Pocket Full of Tinder

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by Jill Archer


  All I knew was that Acheron’s signature thrummed with anger and resentment. But I couldn’t tell whether it was directed at me generally, because I represented the Council, which wanted to dam his river, or if it was directed at me personally, because I’d just tried to control him with a nose ring. (Disjointedly, I wondered if I’d be able to convince Fara to leave that detail out of her next field report).

  In any case, the reason for my offense didn’t matter, only that I had offended. I began to sense I’d overreacted. That the scratch on my neck had been an accident. That Acheron, though powerful, was primitive. I couldn’t give him what he most wanted – the cessation of the dam project. But I could hear him out.

  I stepped back and his hands dropped from my shoulders.

  Instantly, we were back on the viaduct. Fara was murmuring the words to a spell I didn’t recognize. Nova was growling more fiercely than Acheron just had. Virtus was crouched, his tail lashing, ears back, ready to attack. My backup team had joined us. As had a dozen stilios.

  We were surrounded by demons.

  I held up my hand. The last thing I wanted was a bunch of regulare demons falling into a fight because I failed to control the situation. Talk about failing. I wouldn’t just flunk my externship. I’d be kicked out of school, executed, or worse.

  “Why did you request this meeting?” I asked. “To show off your shamanism skills? To ambush me? Or do you want to talk about the dam?”

  I’d been authorized to offer the river demon a better deal than his current arrangement with the Council, but only in return for his unequivocal support of the Council’s plan to turn the viaduct into a dam.

  Acheron snarled his response and Fara, who’d left off spellcasting, interpreted. “He’ll continue to allow the viaduct but not the dam.”

  I sighed. “You don’t have the authority to disallow the dam.”

  Another series of roars and croaks. But this time, Fara frowned. “I’m unfamiliar with one of the words he used.” She turned to Acheron. “Do you mean ‘domesday weapon’?”

  Acheron appeared to lose his temper then, and one of his stilio minions stepped forward. He was holding a large leather pouch. When Acheron spoke again, Fara paled. “He threatened the Council with whatever is in there,” she said.

  The minion pulled a book out of the pouch. Oh, no, I thought. It must be the Angel’s spell book – the Magna Fax’s book of matches. It hadn’t been disguised as Servius Rockthorn’s tabula ansata. It had been given to Acheron for safekeeping….

  “He called it ‘a Maegester’s greatest weapon,’” Fara said, her voice ominous.

  But then, as if to clarify, Acheron barked out a single word. Fara looked at me, her expression a mixture of chagrin and relief, and interpreted.

  “‘The law,’” she said. “I understand what he meant now – a Maegester’s greatest weapon is the law. And that book is some sort of law book.”

  I realized, sometime later, why my father’s description of Acheron’s appearance before the Council had been so muddled. Even with a good Angel interpreter, the river patron was a difficult demon to understand. The book turned out to be an ancient land survey titled “Domesday Descriptio.” Compiled shortly after the apocalypse by a Host scribe, it listed Halja’s landowners, their tenants, how much land they held, what was on it, whether it was wooded or cleared, field or fallow, whether it was improved with buildings and, if so, what kinds. Most importantly, however, it contained a record of Lucifer’s land grants, the vast majority of which had gone to his warlords, but one of which had gone to the demon standing right in front of me.

  “But… how…?”

  Acheron’s argument that he – and he alone – had the right to control his eponymous river caused a cascade of thoughts in my head that rivaled the lower falls:

  I’d never heard of the Domesday Descriptio.

  If the book was authentic, and Acheron’s claim was true, that would make him over two thousand years old!

  If Acheron prevented the Council from building the dam, it was the people of Myriostos who would suffer. Didn’t he care?!

  But when I voiced my concerns, Acheron shook his massive head. No, he didn’t care. And then he let loose an invective stream of roars and bellows. According to Fara, who admitted she only understood about one word in three, Acheron blamed everything on the “King of the Rats” or the “Slum King.” That was who the river patron wanted the Council to target. He was the demon responsible for Myriostos’ misery, as well as that of Rockthorn Gorge, since it was the slum lord’s fault the dam had to be built in the first place. If he’d only taken better care of his followers—

  “Does Myriostos even have a ‘Slum King?’?” I asked Acheron.

  But by then, the river demon had lost his patience. He growled, snapped his jaws, turned on his tail, and stomped off.

  “What did he say?” I asked Fara.

  She swallowed, switching her gaze from Acheron back to me. Finally, she said, “He’ll see you tonight.”

  “And? That’s it?”

  She cleared her throat. “He also said you have no idea what Memento Mori actually means.”

  My face darkened. I knew exactly what it meant. Remember that you will die.

  Had Acheron just insulted my education… or threatened my life?

  15

  FRIGORE LUNA

  Tonight, you must be Daimoneda not Perthius.

  I stared at Sartabella’s note and then at the dress she’d made for me. Then I checked the label on the package again.

  Yep, it said, “Frigore Luna.” As in, “Cold Moon.” But this dress was red hot.

  Or rather blood red.

  Like many Haljan holidays, Frigore Luna had local customs associated with it, but even I knew it had a universal color theme – the night sky. Everyone at the ball tonight would be dressed in blue, black, gray, or silver. Everyone except, apparently, me.

  The floor-length moire skirt was a uniform claret and so full I wondered how I’d be able to squeeze in between the myriad statues in the rotunda’s atrium, which was where the patron’s ball was being held. The entire town was celebrating tonight, but of course not everyone would fit in the rotunda, so a lottery had been held. In addition to Acheron, Ari and his camarilla, their guests, and a handful of regulare retainers, two hundred tickets had been given to various Hyrkes around town. Everyone would be arriving in the next half-hour or so, and I’d be expected to be dressed and ready.

  It’s not that I’d never worn resplendent dresses before. I had. Once. Maybe twice?

  It was that Sartabella was giving me whiplash. After three months of following her previous instructions to “be Perthius” – a brave, heroic Maegester – I was now expected to perform an immediate turnabout and be Daimoneda, the “princess” who was nearly sacrificed to Megaptera, the giant drakon. Maybe I should be thankful I wasn’t going to be stripped and chained to a rock somewhere to await Ari’s advances, but it was still nervewracking to know that I’d willingly offered myself to another winged creature for the night – and that I’d be going home with Cliodna dressed in this.

  “You don’t love it?” Fara asked. “Seems like it’s perfect for you. Long sleeves and a high neckline.” She smirked.

  She was technically correct – the top of the dress was long-sleeved with a high neckline, but the material was a sheer illusion. Except for a swirling vine of red rose appliques, I’d look like I was attending the party topless.

  Was it too late to stop payment on Sartabella’s bill? Not only would the color make me stand out, flowers weren’t a typical Frigore Luna motif. Worse still was that, from time immemorial, red roses had stood for only one thing – love. Deeply passionate, all-consuming, head-over-heels-in-love love.

  What would Ari think when I showed up in this dress?

  Or Cliodna?!

  “Is there another dress in the trousseau?” I asked, glancing enviously at Fara’s glittery ultraviolet gown.

  She shook her head. “I could
glamour you.”

  I stared at my reflection in my room’s floor-length mirror. Fara was an excellent glamourist. Maybe finally allowing her to glamour me would be best. She’d certainly enjoy it.

  “With what?” I asked her. “What would your glamoured dress look like?”

  Fara considered and then shrugged. “Nothing that would be better than this.”

  “Better? But you were smirking at it a moment ago.”

  “I wasn’t smirking at the dress… I was smirking at your modesty.”

  “Come on, Fara. How modest can a person dressed in this gown claim to be?”

  “Warm, lusty roses for the night we ‘celebrate’ loneliness and death? Sartabella has your number, alright. You’re the only woman in all of Halja with waning magic. You’ll stand out no matter what you wear. You’re the only one who still thinks you’re nothing special.” Fara walked over to the mirror and tapped on it with her finger. “But be careful about that, Noon. Don’t let your modesty mess with your sense of self.”

  “Well, of course, you’d say that,” I said, laughing, thinking of all of Fara’s hyperbolic glamours. But Fara didn’t laugh along with me. Instead she responded with what appeared to be, at first blush anyway, a non sequitur.

  “Did you happen to notice the one type of table that was missing from the collection Cliodna showed you?”

  I frowned. “No…”

  “A vanity table. Don’t you think that’s odd, considering how obsessed with beauty she is?”

  I nodded, my mind only half on our discussion now. I could hear voices out in the atrium and the beginning notes of a song.

  “And did you also happen to notice that there wasn’t one mirror in her sanctuary? There wasn’t even a clear bowl of water. Every reflective surface was rippled with waves.”

  “So? She’s the Patron Demon of Waves and Waterbirds.”

  “I think there’s more to her than meets the eye.”

  I gave Fara a doubtful look. “She seems pretty shallow to me. Dangerous, yes. Deep, no.”

  But Fara didn’t look convinced. “All I’m saying is, it takes one to know one.”

  “One what? What are you talking about?” Every now and then Fara talked in riddles and it drove me nuts. But to my surprise, she answered bluntly.

  “Something’s wrong with her. She’s beautiful, but broken. She doesn’t like herself. My guess is she can’t even look at herself.”

  I stared at Fara’s glamoured image in the mirror and the sounds from the atrium faded. All of my attention was now riveted on the reflection in front of me.

  Could Fara? I wondered. Stand to look at herself? And then, as if she’d read my mind, she dropped her glamour and the two of us stood in front of the mirror staring back at each other.

  I turned to her, not wanting to continue this conversation through the glass, no matter how apropos it may have been. In all the time I’d known her, I’d never asked Fara how she came to have her scars or why she loved such glamorous glamours.

  “Fara…” I said tentatively, torn. Would she want to tell me? Did I have the right to ask?

  “It wasn’t a botched spell,” she said. Her scratchy voice seemed to grate more than usual. Maybe because I instinctively knew I wouldn’t like what she was about to say. “It was a curse – a self-inflicted one.”

  I inhaled sharply. I couldn’t help it.

  “What happened?”

  “I loved myself both too much and not enough.”

  Gah, more riddles! “I don’t understand.”

  “The glamoured face I use the most is what I used to look like, before the curse. I was young and zealous and someone convinced me that having pride in fleeting pulchritude was a sin. You know what’s a sin? Not appreciating it while it lasts. I can glamour you but, tonight, I think you should go as you are. If you don’t, you will forever regret not bringing red roses to whoever is waiting for you.”

  “Cliodna?” I asked, my voice laced with skepticism.

  “Caelum semper mutans. The sky is always changing.”

  But instead of asking her yet again what her cryptic remark meant, I simply murmured “Joshua, fifteen, ten” along with her. It was the closest I’d ever come to saying Amen.

  Frigore Luna was observed on the night of the new moon in Ciele, the month of frost. Despite it occurring during the harvest season, it was not a harvest festival. It was an acknowledgement, and forcible delay, of something inevitable, rather than something that had already occurred.

  As with most Haljan holidays, Frigore Luna involves fire. On Bryde’s Day, celebrants light candles. On Beltane, bonfires. On Frigore Luna, torches. Tonight, their fire would be a symbolic ward against winter’s dark, death, and loneliness.

  More than a hundred torches had been installed around the perimeter of the rotunda’s atrium. By morning they’d all be gone – claimed by couples on their way to a night of warm companionship, heated coupling, or (for Cliodna and me) a continued game of cat-and-mouse.

  Fara and I made our way from my bedroom chambers toward the atrium. We knew our way, but even had we not, we could have found it by following the increasingly loud voices and chilled air. We entered the room and I was momentarily struck by the way in which Tenacity had transformed the place.

  Every statue was covered in a gauzy shroud, its identity erased for the night. Instead of the strawmen often used elsewhere, Tenacity had turned the rotunda’s sculptures into shadows, half-forgotten memories, and evanescent beings – things that each of us would eventually become. Then she’d partnered with one of Bastian’s Angels, who’d cast a frost spell over the entire room.

  We entered and Fara announced my arrival. Thankfully, she kept it brief, sticking to my name and formal title. I stepped forward with what I hoped was a confident smile and made my way through the parting crowd, heading for the two strongest demon signatures in the room. One of them I was intimately familiar with. The other I wasn’t, but I knew who it belonged to – Acheron.

  I found them in the middle of the room, standing next to Servius Rockthorn’s statue. Not wanting to interrupt, I came to a stop just inside the circle of pillars surrounding the statue. But Ari looked over and his companion’s gaze followed. I have no idea what the river demon initially thought of my blood red ball gown, because all of my focus was on Ari. He looked both ominous and omnipotent. I suppose he would have to, what with Acheron’s visit and all. It wouldn’t do for the patron of the gorge to look less mighty than the patron of the river that ran through it. Still… I inwardly gulped, almost glad my promise to Cliodna would prevent Ari from tossing me over his shoulder at the end of the night and carrying me back to his chambers.

  He was dressed in his most magnificent cloak to date. As long and sweeping as my dress, it was black wool with elaborate gray embroidery and an iron clasp. He walked toward me and, not wanting to appear meek or unsure in front of the crowd, I met him halfway. After months of trying to pretend we were nothing but two professionals working together, it would have been obvious to even the Hyrkes who were present that we were anything but. Ari had finally had enough of keeping me at arm’s length and I knew, even before he slipped his hands around my waist, that he wasn’t going to do so tonight. He rested his forehead against mine and breathed my name. His fingers tightened on my waist.

  “No fair,” he murmured.

  “What isn’t?”

  “You,” he said. “You are not fair.” He stepped back and his hands moved from my waist to the ends of my unbound hair. Gently, he brushed it behind my shoulders. He stared at my demon mark, which was visible beneath the sheer fabric of my top.

  “How much self-control do you think I have?”

  “Enough, Lord Aristos,” I said, intentionally keeping my voice light. “You’re keeping your guest of honor waiting.”

  I turned toward Acheron then, but slipped my arm into Ari’s, and the two of us walked over to him. I gave the river demon a deep, solemn nod and he stared at me for a few moments, his signature
ebbing and flowing with the crowd’s energy. His magical aura felt old and complex, more primal than Ari’s when he was in drakon form, perhaps more deadly, but also – at least right now – calmer.

  Acheron motioned to Ari’s heart and then to mine and emitted a long series of throaty burbles interspersed with a few barks. Ari smiled, but his expression was strained. I hadn’t realized Ari spoke Ripian, although it made sense. He knew at least a handful of demon languages and he’d spent time here when he was young.

  “It’s… complicated,” he finally told Acheron, whose carnivorous gaze then fell on me. I hoped the river demon wouldn’t reach out and try to grab me again. Who knew what fiery restraints I might try to bind him with? Acheron pointed at me again and said something else.

  “He’s curious about your dress,” Ari told me.

  “Oh… ah… My dressmaker told me to wear it.”

  Acheron just stared. I couldn’t tell if he was angry or confused. Ari gave me an odd look, and I knew he wasn’t translating everything. Where was Fara? She’d picked the wrong time to go missing.

  “‘Dressmaker’ isn’t a word he’d be familiar with.”

  “Armorer. My armorer told me to wear it.”

  Upon hearing my words, Acheron tipped back his head again and brayed. He had to be laughing. His signature was full of mirth.

  “Show him your fiery dove,” Ari said.

  “I’m your consigliere,” I snapped. “Not your court jester.” The words slipped out before I thought better of them. Maybe it was that Ari had commanded instead of asked. Or maybe it was because I was missing half the conversation – the half about me – and it made me defensive. Or maybe I was just tired of having to be polite to demons who issued veiled threats about ending my life.

  Thankfully, Ari seemed to understand my unease. “Noon, it’s okay. You don’t have to. Acheron just thought it was funny that your armorer designed something that looks like that. And I thought he’d appreciate seeing that your ‘weapons’ can be as unconventional as your armor.”

 

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