Ember

by Anna Holmes

  Caelin looks at her for a solid second, and then nods. "Get their jars."

  I can barely breathe, the weight of the magic pressing down on me. I'm going to have to release this spell soon. "Caelin," I gasp again.

  "Just a little longer," she answers.

  I don’t have just a little longer. It's one thing to cast a spell and let it do what it will. It's another entirely to try to hold it in place, to drag out the effects, to manipulate minute components. My vision blurs. I don't even have enough in me to answer her. She calls, "I know, my love. I know I ask a lot and I'm a brat in return, but just this one last thing for me."

  For her. I squeeze my eyes shut and inadvertently clench my whole body at the same time. Her voice cuts through the darkness and the ringing in my ears. "Just a little more, love. Almost there." Just as I'm forced to let go, she says, "Got it. Alain, do you have a freeze left in you?"

  I open my eyes. I don't, but the anonymous will caster I've been borrowing does. Unfortunately, that means when everyone else freezes, she doesn't. The woman whose appearance Jori borrowed—at least, I think it's her this time—stares at me, a rabbit caught in my lantern light. I hold her gaze for a moment, searching. Jori's shifts were always nearly flawless—no trace of her anywhere except the eyes. She turns away from me and starts to run. Before she makes her way out, she bends to wrestle a jar from Alora. I try everything, even reaching a hand out in front of me like a novice. She doesn't freeze or even slow. She's blocked me out at last.

  Tressa moves to our side and watches her leave, her eyes following, mentally charting a path to catch up with her. Caelin holds out a hand to stay her for a moment. "Alain, if these are dropped in the lake…"

  "The flames should go out."

  Tressa nods and holds out the bag to Alora, who hastily gathers up the jars and piles them into Tressa's bag. She gallops away at full speed, leaving us with the rest of the visitors from the Grove.

  The Legion and possibly even the Resurgence would have us stab them while they don't move or even lob one of the jars at them, but that has never been Caelin's way. She walks around them, assessing. "How long will they stay like this?"

  "I don't know," I admit. "Seconds, maybe. Be careful."

  She finds her way back over to me, her face somber. Her eyes lock me in, as though they are made of the amber whose color they share. "I said I wouldn't fight, but…"

  "It's all right," I tell her. "I know."

  She turns her face away now, unable to keep looking at me, or indeed look at anything. The color is drained from her face, her glow beginning to fade. She needs a bed, not a battlefield. But this is her city, her home. I know what that feels like. I couldn’t stay in bed, either. "If I—"

  I take her by the elbow and try to catch her eye again. It's fleeting, but when I do, I tell her, "I love you."

  She smiles back and stands on her toes to kiss me. It doesn't last long. I hear the uninvited guests begin to shake off their incapacitation, clanking, groaning, muttering. The nearest draws a sword.

  Rye fumbles around in his cloak for a weapon, and Caelin's sword arm tenses reflexively. I look at her out of the corner of my eye. Her gaze is sharp and the set of her jaw says that she's ready for the fight, but the way her upper body cradles the other arm tells me she's far from it. She won't survive if she gives it everything, and she might not survive unless she gives it everything.

  On a hunch, I step in front of her, directly in the way of Rye's attempt at a strike. He pulls up short.

  I grin. "Worth more alive, am I, even after all this?"

  "You have no idea," he mutters.

  So my mother is involved.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Caelin

  I throw my braid over my shoulder with a jerk of my head and push out a caustic-feeling breath, trying to send the pain with it. Everything’s gone to hell, but somehow, that's almost better. I am fairly good at wrangling hell.

  Rye is temporarily held at bay, Alain continually interposing himself between his broadsword and me.

  But Kelvin…

  Two guards lie smoking from their chests and faces, dropped unceremoniously to the ground by the molten red mass that the skin of Kelvin's hands has become. They never even had any time to scream. It sickens me to think it, but that was exactly what I needed him to do. There's no wriggling out of this one. Kelvin's perpetually untarnished character has been unquestionably sullied. I face him. "Give yourself over, Kelvin," I tell him. "This doesn't have to hurt anyone else."

  It's a different man I'm facing, his eyes wild, his gray hair drifting in tufts in his face. His breaths huff in and out. I can't help but stare. The crazed expression sits stark against his still buttoned dress uniform.

  I've fought alongside him for close to six years now. I knew that he was manipulative. I knew that there was a cold streak wider than this island in this man. But I couldn't have anticipated what a taste of power would make him—this heaving, desperate creature that I now fight against. "Yes, let's be done with it," he laughs. "I've had more than my share of pain at your hands."

  I blink through the wavering air around his brand-hot hands, which he holds before him as though that may somehow block the sword I aim at him. Maybe it will. I don’t know. I am hesitant to use it on him, even after all this. He's barely recognizable, but he's still the one who pulled me out of isolation, who gave me the chance to make something of myself. He's still Riley's stepfather.

  A fresh group of guards approaches from the rear, and he turns on them, fingers clawing. He grasps the outstretched blades with not so much as a flinch and flings them away. The guards—who may well have served under him, too, heard his words, rallied to his cause—fumble around for secondary weapons or jerk back to try to avoid him. It's not fast enough. He sweeps a hand through the air and they all fall back. His lips move. As he drones, the guards writhe, reaching for their throats.

  Riley's stepfather or not, I need to move. I tighten my grip on my sword and rush straight for Kelvin. I can only get within a few feet before I feel the air start to thin, as though I've climbed straight up a mountain in a matter of seconds. Before I can start to choke, I scramble backwards. I gasp for pure air and recalculate.

  I need Alain. I whip around and look for him amongst this mess. For a moment, my heart seems to be trying to hammer its way through my armor, but at last I find him, mostly unscathed, all the way back up at the altar, holding off Rye and the last of his insurgents. His help is not an option right now.

  I swallow hard and turn back. Some of the guards have stopped moving. Still others struggle for air.

  Maybe Alain can help after all. My damp brow furrows. He’d said something about magic taking and giving. It’s taking air from the guards, so what is it giving Kelvin?

  I squint hard. He’s wobbling a little, like he’s been drinking. So either he’s not exempt from his spell, or he’s taking on the extra. Either way, it’s bound to make his concentration very flimsy indeed. I run up close to the edge of the spell’s radius, a faintly purple circle around him, take one last deep breath, and knock my good elbow into his head and hard.

  It works. Stunned, he stumbles, and the purple ring fades. Each of the guards’ chests rise again, and they gag and wheeze. I join in, my lungs hungry for air. Every cough rattles my shoulder, though, and I’m not quite ready when Kelvin finds his feet again. At the last moment, my blade meets his hand with a clang that reverberates in my head and the hall. He shoves his weight into it, and my eyes flick to his palms. The blade doesn’t cut into his skin at all. His eyes flash, and he gives me a solid push. My heels slip, but I recover. "Leave them," I pant. "Your quarrel is with me."

  "So many quarrels with you," he remarks, his hands still outstretched. "And it still wasn’t enough. You never learned."

  I shake my head. "Quarreling isn’t teaching. What am I supposed to learn from being shouted at? But you haven’t been honest about a damn thing all along. What was it? You were going to let them in t
o kill Riley and Alora after the ceremony? How long have you known about the Grove?"

  He says nothing, but the heave of his shoulders tells me that I’ve got the right idea. The longer this goes on, the less magic he’ll have at his disposal.

  He’s going to try to spend it all on me first, though. With a fling of a hand, he sends water spilling from the wall, over me, the guards, the floor. I turn my back against this wave so that it doesn’t hit my shoulder, but the bandage still soaks through, and the water is cold. I bite down hard and move for him again. For my troubles, I get his fingers clamping down hard on my exposed wrist.

  He watches me expectantly. His hold, an extremely warm vise, is uncomfortable, but unfortunately for him, it doesn’t seem to be doing what he wants it to. I glance down, and then back up. His smirk flickers and begins to fade.

  I, however, finally have something to smile about. He’s no longer holding me at arm’s length, which means that I can finally do something.

  I fling my arm upward with enough force that it leaves his body open and seems to tear mine open at the shoulder. He has my sword still trapped in midair, but I can swing my foot into his knee and ram my elbow into his chest. He drops my wrist, and I bring my sword down on his head.

  He throws up the other hand. The point of the sword glances over his forearm, slices some of the braid from his cuff, but bounces impotently off his hand. I have him on the defensive. No more time to cast complex spells, no more standoffs, and all the while, the guards are recovering well enough to edge in again.

  Kelvin huffs with the exertion, ducking, dodging. I never did see him fight if he could help it. He usually surveyed battles from a convenient hilltop, picking off any strays who wandered up to him. I have the advantage of practice, but unfortunately, I’m starting to sound like him. My breaths rattle, and with each swing of the sword, I have to stifle a groan. His eyes flick to me, and I realize that his strategy is the same as mine—each of us waits for the other to wear down.

  That can’t be me this time. I’m going to have to end our quarrel.

  Another blast of water hits me, but instead of turning, I face directly into it. It feels like it’s pounding my shoulder into a pulp and it stings my eyes. With my bad arm, I reach out for him and grab onto his wrist. The water covers my scream. It feels as though something pinches straight through my shoulder. It’s all right, though. It gives me long enough to stuff my sword into its sheath, and as the water spreads across the floor like a wave breaking along the coast, I manage to grab hold of his other arm and yank.

  Between that and the knee to the back, he topples to the floor. I drop—partially on purpose because I know the searing in my shoulder will do it for me if I don’t—and keep my knee dug into his lower back as he thrashes. "Manacles," I wheeze out to the guards. "Quickly."

  One of them recovers himself enough to reach for the manacles at his belt. Kelvin chokes out a laugh. "You don’t learn, do you. You should kill me."

  I press my knee firmer into his kidney. "Probably," I agree. "But I’ve learned enough to avoid any more advice from you."

  The manacles close with a clink, and instantly the volcanic glow to his hands dies away. I drag myself up off Kelvin. "Get him out of here," I say, reaching out for a pew for support.

  "Ma’am," the guard says hesitantly. I can’t for the life of me think of his name, but I can’t for the life of me seem to think about much clearly. The room is wobbling way too much for that. "You should retire—"

  From behind us, Alain cries out. Wobbly room be damned, I have another problem to take care of.

  I skid to a stop in front of the still-dry dais and yell his name. At least I think I yell; I can’t quite hear right, as though I’ve never stopped being underwater. At last I spot him, sprawled on the ground, clutching his leg. Rye’s sword flashes in midair, and I dash to meet it.

  It’s not a graceful block. Arenna would shake her head over the way his blade scrapes down mine, near to the burnt, still smoking shreds of my leather gloves, ruined by Kelvin’s molten hands. But it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t get the chance to land it in or on Alain. "At last," he says, annoyed.

  "Caelin, get out of here," Alain ekes out.

  "Thought you wanted him alive," I say, bearing down on Rye’s sword. It honestly looks like there are three of them, so I shut my eyes for a second and try to focus on the feel of it.

  "Yes, well, I want you dead more."

  At least he’s honest. I open my eyes again and shudder my way back to a defensive stance. Air in, pain out, air in, pain out. My shoulder throbs, but it’s all right. I’m all right. Alain is all right.

  Slowly, he stands behind me, finding his balance again. You need to get out of the way, he tells me.

  "Alain, godsdamnit—"

  He reaches out and pulls me back just as August comes screaming up the aisle, slashing wildly at his uncle. It’s not entirely graceless, but his eyes are wide, nostrils flared, face full of the anxiety of his first real battle. Rye takes a step back, his parry nearly too late. He lets his sword down to his side. "Your own family, August?"

  "You would have let us die," his nephew heaves, pausing between swings. "You’re letting Gavroth die right now."

  "You’ve thrown your lot in with them," he answers, picking up his attack anew.

  We should go, Alain tells me, taking me by the crook of my arm.

  It is an optimal moment, but I hesitate. Rye swings the blade as sharply, as hard as he would against me. Leaving August would be praying that the guards figure themselves out quickly enough to rescue him once Rye’s years of training finally win over his nephew’s short-lived bursts of passion. I begin to back up from Alain inch by inch. In doing so, I bump into Alora, who stumbles. Something clatters to the ground and rolls under the front pews. Rye stops short. I shut my eyes, or the room may just fall off its axis. My stomach's already there. "Tell me," I say. "Tell me you didn't."

  "I didn't have anything to protect myself," she hisses.

  Rye dives away from August to get to his hands and knees, his sword scraping against the ground as he begins searching under the pews, grasping in the shadows for the jar. I use the opportunity to shove the pew over onto him. With a grunt, he sprawls out flat and the jar rolls away again. Alain leans forward now, and when he rises, I see the glint of the glass in his palm. The relief barely has time to settle in before the pew comes flying back at me. I duck and before I can stand, Rye’s free hand shoots out and claws for me. He grasps me around the neck and yanks me clear of Alain and Alora, holding his sword out. "I'll take that jar now."

  My gorget presses into my wound. I don't know if he's doing it on purpose or not, but gods, I can't breathe for the pain. I swing, but my arm flails out limply. I kick, but barely make contact. The combination of the two blows does loosen his grip slightly, and I slip out, albeit to my knees. August catches me by the elbow, so at the very least I am spared a fall onto my face. The bad news is that it's the wrong elbow.

  A bright flash sears across my vision as the pain tears through me, burning more than the ember of alchemist's fire in my arm ever did. I'm choking as August is ripped away from me and the point of Rye's sword slips neatly under the edge of my gorget.

  "The jar, or she dies now," Rye shouts, his words echoing in the vast emptiness of the cathedral.

  Alain looks down at the contents of his hand. I find enough air to gasp, "Don't you dare." Slowly, he lifts his head and begins towards Rye. "Alain, don't," I plead, hating the weakness of my voice. He won't listen. He never will. "You can't…"

  Trust me.

  How can I, when you’re about to hand over a weapon like that to a man who has no problem killing his own nephew? How can I, when the stump-drag of your gait means that I bear the point of Rye's blade in my already bleeding wound longer?

  Then I see his fingers twitch. I know this motion.

  Oh.

  I let my head loll to the side and my eyes go glassy. Rye withdraws and gives me a kick. It's
all I can do to stay quiet and still. Alain's voice breaks. "Here," he says. "It doesn't matter anymore. Just take it and let her be."

  The moments stretch on forever for as the jar leaves Alain's hand and settle in Rye’s. Once it does, everything happens in an instant. Alain drops to the ground and gathers me up and throws out a hand. A strong wind pushes Rye back, and he has just enough time to turn and look at us before Alain freezes him with a clench of his hand, as though he's merely catching a fly in midair.

  I don't see what happens next. Alain pulls me away, shielding me as the roar sounds and the blue flash wipes out all shadow in the room. When it dies away and takes the unbearable heat with it, all that remains is the twisted, glowing metal of his sword, clattering to the floor and settling there.

  Alain holds me there for a moment among the burning pews, his breathing fast, his hands shaking. That's right. He's never killed anyone. If I could have, I would have done anything to keep it that way. "Alain," I start.

  He seems to remember that he's clutching me and loosens his grasp. Frantically, he starts pulling at the fasteners of my neck guard and lets it fall to the side. He must be reassured by what he sees, because he sits back, shutting his eyes and forcing a few more breaths. He finds my face with his hand and holds it for a moment, and then opens his eyes again. "He's gone," he says, as though realizing it for the first time.

  I grasp his hand with mine. "But the rest aren't."

  "I know. I'm going to go see. Just…"

  I find his eyes and give him a nod. "I'm done for today."

  He presses his forehead to mine briefly, then loosens his cloak, balls it up, and slides it underneath my head. My eyelids want to sink, but he calls me back. "Don't do that," he says. "Please."

  I nod again and take a gurgling breath. It feels as though a cord is being drawn tight across my throat, but my mind is mostly clear now. August draws closer. "Is she…"

  "She'll be fine," Alain answers firmly, as though ordering me as well as reassuring August. "Just…stay close, and don't let her fight."