Shimmer and Burn

by Mary Taranta

“No,” says North. “Corthen had no magical abilities of his own.”

  I sink back, disappointed. Even if Corthen had enough magic to hide our kingdom, that doesn’t explain how it disappeared from atlases printed before the war. Were we hidden by magic even then? If so, how did Corthen find us when no one else can?

  “North,” I start.

  “Miss Locke, I am more than happy to discuss history or politics, but not while you’re perched on the roof like a gargoyle!”

  All at once, the anger from earlier returns, needle sharp and venomous. “Then come up here,” I say, hoping he’ll say yes, that he’ll make that first move so I don’t have to.

  “Humans are meant for the earth, not for the sky.”

  “Farodeen the First says you’re wrong,” I say.

  North finally looks at me, expression unreadable, and my stomach somersaults before tightening in a cramp. All day, I’ve retraced our argument, trying to find fault in his anger, to justify my own. But each iteration yields the same result: I was wrong.

  I roll my apology across my tongue, softening the sharp edges. Small steps, little words. “North—”

  “Don’t fall,” he says, cutting me off. “We’re already half a day behind schedule.”

  My apology melts back down my throat. “And you’re still waiting to get paid.”

  North’s jaw tightens. Giving me one last dark look, he slams his way into the wagon. A moment later, a chair scrapes across the floor and his voice rises, a muted growl in response to Bryn’s softer tones.

  I scowl at the sky but even the single star is gone, swallowed by storm clouds and smoke. I press at one of the discolored bruises on my arm, forcing my vision to clear and my thoughts to focus. In two days, either Bryn will have a treaty or I’ll have my sister. And while Bryn’s a master of manipulation and can play the games needed at court, I grew up in the Brim, where the one who wins is the one still standing at the end.

  And I intend to win.

  Below, North stalks out of the wagon with his crossbow in hand, Darjin at his heels, disappearing into the watchtower. Tobek takes a step after them before faltering. After a moment, he turns for the wagon and Bryn. I wait a beat to ensure she doesn’t chase him out before jumping off the roof and following North.

  It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dim light pouring in from the missing roof overhead. A spiral staircase hugs the wall, and heavy beams crisscross where a second and third floor would have been. I see North, silhouetted against the crenellated wall at the top of the tower, framed through the torch brackets that once held the fires that would be lit to warn Revnik of approaching danger.

  Taking a deep breath, I kick through the thick cover of bracken and debris that litters the floor and make my way upstairs.

  North doesn’t look at me when I reach the top, although Darjin pads over to sniff my hand. His silence is unnerving and I hang back, second-guessing my decision. “Anything out there?” I ask at last.

  He glances over before nodding beyond the wall. A campfire burns in the distance, no bigger than a star. I hug myself, chilled by the icy wind that blows off the lake. “Baedan?”

  Another nod. “She’ll be relying on her slaves for blood, until she can reach the Burn and refill her veins with poison.” He shifts. “We’ll leave the wagon in Revnik and take horses through the pass and on to New Prevast.”

  “You’ll abandon the wagon?”

  He digs the butt of his tiller into the crumbling cement of the wall, raking chips loose. “If Miss Dossel delivers as promised, I won’t need it anymore.”

  I watch him, wishing I knew what to say to smooth the lines in his face and soften the hard edges of his jaw. “I’m sorry.”

  He digs even deeper into the cement. “For what?”

  “For this afternoon. For everything.”

  He pauses before glancing toward me. “I shouldn’t have lost my temper,” he says at last. “It’s a weakness I’m working to conquer.”

  “You had every right to be angry with me. Tobek tried to turn them away but I insisted they come in. I wasn’t thinking. It was selfish of me to risk your life like that, and I’m sorry.”

  Exhaling softly, North gestures to a clutch of broken columns nearby. I dutifully take a seat and he sits across from me, our knees almost touching.

  “I used to think saving the world meant saving the people in it,” he says, setting his crossbow at his feet. “An effect of my education, no doubt, where I was taught to emulate saints and virtues. Like Farodeen: He saw hope when others saw nothing, and an entire world was created. But even virtue turns to sin when taken to extreme. My ambition became greed and my pride became arrogance. I stupidly thought by some . . . divine right, I would be the exception to the rule. But I failed, like everyone before me.”

  “What rule?”

  “That living or dead, for good or for evil, magic is still a parasite. It was never meant for mortals to wield. That was Merlock’s mistake; he offered magic to the people and the people became addicted to easy solutions; guaranteed crops, healthy cattle, everlasting love. Pay the right price and a provost could cast any spell you wanted.” His expression darkens, turns sour. “When Corbin is king, magic will be viewed as the weapon it is, not as a household commodity. Industry will run this kingdom again.”

  I search his hands, reddened skin and swollen knuckles, before my eyes stray back to his face. “Do you ever regret the life you chose?”

  “Some days yes. Most days no. And every now and then, I wish—” He breaks off, shaking his head with a rueful smile as he remembers: I don’t believe in wishes. “There are days when I resent my mother for making the choice for me,” he says, expression guarded as he studies my face. “Days when sacrifice starts to feels selfish.”

  I know how he feels. My mother changed my path irrevocably ten years ago, and I’ve been stumbling along blindly, resenting her for it ever since.

  “But Prince Corbin needs his magic seamstress,” I say softly.

  “I’d like to think he’s not the only one,” North says, just as quietly, still watching me. Then he looks away, pulling Darjin to his leg and scrubbing his flank.

  I duck my head, hands balled into the pockets of my coat to avoid the temptation of touching him, of offering what comfort I can, proof that he’s not alone. I know what it’s like, that need to fight until there’s nothing left, no matter how stacked the odds may seem.

  A rush of adrenaline crashes through me, rubbing every nerve raw. If I’m wrong, North will steal this magic and I’ll be worthless to Bryn, to the prince, to my sister, to myself.

  But if I’m right . . .

  “Prince Corbin’s not the only one who needs you,” I say.

  North looks up, eyebrows drawn.

  “Bryn is going to offer an alliance to Prince Corbin,” I say. “Our kingdom has clean magic, enough that she plans to trade Corbin what he needs to find his father, if he agrees to help her overthrow her own. She intends to be queen, but that won’t come without war.”

  North continues to pet Darjin, his eyes locked on something beyond our feet.

  “I’m the proof,” I say. “The peace treaty. Before we left, I was injected with clean magic—”

  “Injected? There was no transferent?”

  I pause at his surprise. “No. It was done by the king’s executioner.”

  North leans forward with a flash of eager interest. “And it worked?”

  “Yes. Can’t you feel it?”

  “I’m not an intuit,” he says. “At least, not the way Tobek is. The infection’s diluted my ability to separate the magic in my blood from the magic in someone else. I’d have to touch you to know, and you made your stance on that option quite clear.”

  “But if you didn’t know about the magic,” I say slowly, “why did you come after me instead of Bryn that night in the woods?”

  The change in his expression is subtle, the difference between an hour before noon and an hour after. “Because I couldn’t
save you,” he says at last. “And you didn’t need me to.”

  My heart slams against my ribs. A man who’s spent four years searching for a missing king wouldn’t waste time bartering for names from a girl who had any magic to offer instead. It wasn’t that he was playing the coy and mercenary magician that night. It was that he didn’t know, that Tobek hadn’t warned him what I carried hidden beneath my skin.

  He came after me, not the magic.

  North pushes Darjin out of the way and inches even closer. “Miss Locke—”

  “I want to make you an offer,” I say.

  North closes his mouth and sits back. Waiting.

  “I made a mistake four months ago and Cadence suffered for it. She became the king’s property. A slave. Bryn promised me her freedom for coming with her.”

  No reply.

  Blood aching, I wet my lips and lean forward; our knees collide but neither one of us shifts out of the way. “Take the magic I’m carrying,” I say, offering my hand. “And when we get to New Prevast, I’ll speak to Prince Corbin before Bryn does. Perrote stores his magic in the mountains like a touchstone; there’s nothing to stop anyone from stealing it. We can convince Corbin that we can siphon the magic out of the kingdom without ever starting a war. And then we’ll use that magic to find his father and save Avinea.”

  “We?” No mockery, only question.

  I flush, hand falling to my lap. “I don’t want any of it, North. All I want is my sister back and this spell”—I touch my wrist—“removed.” I bite the inside of my cheek and remember the way he looked at me after I killed that golem. The way it felt to be brave again. “But I would help you,” I say. “If you wanted me to.”

  “I already have an apprentice.”

  “That’s not what I mean.”

  “I know.” North stares at me with a strange expression. “You would sacrifice your own king for mine?”

  “I will sacrifice a tyrant. A murderer.”

  “Be careful, Miss Locke.” His voice drops, turns husky. “Magic leaves a mark and love is a magic all its own. As is hate or greed or lust—any feeling that requires any effort. And when left to fester, every single one of those feelings can go sour and destroy you.” He examines his opened hands, rubbing at the swollen joints. “Merlock loved his brother and it made him weak. It made him waver. After he killed Corthen, Merlock’s guilt and regret infected everything he touched until he finally cut himself loose of Prevast and vanished.”

  “Loving my sister does not make me weak.”

  “You’ve already killed one man to save her.”

  “And you will kill your king to save your country. To serve your prince—”

  “I will kill one man to save thousands,” says North. “That’s not love, Miss Locke. That’s duty. Obligation. Love is a weakness, and a weak heart breaks, a broken heart bleeds, and blood can be poisoned.” Sighing, he slides his hands across his knees. “I’m not asking you to be heartless; I’m asking you to be cautious. Your strength could be your greatest weakness if you don’t consider the choices you’re willing to make and the consequences they bring.”

  “That’s my offer,” I say, extending my hand again. It wavers between us. “All the magic you can carry, and in return, you remove this spell and get my sister out of Brindaigel.”

  North stares at my hand, his fingers tightening across his knees. Remorse colors his voice when he says, “I can’t.”

  “It’s three to one,” I say in the awkward pause that follows, forcing a smile to combat the sudden weight in my chest. “Tobek and I can hold Bryn down and you unlace the spell.”

  “I can’t.” He stands, raking a hand through his hair as he paces away from me. “It’s not that simple, Miss Locke. It would take time. More time than we have, and it would take more effort than I can risk with Baedan watching my back.”

  I sit frozen, staring beyond the half-broken wall around us. “So then when we reach New Prevast, when we have more time—”

  He doesn’t answer.

  “North,” I say.

  He presses a hand to the wall, his back to me. “I can’t make that agreement. If Miss Dossel has access to magic—if she has potential resources she’s willing to commit to Avinea, it would be a mistake not to listen.”

  “I’m offering you the exact same thing,” I say. “Only magic without war—”

  “No.” He turns to face me, expression haunted. “Magic is transferred through the bloodline, Miss Locke. By killing her father, Miss Dossel would inherit. And an ally like that . . .” He trails off, guilty.

  He can’t sacrifice the whole to save the few.

  I stare numbly into nothing before, with a blast of nerves, I stand, moving for the stairs. My skin itches, pulled too taut, and the walls close in, too tight to breathe.

  “Miss Locke,” he says.

  “Nothing has changed,” I say sharply. “We go to New Prevast as planned.”

  “I’ll have the spell removed as a stipulation of any agreement—”

  “She’s using my sister as collateral,” I snap. I brandish the bracelet of smoke at him. “I took this oath and I killed that man and you need to know that. You need to know I will do anything—anything—to save Cadence. Bryn is not my priority. Avinea is not my priority. Not until Cadence is safe. And if that makes us enemies—”

  North reaches out, skimming the sleeve of my coat, timid as a monk, before his fingers skate past my wrist, cradling the back of my hand. Swollen knuckles and sandpaper skin awaken an insatiable greed inside me. It’s more than a touch, it’s a confirmation: My heart was not buried with Thaelan four months ago and it aches as it comes alive again.

  “I am not your enemy,” North says softly.

  Neither one of us moves. “You have no resources for war,” I say at last, pleading with him. “Corbin will need an entire army to invade. Perrote’s men all have loyalty spells inked above their hearts, and they will fight—”

  I stop, touching my wrist. Bryn stole this spell from the king’s provost. It’s the same spell given to every soldier in the Guard: forced loyalty to ensure their unquestioned obedience if Perrote ever demanded it. Yet it wasn’t loyalty that Bryn wanted from me. Instead I’m bound to bear her wounds, to be a fail-safe against all threats. Including death.

  “How do you become a king?” I ask.

  “Magic,” he says darkly.

  “I’m being serious.”

  “It’s a bloodspell,” he says. “Corbin will bind his blood to his father’s heart and inherit the magic that runs through it.”

  “But you have to kill the king to inherit the magic?”

  “You have to remove his heart, yes. Why?” He pulls back, eyes clearing. “Miss Locke, what’s wrong?”

  “Perrote can’t be killed,” I say numbly. Any attempt to hurt him will be transposed over a thousand men; a fatal wound will diffuse, turn harmless. If we return with an army, the entire kingdom will be called to defend its king and everyone but Perrote will die.

  Including Cadence.

  How will his son Rowan ever inherit the throne? How will Bryn?

  The skill is in cheating.

  The ground sways beneath me. My legs buckle and I fall to my knees with a crack of pain I feel all the way to my shoulders.

  It’s like reading Thaelan’s secret codes. Turn left, then right, then straight to the answer—a kingdom no one’s heard of, a king who fears death and discovery, not just from those beyond our borders, but from anyone who exhibits a magical ability within the city. Like a transferent who could dismantle his golems and steal his magic, or maybe an intuit, who could trace the spells back to their original source. Perrote isn’t looking for his daughter; he’s looking for me, and not because he’s afraid everyone will learn that Avinea exists.

  Because he doesn’t want anyone to know that Brindaigel does.

  North crouches in front of me, concern etched across his face. “Miss Locke?”

  All these signs, waiting to be acknowledged. />
  Pay attention, Faris.

  “Do you know how we got to Avinea?” I ask, looking up at him. “We walked beneath a mountain.”

  He frowns. “I don’t understand.”

  “She’s not a princess,” I say. “And he’s not a king. Which is why Brindaigel isn’t on any map and why Perrote hasn’t sent any men. He can’t risk anyone seeing an army and tracing it back to him.” I grab his hand, threading my fingers through his. “You said if you touched me, you could read the magic inside me. Whose magic is this?”

  “I can’t read the spell through you. It’s like I said—”

  “Then read the clean magic.”

  “Miss Locke.”

  “Please.” I tighten my fingers through his.

  He swallows hard, staring at our intertwined fingers. Drawing a deep breath, he settles his weight more comfortably, cradling my hand in both of his. A soft, gentle heat bleeds out of his skin, warming mine, but after a moment, his frown deepens.

  “What’s wrong?”

  He shakes his head, bemused. “There’s magic there,” he says, “but I can’t . . .” Shifting, he touches the side of my neck, as if searching for a pulse, before drawing back. “I can’t feel anything specific, it’s like . . . smoke. Shadow.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe the binding spell is too strong, or maybe . . . Are you sure it worked? The injection, I mean?”

  I open my mouth to say yes, only to realize that Alistair injected me while I was drugged. I have no proof he did anything at all except tell me a story so I would have no choice but to accept Bryn’s offer.

  Ice slides down my spine. Was this all a lie to chain me to the princess to ensure her safety until she reached New Prevast and started a war? But what offer could she make Prince Corbin if not proof of magic?

  Bryn doesn’t know.

  “Miss Locke.” North’s hand softens in my own.

  “I have to warn her,” I say, but I don’t get the chance.

  Shadow crows arrive.

  Twenty

  THE CROWS STRIKE WITHOUT AIM, hurling themselves against the walls, the stones, our shoulders. North curves his body over mine as sparks rake across the ground, igniting the dried leaves at our feet.