The Iron Phoenix

by Rebecca Harwell

  Kesali looked away. “I had hoped to spend the evening with you. If you’re just going to make snide remarks about it…”

  “No, I’m sorry.” Nadya swallowed. “I just was not expecting that. Sneaking out to the wall or into the bathhouse or going to the gates of the mines, maybe. The theater is not something I think of when I think of you.”

  “And what do you think of?”

  A question she could not answer truthfully, and Nadya’s chest ached for it. I think of your smile and the way the firelight reflects off the amber flecks in your eyes. I think of your hands and their warmth and how I wish for you to hold me and never let go. I think of everything that could be and everything that won’t be, and it hurts.

  Kesali spared her the lie. “It wasn’t my idea, I’ll have you know. Marko invited me a few weeks ago. He stopped by the Head Cleric’s office yesterday to let me know that he won’t be able to make it. There was a murder in the fourth tier that needs his full attention.” She smiled. “I think he’d rather play soldiers than sit through a performance. He told me I should still go, and I don’t want his kindness to go to waste, so…?”

  Nadya’s mouth turned bitter as Kesali spoke. “I did not know you and Lord Marko”—she emphasized the title Kesali left out—“were so close.”

  “I think he likes having someone his own age to speak to. He says the courtiers are boring and his guardsmen too formal.”

  “But you’re…”

  “Just a peasant, and a Nomori at that?” Kesali laughed, but it was hollow. “Yes. But my mother wasn’t, and I have her gift. Being the Stormspeaker is the reason I’m apprenticed in the palace, and I think I may have greater ties there soon. There has to be some kind of bridge between our people and Storm’s Quarry. Something to bring understanding. It’s eluded us for twenty years.” She took a deep breath. “In my lifetime, I want to see no animosity between our people and Erevans.”

  Nadya wanted that too, of course, but she was still hung up on Lord Marko inviting Kesali to the theater. She didn’t realize she was frowning until Kesali poked her in the side.

  “It’s a theater performance, not a death sentence. Don’t make me face all those stuffy-nosed courtiers alone. Please?”

  “All right,” Nadya agreed, relenting.

  “Thank you.” Kesali turned toward the Elders as they began a new song, this one featuring small skin drums that a few held between their knees. The beats reverberated through the marble square.

  Nadya was content to sit there together, listening to the music, but Kesali got a mischievous look in her eye. She jumped up and pulled Nadya with her, who was so surprised that she almost forgot to let her.

  “Come on, it’s Arane Sveltura,” Kesali said, twirling Nadya around her. She began swaying to the beat of the drums and the voices raised in ancient song. Nadya stood still for a moment before she realized Kesali was dancing. More than that, she expected Nadya to join her.

  The Nomori did not dance. They sang. Dancing was a frivolous Erevan pastime, as her grandmother would say. In fact, Drina noticed Kesali twirling around on the cobblestones, clicking her heels in time with the music, and began glaring.

  Nadya closed her eyes. Tonight, she had no secrets. Tonight, she had no worries. Then, staring directly at her grandmother, she began to follow Kesali’s movements.

  Under a star blanket, they leapt and twirled. They were air, starlight, and the beat was the only thing that kept them anchored to the ground. Kesali’s forehead glistened with sweat as she beamed, swinging her arms. Her boots clicked together and added to the music. On the benches, those watching began clapping in time.

  Nadya wanted nothing more than to let herself go into the dance, into Kesali’s embrace, but she restrained her movements. She was far more mechanical than her partner, not as brazen with wide leaps and complicated foot movements. The last thing she wanted was to reveal herself in front of an audience. Or to hurt Kesali with a misplaced swing of the arm.

  Still, her seal of the Protectress burned hot, and Nadya imagined herself alone, dancing across rooftops, leaving nothing but wind in her wake.

  “See,” Kesali said, panting. “You are having fun.”

  “Always, with you,” she murmured in return.

  Drina’s snort brought her attention up from the intoxicating scent of Kesali, and for a terrible moment, Nadya thought she had given something away.

  But no, it wasn’t that. They were no longer alone in their courtyard ballroom. Other, mostly young people had joined in. Soon, the fountain sat in the center of a whirlwind of movement. The Elders’ song faltered for a moment. She feared they would throw down their drums in protest. Then Aishe, the oldest with the most warbling voice, struck up the song again. The rest soon joined in, and Arane Sveltura became a night of true celebration.

  “Isn’t it beautiful?” Kesali said, waltzing around, Nadya holding onto her waist. “Look what we’ve done.”

  “What you’ve done.” It was a small thing, but perhaps her earlier talk of bringing the two peoples together was not as fanciful as it seemed.

  “Not without you. I’d have been terrified. You give me strength,” Kesali said.

  Nadya looked away, not knowing what to say. Warm fingers slid under her chin, bringing her face up to look Kesali in the eyes. Then, swiftly before either of them could think better of it, Kesali kissed her.

  Warmth rushed to every part of Nadya’s body, lifting it up as if she were nothing but air. Kesali tasted like cranberries and waterfalls. Her hand ran down Nadya’s side, leaving warm chills in its wake. She wrapped her own arms around Kesali’s waist and pulled her closer. Underneath the song and dancing, she heard a soft grunt.

  Instantly, Nadya pulled away. “Did I hurt you?”

  Kesali slowly shook her head. “No, of course not.”

  “Oh, okay.” She swallowed. “I—I have to go. Meet my parents at home.” The festival was not nearly close to over, but Kesali didn’t question her.

  “I will see you tomorrow night,” she called as Nadya pushed her way through the dancers to the edge, where she broke into the fastest run she dared.

  Fool. Thousand times a fool.

  What if I had I hurt her?

  What if someone had seen? Such relationships were not condoned in her world. Perhaps in the upper tiers, but not for her and Kesali.

  She dodged festivalgoers as they sampled food and laughed and held hands. On a corner, a few set off golden firecrackers, much to the delight of all who passed. It was better this way, she told herself. As much as she wished it, such a relationship was impossible for numerous reasons, and she was saving herself a lot of pain.

  So why did the pain seem so unbearable now? She had longed for this for months, and in the moments it lasted, the kiss was the fulfillment of everything she desired. With the ghost of their kiss lingering on her lips, she knew she would risk the pain of a thousand lifetimes for just one with Kesali.

  Angry shouts brought her out of her own torturous thoughts.

  The racket came from a shop on the corner of one of the tight cobblestoned streets. Nadya tripped to a stop across from it. Five men, Erevan from their light skin and the varying shades of brown in their close-cropped hair, piled into the squat stone building. One carried a wooden club.

  Children ran screaming out the door. Their panic was lost in the general chaos of the festival. Only her sensitive hearing picked it out from the cacophony of laughter and firecrackers around her. Nadya’s breath caught in her throat. It was Brishen’s bakery, open to give out his boysenberry pastries to the children of the tier. He was Nomori, but age and lung rot from the perpetual damp of the city had dulled his inborn fighting skills.

  He was also Duren’s father.

  The air around her froze. Had news of the murder spread so quickly? It certainly seemed so, for what other reason would these men have to come down to the Nomori tier during Arane Sveltura with weapons. Planned well, as the Nomori men were all occupied with their families and w
ould not come to anyone’s rescue.

  Those men would beat Brishen to a bloody mess for what his son did.

  Guilt rose in her throat, threatened to choke her. Maybe it would have all turned out this way if she had been completely honest during the interrogation. Maybe seeing the second man meant nothing. She could not, however, know for sure, and what happened here was on her head.

  Brishen screamed. No one on the street heard.

  Her thoughts went to the gray cloak she had stashed in a gap between the outer wall and roof of her house. It was too far, and Brishen did not have a lot of time. She resolved never to go anywhere without it again. Nadya took off her vest and handed it to a wide-eyed toddler who sat on the side of the street, sucking a caramel apple. She managed to smile at him, and then she took the sash from her waist and tied it around the lower half of her face. Its gray expanse covered her chin, mouth, and nose, leaving only her eyes visible. She’d move fast enough not to be recognized.

  Nadya sprinted for the bakery. Her hand flashed out, and the door of the shop flew open.

  Behind a stone counter, Brishen grappled with two of the Erevans, knocking the last of the pastries to the floor where they were trampled into mush. The Erevans smelled of piss and mud: inhabitants of the second tier, Erevan scum who scavenged at the edges of Nomori neighborhoods. Why would such people care about a courtier’s murder?

  In two bounds, Nadya vaulted over the counter and stood between the Erevans and Brishen as a third attacker brought his wooden club down on the shopkeeper’s head.

  It hit Nadya’s shoulder and shattered, splinters flying across the small shop and burying themselves in hard loaves of bread. She didn’t flinch. The impact only stung.

  The five Erevans stopped for a moment, and Nadya hoped her sudden appearance would be enough to scare them off. Brishen backed away from her. His eyes were dark, wide, and scared. They roved over her, but they didn’t carry the spark of recognition.

  The man who had held the club backed away. His face was pale, and his hands bled with cuts from wood splinters.

  The others weren’t as cowed. “It’s another piece of Nomori filth,” the tallest said. “Are you an Erevan killer, too? Show us your face, so we can break it.”

  Nadya shook her head. Her voice would give her identity away, so instead of responding, she darted forward and pushed the man. He flew backward. Brishen yelped, but he seemed to realize that this mysterious Nomori was on his side, so he remained in the corner.

  She nodded to him, and he returned the gesture. A moment later, the color drained away from his face, and she turned to see a pistol pointed between her eyes.

  The tall man smiled. The arm that held his pistol was steady. Gunpowder was unreliable in the damp air of the city, but something about his smirk told her not to hope that would be the case now.

  “Your people need to learn that you don’t own this city. You don’t even belong here. Give us a reason, and we will kill every single one of you. You may play at being a hero, boy, but you can’t hide this scumbag from justice. He whelped that piece of shite.”

  He thinks I’m a man. Nadya was short, sturdy rather than thin, and built like a rock. Her loose shirt hid her breasts, and women, both Erevan and Nomori, did not fight.

  Two men grabbed Brishen. The other, hands bleeding, slugged Brishen across the temple. The shopkeeper fell. A coughing fit, grating and horribly familiar, took hold of him, and he was helpless to fight off the Erevan’s kicks.

  Their leader was still smiling. “You Nomori dogs need to know your place. Don’t think one of your kind can kill ours without consequence.”

  Anger rose in Nadya’s gut. She grabbed his arm and wrenched the pistol away. It clattered to the ground at the edge of the shop. In the same motion, she yanked down on his arm. Bone snapped, and his scream pierced the air, digging deep into Nadya’s ears. Blood dripped over her hand as she held the limp arm. Bone peeked out of his torn tunic.

  The man’s face was as white as his bone. Syllables blubbered out of his lips. Nadya didn’t hear them. He attacked the Nomori. He put a pistol to her head. She was not going to let him walk away.

  She brought her other hand up, fist tight, and slammed it into his ribcage.

  He flew across the shop. Bones shattered and cracked as he hit the wall. The stones shook with the impact. He lay crumpled on the ground, blood leaking out the corner of his mouth. He didn’t move.

  The sounds of Brishen’s cries and the yells of the Erevans immediately faded away until Nadya heard nothing but her own heartbeat. Her hands lowered. His blood dripped off her fingertips.

  Her vision blurred, and she was no longer in Brishen’s bakery. She was fifteen years old, standing in a culvert in the Nomori tier. Her hands were coated in warm blood that the rushing water slowly eroded away. The broken body of the Erevan boy who had attacked her lay against a stone wall. His life slowly seeped away through the gash torn in his back by a broken spine.

  Nadya snapped back into the present. Her limbs shook. The other men backed away from her as she stared at the broken body of the man. He twitched. At first she thought she’d imagined it. Oh, Protectress, please.

  Slowly, he groaned and moved his legs.

  That was enough. Nadya was done. She shouldn’t have come here in the first place. She knew she couldn’t control her unnatural strength in combat. She should have realized that someone would get hurt, maybe even killed. She’d wanted to help Brishen, to alleviate her own guilt, but murder was a steep price to pay.

  The remaining men unfroze. They scattered like mice before a hawk, tripping over one another to get through the broken door. Out in the street, cries went up from the crowds as they scattered around the crazed Erevans. A few men shouted. Nadya knew she and Brishen wouldn’t be alone for long.

  “Are—are you going to let them get away? What about him?” Most of the fear had left Brishen’s voice as he staggered to his feet. He pointed to the moaning man.

  Nadya gave him a long look over her mask. She slowly shook her head once and turned and ran out the door. She nearly barreled into four Nomori men, all member of the Duke’s Guard.

  She didn’t stop at their surprised cries. She didn’t stop at all, not until she fell to her knees, sobbing, in the culvert next to her house. Tearing the sash off her face, Nadya tried to calm her roiling emotions, repeating over and over, He’s not dead, he’s not dead. She shouldn’t have gotten involved at all, should have just called for help, but Brishen would be fine. He’s not dead.

  How could she ever conceive of a relationship with Kesali when she could do such things with her bare hands? Nadya too often dwelt in the shadows, in the dark corners of Storm’s Quarry, and Kesali should never have to leave the light. She deserved someone who was not cursed, someone who could share their heart with her without deceit or fear. Someone to stand by her side. How could she consider herself worthy of being that one?

  Nadya didn’t realize how much time had passed until she felt a tap on her shoulder. She leapt to her feet, and Shadar jumped back. “Whoa, there, I’m a friend.” When Nadya didn’t answer his levity with a smile, his expression grew concerned. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes.” She wiped her eyes.

  “Glad to hear—” He stopped, and his dark eyes roved over her. “Why is there blood on your clothes? Are you injured?”

  She looked down and saw dark red splashes sinking into the cream-colored cotton of her shirt. “I—I…” She decided on the closest version of the truth she could. “There was something going on at Brishen’s bakery. A bunch of Erevans came out, covered in blood. One fell into me.”

  “I heard as much. There is a lot of hate in this city, and I’m afraid it doesn’t take more than an unjustified murder to spark it. Those men couldn’t have known Master Jurek, and yet he was the reason for their attack. More likely an excuse than a reason, though.” He sighed. “I am glad you’re unhurt.”

  “Thank you.” Nadya brushed off her trousers.

>   “Oh, and I found this with a very confused child.” He held out her vest. “Drina would be livid if she found out.” He paused. “And she’s already in a hot temper, with the way the festival is going.”

  Nadya managed a small smile.

  “Come, I would like to spend the rest of Arane Sveltura with my daughter, if that’s all right. Unless you still had plans with Kesali?”

  “No.” She swallowed heavily. “I’d love to spend it with you, Papa.” She held out her arms as he put her vest back on, covering the bloodstains. Then he took her arm in his and they headed out together, and she could pretend that she was a child once more, with nothing but a child’s cares.

  Chapter Five

  Perched on a low-lying roof, hidden by shadows, Gedeon watched the festival of Arane Sveltura with narrowed eyes. Children ran unhindered through the streets, clutching candied apples, shortbread, and other sweets in their fists. The adults were no better. Laughter grated on Gedeon’s ears. He snarled as a group of young Nomori men, all in the Duke’s Guard from their formal walk, passed under him, holding beakers of cordial.

  This is a mask you wear, nothing more. You let me wear the same one when you still counted me among you. I know what you are capable of. Now, however, I need not fear it. He smiled to himself. One of you is already awaiting execution because of me. You think any are safe?

  During the passing of the light, Gedeon had averted his eyes from the miracle of the disappearing and reappearing stars. Long ago, the Protectress had forsaken him, so he no longer acknowledged her. His seal lay decaying in some gutter somewhere. But now, he watched the crowds with a mixture of anger and cold appraisal, as if seeing a group of jackdaws dancing around a dropped biscuit.