Ember

by Anna Holmes

  He starts to stand, and I grasp his wrist. "Be careful," I tell him.

  He kneels again, reaching into his pouch and pulling out a small vial. He opens my hand and sets it into it. "If you need to, take this," he says. "Leave a little in the bottom so your alchemists can figure it out."

  "I mean it," I tell him as he stands again. "Just this once, do as you're asked."

  Finally, some color returns to his face. He faces me and with that blasted lopsided grin, makes a low bow. "As you wish it, your highness."

  From somewhere in the direction of the castle, the roar of a conflagration sounds. The smile vanishes, and he turns. "If I don't," he starts, beginning to run.

  "I love you," I shout back.

  Now I think I understand my father's crowns of flowers. A time for swords and a time to let others take up arms. A time for action and a time to rest.

  Having an impossible magician charging on my behalf makes the idea easier.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Alain

  It's as I feared. The fire comes from the direction of the lake.

  Tressa.

  The brush crackles all around the lake's edge, and I whirl around. The fire died back quickly, but it did its damage well. Anyone who would have been standing on the shore has gone the way of Rye, and I can't breathe for the smoke and the weight of thinking of who might have been here.

  There are still screams coming from the direction of the city. I need to move, but I find myself anchored.

  The surface of the lake roils, and I turn. Tressa's head appears. She gasps for air, and I can't help a shout. "This is freezing," she yells.

  "But you're all right!" I run toward the water and help tug her free of the soggy lake bottom. Her hind leg seems to want to stick. "Did she—"

  "Got away from me," she huffs, straining against the water. "She chucked that over the edge and ran off to town."

  "The other jars?"

  Her hoof finally pulls free, and she staggers onto shore. "Safely on the bottom."

  "You are wonderful, Tressa Nuthatch."

  "What about Rye?"

  My throat remembers the lump it developed the moment I realized what had to be done. "He—he's dead."

  She claps me on the shoulder. "Good. Now. Let's get after that woman. Up you get."

  She gestures to her back. "Twice in one day?" I ask, fumbling to throw my blasted leg up high enough to get on. "You're certain?"

  "Don't get used to this," she cautions.

  I don't have any witty ripostes for her. All I can say is, "You have my gratitude."

  I don't think she knows what to say, because she just picks up speed.

  The ride gives me time to gather my thoughts, blown away as they are by the early autumn wind and everything we've done today. What I just did. I shake myself and think. Twelve jars left the cathedral with six people, not counting potential Jori. "The jar on the lakeside," I call to Tressa. "Was that one of yours?"

  She doesn't turn to look at me, but I can tell by her voice that she grits her teeth. "Yes. I’m sorry. She took it from me before—"

  "No, that's good," I say. "It means she doesn't have access to more."

  Twelve jars is still twelve too many. One alone could bring disaster to the entire upper town. But at least we know the exact number left.

  By now Tressa manages to scramble over the last ledge of the embankment, and the struggle begins. The courtyard is absolutely filled with people running into each other and the walls, like insects trapped in a jar and looking for release. Large, sometimes hysterical insects who are hampering the attempts of the guards in the center to handle the insurgents at the heart of the panic. Tressa skillfully avoids those running towards her and even manages to reach out to help a couple up, but a flash of blue from the center of the throng gets us moving again.

  A jar is airborne. Tressa looks back at me. I throw out my hand and send a blast of air at the jar, knocking it away from the people to the lakeshore. That's burned enough by now that all we get are a dusting of sparks. A metallic snap comes from the direction that the jar was tossed. Riley Bannon's bolt has dispatched the jar's handler. Two more lie on the ground, bodies riddled with bolts. Neither is the blonde woman. Bannon registers our presence, but just barely. He turns to a trio of guards, handing over an armful of live jars. "Get these to the castle."

  "The lake," I cut in, dismounting as painlessly for Tressa as I possibly can. "Don't stockpile anything you wouldn't want to see used against you."

  Bannon's dark eyes flick to me, sizing me up. "A thousand pardons, your highness, but I answer to the rightful princess only."

  "She sent me to take a look. Listen. You could waste time arguing with me, or you could acknowledge that I've seen these things before and perhaps know something of them."

  His gaze doesn't waver from me, but at last, he says to the guards. "The lake, then. Hurry."

  The courtyard is a high point for the city, and from here I can see the path which August and I took, the valley where I let Maribelle free, and a good portion of the upper town. "How many Legion are still out there?" I ask.

  "Two, as far as I know. Those that remained in the cathedral—"

  I cut him off. Niceties can come later, when we’re not all in danger of going up in flame. "Dead, imprisoned, or shortly to be. All that's left is the woman and your two. How many jars between the two?"

  "Four."

  "And how many of ours are after them?"

  "We," he says pointedly, "have twenty after them."

  Absently, I nod. I don't have time for his vitriol, and neither does he. "And they know not to engage with magic?"

  "You seem to have done all right."

  "It wasn't precisely easy." I squint into the crowds below and shake my head. "I don't like this. They could be any of those people."

  "They've long run off. Our men are giving chase. This is over, as far as we're concerned."

  I give him the smallest bit of a grin. He’s trying to get me out of his face, but he’s much too focused on what’s going on to believe what he’s saying. "Then what are you doing still standing here, Lieutenant?"

  "Shut it," he mutters. Caught him, and he knows it. "Demon prince."

  Prince. The change in inflection on that word makes a difference. I'm about to change the subject when the word grips me. Specifically, the plans I made when it still had meaning for me. Urgently, I demand, "Answer me—where do you think they're headed?"

  "To hide in the wilds and lick their wounds, no doubt."

  "In which direction did they run?" He turns from me, his face screwed up as though he's eaten something unpleasant and is being forced to smile through it anyhow. I pursue. "Bannon, this is important. Which direction?"

  "Southeast," he says warily. "What…?"

  I scan the horizon as though I'd be able to somehow see them, and look at Tressa. "I'm sorry. May I?"

  She frowns at me and gestures for me to go ahead, stooping to help me up. "Alain, what are you…"

  I climb on with less difficulty this time. "One of them is headed for the airship port. The other to the upper town. We need to head them off."

  Bannon turns a glare on me, and I swear, the air has grown colder, cold enough for me to feel it. "And you would know that how?"

  "Because I designed the original siege." His eyes only grow darker, and I wave him off impatiently. "Yes, I know, but I'm helping you now. We're wasting yet more time. Get a horse and follow us."

  "Where am I going, exactly?" Tressa wants to know.

  "The upper town. Fast."

  "The only speed I have." If nothing else, we know we’ll have done everything I can. Whether Bannon believes me or not, I'm riding as fast as I can. Tressa's running as fast as she can.

  I calculate quickly. The point of the port attack was to destroy the airships and thus the rebels' ability to send and receive supplies. The point of the attack on the upper town was to frighten and distract. Neither was meant to take lives, but in a tow
n where I doubt news of the cathedral has reached, I think that the insurgent might have other ideas. If there's only time for one, that is the attack that must be forestalled.

  Behind me, I hear the pound of hooves. Bannon rides, crossbow drawn and ready, his men in tow. Good.

  Tressa's hooves hit cobblestones, and again we're dodging people, though this time, they're not fleeing. They gape at the smoke still rising from the lakeshore. The guards shout for them to get clear and head to the castle. I am at last grateful for the national holiday, as there are large groups of revelers together, heading to and from pubs and taverns. They now hustle along dutifully, but there are still too many others inside the inns and homes and shops. Tressa lands us in the main square, and I squint. "There!" I yell to Bannon.

  In the shadows is a man, who turns as I shout, his hands hovering over the jars on his belt. I move to slow him. It should be nothing compared to the energy I'd expended in the Cathedral, but it still wrings the strength out of me. It's enough. Four guards run to wrest the jars from him, throwing him to the ground and yanking his arms behind his back. Bannon orders another group of guards to the airship port and turns to me. It's all I can to do to tell myself that it's done. "Thank you," he says. "The loss of life could have been…"

  "It wasn't," I say, laughing with that unnatural relief that only follows something like this. "Let's…just focus on that."

  "They should intercept the other before he reaches the port."

  "Rebel idiot," the prisoner snaps, smirking past the trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth. "I was headed for the port."

  Bannon and I turn at the same time. Two plumes of flame erupt from behind the roofs of two buildings along the back alley. "No," I breathe involuntarily.

  "Gods," says Bannon.

  The flames roar and spread, just as they did the first time. By the time they hauled me away, nearly a quarter of the town had burned to the ground. My hands pull at my hair while the rest of me tries to drown out the screams of the townsfolk those months ago, to silence the noise of the battle still raging in my head. I look up at the sky as though there were some sort of guidance waiting there. There never was.

  But today, there are clouds.

  And an impossible idea strikes me. It’s something I've never tried. But air and water do as I bid, so why not the clouds?

  I reach out and focus hard—harder than I ever have, harder even than when I pounded against Caelin's mental wall. Harder than I am sure Marsh ever thought I could. My fingers curl as I strain, and my eyes squeeze shut, and I pull at the sky, and I beg and I plead and I hurt everywhere. The magic I’ve expended swirls invisibly around me, looking for entry into my body again. I’d like to let it in, but instead I have to imagine tearing it away from myself, flinging it into the atmosphere.

  I don't realize it at first. Being wet feels about the same as being dry to my seafolk skin. But the texture of Tressa's hide beneath my left hand changes. I open one eye and then the other. The sky has turned nearly black, save for where the curling smoke turns lighter and lighter. The raindrops fall fat and close between, and Bannon stares at me. I sag slightly, but this time, I will not black out. I have to stay awake. "It's done now," I mumble, only half awake.

  Bannon hasn't stopped staring, his grayish purple hair getting plastered to his forehead by the rain. "You have got to be the strangest Legion prince I've ever seen," he says.

  "I'm retired," I answer, looking up at the sky. Rain has never been so sorely needed, and so beautiful. I open my arms out as though I could embrace it, thank it for coming when I called. "Probably dishonorably discharged now. Outlawed, actually. But strange—I won't dispute that."

  He shakes his head. "I should arrest you," he mutters, but he spurs his horse on toward the site of the fires.

  All is not yet right. There are more fires to put out. Jori is out there somewhere. Kelvin has not been held responsible yet, and there's a cache of conflagrations to be disposed of.

  But for now, I'm going to try to hug the rain and take stock—weariness, bad leg, and strangeness and all—and take note of every little detail of the moment that Alain Northshore became something other than a weapon or a broken promise or an undesirable. The day he saved rather than destroyed.

  Chapter Forty

  Caelin

  For the third time, I wake up in a bed with a dry mouth, a ringing headache, and a stab wound where my shoulder ought to be. This time, however, it's my bed.

  In the corner, my advisors sit huddled, their tones hushed. I remember this sort of configuration from the days of my father’s sickbed. Discussing what’s to be done with me, I guess. In the middle of them is a gloomy presence of which I am very glad, if my future is on the docket. "Riley," I call, my voice ugly and gravelly with sleep.

  He looks up, and immediately the advisors hush. He says to them, "We'll continue this later."

  They look at each other, confused. I can practically see the silent conversation they're having. Do we have to listen to him? Kelvin, notably, is absent. But no one has any better ideas. In the end, they each make a bow to me and exit the room, leaving Riley to grab a chair. Just for me, he pauses and seems to consider sitting the right way, but in the end, turns it around and dangles his arms over the back. I smile. He shakes his head and stares at the ground. "Well, you've done it this time, Cae."

  "I'm getting pretty good at these what-happened-while-I-was-out talks," I tell him. "Just give me the condensed version."

  "You slept for two days."

  "Really! That's a record."

  "I don't find it as funny as you seem to."

  I let my head fall back against the pillows and for once, don't feel a bit guilty about the fluffy, bolstering, silky mound of luxury. "I'm sorry, Riley."

  "You should be. You ran off with someone who could well have wanted to kill you, then straight into the arms of precisely the sort of people who do want to kill you, nearly died three times, and somehow, still wound up named Regnant."

  "I’ve been busy. You forget the part where I liberated an illegal prison, exposed your father's treason, discovered hidden Legion soldiers, made sure you didn't wind up in a sham marriage, and—what?"

  He laughs slightly. "No. No one has forgotten those parts."

  "You are putting me on."

  Riley folds his hands. "If nothing else, this debacle has shown your cabinet that it's a very bad idea to leave the country without a strong leader."

  It feels as though the bed is falling away. Not dropping out from under me, but rather I feel like I float above it. First, elation, then fear, then peace chase each other around my battered body and my jangled nerves. There was a time I would have wanted this news more than anything. Now I feel like I understand what it means, and there's a whole host of other questions. But those can wait. They can't coronate me until I can stay awake to state my vows. "But what about…" I screw up my face. "Heirs?"

  "Ah. Yes. That." His face, somehow, goes even ashier. "They've decided that…our marriage is still on."

  It takes everything I have not to sit straight up and scream. "What?"

  He relaxes. "Now I'm putting you on."

  I reach behind me with the arm not bandaged to my chest and fling a pillow at him, screeching, "Devils take you, Riley. That was awful."

  He catches the pillow ably. Damn him, that took most of my energy to throw, and he’s chuckling at me. "Consider it repayment for the whirlwind of the last few weeks." His smile slackens. "I suspect your Legion prince would have something to say about my having any hand in your heirs, anyhow."

  Alain. "Is he all right? Tell me you didn't put him in prison."

  "If you don't calm yourself, that poison is going to seep back in. He's fine. Slept about as long as you. Apparently summoning the rain wipes a person out."

  Solemnly, I nod, though secretly I'm dancing on the inside. Summoning the rain! "You probably have some questions. And some disapproval. Let's get this over with."

  He hunches over the
back of the chair. "You take up with a Legion prince and you’re worried about my disapproval? Cae, your advisors, the Resurgence, hell, even the Legion—they’re going to want him to answer for what he’s done."

  "More than he already has?" I ask, eyebrows lifted. "Gods, Riley. They nearly killed him

  out on the Little Islands. He has scars the length of my arm."

  Riley’s leg bounces up and down, and his breaths come shallow. I know by now that this Riley is a worried Riley, and anything he might say shortly thereafter might be regrettable. He does well under the circumstances. "I don’t agree with what’s been done to him, but my gods, Caelin, he’s Legion!"

  "Was." I blink tiredly at him. "He’s an Elyssian first."

  "And what love could he possibly bear Elyssia if he joined with those demons?"

  "He thought he was protecting it."

  "From us," he scoffs.

  "He joined after Kelvin sacked the Northern Shore. I assume you had his records pulled."

  "They were destroyed," he says, teeth gritted. "All the camps’ records are nothing but ash now. I have nothing but his story."

  "And mine. I’d hope that it’s worth something."

  Riley stays quiet. "So the pardon is real."

  "Yes, the pardon is real. And there are more where that came from. We can't enslave every man and woman who was told they fought for their homeland. If we really want to end the war, it must really end. If that makes the council withdraw their recommendation, then so be it, but I will not be queen of a country which promises mercy and deliverance and a good life and delivers it only to a few."

  He stays silent for a moment, and laughs slightly. "Withdraw? After a reprise of that speech, I don't think there could be any dissent. And I will offer you no more. Just…" He looks me over and sighs. "Be careful. Men like him—people who can change others' minds for them…I've never known you to let anyone rescue you."

  Bitterly, I prod at the wound. "First time for everything, yeah? I’m going to try not to make it a habit. It is—the worst, being rescued." I sigh. "But necessary, from time to time. Even for me."