Circle of Fire

by Michelle Zink

  But I didn’t trust him. I didn’t trust his love.

  Dimitri, his voice a murmur in my ear, speaks to my hesitation. “I love you, Lia. We don’t speak of it often, but know it now. Know it, and tell me your fears so that I can rid you of them.”

  I take a deep breath, inhaling the scent of him. It is the scent of Altus. Of the most beautiful of all the Otherworlds. Of my past and future. It gives me the strength to look into his eyes and tell him.

  I tell him of my nightmares. Of their increasing frequency. Of my inability to forgive Sonia—to find one shred of love for her in the aftermath of her betrayal. Of the decreasing heat and strength of Aunt Abigail’s adder stone. I tell him of Alice’s visit to Milthorpe Manor. Of her assertion that we are not so different.

  And then I speak of my biggest fear of all: the belief that Alice is right and it is only a matter of time before the prophecy turns me against all that I hold dear.

  13

  “Did you sleep well?”

  Dimitri’s voice is clouded with tiredness as he kisses the top of my head.

  “As well as possible,” I tell him, burrowing farther under the blankets and enjoying the moment of quiet before we will have to pack up camp and spend the day riding yet again.

  He says nothing but pulls me closer to him in understanding.

  I am still surprised by Dimitri’s reaction to my confession. I’m not sure what I expected. That he would despise me? That he would not look upon me with the same admiration?

  I don’t know. But in the four days that have passed since the night I told him everything, I have searched his face for signs of suspicion or repulsion. Yet even in the moments when his thoughts have been elsewhere, I have found nothing but devotion in his eyes.

  I feel both liberation and sadness when I realize that it would not have been the same with James. Finally, there is no room for regret. James would not have believed me then as he does not believe me now.

  All there is to do now is to save him.

  And to save him—and the world as I know it—I must stop Alice and the Souls.

  Dimitri and I do not speak as we pack the camp and eat a quick breakfast before resuming our travel. Our meals on this journey are considerably simpler than they were on the way to Altus. With only the two of us to consider and the need to pack light, we subsist largely on cheese, bread, apples brought from London, and the occasional small animal one of us is able to hunt with my bow.

  Five days into the journey, we are more than halfway to the water that will take us to Ireland. The landscape changes by the day as we move away from Southern England. Rolling hills and farmland have given way to scrubby, barren moors. They are an apt reflection of my increasingly dark mood, and I find myself staring at the bleak landscape and thinking of my sister. It is true that our relationship has always been woven with complex thread—laced with love, fear, awe, and, yes, even hatred. But as I think of Alice now, I am filled with an unsettling anxiety. It is too vague to place, but it grows by the hour. By the time we make camp and finish dinner, I am certain something is wrong.

  I should not be concerned for Alice’s welfare, but it seems everything that happens to Alice somehow happens to me as well. We are as intertwined as ever, whether I wish it or not. Our fates have lasting implications for the prophecy and all who are held hostage by it. The worry nags at me as I prepare for bed and kiss Dimitri good night. I fall quickly into sleep, and am unsurprised when my spirit being rises into the night sky of the Plane.

  I can hardly remember a time when traveling was unfamiliar, yet I feel a thread of foreboding as I realize that I am being summoned by my sister. The wiser part of me realizes that I should deny the call and make my way back to my slumbering body with haste. But even as I think it, I know I will not. My earlier unease will not allow me to hide from a potential explanation, and I fly above the ground, the dark fields passing below me in a blur as I make my way back through the landscape of the Midlands and into Southern England.

  I see London long before I reach it. Smoke, visible even against the night sky, hovers like a great monster over the city. Yet, locating Alice is instinctual. Even now, my soul gravitates to hers until I find myself approaching the hotel where I met James two weeks ago. The facade of the building is imposing in the night sky, but I float through it without effort, touching my feet with relief to the thickly carpeted floor. I feel Alice’s presence like a tug of absent memory and drift through the doorway to the grand bedchamber beyond.

  A fire blazes in the firebox, casting a flickering orange light over the room. I cannot feel the heat of the flames in my spirit body, but I sense their energy and know the room must be warm. Scanning the shadows, it takes me a moment to place my sister, but I finally spot her slight figure in the shadows cast by the canopy of a thickly blanketed bed. Even from my vantage point near the door, I see her shoulders shaking, her body wracked with sobs.

  The sight alarms me, for I cannot think of a time when I have seen Alice cry. Not when our mother died after flinging herself from the cliff over the lake at Birchwood. Not when Father’s body was found, his face frozen in a silent scream. Not when we laid Henry’s small, broken body to rest in the cold ground surrounding Birchwood Manor.

  I am drawn to her—this shattered Alice, this more human version of my sister—even as I am shocked to discover myself in the physical world. It is possible, of course, to cross the veil between the worlds so that one might be seen when traveling. Alice has proven it can be done, even in violation of the Grigori and their ageless rules. I could do it, too, if I wished it. I have become powerful enough.

  But it is a burden I do not want. Had she lived, my mother would have had to answer to the Grigori’s council for her use of forbidden magic. Alice, tutored by the Souls in the use of their dark powers, has only added to the cloud of suspicion surrounding our family name. Should I survive to take my place as Lady of Altus, it will be difficult enough to earn the trust of the Sisters. It would be foolish to violate the laws of the Grigori now. And while I admit to being curious, I do not wish to force a confrontation with Alice. There is nothing to be gained. I want only to discover the cause for my disquiet and am grateful that I was summoned here through no intention of my own.

  I approach her carefully, stopping a couple of feet from the bed. She is curled up on her side, her face hidden by one arm thrown over her head. The position brings with it a flash of memory, and I see Alice at six years old, after our mother’s funeral, lying on the bed, her arm draped across her face in exactly this manner, but without the tears.

  Bending down, I peer more closely at her, tuning my ears as I catch the hint of words hidden in her sobs. At first I think I am imagining it, but a moment later I hear them again and have to restrain myself from shouting for her to repeat them.

  Her hair, shimmering chestnut in the light of the fire, has fallen over her face. My hand lifts without thought, the urge to push it back from her brow nearly overpowering me.

  And then, all at once, her words become clearer and I understand what she is saying.

  “He doesn’t love me. Will never love me.”

  I stop my outstretched hand a few inches from her face as she goes on, her body wracked with fresh sobs at the sound of her own words.

  “I will never be… enough.” Her voice is broken. Despair leaks from every word. “It will always be you.”

  I am surprised to feel the sting of tears at my eyes. I blink them away, feeling disloyal to Henry. If I must take responsibility for my part in where we now find ourselves, so must Alice.

  Her crying slows in the moment before she moves her arm, giving me a clear glimpse of her face, moist with tears. She seems to gaze directly at me, though there is not enough light to reflect the green of her eyes. They are black as ebony in the dim glow of the fire.

  I peer closely at her, watching her lips move with whispered words. I lean in a little closer, trying to make them out. When I do, when I hear them at last, I pull back with
a start.

  “It is all your doing. He will never love another, least of all me.”

  I swallow my fear, for even now, as she lies before me seemingly broken, I fear her. I tell myself that she cannot see me, but then she speaks again, her eyes meeting mine. I feel suddenly trapped in a very strange and dangerous dream.

  “I see you.” Her voice is a twisted singsong breaking the near silence, and I am reminded of the little girl who first gave me the medallion. “I know you rejoice in my suffering, Lia, but remember this: If James will not be mine, then I truly have nothing left to lose.”

  14

  The waterfront is not as I imagined it, but I am too tired to care. Nine days on horseback coupled with eight cold, dream-riddled nights have left me on the verge of exhaustion. By the time we pass the horses off to the men hired ahead of the journey, I am anxious for a change of scenery and eager to board the boat that will take us to Ireland. I kiss Sargent’s nose, patting his smooth flank one last time, and take Dimitri’s hand.

  “We’re supposed to meet our guide near the wharf,” he says, leading me around the rubbish, dead fish, and street urchins that populate the streets near the water.

  The stench is overpowering, but I do my best to appear unfazed. Not everyone lives in the luxury of Milthorpe Manor. Still, the rough-looking men glance at me with something like hunger, and I cannot help but worry for our safety. I clutch the strap of my satchel more tightly, finding comfort in the proximity of my bow and dagger.

  I look up at Dimitri as we walk. “But how will we know our guide?” I lower my voice. “How can we be certain he’s not one of the Souls? It would be an easy matter to hide behind the guise of any of these men.”

  Dimitri’s smile is sly. “Trust me.”

  I sigh as a small boy no older than six years of age approaches, his hand outstretched. “Anything to spare, Miss?”

  His cheeks are sunken and his clothes hang about him in tatters, but his eyes are bright. Reaching into my pocket, I hand him a piece of dried meat left over from lunch. I expect his hand to be grimy, but it is smooth and dry.

  “Thanks be to you, Miss!”

  I watch him scamper away, thinking of Henry. For all his privilege in many things, fate dealt him a blow in making him my brother. I am not surprised to feel my heart grow heavy. Henry’s death is a loss that never dims.

  “You miss him.” Dimitri’s voice pulls my thoughts from Henry.

  I meet his eyes. “How did you know?”

  He squeezes my hand, his voice low. “I simply do.”

  I look away from the tenderness in his eyes and take the opportunity to scan the pier upon which we now stand. It is old and worn, the wood faded and splintered from many a storm. We walk its length, heading toward the place where it drops off into the water.

  “Are you certain we will—”

  He sighs. “We’ll recognize our guide, Lia. I promise.”

  I stifle my annoyance, though I am not sure if it’s aimed at his interruption or the fact that he has anticipated my question.

  We stop at a slip near the end of the pier and I lean out over the water. A small sailboat is tied on, its owner bent over the bow, deep in concentration. He rises when he hears us behind him, and suddenly I understand.

  “Gareth!” A smile breaks across my face. It feels foreign and unfamiliar, for there has not been much cause to smile during the long journey from London to the waterfront. “What are you doing here?”

  His hair glints gold even in so gray a light, and he is as tan now as he was on our journey to Chartres. I wonder again how he can be so brown while the sun struggles to break through the clouds that seem to make their home over England.

  His own smile outshines mine by a mile. “Brother Markov sent word that a trusted guide was needed to escort an important Sister across the water. No Sister is as important as you, my Lady, and no Brother more trusted than I.” I laugh aloud as he punctuates his statement with a wink.

  Dimitri crosses his arms over his chest. “Ahem.”

  Gareth holds out a hand. “Present company exempt, of course.”

  Dimitri’s face remains serious, and I wonder if the spark of rivalry from our trip to Chartres has been ignited once again. But a second later, he is grinning and reaching out to clasp Gareth’s hand.

  “It’s good to see you, Brother. Thank you for coming.”

  “I wouldn’t miss it.” Clapping his hands together, Gareth stabilizes the boat by holding on to the pier. “Now climb in. It’s a long trip across the water. Let us make use of the daylight.”

  I stare at his outstretched hand without moving. With only the sailboat rigging and a few planks for sitting, the boat is not large, and the water beneath it is murky and dark. Water always gives me pause, but this is too close to the memory of our boat ride to Altus. It is impossible to think of it without remembering the kelpie’s trick on that journey and my own dark descent beneath the water after I reached out to touch its glimmering skin.

  Gareth’s eyes soften. “Come now, my Lady. You are far too brave to bow to the intimidation of the Souls and their monsters. Besides,” he says, “the Lady of Altus must always walk through her fear.”

  I take his hand and step gingerly into the boat. “I have not yet accepted the appointment,” I grumble.

  “Yes, yes,” says Gareth, leading me to a seat inside the boat. “I believe you’ve mentioned that.”

  Dimitri drops in behind us, and within moments Gareth has freed us from the pier. We drift away, Gareth and Dimitri busying themselves with the sails, and I wonder if there is anything Dimitri can’t do.

  I watch the water while remaining as far as possible from the side of the boat. I think of the crystal sea, smooth as a looking glass, that cradles Altus. This is a different ocean entirely. I cannot see beyond the flotsam-covered surface, and stray pieces of rubbish bump up against the sides of the boat as the water moves beneath us. I am not eager to know what lies below.

  It is well past midday when we clear the port. Dimitri and Gareth finally sit, and we enjoy a leisurely lunch as they compare notes on word from Altus. Gareth has heard that Ursula is campaigning for support in the hope that I will fail. As a distant relative, she would be next in line should I be unable to assume the role vacated by Aunt Abigail upon her death. It is no secret that Ursula wishes to claim the seat of authority that is rightfully mine, nor that she wishes to see her young daughter, Astrid, succeed her.

  I worry my lower lip between my teeth, taking in the news from the island I have come to love. It causes me great disquiet to think of Ursula grappling for position even as I risk my life and the lives of others to bring an end to the prophecy that binds us all.

  But it is just the thing, just the reminder, I need.

  I cannot afford to give in to my fear—of Samael’s monsters, of the Souls, or of my own dark nature. There is too much at stake, and though I may question fate’s decision to give the responsibility to me, it is mine.

  One way or another, I will accept it.

  I pass the rest of the day observing Dimitri and Gareth work the sails, listening with interest as they explain how the various contraptions work. I think I might like to try sailing on my own one day, and I imagine sailing with Dimitri on the crystal waters off Altus.

  By the time we finish our meager dinner, the boat’s course is set and we are carried along on a steady wind. It is colder still on the water, and I lean back against Dimitri for warmth, watching the sky darken a little at a time. The novelty of the boat has worn off, and I begin longing for the luxuries of home.

  I crane my neck to look at Dimitri. “Do you know what sounds lovely?”

  “Hmmm?” His voice is lazy.

  “Guinea hen. A giant roast guinea hen with crispy skin and meat so moist it falls off the bone.”

  I feel the laughter in his chest and twist to look at him. “What’s so funny? Aren’t you hungry for something other than dried meat and bread?”

  “Yes, yes, I am.” H
is voice is still warm with humor. “I’ve simply never heard you pontificate about food.”

  I slap his arm playfully. “I’m hungry!”

  “She has a point,” Gareth says from the other side of the boat. “I’d like some of the apple pudding from Altus, straight from the oven and hot enough to burn my mouth.”

  I look up at Dimitri. “What about you? What would you like?”

  His voice grows serious. “I don’t need anything else. I have everything I want right here.”

  I look up at him with a smile. Something quiet but profound moves between us in the moment before he opens his mouth to speak again. “Although a roast guinea hen and hot apple pudding would be welcome.”

  It is my turn to laugh, and I lean back again, reveling in the feel of his strong body against mine. As we sail toward Ireland beneath the deepening sky, I am not conscious of being tired. I am simply content, and in the moment before the darkness of sleep claims me, I do not have time to wonder at the oddity of finding peace in the middle of the Atlantic with nothing but two able men—one already a friend and the other something far more.

  I expect to be handed off to another guide upon arrival in Ireland and am happy to learn that Gareth will be our escort all the way to the cairns at Loughcrew. He maneuvers the boat expertly into a small slip at the dock and we make our way to the teeming waterfront, where Sargent, Blackjack, and a horse I recognize as Gareth’s are handed off to us by a ginger-haired young gentleman. His mouth lifts in a shy, respectful smile when he meets my eyes, and I wonder if he, too, is a Brother of Altus. I do not bother asking how the horses made the crossing. I have become used to the many mysteries of the Sisterhood and the Grigori and am satisfied to leave them as such for now.

  After mounting our horses we pass through the crowded waterfront and continue into Dublin proper. Then the city is behind us, and the endless Irish countryside is a lush green carpet in every direction.