“I can’t write to my father, because if I do, he won’t write back. Do you think a wizard sends his daughter to a school run by the Church because he ever wants to see her again? He won’t write to me, and then I still won’t know if he’s alive or dead, but if he is alive, it’ll just be another reminder that he doesn’t care. That he wants me as far away from him as possible.”
How can he not care? Even if he’s a wizard, how can he not care about his own daughter? About her?
“Leora . . .” I want to tell her to forget about him. I want to tell her that he doesn’t matter because she’s not alone—she’ll never be alone—because she has me.
“I’m fine,” she says. “It’s not like this is anything new.”
“He left you. He abandoned you with your sick mother, and he doesn’t even check up on you, and—” I move closer, until I can feel the warmth radiating from her. My skin is still feverish from the obsidian, so that when I touch her arm, she gasps a little. “I’ll never leave you, Leora.” Maybe I can’t tell her everything, maybe I can’t admit that I’m in love with her, but I can promise her this. “Not unless you tell me to.”
“I would never do that,” she says, her voice burning, almost as if she was the one who’d touched the obsidian.
I don’t say anything. I want to hold her so badly. I want to tell her how much she means to me and how much I wish I was the boy she thinks I am. But if I move at all, if I open my mouth to speak even a single word, I know it will all come pouring out. I’ll spill every secret writhing inside of me, until I’m hollow and empty. Until I’ve taken anything good she might feel for me and poisoned it.
She shoves a new candle into my hand and smiles. “Here,” she says. “You’re my best friend. You’re pretty much the only family I’ve got, so . . . Would you?” She gestures to her mother’s urn on the shelf beside her.
I nod, still not trusting myself to speak. My hand shakes as I set the candle next to hers. For a moment I let myself imagine that the two of us really could be a family. We could be together. And when we died, the Fire would grant us both permission to be here, side by side, forever. I could become a normal person, the past I can’t remember no longer haunting me. I could be someone worthy of her.
“Please,” I whisper, repeating the same prayer. “Please protect her from the darkness.”
As soon as I say it, the candles in the room waver. They don’t ripple like they did for Leora—they flicker and sway angrily, as if a huge gust of wind just threatened to blow them all out. A spark singes the end of the wick, turning it black and sending an acrid wisp of smoke into the air, as if a flame really had lit and then snuffed itself out again. I blink, unwilling to believe it.
“Wow,” Leora says, “some altar boy you are.”
“This one’s defective,” I mutter. “We should probably get going anyway, before the next bell.” But I was watching, and I know there was no flame. The spiral tattoo on my right wrist—another mystery from my past—suddenly itches, and a sense of foreboding creeps across my shoulders.
Leora nods. “Good-bye, Mom,” she whispers, taking my candle back from the shelf. She holds it close to her chest and says the prayer again. For her, the Fire lights it, and a flame appears on the wick, burning just as brightly as all the others. She shoots me a look. “Defective? And you’re supposed to be the professional here.”
“I warmed it up for you.” And it might be a coincidence that it lit for her and not for me. I might be reading too much into it. Maybe I was breathing on the candle too hard, or sucking all the air away, so it never had a chance.
But it sure feels like the Fire was sending me a message, making sure I know exactly where I stand. That there’s a good reason it hasn’t granted me a power like everybody else, because as far as it’s concerned, I’m a monster. Irredeemable.
Condemned.
CHAPTER TWO
Three wizards drag a woman kicking and screaming out of her house in the middle of the night, while I crouch in the shadows around the corner. So close—only a few quick strides away—and yet not close enough.
I hate this part.
Because there’s only one of me and three of them—and two more that slipped away inside the house—and even though I’d kill them all if I could, I’m forced to pick them off one by one. That means avoiding the soft circles of light cast by their lamps on the packed ground and lurking in the darkness like a spider, waiting for one of them to get near enough to grab.
One of the wizards holds the woman’s arms. She screams as the two inside bring out her husband. He struggles, until one of them holds a green potion bottle to his wife’s lips. Poison. The couple aren’t wizards, so they must both have powers from the Fire. I’m guessing from the way their faces have gone pale that neither of their gifts involves any natural immunity.
They shouldn’t have to worry about this. Nobody should, but especially not people who mind their own business and have nothing to do with the wizards. Until a few years ago, the wizards mostly kept to themselves. Or at least that’s what I hear, since I don’t exactly remember. Not that they weren’t above hurting people to get what they wanted—they are wizards, after all—but their battles were with the Church, not with ordinary people.
“Shut up, both of you, or I shove it down her throat!” The wizard’s voice echoes off the neighboring houses, ringing in my ears, and then the night gets eerily quiet, except for the woman’s suppressed sobs. The neighbors can hear—of course they can—but no one comes rushing out to help. Smart move.
They’re helpless, and there’s nothing I can do. Not yet. My hands twitch, my fingers hovering over my knife hilt. But it would be stupid to make a move now. I have to keep reminding myself of that, because while killing wizards scratches an itch, spilling their blood for torturing helpless people—that’s a need. One that’s hard to fight.
One that I’d have, even if Father Moors hadn’t encouraged it.
The leader of their group scratches his bearded chin and straightens his cornflower-blue robes, standing tall, his face impassive, as if he was delivering a lecture to bored colleagues, not invading someone’s home. He clears his throat and reads from a small scroll, though he sounds like he’s got his lines memorized, like he’s done this enough times to remember. “By royal decree of King Elwise and Queen Arlissa Graves, we are authorized to search this home for stolen guild property. You are obligated, by law, to answer any questions honestly and without delay—”
“Please,” the woman says, “we don’t have anything like that. Nothing stolen. Please!”
“Any resistance on your part is considered treason to the Crown and will result in your immediate arrest and seizure of your assets. If you answer my questions and comply with our procedure, this will go much more smoothly, I assure you. Now”—he pauses, letting go of one end of the scroll so that it curls up again, then sticks the scroll inside his robes—“are there any children living at this residence?”
“Since when is it illegal to have children?” the man asks, looking the wizard in the eyes.
It isn’t.
The wizard sighs. “Are there or are there not any children, including adolescents, living at this residence?”
“No,” the woman says. “No. Only us.”
“Any male children?”
“No.”
“Tell me,” the wizard says, pulling a piece of parchment from his pocket, “do you recognize this symbol?” He shows them both the paper, watching their expressions as they squint to see it in the lamplight.
They always show them the paper. I’ve never seen what’s on it, but as far as I can tell, no one ever recognizes it. And I don’t know why they always ask about children. Or stolen property. It’s probably just an excuse to torture people, so they can use their energy for spells and steal all their stuff.
“Mommy?”
Heads turn toward the small voice coming from the open doorway of the house. Two little girls stand there in their nightgowns, yawnin
g, their eyes going wide as they realize something awful is going on.
“Go back inside,” the woman says, her voice tight with tears. “Take your sister and go back—”
The wizard holding the potion backhands her in the face, silencing her.
The littlest of the girls shrieks and runs toward her. Before the girl takes two steps, the wizards have her and her sister.
“No children?” the lead wizard says, not sounding very surprised. Or interested. “I told you to cooperate.” He turns to the other wizards. “I always tell them, and yet they always lie.” He shoves the paper with the symbol on it into his pocket and barks orders. “Arrest them and search the house! Keep the girls—they’ll prove useful during the interrogation, though send word to Maggie at the orphanage, tell her she’ll have two more mouths to feed within the week.”
“You can’t take them!” the man shouts. His wife screams. The girls are crying.
And I can’t wait for the right opportunity. This is it. There are five wizards, and there’s no way I can take them all out. I only get one, and I know exactly which one I want.
My hand closes around the hilt of my knife, the familiar heat spreading through my arm and into my chest, my head. It ignites my rage, until there’s only one thing I can think about. I’m already moving, emerging from the shadows at full speed. My obsidian burns in my hand, willing me to use it. Thoughts flash of how good it will feel to sink the blade into flesh—the wizards’, their victims’, my own. The heat makes it hard to think about anything except how much the knife wants me to use it.
My vision blurs. I ignore the panicked shouts coming from the wizards, dodging as one grabs for me, focusing only on my target. I slam into the lead wizard, knocking him to the ground. He gasps for breath. Sweat pours down my forehead. My hand trembles from resisting the knife’s urges to sink it into the nearest person. But now that the nearest person is this wizard, I don’t have to fight it anymore. I let it take over me, guiding my hand.
Somewhere behind me, a wizard shouts for me to stop. He does something to the woman, so she cries out in pain. Then the children are shrieking like mad, until there’s the loud crack of a palm on skin. But it’s only a lull—the hit makes them both cry harder. There’s a jumble of sound as the woman sobs uncontrollably and the man shouts obscenities at the wizards. And at me.
I don’t turn to look. I focus on the wizard on the ground beneath me. His eyes widen. He gasps. At first I think it’s because he sees his death coming. This is it, the end of his life. But he’s staring at my wrist, at the spiral tattoo just below my palm. Recognition flares in his eyes. His mouth moves. My blood pounds, the rushing of my pulse so loud in my ears, I can’t tell if he makes no noise, or if I just don’t hear him. But I can see the words he forms with his mouth:
Azeril. It’s you.
I pull back. It’s not easy to fight the knife, especially when I’ve already let it take over me. My hand shakes. I stumble backward, and then I feel the euphoria of knife hitting flesh. I smell burning skin and blood. My breathing turns ragged.
Then the pain hits.
I look down at my left arm and see that the knife did indeed find a target.
Me.
CHAPTER THREE
I startle awake in my bed the next morning, soaked in sweat. There’s a second where I don’t remember what happened last night, and then it comes back to me. The family, the wizards, the knife. The smell of blood hangs in the air, and I don’t remember getting undressed, either, but I must have because my bloodstained shirt is crumpled on the floor, along with a week’s worth of old laundry. Weekly room inspection is tomorrow, and I have a feeling I’m not going to pass. Again. But from the vague memories I do have of last night, I’m also pretty sure I’ve got bigger things to worry about than having to put in extra shifts scrubbing dishes in the mess hall.
Someone’s knocking on my door. “Hey! Az! Rise and shine—we’ve got a visitor!” It’s Rathe, one of my fellow acolytes in training.
“I’m up!” I shout back to him, before it occurs to me that maybe I should have pretended to be asleep. The rest of last night is a blur. I’m still foggy on how I ended up here and how badly I’m injured, and I don’t need any company when I find out.
Rathe bursts in, frowning and wearing his most formal red robes. His short, usually messy blond hair is actually somewhat tamed today, like he just spent the last half hour running a wet comb through it. “You call that up? You’re still in bed!”
“I’m awake, aren’t I?” I move to sit up, leaning against my bad arm. There’s a split second where I realize what I’ve just done and brace myself before the stabbing pain hits. I clench my teeth to try and hide it, my mind racing to come up with a cover story. I’ve had accidents before. Nothing serious, not like this, but—
The pain doesn’t come. I don’t feel anything. It’s like it never happened. Except, when I look down at the inside of my arm, there’s a thin white line where the knife went in. The wound looks like it healed months ago, not like it’s only a few hours old.
“Get up,” Rathe says, already pawing through my closet and throwing a dark-red robe that matches his own onto the bed. Unlike the usual robes we wear, it’s got intricate, swirling flame patterns embroidered in gold thread along the cuffs of the sleeves and the edging on the hood. It’s too expensive to wear on a daily basis, not to mention it’s made of a stiff, scratchy wool. The Fathers only make us drag them out on really special occasions.
“Must be some visitor,” I mutter, still trying to wrap my head around last night. I remember attacking that wizard and him recognizing me, or at least my tattoo.
Azeril. It’s you.
His words replay in my mind over and over. My arm should be in excruciating pain, but it’s not, and instead a heavy sense of dread seeps into me, filling in all the spaces where the pain should be. I shudder as I pull the robe over my head, not liking the idea of a wizard knowing something about me that I don’t.
I remember not killing him and ending up with my obsidian in my own arm. And the waves of giddy satisfaction as it found a mark, even if it was me. And then . . .
“It’s the High Priest,” Rathe says.
The High Priest. I’ve never met him, but Father Moors had to get his approval to let me stay here. To make me an acolyte of the Church, to give me a room and an education. It was the High Priest who decided my ability with obsidian made me worth keeping. He’s the one who decided I could repay their kindness in blood.
That makes him the only other person besides Father Moors who knows my secret.
“He’s come all the way from the capital,” Rathe goes on. “Rumor has it he’s looking for an apprentice, but who knows why he’d come looking for one out here in Ashbury when he’s got plenty of trainees back home? All I know is Father Moors wants us dressed. And, more importantly, he wants us on time.”
I scramble to get out of bed, knowing we’ll both be in trouble if we’re late. My legs get tangled in my dark-green bedspread, dragging it to the floor and adding to the mess. A folded scrap of paper slips from my pillow and flutters to my feet. I don’t know where it came from. Maybe it’s nothing, just a random bit of paper, but a chilling wave of fear prickles across my skin. I snatch it up, hoping it’s blank, but of course it’s not. Inside is a note:
Azeril,
We each have something the other wants. Meet me two nights from now at the Silver Hound. Come alone.
There’s no signature, just a drawing of the spiral tattoo I have on my wrist. The wizard must have written this last night. He wants to meet me tomorrow. He wants me to willingly seek him out.
“What’s wrong?” Rathe asks. “You look like you’re going to be sick. Don’t you dare throw up in front of the High Priest. Father Moors will kill you. Seriously. And he’ll make me clean it up.”
“I’m fine. But . . . have you ever heard of a place called the Silver Hound?”
He wrinkles his nose like something smells bad. “That’s a
wizard hangout, Az. Not somewhere anyone would want to go. Not anyone decent. Why? Is that where you were last night?” He grins and raises an eyebrow, teasing me, because the idea of me ever getting anywhere near a wizard, let alone some place infested with them, is just that ridiculous.
“I was here last night. Asleep.” I hope he can’t hear my uncertainty. I have no idea where I was last night. At least, not for all of it.
“Yeah, right. You might not have been in a disgusting wizard bar, but you’re not ghostly pale and lingering in bed after sunup because you were asleep last night. Just don’t throw up on the High Priest, and everything will be crackling. I won’t tell Father Moors—I swear.”
I open my mouth to argue with him, but then I think better of it. It doesn’t matter what Rathe thinks I was doing last night, as long as it’s not the truth. Staying out all hours drinking is better than murder. Well, attempted murder. “Thanks,” I say, and the relief in my voice is genuine.
“Don’t thank me, just get a move on. Oh, and Az? One more thing. An order from Father Moors.”
“Yeah?”
“Bring your knife.”
All fourteen of us boys line up along the aisle in the chapel, ranging in age from ten to twenty. Everyone’s in their best robes, though Tol, one of the younger acolytes, has a tear near the edge of his sleeve that he’s trying to hide. Father Moors stands at the end of the line, fidgeting and muttering to himself, the flint stones around his neck clacking softly together as he moves. He’s mostly bald, though he had more hair when I first met him, and his dress robes stretch tightly across his portly stomach. Father Demmett joins him in his fidgeting, and Father Gratch takes his anxiety out on us, glaring at anyone who so much as breathes too loudly.
The heavy chapel doors creak open as the Mothers enter the room, leading in the girls—who, like us, are dressed in their fanciest red robes—to stand opposite us. There are only eight of them, an unfair number as Rathe says, what with there being almost twice as many of us. He wriggles his eyebrows suggestively at Mara, who’s a year younger than him, only to have Father Gratch yell out a stern, “Acolyte Marten! This is a church, not a brothel!”
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