by Eden Reign
Manda laughed nervously as the butler disappeared, the full weight of what was coming slamming into her innards.
The ritual. The dreaded ritual that might end the life of her new husband.
Her hands twisted into her dress material. She stopped fidgeting only when Jackson moved close behind her, his hands capturing her upper arms, his lips teasing her neck.
“Would you like to take a walk, my love?” he murmured.
Manda turned, grasping the lapels of his coat, her gaze steady on his. “Jackson, perhaps—”
“I wanted to make this as easy for you as possible, Manda,” he said, one finger resting on her lips where she was about to speak. “Come with me.”
His hand slid down her arm, his fingers wove through hers, and he led her down the steps of the verandah. Then Manda noticed the lights. The glowing orbs of firelights hovered at short distances in a winding, twisting path through the back gardens, and Jackson led her slowly along it.
Manda’s heart thudded in her chest, the blood coursing through her veins wildly. Not all of it was from fear. Her gaze traced the strong jaw of her new husband. She had to make this work. If she lost him—
He glanced back at her. Firelight danced across his face. “Manda, I can see you taking on more than your share of the worry about this ritual. Would it help you to think about what comes afterward?” The corners of his lips curled upward.
“No.” Manda blushed and swallowed past the thickness in her throat. “Jackson, I—I’m terrified.”
He stopped walking, pulling her to him, stealing a slow kiss from her lips. “I won’t say I’m not afraid, either. But we will get through this, together. Come see what I’ve prepared.”
He pulled her farther into the gardens until Manda caught sight of the gazebo—or what used to be the gazebo. Jackson had turned it into a blue, silken haven. Drapes wafted gently in the night's breeze around the sides of the enclosure, creating a perfect, protected bower separate from the rest of the gardens. The silk was drawn back by tasseled ropes, and inside, a pallet of blankets and soft pillows piled across a plush rug. A bronze tub steamed with warmed water—she could sense the nearby liquid in her very skin. Perfumed flowers—honeysuckle, magnolia, even early indigo—decorated the support posts. Bitter Root’s stick-snare rested on the floor next to the pallet, ready for use.
“What—Jackson, you’ve been busy.”
Jackson led her into the gazebo, touching the sash to allow the silken drapes to fall closed. The blue swathes met, sealing them in a sweet-scented sanctuary. “I wanted this to be fit for a water sprite. I wanted to show you how much I love you. No matter what transpires here, Manda, whether Lady Death takes me or not, I’ll always love you. Into the Indigo Wells and beyond.”
He gazed at her, his eyes wide, vulnerable, and brimming with love and a latent fire. Hesitantly, she rested her hand on the back of his neck. “Yes, always, Jack.” She stood on her tiptoes as he kissed her.
Almost lazily, he broke the kiss, his thumb brushing across her cheek as he cradled the side of her face. “Do you know what I thought, that day I had to clean burnt hash from my clothes?” he asked, a laugh hiding in his double-bass voice as he reached for his cravat and untied it, tossing it to one side.
Manda shivered as he pulled his coat free of his arms.
“What did you think?” she asked shakily. “That I was a curse sent to drown you in acrid, foul odors?”
He tilted his head, a grin creasing his lips, as he unbuttoned his shirt and slipped from his, the delineated muscles of his torso bared to her gaze. She turned away, dipping her hands in the basin of water Jackson had brought. The warm water soaked into her skin. Please don’t die, she prayed.
Jackson’s hands spanned her waist and turned her to face him. “I thought you were a sprite, a fairy, a weaver of magic who awakened every last fiber of my dead heart and set it raging with passion.” He bent, his lips brushing softly over hers.
Manda gasped a laugh as she cradled his face in her hands. “I thought you wanted nothing to do with me. You—made that clear in our first meeting at Coalhaven.”
He grasped tightened his grasp on her waist, his breath stirring a loose tendril of hair where it had pulled free from her chignon, and Manda couldn’t breathe. Her eyes slid shut as he kissed her neck, softly. “You battered my defenses, Manda,” he murmured against her skin. “The struggle was quick and deadly. I was a lost man before you had been an hour upon my property.”
Manda drew back. “Then I am glad to be the victor,” she whispered, smiling.
“There was never a doubt as to who would win.” Jackson captured her lips again. “You are beautiful, Manda.” His voice was rough. “Everything about you. Even your name.”
Manda tentatively touched the scar beneath his eye. “Do you know, my father used to call me River Running. It was his name for me, a Nanukata name. He was half Nanukata. I… I wouldn’t mind if you sometimes called me River Running.”
“River Running,” Jackson repeated, shivering visibly as Manda trailed a finger over his shoulder and down his bare arm. “I can do that. I might also call you Mistress Coal.”
Her breath caught. “I’m not really Mistress Coal though. Not in the eyes of the law.” Her mind returned to the stakes before them. What would she do if—
“You’re worrying again.” He hooked his hands in her hair, staring deeply into her eyes. “Don’t. I’m here, Manda. I’m not going anywhere. But I need you to tell me. What do I need to do?”
“You must—you must lie down on your stomach,” Manda said. “That is, you must lie down so I can see the magemark.”
She released him, and he turned to the pallet, lying face-down and crossing his arms beneath his head. The magemark darted across his back, curling over his shoulder and around his ribcage as though animate and aware of its surroundings. It glowed with a sick, orange light, restless.
Manda shuddered. She approached, kneeling beside him and reaching for the stick-snare. Now that the time had arrive for the ritual, now that she had to complete it, her trembling fingers strengthened, her jaw set. She would do this. That mark would die.
Jackson’s face was turned toward her. He watched her quietly where she knelt. She peered into his uncertain eyes. A new hint of worry clouded them.
“What is it? What’s wrong, Jackson?” she asked.
He blinked away a hint of moisture. “I—Manda—I don’t deserve you. My father always said—”
“Your father means nothing; his words, they were all lies. Whatever he told you, Jack, it was not true. You are a prize any woman would treasure, and me most of all.”
He gripped her still-wet fingers, his brown eyes fierce. “Truly, Manda? I am enough?”
“Jackson Coal, you are enough for me; you will always be enough,” Manda murmured. She squeezed his hand before freeing hers and sliding it over the warm skin of his back, terror mixing hope and excitement. May the Good Waters spare us, she prayed fervently.
“Show me what to do, Manda. I can tap the Wells to begin the ritual. Shall I?”
Manda gazed at the magemark. It seemed to hide, its curling fronds just visible on his far side.
“All right.” As the indigo fire of the Eternal Flame rose above them, Manda called water that danced over her skin to build inside her, careful, oh so careful, to keep it in check. It met Jackson’s fire, the liquid making a circle around the flame, but not yet touching it.
She leaned over Jackson, gripping the stick snare in her left hand. She did not yet reach for the magemark, afraid of using too much power too soon. She watched it carefully. She could feel her water, caged and restless, yearning to be released. I must not let it build for too long.
Jackson’s fevered eyes remained blurred as the Eternal Flame burned brightly, reaching tongues of flame to lick at her circle of water. An orange tinge flared on the stick-snare, and then the talisman drew Manda’s water into its lattice of sticks as a lodestone drew iron.
Manda s
truggled to maintain her control as her water spun faster and faster. An ocean of water heaved within her body, a sea with tides and depths and currents, and now it filled her whole world. She strained to keep it from bursting free and consuming everything in sight—and especially Jackson’s flame.
The mark on his back huddled and bunched, coiling over his right shoulder now, and it then it pulsed, glowing orange and fiery. It scuttled restlessly across his neck and back again, as though it knew its danger, as though it understood it was under attack.
“Take it, Manda,” Jackson breathed through clenched teeth. “Destroy it.”
The vile mark expanded down Jackson’s spine, stretching from his nape to the top of his breeches. She placed her hand over it, pressing hard. The water built inside of Manda, clamoring for release. The magemark’s glow intensified, the serpent writhed frantically, furling fronds that outlined Manda’s hand. But the mark was unable to stop her as she clasped it, held it, and pinned it in place so it could not escape.
As the ocean surged inside Manda, the Eternal Flame burned brightly above them. Manda at last allowed her water to intertwine with it, desperately seeking control against the destructive, overwhelming force as the two elements twisted together like two coiled ropes. A symbol of their union.
The magemark skittered and struggled beneath Manda’s grip, its fronds waving in a wild dance as the fire and water increased in size and brilliance. Inside Manda, power burgeoned, waves surging, so that the flames were nearly obscured.
“Jack,” Manda gasped, terrified. Her hand cramped on the stick-snare. She was losing control. She couldn’t hold it. “Jack!”
“Easy, my love,” he whispered, though every muscle of his back was as rigid as granite. “I am with you.”
His gentle reassurance brought her back to herself, back to the measured control she sought. The water receded with her panic, and the indigo flame burned brightly again.
The talisman in Manda’s hand glowed brilliantly now. “We’re nearly there,” she said. Fear and thrill washed through the ocean’s currents raging within. She steeled her resolve for the last moments of the ritual, pushing away her terror as she pulled at the mark on his back.
The magemark hissed, erupting into flame, licking at her fingers, spitting and sizzling. Her hands exploded with water. In the Wells above them, the Eternal Flame blazed skyward as Jackson reached deep and pulled fire into the magemark. The stick-snare snapped from Manda’s fingers, flung directly into the Wells as if pulled by the strongest tide, absorbing the blast of water from Manda’s hands. The force it exuded sent a shockwave outward, tearing the silken curtains from their moorings.
Jackson stilled in agony, his face contorted with pain. For one eternal second, his face was rigid, his dark eyes wild and panicked. He gave a rough sigh and collapsed on the pallet, utterly still.
Manda grasped his head. “Jack!” she cried. Her heart thudded from the heights to the depths as panic clawed at her. “Jackson!”
For one still, eternal moment, she thought she’d lost him, and the agony of that moment plunged straight to her heart, keeling her over with mind-numbing pain. “Jack, no,” she sobbed.
His eyelids twitched at her cry. Slowly, he raised his head and then pushed himself up to kneel before her, his trembling fingers cupping the sides of her face.
He seemed unable to speak. Awe and amazement shone from his eyes.
He lived. He breathed. He even gasped for air.
Manda flung herself at him, her arms winding around his neck. She buried her face in his neck and sobbed. “Jackson, we—we did it.”
She felt again at the base of his spine. Was it real? Was it truly gone? There was a hard lump of scar tissue, the only remnant of the magemark.
Jackson’s thumbs tenderly wiped the moisture away.
“It’s gone,” Jackson whispered. “I can feel it. It’s completely gone, and I’m free.” He shook his head in disbelief. “I’m free, Manda. Because of you. You saved me.”
Manda drew back, smoothing his too-long hair from his face, her thumb tracing his v-scar, a hysterical giggle bubbling from her lips. “You knew I would. You never doubted.”
Jackson grinned, and his eyes, for the first time, were free from old pain. He kissed her again, hungrily. Manda gave as much as he asked in return, but now there was no hurry. Jackson had lived. He had survived his father’s hate. They could live in their love. They had all the rest of their days and nights together, and Manda couldn’t think of anything she wanted more.
Epilogue
Jackson
Soft breezes tickled Jackson’s scalp, and a child’s laughter rang in his ears.
He inhaled the bright scent of freshly cut grass touched by the faint, woody perfume of mature indigo. He ran one palm over the spiky grass until he met fabric, and tugged. He did not open his eyes, but he imagined her shifting closer despite her wide skirts, folding them down into a springy pillow. He let a smile upturn his lips as her hands pulled his head onto her lap and played with his too-long hair.
“How is it coming along?” he asked, keeping his eyes closed, as instructed. Manda and Grey would be disappointed if he opened them too soon.
“Don’t be impatient,” Manda murmured. “You’ll get your turn.”
Jackson lifted his face. “All I need is a kiss or two to pass the time without complaint.”
Soft lips brushed his forehead, his cheeks, his chin. How had he come to this? He, a man broken by a war that had split family and friendships? A man unloved through most of his life? His glut of happiness still seemed impossible. Every morning he woke and lay abed for several breaths as he gazed at his beautiful wife, her curls spreading in a dark torrent across his pillow, her full lips parted in slumber. Every day, he was shocked at his circumstances, awed by the strange grace of this world, that could contain so much.
After the wedding and the ritual that had left his father’s magemark nothing more than a scar at the base of his spine, Jackson had spent the summer months repairing Coalhaven, working with his croppers, who had loyally stuck with him despite the destruction to the plantation—to rebuild. They’d cleared the debris left by Daniel Lake’s attacks, and Manda had set herself to consider the undeveloped acreage northwest of Coalhaven, pondering how it could be used as a protective bulwark similar to Mr. Stone’s enduring line of boulders near the coast.
After the restoration was finally done, Jackson, Mr. Stone, and Manda had spent several days remaking all the protective wards around Coalhaven. Three sides completed, they had deliberated about whom to contract to complete the air boundary along the western perimeter. Mr. Stone had set out to Savana a few days past to find an appropriate candidate, but he had not yet returned.
“Almost done!” cried Grey from a distance.
Manda giggled and clapped her hand over Jackson’s eyes, as if she knew he couldn’t help but open them to see the happiness that must be brightening her face. He would never grow tired of that. Never.
He reached with his four-fingered, scarred hand and took hold of her wrist. “I promised I wouldn’t look, and I won’t,” he said. “You do not have to play gatekeeper with me, Mrs. Coal. I am a man of my word.”
“Done!” shrieked Grey.
Manda shifted, but Jackson held fast to her hand for a long moment. “I love you, Manda.”
She kissed him, this time fully on his mouth. “And I love you, Jackson. Now, get up, you great lug. I can’t push you up; you’re too big.”
Jackson rose to his feet, eyes still closed. Manda ushered him forward, holding his left hand. Another small hand took his right.
Everyone stopped as Jackson’s feet touched the gravel of Coalhaven’s front road.
“Open your eyes, open your eyes!” said Grey.
The fountain in front of Coalhaven had been the final repair left undone. Manda had asked to be the one to fix it, and she and Grey had been secretly whispering about their plans for it for weeks. During the battle, Daniel had split the ent
ire basin, including the upright portion that had spouted the water into a cascade.
That upright portion—which had been a statue of a stately woman dressed in an old-fashioned dress with wide panniers—had been modeled after Jackson’s mother, Julia Coal, the woman who had designed Coalhaven’s modern state over a quarter-century ago. Jackson had not explained what that fountain had meant to him; his mother had brought him here, once, shortly before her death, after Henry had fire-whipped him again for “spending too much time with that runt of a watermage, Elijah Lake.” Together, Julia and Jackson had sat on the fountain’s edge. She had traced her soft, nurturing hand on his bare, wounded back, tears streaming down her face.
“I’m sorry, Jack,” she had said. “I’m sorry, baby. I know it hurts. Let me fix it.” She had called on the Wells’ Eternal Ocean, keeping one hand on the wounds.
Cool water had flowed through her hand, soothing his back, soothing the pain, inside and out. This was how Jackson had learned to survive his childhood: the solace of his mother’s water-power washing away the pain of his father’s fire.
“Remember, Jack,” his mother had whispered. “Never tell. It’s a secret that I’m a watermage. Your father would kill me if he knew.”
Julia Smoke had been born into one of the High Fire families—an aberration called a spandrel, a fullmage child born with a different elemental power from her family. Her parents had kept this shame a secret, and Julia had been married by arrangement to Henry Coal, an adamant adherent to the notion that mages of unlike elements should not mix, thus condemning her to keep her power a secret. Henry Coal had gone to his grave thinking his wife a firemage who did not care to make use of her power, who simply preferred the gentler pursuits of hearth and home to magic. If only he had known that it was his wife’s latent power that had given so much life to Coalhaven—little tweaks here, little adjustments there, balancing the hot power of the land’s natural fire with its mistress’s affinity for soothing water.