Shimmer and Burn

by Mary Taranta

  I force myself to look at her. “I killed a man for you. What more do you want?”

  Sighing, Bryn sinks onto the edge of my bunk. In the dim stove light, all her hard edges soften. “I’m not your enemy,” she says, plaintive. “We have the same end goal, Faris. Fighting won’t help either of us.”

  I sit up, drawing my legs to my chest. “You wanted a fighter,” I remind her.

  “We could try to be friends.”

  I bite the inside of my cheek, inwardly snorting. Like Alistair Pembrough, friend is the last word I would ever bestow upon Bryn.

  “Preparing an army takes time,” she says, taking my chin in hand, forcing my eyes to her. “War takes even longer. I threaten Cadence but that doesn’t seem to be enough to keep you focused. And I need you to understand how important this is. I need you to understand what your role will be.”

  “I understand completely,” I say. I almost add your majesty, but withhold it; an unacknowledged act of defiance.

  She smiles, relieved. “Good,” she says. Leaning forward, she hugs me, cold in her damp coat. “It’s an honor to be the queen’s protectorate,” she whispers in my ear. “I knew you’d appreciate that.”

  The room blurs beyond her shoulder as I tighten my fists against my stomach, hard enough to hurt but not hard enough to stop the shock from bleeding through me. I’ve heard enough of her conversations to know that distinction is everything, and when she said queen, she meant it.

  She’s never going to let me go. She never intended to.

  “Our agreement was that I carry this magic to New Prevast and you released my sister,” I say, voice cracking.

  “War demands sacrifice.”

  “Alistair would be better suited to protect you.”

  “He’s bound to my father,” says Bryn with a sigh. “Which is why it’s so important that I have you.”

  Goose bumps race down my back as I stare numbly over her shoulder. Will she even release Cadence as a token of good faith? Or will my sister be a constantly dangled reward always hanging just out of reach, tempting me to push one step further and further for her? What kind of monster will she make me?

  Pull the trigger when you’re ready.

  I suffer Bryn’s hug, hoping she can feel the hate that burns through my blood, the warning that I will not stop fighting until my sister and I are both free. But I can’t fight back yet, not while she holds me in her arms and paints a future that depends on my submission. I sacrificed Cadence for the chance to save her four months ago.

  This time I have to sacrifice myself.

  • • •

  I can’t sleep.

  I sit alone at the table later that night, a book open in front of me, the words blurred into illegible nonsense. All I can think of is Bryn’s threat couched in shades of friendship, her arrogance in assuming Corbin will run to her aide on the strength of one spell and a story of a kingdom hidden in the mountains with magic to spare.

  Well, I know the same story Bryn does, so what difference would it make if Corbin heard it from her or from me?

  The skill is in cheating.

  A flutter of hope dances through my stomach. I can’t remove the binding spell, but I carry stolen magic—more valuable than a spell North will have to recycle. Maybe Prince Corbin doesn’t need a crown to convince him to invade Brindaigel; maybe I could make my own bargain. Cadence is tied to the king, but that doesn’t mean someone else couldn’t sever the thread.

  Someone like North.

  The door opens with a rush of cooler air and I start with guilt, as if treason is written across my face. North steps inside, shrugging out of his coat. He hangs it from a hook on the wall before raking back his sleeves, exposing the twin protection spells nestled in the soft skin of his arms. His eyes flick to Bryn, asleep on the top bunk behind me, before they settle on me.

  I realize I’m staring and look away, pulling my book closer, propping my head up in one hand. I pretend not to notice him even as I’m aware of every move he makes as he prepares two cups of tea over the stove. Wordlessly, he sets one in front of me and I shake my head—has he already forgotten I don’t drink tea?—before I realize what it is.

  Hot water.

  A moment later, he sets down a jar of sugar cubes before taking one for himself, setting it on his tongue as he drops into the seat across from me. He looks young. Exhausted. Folded into his chair, in need of a shave, with a permanent crease between his brows.

  I cradle the mug, heart aching with adrenaline, wondering how best to broach the subject of taking Bryn hostage until I can lead Corbin to Brindaigel. Would he listen? Would he agree?

  North nudges through the stack of books pushed to the edge of the table and retrieves my mother’s. Pulling a pencil from his pocket, he takes out the folded map at the back and smoothes it in front of him. Hunching forward, he shades even more of the continent a soft fuzzy gray to mark where the new Burn has begun. When he finishes, he drops the pencil and presses the heels of his hands to his eyes, exhaling softly.

  When he lowers his hands to his mouth a moment later, his eyes land on the three bruises marching from my wrist to my elbow. An eyebrow arches in unspoken question.

  I force a rueful smile and shake my head. Her magic, her servant, her rules.

  But not for much longer.

  Flipping the map over, North begins sketching across the back, his hair falling forward on either side of his forehead. A moment later, he nudges the map toward me.

  A flower, crude but still endearing, to replace the one lost in the woods. Written underneath: SAFE TO EAT (NOT PREFERRED APPLICATION, BUT YOUR CHOICE.)

  My choice. When was the last time anyone offered me a choice that wasn’t a trap?

  Rubbing the back of his neck, North gestures for the map again and I start to pass it back.

  “Faris.”

  I turn to see Bryn watching us from her bunk. Guilt and fear combine like oil in my stomach: How much did she see?

  “Sleep with me tonight,” she says, already shifting to make room.

  She saw enough.

  I quickly stand as North sits back and refolds the map, tucking it back in its book. Avoiding his eyes, I climb into bed beside Bryn, holding myself rigid as she drapes an arm around me, the way I used to hold Cadence to keep away the cold, the nightmares, the disappointment that our father didn’t come home again that night. But Bryn’s arm is not a comfort, it’s another warning.

  I can’t escape if she’s holding me down.

  Eighteen

  NORTH LEAVES AT SUNRISE, RIDING ahead to solicit assistance from Lord Inichi, the self-appointed provost of Revnik. Tobek drives the wagon like death is chasing us, white-knuckling the reins and freezing every time another traveler comes into view. On occasion, he touches his crossbow on the running board beside him, his face as pale as the clouds overhead.

  Bryn sits at the table, playing a game of cards that get knocked askance every time the wagon hits a divot in the road. I sit in the stairwell, my back to the wall, Darjin at my feet. Maps are spread around me as if desperation will somehow result in finding proof of Brindaigel that both North and I missed before. It’s a frustrating endeavor: How can I convince a prince to invade a territory I can’t even point to?

  I tease out the edge of my mother’s map for another glimpse of North’s drawing, exposing the list of my mother’s clients and their measurements on the inside cover of the book in the process. I glance over them on reflex before shoving the drawing back into hiding.

  Wait.

  Darjin flicks his tail in annoyance as I sit up, finding the map North took from the farmhouse, breathlessly looking from book to map and back again.

  Not measurements, I realize with a lurch, my fingers tracing the grid lines intersecting Avinea.

  Coordinates.

  Heart pounding, I track each name, the coordinates lining up with a list of villages and cities spread across the continent. Avarin. Nevik. Winchek, Dunck, Stantil—

  Gorstelt. N
ew Prevast.

  I sink back, numb. These aren’t clients, they’re contacts. People my mother knew, either from Brindaigel, or—

  Had she been to Avinea before?

  Eagerly, I flip through the book, searching for hints or clues or confessions written in the margins to prove my theory. Alistair gave me this book for a reason, I tell myself. If he knew my mother, maybe he knew what these coordinates meant.

  Nothing.

  I search again before I toss the book aside, closing my eyes with a growl of frustration. Why is everything about my mother shrouded in so much mystery? Why couldn’t she just be my mother, instead of a villain or a hero or whatever she was?

  What was she?

  My father rarely ever talked about her, and I rarely ever asked. Only Thaelan heard my wild speculations over who she might have been to do what she did, but it was after a bottle of barleywine and a bad day, when my anger needed an outlet and she was an easy target. In truth, I know nothing about my mother. She could be anything. Anyone.

  Even a fighter who stole magic from the king and then played him for a fool. Is that someone who would cut her daughter’s heart out?

  Bryn swears as Tobek hits another dip in the road. I open my eyes as she throws her cards down in disgust. “I hate this place.”

  I glance through the half-open door. The city of Revnik lies ahead, barely more than a smudge of ink at this distance. “I think it’s beautiful,” I say, gathering the maps into a pile. Maybe I can track the names in New Prevast after speaking with the prince; maybe someone knows more about my mother than I do.

  “It’s too big,” Bryn says, pushing away from the table with a scowl. “It makes Brindaigel feel small.”

  “Brindaigel is small.”

  “Too small.” She rocks her head back to the ceiling, pressing her hands to her eyes. “My father is the king of nothing.”

  So what does that make her?

  Sighing, Bryn drops her arms, slumping back in her chair. She looks around the wagon before her eyes settle on Tobek outside.

  “Do you think magicians take a vow of chastity?” she asks.

  I frown. “Unmarried princesses do.”

  “It’s like he’s never seen breasts before.” Her fingers tent on the edge of the table. “He stares at them like they’re made of gold.”

  “He’s thirteen years old,” I say stiffly. “They’re better than gold.”

  “I like that he stares,” says Bryn. Her lips curl in a smug, self-satisfied way. “In Brindaigel, men looked because my father had power. But Tobek looks because I have power. He gave it to me and I never even asked for it.”

  I stare at her. “Don’t hurt him.”

  She snorts. “I only hurt people when I have to,” she says. “You know that by now. Cruelty is useless when it’s applied without mercy.” Standing, she steps over me and swings the bottom half of the door open, nudging Tobek aside so she can sit beside him.

  “Miss Dossel,” he says, surprised. Pleased. He glances from her to the road and back again, drinking her in.

  “I want to know my future,” she says, tucking her skirts beneath her legs, letting her knee knock into his.

  He snorts. “Your future is obvious.”

  “You think so?”

  “And you don’t? Fate’s so brightly scorched in your veins you practically glow.”

  Bryn smiles and tosses back her hair. It gleams in the sunlight. “Tell me anyway,” she says, leaning forward, both knees against his leg now. “I want to hear it from an expert.”

  “Costs you a copper,” he says with a teasing smile, taking the bait.

  Bryn holds her hand toward Tobek, biting back a grin of her own. “I haven’t got any copper, but my word is gold, if you trust me to keep it.”

  “Gold is gold and all else irrelevant.” Sobering, he says, “You know it’s just a trick, Miss Dossel. It’s like cards; the skill is in cheating. Any intuit can see the course your blood will run. Only the good ones can make it sound prophetic.”

  “So are you a good one?” she asks.

  Tobek hesitates, wetting his lips before he weights the reins beneath his boot and takes her hand in his, touching the cup of her wrist with a hesitant reverence. Bryn tips forward even further, lips parted in breathless anticipation as his touch grows bolder, skimming over her palm. When he speaks, his voice is low and husky—a showman with a flair for the dramatic. “You will be queen.”

  “Good,” says Bryn, flashing a triumphant look to me just as a dark figure darts into the road ahead of us. The horse rears, pulling the wagon hard to the right, dangerously close to the edge where the ground begins to slope toward a green-glass lake. Books and rocks fly off the shelves behind me as Tobek swears, correcting the horse. The front wheel hits the berm and slides back to the left. Pulling hard on the reins, he drags the wagon to a halt before standing, turning toward the figure in the road behind us.

  “What is wrong with you!?” he shouts, visibly shaken.

  A man lurches into view, a little girl cradled to his chest. Fear lines his face; gray colors his otherwise russet beard. “I’m sorry,” he croaks, holding a hand out in peace. “I—I’m looking for North. Is this his wagon?”

  Tobek exhales, rubbing his forehead. “He’s not here.”

  “But he’ll return?”

  The little girl shifts, peeking out from the safety of her father’s neck. She’s tiny, underfed, with big brown eyes and a sad, drooping mouth. Dark lines of poison carve patterns over her face, delicate as lace.

  “What happened to her?” I ask softly.

  “Berries,” the man says, his own eyes glassy with exhaustion. “We didn’t know. She ate blackberries from the woods, too close to the river.”

  “I’m sorry,” says Tobek, “we’re not for hire. There are transferents who circle the outer cities every month or so—”

  “They’re thieves. Liars.” The man’s voice cracks. “Please, we’ve ridden four days to find North. I’ve heard rumors that maybe he could . . . ?” He trails off, too hopeful to voice the impossible.

  “Why don’t you just read her future?” Bryn suggests, straightening her skirts and pushing past me, back into the wagon.

  “I’m sorry,” says Tobek, strained. “You put your faith in stories and that’s all they are. North can’t help you and neither can I.”

  The man blinks back tears. “But if he would just look at her—”

  “I’m sorry.” Tobek shakes out the reins and settles back in his seat, staring ahead, waiting for the man to move out of the way.

  “I have money,” the man says.

  “Tobek,” I whisper. I know this man, I know his story: the people of the Brim who believed money would solve any problem because money was all they lacked.

  It’s my story too. Fifty gold kronets and here I am.

  Sighing, Tobek rubs the top of his head. “Look,” he says, “there’s a man in Revnik, Gabbistiano. Tell him North’s apprentice sent you and he’ll see her immediately. I’ll bring you the address, just—that’s all I can do and even that is a favor I’m not supposed to take on my own.”

  The man sags back, shriveling like earth without moisture. “Thank you,” he manages. Tobek doesn’t answer, pushing his way inside.

  “Iron,” I say in the awkward silence he leaves behind.

  The man looks up from stroking his daughter’s hair, eyebrows raised in question.

  “It might dull the symptoms,” I say. “It’s supposed to dull the pain, at least until you reach Revnik.”

  “Iron,” the man repeats, brighter than before. “Are you an apprentice as well?”

  The idea thrills down my back. After ensuring the road is empty in both directions, I jump down, touching the little girl’s forehead with the back of my hand. “What’s your name?” I ask.

  She mouths it more than speaks. Sava.

  “Sava,” I repeat. “Where does it hurt the most?”

  Sava stares up at her father, who gives a slight nod
of encouragement, before she touches her arm, above the elbow.

  “May I?” I reach for her sleeve.

  “Miss, I wouldn’t—”

  Mother of a sainted virgin.

  The scratch is deceptively shallow, no deeper than those I’d incurred on my own as a child, running through the thickets along the edge of the shallows. But the skin around the wound is festering, necrotic layers of blue and gray that have started to peel away to the raw pink tissue underneath. The infection is eating through her body, searching for her heart. She’ll turn hellborne if we don’t stop it.

  Or she’ll die.

  Tobek returns with the address, leaning over the horse and avoiding the man’s eyes. “Here.”

  “Wait,” I say, fingers tightening in Sava’s hair.

  Tobek shakes his head. “Faris—”

  “North could help her,” I say, low and urgent. Begging. “The way he helped you.”

  “Faris,” he repeats. This is none of my business, he seems to say; shut up before your broken heart breaks everything. “Go to Revnik,” he tells the man. “That’s the only chance you have.”

  “Bring her inside,” I say.

  The man doesn’t hesitate. He practically throws Sava into the wagon and climbs in after her. Bryn groans from where she lays across her bed, covering her face with a pillow, but I clear the table and direct Sava to sit on top, her feet dangling above the floor. My pulse races ahead of me as I rummage through drawers of herbs and stones and birch twigs bundled with thread. Dried yarrow hangs above our heads and I pull it down, dampening it with water from the samovar. Simple, basic steps, executed with far more conviction than I feel because I don’t know what I’m doing and Tobek is too busy panicking behind me to offer any help.

  “How old are you, Sava?” I ask, pressing dampened yarrow leaves against her arm as she hugs her father’s waist for comfort. Reaching for a roll of bandages, I begin wrapping the herbs in place.

  “Ten,” she says.

  “What are you doing?”

  I straighten. North fills the doorway, a bag slung over one shoulder. Dust from the road dulls the blue of his ruined coat to the color of winter skies. His eyes are nothing but summer thunderstorms, however, as they flick through the wagon, glancing off me before they settle on Tobek, demanding an answer.