by Traci Chee
“I’d like that.”
Opening the door, Archer and Riki turned to go, but before they could leave, Annabel came out from behind the counter and caught him by the arm. He tensed, but she drew him into another embrace, whispering, “I’m glad you’re home.”
Her curls brushed his ear, his cheek. “Me too,” he murmured. And he was surprised to find that he meant it.
• • •
When Archer returned to the bakery at dusk, Annabel had changed from her apron and flour-dusted dress into a skirt and blouse. A glint of green shone in her hair.
For a second he thought it was a feather. But no, it was just an enameled pin.
“No Aden?” he asked.
“No.” She avoided his gaze. “He couldn’t come.”
As they walked, they exchanged talk of what Archer had done that day, the people he’d seen, how the bakery had been, even some news of the war and the reinforcements being funneled from Epigloss to her sister city, Epidram, in the east.
But about halfway there, Annabel’s walk slowed. She sniffed.
Archer recognized that sound, had heard it dozens of times in the past, when she burned her hand on the ovens, when her grandmother had died, when one of her favorite love stories ended in tragedy.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“It’s my fault. If you hadn’t snuck out to meet me, you never would have crossed paths with those horrible impressors.”
He passed her a bandanna to dry her tears, the same one Horse had given him when they’d parted ways in Jahara. Sefia had one just like it.
“I loved you,” he said quietly, frankly. Then, “I regret a lot of things, but not that.”
Annabel gave him a searching look, but when he didn’t add anything more, she looped her arm through his. “I loved you too,” she whispered.
Together, they walked the rest of the way to the lighthouse, and at dinner, it was almost as if things had gone back to normal. While Annabel chatted gaily with his family, who welcomed her to the table as if she were one of their own, everything seemed easy again. She smoothed over wrinkles in the conversation. She didn’t probe him for answers when he went silent. She accepted him with the same unquestioning trust she’d always had.
Soon—too soon, it seemed, for all of them—Annabel had to return home. In comfortable silence, she and Archer walked back along the trail until they reached the jungle, when she sighed happily. “I’ve missed your family.”
Archer cocked his head at her. “Don’t you see them all the time?”
Annabel trailed her fingers through the undergrowth beside the path, the backs of her nails tapping softly against the stiff leaves and autumn flowers. “I did at first, after you disappeared . . . But then your mom found Eriadin, and Aden and I . . .”
He looked away. “Right.”
“You found someone too, didn’t you?” she asked. “Sefia?”
Found her and lost her. He nodded.
Annabel gave him the simple, curious smile that used to make him spill all his secrets—who’d given him a black eye, what he’d gotten for her birthday. But he was not the boy he’d been—now his secrets were deep and painful.
But he wouldn’t think about that. He wasn’t the chief of the bloodletters anymore. He was someone different, he told himself, someone who wanted to stay.
“Why isn’t she here?” Annabel asked.
They stepped from the path, wandering through the trees until they found the cliff, where they could see the village of Jocoxa along the eastern curve of the bay.
“It’s . . . complicated,” Archer said.
Annabel sat down among the sprawling roots of an old tree, which made a sort of bench near the edge of the bluff.
“With her, nothing was ever easy,” he continued. “Not like it was with—”
“Us.”
“Yeah.” He shrugged. “Except there is no ‘us’ anymore.”
“Could there be?”
He looked out toward the village, where the lamps glowed yellow through the curtained windows and the sailboats bobbed softly at their moorings.
This had been home once. Could it be again? If he could forget Sefia, the bloodletters, the guilt, the violence, the way his longing for it remained kindled even now, like a candle flame floating in the vast black ocean?
“I don’t know,” he said.
Annabel bit the inside of her cheek. “I didn’t invite Aden tonight,” she confessed.
“I figured.”
“You did?”
Archer chuckled. “You haven’t changed a bit, Bel. I can still read you like a book.”
“Like a what?”
“Sorry. Nothing.”
“Where is she, Sefia?” Annabel asked.
He sighed and sat beside her, placing the empty cake box between them. “Deliene, I think. I don’t know for sure.” Again, he felt the absence of the worry stone at his throat.
“Do you want her to come back?” Annabel pleated the folds of her dress, not daring to look at him.
“Bel . . .” he began.
She leaned over, mimicking him. “Cal . . .”
He almost didn’t say anything. But he must not have been as immune to her charms as he thought, because the wall inside him cracked. “That’s not my name,” he said, surprised to hear the truth on his lips.
“That’s always been your name,” she chided him.
“Not anymore,” he said, holding her gaze, needing her to believe.
“That’s okay.” A smile dimpled her round face. “I don’t mind getting to know you again.”
He buried his face in his hands so he couldn’t see her bright-eyed earnestness anymore. “I don’t think you’d say that, if you knew.”
“Knew what?”
And because he couldn’t resist her, even now, the wall he’d so painstakingly built came crumbling down. “I’ve killed people, Bel,” he began, and once he started it was like he couldn’t stop. It all came flooding out of him, all the things he’d tried to keep hidden, all the things he’d tried to forget. “I’ve killed so many people I’ve lost count. Some because I had to. Some because I wanted to. Some because I couldn’t tell the difference anymore. I couldn’t stop. I’m afraid I still can’t. I’m not Calvin anymore. I’ll never be him again.”
“I know,” Annabel said, so matter-of-factly, he looked up, surprised. She bit her lip. “I mean, I didn’t know all of that, but I knew you weren’t the same. How could you be? But I still believe in you, whatever you’ve done, whatever your name is now.”
He swallowed. “Archer.”
“Archer, then.” She extended her hand. “I’m Annabel.”
He took it.
“Nice to meet you.” She leaned in, and for a second he thought she was going to kiss him, and it scared him, because he wanted it. Missed it. Longed for it. Although he could not help thinking of Sefia and their last kiss on the cliff, with the wind buffeting around them.
Wild.
Complicated.
Thrilling.
Instead, Annabel kissed him on the cheek, her soft pink lips lingering on his skin. And he wanted so badly to turn, to put his mouth on hers, to gather her up in his arms.
Maybe that would drive out his memories of Sefia. Maybe that would help him let go. Maybe if he kissed Annabel, they’d slide back into the love they used to share, simple and straightforward. Maybe with her, he wouldn’t need walls, and he could be all the different boys he’d been, all of them at once—the lighthouse keeper, the animal, the killer, the captain, the commander, the lover—and maybe . . . maybe he’d finally be home.
But he didn’t.
Annabel leaned back suddenly. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“No, it’s okay.” He touched one of her curls.
And it was. Things w
eren’t simple between them anymore. But maybe, one day, they could be.
They got up, wandering back along the path to the village until they reached Annabel’s door.
“If you need time, you have it,” she said, toying with her keys.
“Aden?”
“How could there be an Aden when there’s even the slightest possibility of you?”
He embraced her. “Okay,” he whispered, and he almost believed it.
• • •
On the way back to the lighthouse, there was a rustling in the shadows. Archer tensed. For a second, he was fifteen again, and his kidnappers were upon him—the snapping of branches, the quick scuffle of feet, the dark shapes lunging out of the jungle. He felt the pinioning of his arms and the burlap sack being thrust over his head, heard the sound of his own voice against the fabric, begging for help.
But he wasn’t that boy anymore. His nerves sang. His senses opened up. The sounds were sharper; the shadows darker. The world was new again—urgent and perilous and beautiful.
How he’d missed this.
He was weaponless, but he didn’t need weapons. He crouched in the darkness, waiting, as the rhythmic clopping of hooves reached him.
“Who’s there?” he called.
“Chief?” Frey’s voice, soft and high.
The white spots of paint on Aljan’s dark face seemed to glow like eyes as they rode out of the trees.
The tension eased in Archer’s limbs as he stood. “What are you doing here?” He couldn’t keep the note of disappointment out of his voice.
“I didn’t want to come, but it wouldn’t have been right to keep this from you,” Frey said.
“Keep what from me?”
“Hatchet is in Epigloss. He’s working security for a tavern by the docks.”
Archer’s fingers went to the scar at his throat. Hatchet—stout build, ruddy skin, scabbed knuckles.
He’d killed Oriyah.
He’d turned Archer into an animal.
“He’s just one man. You don’t have to come,” Frey said. “You can stay here.”
In the dim light, Aljan looked eerily like his dead brother. “Or, if we leave now, we can make it by tomorrow night.”
Archer’s hands curled. There were so many reasons to stay—his mother, his cousin, his grandfather, his aunt and uncle, Annabel, Annabel, the girl he once believed he’d marry if only they’d had more time together—and only one reason to go.
In the distance, he could have sworn he heard thunder.
“Let me get my horse,” he said.
CHAPTER 40
The House on the Hill Overlooking the Sea
Although at night Sefia was locked in her windowless room, in the custody of the Administrators, during the day she toured the galleries and corridors, visited the kitchens, which smelled of browning pastries and sauces simmering in pots. She conversed with gardeners and groundskeepers, and explored passageways deep within the mountain.
Sometimes she noticed Dotan watching her from the bottom of a stairwell or the end of a corridor, and though he never said a word to her, she could feel his hatred following her through the Main Branch like a shadow. His Apprentice Tolem, she never got the chance to formally meet.
She was always accompanied by an escort—one of the servants, or June, sometimes Erastis, but more often than not, Tanin—the Second—herself. She was waiting for the return of the First, so she could begin training. “A merciful decision by our esteemed Director,” she said bitterly.
“You’ll get a bloodsword?” Sefia asked.
“Yes.”
“But to earn their bloodswords, Assassins have to kill their family.”
Tanin shrugged. “What family?”
Often, they talked of Sefia’s parents: Tanin recounting their days as Apprentices, Sefia telling her about their life in the house on the hill overlooking the sea.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there for Mareah’s last days. I heard she was ill. She probably contracted it before she betrayed us, from one of her victims. It must have taken years for her symptoms to show,” Tanin said once, idly ripping a square of flatbread into soft pieces. “I loved her, you know, even after she turned on us . . . I would have liked to know why she did it.”
“You mean you don’t know either?” Sefia asked.
“How could I? She kept pushing me away.”
Sefia prodded the lumps of rock sugar the kitchen servants served with her mint tea. “Then why would you still care about them? After all they did to you?”
“They were my family.”
“I was their family.” Sefia glowered down at her cup, where the leaves had begun to brown. “You killed one of them. You would have killed them both if you’d found them before my mother died.”
“Perhaps I’ve already earned my bloodsword, then.”
Sefia almost felt sorry for her. They’d spent so much time together over the past week that to anyone else they might have looked like friends.
Tanin swept the pieces of flatbread into a small pile. “Have you ever been back? To the house?”
“No.” Sefia twisted her napkin in her lap.
“Do you want to?” The woman leaned forward, suddenly eager. “I can take you. We can go tomorrow.”
“How long will it take to get there?”
Tanin smiled. “Not long.”
• • •
The next day Tanin brought Sefia to the south side of the mountain, overlooking the snowcapped range. Rocks slid into the gorge below as Sefia toed the edge. Granite ranges like this only existed in Deliene’s Szythian Mountains and on the west coast of Everica—so she had to be in one of those places. She filed that information away for later use.
“What are we doing here?” she asked, glancing around. “Are we going to fly?”
A corner of Tanin’s mouth twitched. “Not exactly.” She smoothed her hair away from her face. “Do you remember how many tiers of Illumination there are?”
“Four,” Sefia said. The first two levels, Sight and Manipulation, were commonplace enough among the Guardians, but Transformation was rarer, and the final tier was only attempted by the most advanced Illuminators. “Oh. Teleportation.”
“Teleportation is the most complicated and dangerous form of Illumination. With it, you can transport yourself instantaneously across great distances.” Tanin blinked, and her pupils contracted. Sefia summoned her Sight as well, her vision filling with gold.
“The Illuminated world is like a living, breathing record of the physical world. With our limited senses, we can only see a small fraction of it at a time—or risk losing ourselves—but it’s all there. We could see a city as distant as Braska if we could sift through such a prodigious amount of information.” As if to illustrate her point, Tanin trailed her hand through the swirling currents, which trickled between her fingers like water and re-formed again.
“So you can go anywhere?” Sefia asked.
“Only to locations we know so well we can recall every detail. As with the Sight, if we don’t have a clear referent, well . . . imagine what would happen if someone tried teleporting to a place that doesn’t exist.”
The wind blew over them, cold and smelling of snow. “You mean you’d die?”
“Do you remember what happened to the mold the Librarians were extracting from their manuscript?”
It had disappeared like raindrops in a river. Was that what would happen to her, if she made a mistake in Teleportation? “You knew about that?” Sefia asked.
“Erastis shouldn’t have included you in his little lesson, but Erastis does what Erastis wants.” Tanin opened her arms wide, as if she were parting drapes to let in the sunlight.
Sefia watched her sift through the Illuminated world. “Is this a lesson too?”
“Consider it a test run. You do want proof we’re l
eaving the boy alone, don’t you?”
She could see Archer. She’d know he was safe. Her heart clenched. She might also see him with Annabel.
But that was better than watching him die.
Tanin’s eyes narrowed. “Take my hand.”
“Why?”
“I’ve found your home.”
Sefia slid her hand into Tanin’s. “You’re not afraid I’ll learn how to teleport too?”
Tanin laughed. “Didn’t I say Teleportation was the most complicated and dangerous form of Illumination? You’re talented, Sefia, but not even your father was clever enough to figure out Teleportation by himself.”
Eagerly, Sefia watched Tanin sweep them forward, carrying them through the turbulence of gold and light. Then her feet touched grass. Sea air filled her lungs. For a moment, Sefia reeled. Releasing Tanin’s hand, she slumped onto the stairs in front of the door. The boards were cracked and covered with grime, but these were the same steps on which she’d stood so many years ago, the morning she’d found her father dead on the kitchen floor.
Tanin looked down at her pityingly. “You should know Lon’s body isn’t here,” she said. “We gave him a proper burning.”
“When?”
“Two days later.”
Long enough for the animals and insects to have found him first. Sefia balled her fists.
As if she realized she’d said something wrong, Tanin plucked at her scarf, looking anywhere but at Sefia—the cliffs and the rocky coast, the chimneys half-collapsed, the garden gone wild with brambles.
Finally Sefia stood. Placing her hand on the knob, she opened the door.
The last time she’d been here, the house had just been ransacked by the Guard. Now it was a ruin. Shards of glass littered the floors. Most of the furniture was missing. The curtains lay crumpled and rotting beneath the windowsills. The pots and knives were gone, the plates smashed, the blankets soiled.
With Tanin behind her, Sefia picked her way through the debris.
“Why’d you bring me here?” She knelt, turning over a piece of a broken vase.
“I thought you’d want to see it . . . ” the woman began uncertainly. “I thought you’d want to come back.”