind and body are both sluggish. And I’ve been arrested by witch hunters. Will the grand inquisitor see through Madiya’s immunity?

  Beneath the mountain, the sun winks off golden domes and gilded spires, gleaming white walls and the glow of white sails on black ships, the great cracked dome of the temple on the top of Solivetos Hill. Ida, the shining city. Even after everything, even with two witch hunters at either shoulder, when I see it I think home. I watch the shore approach, pretending I don’t feel this strange surge of hope and fear. Our ship angles among merchant vessels, fishing boats, and pleasure barges. Faverus and Quentin mutter to each other. Ahead, a sheer promontory rises over the water, crowned by the craggy bulk of the Old Palace. I wait for us to maneuver to Vileia Harbor, though I look much too disreputable for its aristocratic patrons, or east to the mercantile Golden Harbor. Or even, most likely, Naval Harbor, a suitable place for a disgraced nobleman to disembark.

  But we keep on sailing toward the Old Palace. Soon we’ll pass through the breakwater that surrounds it, into the deep azure water beneath the crag.

  “Imperial Harbor?” I say at last. “You honor me, gentlemen.”

  The witch hunters exchange a glance. Quentin clears his throat. Neither of them says anything.

  Not an honor, then. Tension creeps into my shoulders. Of all Ida’s ports, the Imperial Harbor is reserved exclusively for use by the imperial family and their closest associates. I’ve sailed into it many times—at Leontius’s side. But I know in my gut that the crown prince isn’t waiting for me on the pier. Instead my welcome will be witch hunters and the imperial guard. This is by far the most heavily guarded harbor in Ida, and sailing into it is not the privilege it appears, despite the excited murmurs that spread through the ship. “Maybe we’ll see the empress!” one of the younger sailors exclaims, loud enough to be heard on the quarterdeck. “Out on her pleasure barge, with all her ladies, taking in the sun! I’d love to see the Idaean Rose!”