Grace and Fury

by Tracy Banghart

  In almost every window and on every roof in view, she could see the silhouettes of other spectators. But the lamp-lit streets and canals below were eerily empty.

  “The city is holding its breath,” Maris murmured. She was wearing her studded green gown. With her unbound hair whipping in the wind and the torchlight flickering across her face, there was something dangerous about her.

  Behind them, a turret rose into the darkness; the narrow walkway that encircled it was full of people: the Superior and his Graces, and the Heir and his. There were a few dignitaries and servants, and several soldiers standing at attention on either side of the doorway that led back inside to the stairwell. And somewhere, there was Asa. She’d spent the evening looking for him, wondering if there would be a moment to speak with him alone.

  Nomi had seen him briefly when she’d stepped out of the twisting stairs, her feet sore from climbing in her impractical shoes. She looked again now, but he had disappeared.

  “This is so exciting,” Cassia said, appearing at the rail beside Nomi. “We’ve no horse racing in Sola.”

  Maris shook her head. “I still don’t understand how the horses don’t kill themselves, racing along cobbled streets and over all those narrow bridges.”

  “Many of them do,” Malachi said, coming up behind them. “Sometimes the riders too. The Premio Baleria is a brutal race. Blind corners, narrow streets, uneven footing, even some swimming—it takes skill, luck, and a superior horse to win.”

  “How dangerous.” Cassia turned and leaned back on the rail, which accentuated her voluptuous figure. Her purple dress glittered in the lamplight. “Have you ever raced in it, Your Eminence?”

  A muscle in Malachi’s jaw jumped. “I haven’t,” he said. “But my brother has.”

  Nomi couldn’t read his expression, but there was a hum of tension beneath the words. She stared back down at the city; the race route was well lit, the rest cloaked in darkness. The finish line was marked by two large red flags hung high above the street from the base of the building where she stood.

  One of the Superior’s emissaries would signal the start of the race, and then, when it concluded, the Superior himself would bestow the prize on the winner. His Eminence was standing not far away, his skeletal hands gripping the rail. He looked frail and gaunt, but he stood ramrod straight. As she watched, he nodded to someone, and a soldier peeled away from the wall and disappeared into the stairway.

  Nomi turned back to Malachi. “I heard your brother won the race, Your Eminence.” Nomi had been trying all day to imagine Asa competing in such a race, but all she saw in her mind was his wry, gentle smile.

  “Yes,” Malachi said flatly. “He did.”

  Nomi raised a brow. Was the Heir jealous of his younger brother’s accomplishments?

  Suddenly, a piercing shriek cut the air.

  Nomi’s ears rang in the silence that followed. There wasn’t a view of the start of the race from this vantage point, but she could hear a sound that resembled distant thunder, and a horse screamed.

  Cassia squealed with excitement. Maris leaned over the rail, craning to catch a glimpse of the runners. The crowd shifted to the other side of the turret to get a better view. Malachi offered his arm, and Cassia took it, quickly, before Nomi or Maris had the chance. They followed the gaggle of spectators. Maris trailed behind. Nomi turned to follow, but she caught sight of Asa leaning against the rail a few yards away, on his own. There were only a few people left on this side of the tower. Nomi hesitated.

  Malachi didn’t look back. He disappeared around the curve of the building, Cassia and Maris in tow. With a last flutter of uncertainty, Nomi headed the other way.

  Distant cheers rang out, and the thunder of hooves grew louder. Nomi wandered to an empty spot along the rail next to Asa, hoping she wasn’t being too obvious.

  He smiled when he noticed her. “Not much of a view here. Are you not a horse racing fan?” There was something infectious and irreverent about him, so different from Malachi and his narrow-eyed brooding.

  “I’ve never seen a race, so I can’t say,” Nomi answered. “But I’m not fond of crowds.”

  Asa leaned over the rail, trying to see the horses as they approached the home stretch. The sound was building: the roar of spectators, the screams of the horses, the percussive throb of hoofbeats.

  Nomi wanted to pull him back, away from the edge. It made her nervous, the way he hung himself over the rail, more of his body suspended in the air than fixed to the ground. “You are a fan of horse racing, I hear. Word is you won this race once, the youngest man ever to do so,” Nomi said.

  He glanced back at her with a devilish gleam in his eye. “I did,” he said. “Premio Belaria champion. I have a great golden cup. Sometimes I drink wine from it to remind myself of how incomparably talented and accomplished I am.”

  “And modest?” Nomi added, laughing.

  Asa affected an innocent, wide-eyed expression. “Supreme master of all things, at your service,” he said, bowing. “I apologize, but supreme masters are not at all modest.”

  Nomi rolled her eyes at him, but she couldn’t stop smiling.

  The first of the horses careened around the corner and down the street directly below them. They still had to make a loop through the main piazza, up a small bridge and through a canal before arcing back to the finish line, but from this vantage, the rest of the race would be visible. Already, the rail was filling with people again.

  “Are supreme masters all-knowing?” Nomi asked, shooting Asa a look.

  “Of course,” he said. “In fact, I can tell you that the horse in yellow, with the blood-streaked jockey, will be our winner.” The horse and jockey in question were not the only ones showing signs of battle. Nomi saw another horse with a gash in his shoulder, and another whose jockey had sagged low over his neck and seemed on the verge of tumbling off.

  “When I raced, I was covered in blood by halfway through,” Asa continued conversationally. “Gashed my forehead on the underside of a bridge going through a canal. Take it from the all-knowing supreme master—it’s a wild, wild race.”

  Nomi’s heart hammered in her ears. She glanced around. Malachi was nowhere near, and no one else was paying attention. This was her chance. “With all that all-knowingness,” she ventured, staring at the race because she couldn’t bear to look Asa in the eye, “does the supreme master have any idea what happened to a lowly Grace’s sister?”

  One of the leading horses suddenly buckled, its hooves slipping off the walkway and into the canal. The horse sputtered and screamed.

  Nomi held her breath. Someone jostled her—an older man with heavy jowls and overgrown eyebrows. Asa put a light hand at her elbow, drawing her a step closer to him, away from the man. His voice, when he spoke, had lost its teasing edge. Gently, he said, “The supreme master does, but I fear it will not be the answer you seek.”

  Nomi’s stomach twisted. She closed her eyes. “What happened to her?” she whispered, bracing herself.

  “She was sent to Mount Ruin,” Asa murmured. “I’m so sorry.”

  The words fell like stones against Nomi’s chest, crushing her. Mount Ruin… “For how long?”

  “I’m sorry,” he said again. “No one leaves Mount Ruin.”

  Nomi covered her face with her hands as her heart broke open. She couldn’t bear it.

  This is my fault.

  The cheers of the crowd exploded all around them as the winning horse clattered across the finish line. Nomi opened her eyes to catch a flash of yellow before the rest of the riders thundered past. She wiped the tears from her cheeks, remembering herself. She couldn’t break down here, now, in the center of this maelstrom.

  Spectators hung from every doorway and window, waving white towels above the streets. One by one, the towels floated down onto the competitors, who sagged and limped now that the race was over.

  Asa’s hand touched her arm again, startling her. “I can try to find out more,” he said quietly. “The condit
ions, if she’s comfortable… something.”

  Nomi’s throat closed. Women were never put to death in Viridia. The harshest punishment was prison, and Mount Ruin was the worst of them all. It was where they sent the murderers, traitors, and thieves.

  Serina had only held a book in her hands. How had this happened?

  “Do you remember the terrace where we first spoke? Do you think you could find your way back there?” Asa asked, urgency creeping into his voice.

  She nodded mutely.

  Asa squeezed her arm encouragingly. “Meet me in three days, when the moon is high and everyone is asleep. I should know more by then.”

  “Thank you.” The words came out hoarse and strange.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of Malachi heading her way, with Cassia and Maris on either side.

  Desperately, Nomi tried to calm the emotions playing across her face.

  Asa glanced up himself, noticing his brother as well. He shot her a cheeky grin. “I’m off to collect my winnings. The supreme master of all things picked the right horse.”

  He disappeared into the crowd just as Malachi and his entourage reached her. “There you are,” the Heir said. “Did you enjoy the race?”

  Nomi nodded. “It was even more exciting than I expected, Your Eminence.”

  And devastating.

  She joined the celebration, a wooden smile fixed to her face, but inside, she was a wasteland, everything burning to ash.

  SEVENTEEN

  SERINA

  ORACLE AND EMBER carried Petrel’s body back to the cave. They placed it with care on an old wooden table with scorched legs that sat in the back corner, away from the sleeping pallets. Two women lit torches near Petrel’s head and feet. Another brought water to wash away the blood.

  Serina sat with the others, arms hugging her knees to her chest, and watched. No one talked or readied themselves for sleep, even though it was well past midnight.

  Serina’s eyes burned.

  Oracle wrapped Petrel in a white sheet, smoothing the threadbare material over the girl’s cheek and down her arm. Ember and two other women approached, and between the four, they raised Petrel’s body onto their shoulders.

  Serina joined the procession back out of the cave and into the night. She didn’t know where they were going. She was only aware of the darkness pressing close, Petrel’s white sheet leading the way.

  They walked for what felt like hours. At some point, a reddish glow subsumed the light of torches. The path steepened, narrowed. When at last the line of women stopped, dry sulfuric heat pulsed against Serina’s cheeks.

  Another caldera extended into the darkness, but this one was alive.

  Below them, the skin of the earth had burst, exposing a small pool of lava, bright enough to stain Serina’s vision red.

  Oracle’s voice rose into the night. One by one, the other women joined, and a song flowed out above the restless snap and crackle of the lava. Serina didn’t know the words, but the eerie cadence dug inside her chest and soon she was singing too.

  Fire, breathe

  Water, burn

  Terror, wane

  Your reign is over.

  Fire, breathe

  Water, burn

  Stars, lead the way

  Your sister is here.

  With a great cry, Oracle and the other three raised Petrel’s body high above their heads. Then everyone else screamed too, their voices swooping out into the night like a flock of hunting birds. The white sheet glowed red as Petrel’s body dove into the volcano. Sparks flew high, fluttering right up to the stars.

  The women stood vigil until the last of the sparks died, and the night was silent again.

  Serina swallowed against the grittiness in her throat, sore from yelling. Her hands balled into fists at her sides, and her cheeks were wet. She followed the line of women back down the side of Mount Ruin, down into the jungle, but when she reached the entrance to the cave, she kept going, desperate to be alone.

  A narrow path led toward the coast. The moonlight guided her through the trees, out to another massive lava field, where the whorls and waves of rock shone silver. The quiet of the night was absolute. But out of the corner of her eye, far away, lights twinkled.

  She picked her way across the wasteland toward them. It wasn’t until her feet skidded to the edge of the cliff and the screaming wind and crashing waves pounded against her ears that she realized that the glittering beacons were the lights of Bellaqua. In daylight, the city was invisible, but the faintest sparkle now shone from out of the black.

  Her heart twisted. Somewhere out of sight, in a palazzo girded with gold and glass, Nomi was probably dancing with the Heir. Serina knew her sister hadn’t meant for any of this to happen. But with every cell of her body, she wished that Nomi had, for once, behaved as a woman of Viridia should.

  Serina stared down at the white morass below. Could she jump? She could try to swim, escape the pull of the island and let the currents take her to Bellaqua. Or maybe she would sink, and find her own sanctuary to follow all the despair.

  “It’s not the best cliff for jumping.”

  Serina staggered back, away from the ledge, terror shooting through her. But it wasn’t Bruno. Instead, Valentino stood next to her, his dark hair ruffled by the wind. With the roar of the waves, Serina hadn’t heard him approach.

  Looking down at the roiling surf below, he added, “There are currents here that’ll bob you along for a fair distance before they suck you under. The best cliffs for jumping are the ones with lots of rocks below. You’re more likely to die on impact that way. Quick. Maybe painless, if you hit it right. Some girls don’t. They break their backs or their legs, and then they scream as they drown. The southern cliffs are best. They have the hardest landings.”

  Serina wrapped her arms around herself. It would almost be worth it, to wash the blood from her mind, to silence the nightmares.

  “Don’t jump,” Val said, his voice stolen by the wind.

  Serina glanced at him. In the darkness, she couldn’t read his expression. “You just told me how.”

  “That’s because it’s your choice. And you should make an informed one.” He stared out at the distant lights. “But I hope you don’t jump.”

  “Why?” Serina asked. He wasn’t forcing some power play on her, like Bruno. And it wasn’t possible that he could be forming a romantic interest in her. In her threadbare prison uniform, her face sunburned and her hair dirty, she was a far cry from the elegant prospect who had ascended the stairs of the Superior’s palazzo two weeks ago.

  So why did he care if she lived or died?

  He shrugged, his gaze never leaving the star-touched ocean. “Somebody I cared about was sent here. Before I came. She jumped.”

  Serina’s breath caught, a tightness spreading across her chest. “I’m sorry, Valentino.”

  “Val,” he corrected. “I think about her a lot. Mostly I wonder what would have happened if someone had stood by her, like I’m standing by you.” He removed his hat and ran a hand through his unruly hair. “Maybe she’d still be alive.”

  “So you try to talk down the jumpers,” she said. But he was still a guard. He still stayed here, playing his part in this cruelty. Like Bruno. Serina stared at his profile, clear in the moonlight. Her voice hardened. “What about the fighters? Does it bother you to watch women kill each other? Or do you cheer, like all the other guards?”

  “Bother me?” He turned fully toward her, a muscle working in his jaw. His voice vibrated with emotion as he said, “Every night, every time I close my eyes, I see them. Always, always they’re in pain. I carry them with me, and I will until I die.”

  Serina stared at him, shocked. It was the last thing she had expected him to say.

  “Please,” he said, and now he was pleading, barely audible over the screaming wind. “I’d rather you didn’t haunt me too.”

  Serina stared at him, softening despite herself. She was sure the words weren’t meant as
a comfort, but nevertheless they reassured her. If she died here, at least one person would remember her.

  He turned back toward the cliff, and something about the way he stood, the pain she’d heard in his voice, made her ask, “Do you ever find yourself on the ledge?”

  Val glanced at her, and the shadows in his eyes were deep and unfathomable. “All the time.”

  Sometimes Serina wondered what Nomi would do if she were here. Maybe Nomi would be a strong fighter, or like Oracle, smart enough to strategize and help the others. Maybe she’d try to work a way around the rules, like she did at home. It was impossible to predict, but there was one thing she did know. If Nomi were here, she would never give up. It had always been one of her most frustrating qualities.

  Tears built behind Serina’s eyes.

  Nomi wouldn’t want Serina to give up either. Serina would have to live with Petrel’s memory, with the blood and the nightmares. She’d have to keep fighting. Even Petrel had told her to. You fight back, she’d said. Always.

  The steady, screaming wind cut through Serina’s thin shirt. She turned away from the cold, distant sparkle of Bellaqua and back toward the path. On impulse, she reached out and squeezed Val’s wrist.

  “Don’t jump,” she said.

  EIGHTEEN

  NOMI

  IT BEGAN AS a dream, not a nightmare. Nomi and Serina were huddled with Renzo as he read “The Lovebirds” to them.

  The small dark room of Nomi’s memory split apart and became the sky, wide open and rushing, and Nomi and Serina became birds, their faces feathered by the wind. Nomi rode on Serina’s back, just like in the story.

  Her sister flew far, far, far out to sea. Soon Serina tired, dipping closer and closer to the rolling water. Nomi flapped her wings and flew free of her sister and let Serina settle onto her own back.

  But Serina was too heavy, Nomi too weak. Nomi looked for the land to push up from the ocean, waited for their salvation to come, but instead the sky darkened. The waves savaged each other. The wind scoured her face.