by Mary Taranta
My mother. So few questions answered; so many new ones to ask. I’m starting to realize that no matter how much I want it, I will never know the full image of her. The best I can do is piece together an impression. The basics are there, but only if you squint and overlook the blurry edges. “Merlock said my mother was a courtesan. Like yours.”
North gives me a guarded look. “It’s possible. If he knew how powerful she was, he would have wanted her close.”
“Then how did she get to Brindaigel? The Burn had already begun; she knew she had to stop it. Stop him. She even had a weapon waiting. A real vessel, not—not me.”
“If she was loyal to Corthen during the war, she would have known about Brindaigel.”
“And it was a good place to hide until she knew how to cast her spell.” I sigh, pitying my father. Did he ever love her, or did he only use her the way she seemed to have used him, learning what she needed until the time came to leave him behind? “Either way, I guess she wasn’t exactly a hero, was she?” Snorting, I rub at an ache in my neck. “I don’t suppose Perrote factored into her plans.”
He studies my profile. “She wanted to save Avinea.”
“Only so that people like her could have access to its magic,” I say darkly. “If this is the damage one man can do, imagine what would happen if an entire kingdom became corrupted. Perrote’s stories would actually be true: Avinea would be consumed with a plague.”
“You said there was a weapon waiting for the spell. If it was cast with Merlock’s blood, and your mother intended to forge a weapon with it . . .”
“You think she planned to inherit the magic herself?” The idea leaves me breathless. My mother may not have been a hero, but to be a villain no better than Bryn or Perrote?
“Or she intended to destroy magic completely,” he says cautiously, as if afraid of my reaction.
“Is that even possible?”
“If she was able to find Merlock and cut through his spells, she could also theoretically cut out his heart and leave it to die. Without a proxy or an heir to bind it, it wouldn’t survive.”
“And neither would the Burn.” I shake my head at the sheer nerve it would take to believe herself capable of executing such a plan. But then again, didn’t I believe I had a chance to kill Merlock? Beneath the wonder is renewed guilt at using the spell so superficially, losing it so pathetically.
Shaking my head, I force a rueful smile. “I suppose I should stop being so quick to assume the worst of her and maybe, finally, give her some credit.”
North is silent, squinting toward the horizon. Then a tiny, playful smile crosses his lips as his dark eyes slide toward me. “Do you think our mothers knew each other?”
“Do I think they plotted anarchy together in the halls of the castle?” I ask, and North laughs, a bright and startling sound that elicits a grin from me in response before North touches my arm, directing me back into motion.
“I hope they did,” he says.
So do I.
We make good time—or so I tell myself. But as the sky begins to darken and the shadows start to stretch, we have no choice but to take shelter for another night in a farming silo that stands alone in a sea of nothing. The roof is gone and the stone walls have turned black from dead magic, but they still keep out the worst of the wind.
North gathers scraps of old farming supplies, the wood withered and gray but flammable. Once a fire is started, he orders me out of my coat to check my bandages. Blood has seeped through in several wide patches, but rather than risk undressing them, he simply layers more scraps of his tunic over top.
Despite myself, I lean into his touch. It’s the Burn, it’s his proximity, it’s the way I feel tired inside and out. North hesitates, uncertain. He clears his throat and avoids my eyes, and I close mine, humiliated that I cannot control my own desires even though they would kill us.
When he hands me back my coat, I catch him eyeing the blood dried along the front.
“I killed him,” I say, and my stomach cramps with the memory of it. This wasn’t Bryn ordering me to pull a trigger; it was me pinning a knife through a man’s chest to save myself.
“You put Kellig out of his misery,” says North. “When I’m king, the Burn will be eradicated and the hellborne hunted. There’s no future for them in Avinea. It’s only a matter of time.”
“When you’re king,” I repeat. “You’ve never said that before.” For North to acknowledge his future—to speak of it as a certainty and not as a lingering question—it makes my heart race, as if he’s scraped off a layer of ash to reveal the grass still growing underneath.
North grins, embarrassed, pushing himself to his feet. “I will be king,” he says, “but not tonight. I’ll take first watch again.”
Wolves howl in the distance, and ours is not the only fire we see, yet I still feel safe here, with North standing guard, a tall figure framed in the silo doorway, black against a stormy sky.
But I’m far from safe, as evidenced by the words that slip out before I can stop them: “I’m cold.”
North startles, then turns, expression guarded. “We can’t build a bigger fire.”
“I know,” I say.
My head aches. I can feel my blood thickening in my veins, and yet when North wordlessly lies beside me, it’s a blissful heat that spreads like starlight. As previously, he positions his back against mine, but I stop him. “No,” I say. “Like this.”
At my prodding, he rolls onto his opposite side, facing toward me, and I edge into him, my back to his stomach. His arm hovers, uncertain, before resting lightly against mine, and then, when I don’t protest, with more settled weight.
“Cadence and I would always sleep like this,” I say, an attempt to excuse my weakness under the guise of innocent necessity.
North exhales softly, pressing his chin against my shoulder. “Go to sleep,” he murmurs.
* * *
The next morning is misery. We are both groggy and sore, exhausted. The way ahead is interminable; the way back, impossible. We don’t speak; we don’t tease; we don’t point out the rising ash cloud behind us or speculate on who—or what—might be causing it. It doesn’t matter who’s following us now—we have no real defense anyway, except to move forward as quickly as we can.
At first I ignore the blob of shadow on the water that appears early in the afternoon, dismissing it as a mirage. But when North sees it too, our eyes meet with almost delirious thrill. The Mainstay. Davik held true to her word. Even without North, she stayed anchored.
There’s still a chance to make it home.
We try to pick up our pace with renewed energy toward a tangible goal. Yet our steps have become slowed, labored; every breath hurts. North loses his footing, and when I bend to help him to his feet, his coat sleeve falls back, revealing dark lines of poison inching toward his wrists.
He sees me looking and forces a bitter laugh that’s half-manic, before yanking the sleeve back down. “You see everything about me so easily, Miss Locke,” he says, still kneeling in the ash. He closes his eyes, forehead furrowed.
Numbly I pull back the collar of his coat. All his spells are gone, and the shirt underneath is soaked in sweat, sticking to his bony frame. Poison crawls across his shoulder, creeping toward his heart.
Fear rolls down my back and pools in my stomach. We’re still hours from the cliffs and any possible assistance. A glance behind confirms that we’re still being hunted. “Can’t you excise it?”
A tired smile. He lifts a hand to demonstrate the small stone he drained of magic hours ago, now black as ink. “Not big enough.”
“If we dig under the ash—” I start scraping it back with my hands, searching for earth.
“Faris.”
“Or take it from me,” I say, pulling back my own sleeve, exposing the spell he cast yesterday.
North’s smile wavers at my surprise to find it gone; his eyes turn hazy, red-rimmed and watery from too much smoke. “It was a weak spell to begin with.”
/>
I drop my sleeve, staring at him. Terror threatens to hold me down, and my blood sings its agreement: Stay. Embrace your vices, embrace North. Death is not the only option.
“Get up,” I say at last, sliding an arm beneath his shoulders, hefting him to his feet.
“Faris.”
“Get up!” Growling, I shoulder his weight against my own, biting through the pain as I stagger for balance.
“I’m sorry,” North says. He swallows hard, as pain creases his face. “I’ve held off as long as I can.”
“What are you talking about?! We’re almost there—I can see the boat from here—”
“It’s the only chance I have of facing my father again,” he says weakly, immune to my panic.
God Above, he’s talking about turning hellborne.
I release him, stricken. “No,” I say, and then, more furiously, “No. That is not an option!”
But it is an option, and from the way he forces a guilty smile, I realize that he saw it as an option long before he set foot in the Burn.
“Everyone needs a fail-safe,” he says. His smile vanishes as his fingertips graze my cheek. “Go back to Cadence. Perrote will be forced into the Burn to find Merlock, but Bryndalin will stay behind to guard her throne. Since you don’t have your mother’s spell anymore, you’ll be safe.”
“Safe from what?! You—”
“Will find my father and inherit his legacy,” North cuts in, fingertips sliding down to my lips. “And you will survive.”
“And what about you?” But it’s in his face, the eerie calm of acceptance. He’ll inherit Avinea’s magic and then do what his father never could.
Destroy himself to save the world.
“No,” I say. “Alistair will figure out how to get this poison out of you, North, but you have to get home first. You are not giving up.”
Clenching my teeth, I drag his arm back over my shoulder and start lurching forward again. “Burning this kingdom to the ground is your father’s legacy, not yours. You believe there’s something worth saving in this world, and I’ll fight for it, North. Because I believe in this. You cannot lose your heart.” I flatten my palm against his chest. His heartbeat thrashes, erratic and uneven. “Avinea needs you just the way you are. So keep moving.”
Yet, as the afternoon drags its heels in the ash, the Mainstay is no longer a beacon of hope, but rather a mocking reminder of how far we have yet to go. North is barely on his feet and I’m losing strength fast. Even now, the skies darken overhead, stretching violet fingers of shadow across the Burn. Once the light disappears for good, the air will turn frosty again and our bodies will become more cumbersome with the cold. The clouds overhead are the warning color of dull slate.
The color of snow.
North struggles to match my pace, emotions warring across his face. “Don’t let go of me,” he croaks.
I adjust my stance, bowing beneath his weight. “I’ll hold on as long as you do.”
We fight inch by inch toward the Mainstay and the cliffs that mark our camp on the beach below. Almost there, I tell myself, even as the sky turns black at its edges and the cold locks my muscles and our footsteps start dragging. Almost there, I repeat when the pale sails of the Mainstay finally sharpen into focus.
North stumbles, pitching forward, pulling me down with him. Choking, I sit up, but North remains sprawled on his back, eyes closed. Poison has begun spreading up his throat, past his jawline, darkening the already dark stubble on his chin.
“North.” I weakly jostle him, to no avail. I try pulling him into a sitting position, but he’s dead weight and my strength is fading. “North!” Frantic, I press my ear to his chest, searching for the whisper-crash beat of his heart. There, but only barely.
I stare toward the cliffs, debating the distance. Should I leave him to get help? Would I be able to find him again, in this growing darkness? From here the Mainstay doesn’t look so far—I could be there and back again in an hour, maybe.
If I have an hour left in me. And if I can trust anyone on board to actually help. Davik would, but that would leave her ship without its captain. An easy target for mutiny.
You never leave anyone behind.
Biting back tears of frustration, of grief, I start pulling him toward the cliff, stopping every few feet to catch my breath and summon my strength. My bandages pull loose with the movement, ripping away, but I can’t be bothered with them now. The hellborne tribe that has trailed us all day seems to hang back, watching me. Waiting for me to die—or to join their ranks. With no magic left between us, all we’d be good for now is food.
Baring my teeth, I show them my palms, still in the air—a ridiculous act of defiance, but proof that I am not yet defeated.
With my sleeves pulled over my palms for protection, I cradle North’s face in my hands, ignoring the way my blood heats with interest when my exposed fingertips skim his jawline. Already the ash is beginning to claim us; if we don’t move, we’ll be buried by dawn.
“Don’t do this,” I say fiercely. “I’m still here. And I will always be here because I can’t—I won’t leave you behind.”
It’s a slow-spreading admission through my blood. This is what prompts people to abandon their children, to steal from kings, to sacrifice themselves so that others might live.
Love.
“I lied to you,” I whisper as tears flood my eyes. Lowering my head, my lips hover by his ear. “I need you, North.”
No response. My words are not made of magic, and they have no power to heal. Disappointed, I drop my head to his chest. Is this it, then? My only chance to say good-bye, stolen from me once again?
Shouts draw my attention; dancing lights are coming closer. With a shot of adrenaline I rise to my feet, unsheathing Chadwick’s dagger and positioning myself above North, just in case. It’s a mockery of bravery. Exhaustion pulls my arms down beneath the slim weight of the blade; the muscles in my back scream in protest with every move I make.
I can’t fight anymore.
Captain Davik’s brothers plow past me without a second glance, bending for North. Sofreya and Cohl are close behind, ready to offer assistance. Silver spells shimmer on their skin, glowing in the darkness. I stare at them, flabbergasted by their arrival after they abandoned us both to this fate.
My legs start to buckle just as Cohl grabs my arm, holding me steady. “Where’s Captain Chadwick?” she asks, scanning the dark horizon behind us.
I stare at her, unable to speak. It didn’t occur to me that nobody else would know—that I would have to be the one to tell them. I open my mouth, unprepared. But Cohl hears the words anyway. She nods once, expression grim, guiding me forward. One foot, then the other.
It begins to snow.
Twenty-One
RETURNING TO THE MAINSTAY IS a series of staccato images that bleed together into one barely understandable blur. Somebody carries me at one point—Tieg, probably—and I’m sick more than once on the choppy waters between the beach and the Mainstay itself. Once on board, someone forces a glass of water into my hands, and I’m sick again, on the floor of the galley.
North is carried into Davik’s quarters, and we weigh anchor, aiming for home. Sofreya disappears inside for hours before she tends to me, excising what she can, buying us time to return to New Prevast.
The harried explanation I receive for the others’ betrayal is likewise fragmented. Upon returning to the Mainstay, free of the Burn’s insidious influence, Cohl and Terik realized the error of their ways and insisted on a search-and-rescue mission—which Captain Davik demanded of everyone if anyone wanted to make it home on her ship. The only real innocent was Sofreya, coerced into going to protect the others on their way back. Like me, she’s had a little basic training. Unlike me, she lacks the confidence to use it, and she complied out of fear.
There’s guilt enough to confirm the story in the faces that peek in on me as I sleep away most of the following day. Even so, that evening I lie awake as light from the galley cut
s across my face. I listen as everyone toasts Chadwick with drinks and stories of a beloved captain . . . conveniently forgetting their role in abandoning him in the Burn. But they are nothing but loyal tonight, and it infuriates me. The Burn intensifies weaknesses. It doesn’t create traitors from loyalists.
When I can no longer bear the hypocrisy, I force myself out of bed on shaky legs and stumble down the short hall to the deck above. As much as it hurts, it’s a relief to stretch my muscles and confirm that my body still works, despite how mangled it feels.
Bront stands at the helm, and he lifts a hand in acknowledgment. I wave back, moving to the railing to watch the coastline cut sharp edges in the water behind us. There’s nothing out there but darkness and the occasional blister of light from one of the few villages still clinging to life on the edge of the world, and I press closer to the icy railing, squinting my eyes against the salt of the ocean. Stars glitter overhead, but the moon is a barely-there wink in the sky.
“I knew I’d see you out here eventually,” a voice says, and I glance back to see North standing against one of the masts behind me. He straightens and walks toward me, slow but steady. When he reaches the railing, he leans against it as though he needs the support.
I try to smile but give it up as useless. “I needed some air.”
“And some starlight.”
“Always,” I say. Then, “Why aren’t you with the others?”
“They knew Ben as a captain,” North says. “I’ll honor him in my own way, as a friend. Not to mention,” he adds drily, “I’d be tempted to throw every one of them overboard.”
We share a smile before he plunges his hands into his coat pockets. “I have a new plan.”
A hollowness sharpens inside me, as if he’s already taken the first step away. “Which is?”