Shadow & Flame

by Mindee Arnett

  Signe shrugged. “Perhaps it’s nothing sinister. He’s not young—maybe his memories are going? I’ve seen it happen often among the elderly.”

  Kate frowned. “I suppose it’s possible. I’ve never used my magic on someone with an ailment like that.” The closest she’d come was the day she probed the mind of High King Orwin, Corwin’s father, dead nearly a year now. That experience had been very different. And Orwin was suffering from a magical ailment, Kate realized, which seemed to support Signe’s idea that maybe this was a natural ailment. Still, Kate wasn’t ready to embrace the theory.

  “Even if it’s possible, there’s too much at stake for me to make that assumption.”

  Rolling her eyes, Signe downed the contents of her glass in a single gulp. She wiped her lips with the back of her hand. “Maybe the problem has nothing to do with Janus at all.”

  Kate stood, her temper sparking. It seemed if Signe insisted on a fight, she was willing to give her one. “What are you getting at, Sig?”

  “It makes me sad, is all,” Signe said, her shoulders drooping and a forlorn expression replacing the earlier fierceness. “You used to be capable of believing in the good of people, of giving them the benefit of the doubt. But now all you see is deception and deceit.”

  “Can you blame me?” Kate walked over and poured her own cup of wine. “You don’t know what it’s like, to see into someone’s mind. To know what they truly are, even when no one else does. Even when they don’t know it themselves.”

  Signe set down the wine glass, doing it slowly as if she feared slamming it. “That’s my point. These truths you’re seeing weren’t meant for you. They’re private. You used to be careful about using your magic, only invading a mind when there was cause for it. Now you do it at will. All the time. To everyone.”

  “That’s not true. I never eavesdrop on your thoughts, Signe.” Not intentionally, Kate silently added. She couldn’t help the unintentional things she gleaned. Her magic was a highly developed sense inside her—she couldn’t simply turn it on and off at will.

  “Well, thanks to Aslar for small mercies,” Signe said, pouring herself another drink. “If you did make a habit of it, you would see my thoughts can be just as vile and unworthy as any one of our enemies.”

  Kate scoffed. “That’s nonsense.”

  “Is it?” Signe cocked her head, birdlike. “Are you always so innocent in your own thoughts then? Are there not times you’re glad no one knows what you’re thinking?”

  “Of course,” she admitted, tight-lipped. Just a few moments ago, she’d been glad Signe couldn’t sense what she was thinking about Dal still being alive when Corwin was not, her jealousy a vile, disgusting thing. Selfish and wrong. But private, at least.

  “I’m relieved to hear it,” Signe said. “The difference is that around you, the rest of us risk condemnation for those thoughts, even if we never intended to act on them.”

  Kate folded her arms across her chest, awareness striking her at last. “This is about that follower of Bellam again, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Signe said, blunt as ever. “His name was Jonathan Bailey, in case you’ve forgotten.”

  “I know his name,” Kate said through gritted teeth, her anger returning in full. Even though the incident in question had occurred months ago, just days after peace had been declared, she would never forget it. She knew more about the man than Signe could ever learn. She’d delved into his thoughts and seen the black heart of him; she’d felt it. Bellam was the god of war, one of the few deities of Rime without a patron city to his name—and for good reason. He was a god of violence and destruction, and those who worshipped him were of the same ilk. As Jonathan Bailey had been. He’d come into Farhold claiming to be a refugee from neighboring Aldervale. Instead, he was a part of the cult of Bellam, a group that believed that the god of war would be reborn only when Rime was in chaos, city against city, brother again brother. They abhorred the newly settled peace and meant to overturn it.

  Kate saw Jonathan’s plan when he was sneaking around near the storeroom where they kept the ammunition, the black powder inside it highly combustible. A single spark could send half the city into oblivion. That was what he wanted—to see them all burn. He just needed to find a way inside. The moment Kate had probed his mind and seen his intent, she’d drawn her revolver and sent a bullet through his skull, ending him.

  Signe had been there. She’d witnessed the execution—and it had bothered her ever since.

  Kate drew a breath, warning herself to remain calm. Signe deserved her patience. “I’ve already told you a thousand times that he intended to kill us all.”

  “No, you’ve said he thought about killing us all. He was only there that night to see if he could break in. But he might not have gone through with it.”

  “I felt his desire to hurt us, Sig. There was no mistaking it.”

  “Yes, but he was afraid, too, Kate. I saw it. So did you before you ended him. He might have changed his mind once faced with the reality of what he was doing. Doesn’t that count? Should we all be condemned for our thoughts over our actions?”

  Kate could see her point. But she refused to embrace it. No hesitation. No doubt. “I know what I saw, and that is the end of it.”

  Signe’s nostrils flared. “And I suppose if you uncover such thoughts in Master Janus you will kill him, too?”

  “Yes,” Kate said with no waver in her voice.

  “And what about Raith? What will that do to him if you cut down the man who saved his life?”

  Kate hesitated. It would hurt Raith, for certain, but it didn’t matter. She couldn’t let it matter, not when the lives of others would be at risk. “Raith will see it as I do. We can’t afford allowances likes that. There is no place for such mercies in the world we’re living in right now.”

  “You sound like Rendborne. He believed in such absolutes as well.”

  Kate flinched and took a step backward, sucking in a shocked breath. “I can’t believe you said that.”

  “Just because something is difficult to hear does not make it any less true.”

  Kate drew another breath, this one steadier. She felt her anger draining away, replaced with a despair so heavy she could barely breathe. All of them bore scars after the war, but the worst were on the inside. She could feel the corruption growing all around her. Destroying friendships and lives.

  Averting her gaze, Kate turned and headed for the door.

  “Kate, wait.” Signe’s voice broke as she spoke. “I’m . . . sorry. That was uncalled for.”

  Kate stopped, debating whether or not to turn around. The comment about Rendborne had wounded her, cutting deeper than she would’ve imagined possible.

  “I shouldn’t vent my frustrations on you,” Signe said. “It’s not your fault.” Slowly, Kate turned and faced her friend. Signe drew a ragged breath. “I hate it here. I hate living like this.” She gestured to the table, full of the accoutrements that made her so valuable.

  Kate exhaled, unable to hold on to her anger. Not against Signe. “I know. I hate it for you.” Just as I hate the things I must do to keep you safe. And the things she wouldn’t. They both knew Kate could use her sway to convince the council to let Signe go free, but Signe had never voiced the request aloud. She despised it whenever Kate used her powers like that, and would never ask her to do it.

  Not that I would, Kate thought. Signe was the last of her friends still alive, her true friends, the ones who had known her before she’d become Wilder Kate, war hero and figurehead of the Rising. Bonner was gone. As was Corwin. I will not lose you, too.

  Signe took a deep breath. “Shall we see what Dal has sent?” she said, as a peace offering.

  Grateful for it, Kate smiled. “Knowing him it will be something either amusing or dangerous. Probably both.”

  “Only if we’re lucky.” Signe grinned and retrieved the box from the window nook. She sat down, balancing it on her legs as she peeled off the wrapping and pulled open the lid. Sh
e froze at once, her expression going blank.

  “What is it?” Kate joined her by the window. When she peered into the box, she fell silent. There was a doll resting inside, peering out at them with an expression so familiar it sent a shiver down Kate’s back. Whoever crafted it had captured Dal’s likeness completely, everything from the deep rivets of scars along one side of his face to the way his right eye crinkled whenever he was about to laugh. That was what the doll appeared to be doing now—laughing.

  Kate smiled down at the doll, finding it charming despite its eeriness. “Dal must think you’re soon to forget what he looks like. He had to have spent a fortune on it.” She reached into the box.

  “Don’t!” Signe tried to pull the box away, but Kate’s fingers had already closed around the doll. It felt wet and slick to her skin, coated in some unknown substance.

  A bright flash erupted in front of Kate’s eyes and pain seared her hand. With a yelp, she let go as flames covered the doll. Kate watched in horror as the miniature Dal’s face melted away. It was so real she could almost imagine the sound of its screams.

  “Get something to put it out!” Signe said as the flames spread to the box and she dropped it. Kate dashed to the table and returned with the wine bottle, upending it over the fire. The flames sizzled and went out.

  Kate and Signe exchanged a look, neither of them speaking. Kate didn’t understand it, or have any idea who had really sent it—but the message behind it was unmistakable.

  Dal was in trouble.

  4

  Corwin

  VOICES CALLED HIM OUT OF the dreams.

  They’d been good dreams, or at least welcome ones. Full of people and places he knew but hadn’t seen in a long time, fueled on memories long forgotten. They filled him with a deep and desperate yearning. For, in the way of dreams, he knew they weren’t real. He knew they would end.

  The voices lured him back to wakefulness, but he didn’t open his eyes. He didn’t want to be awake yet. He wanted to keep dreaming, to avoid the work that waited him. The mines were always so damp and cold. Empty. Nothing like the soft warmth surrounding him here.

  You’re not in the mines, not anymore.

  With the recollection slowly coming back to him, he became aware of voices around him and kept his eyes shut. They were strangers’ voices, just as this was a strange place. He knew it without looking, the bed beneath so soft it felt like he would fall through it if he dared move. Such softness did not exist in the mines. He felt the change in his body as well, his face freshly shaven and all the dirt and grime scrubbed from the rest of him. Someone had dressed him in soft linen, a loose pair of trousers and a shirt, his feet left bare. The feel of being clean was so welcome he almost drifted off again. Still pretending to be asleep, he listened to what they were saying.

  “Is that really him?” a woman asked.

  A man replied, “Lord Gavril says it is, and this young man has the mark to prove it.”

  Clash heard the rustle of skirts as one of the speakers approached. He willed his body to be still even as he felt soft fingers touch his hand, gliding over the mark on his palm.

  The uror mark.

  “I don’t see how that makes him a prince,” the woman said, this time with a note of petulance. “Any fool can go and get himself branded.”

  “They say the brand comes from the gods.”

  “The gods are dead.”

  “Our gods, yes, but Rime is a different place.” Again Clash heard steps, and a new set of fingers touched his palm, these callused and hard, where the woman’s had been soft as down. “Gavril says the mark is magical.”

  She scoffed. “He thinks everything is magical, or at least has the potential to be so. But this is stretching things a bit much, even for him. I mean, look at this man. He’s so thin and so . . . so scarred. I refuse to believe this is Corwin Tormane.”

  The name struck Clash with the force of a thunderclap, and he had to stop himself from sucking in a breath.

  Corwin Tormane.

  My name is Corwin.

  The truth came rushing into him, like a second awakening. A rebirth. I am Corwin, not Clash. Clash was the name he’d used when he’d been a mercenary, one of the Shieldhawks. Corwin was the name he’d been born with. How had he forgotten?

  I chose to, he realized. It was the only way to survive his imprisonment. To stay sane. But he remembered everything now. He’d come to Seva to free the wilders imprisoned by the Godking as soldier slaves for his army. They’d broken into the Mistfold, but everything had gone wrong. The wilders didn’t want to leave. Kate couldn’t make them.

  Oh gods, Kate.

  Remembering her was like a wound reopening. Where was she now? Did she live? Had she escaped the Mistfold that day? He didn’t know. She must think me dead. Like her brother is dead. And Bonner. Only he wasn’t sure about the last. Corwin had survived the stairs collapsing, after all; it was possible Bonner had as well. Or maybe it had been because of Bonner, some bit of magic he’d worked before the impact. He didn’t know. Sevan soldiers had found Corwin buried in the rubble, but they didn’t recognize him beneath his magestone disguise. All his captives knew was that he was from Rime, and not a wilder, all of which made him suitable as a worker for the mines and little else.

  That was when the forgetting started—once he realized there was no escaping the mines. He tried three times, only to fail the moment he attempted to scale the ladder out. As the awful, bitter truth of it came to him, he began to bury everything deep inside. He’d pretended to be Clash until he’d become the man, a prisoner and nothing more. By the time the magestone wore off, he’d already been lost to the mine, beyond the reach of anyone who would know him as the high prince of Rime. He comforted himself knowing it was better that way. He couldn’t risk falling into the Godking’s hands.

  But here I am.

  The voices were still speaking, still unaware of the transformation he was undergoing, the slow becoming of Corwin and letting go of Clash.

  “Do you really think Father means to go through with it?” the woman asked. She and the man both spoke the Sevan language, but Corwin had mastered it in his long imprisonment.

  “Lord Gavril has made a good case. Besides, I’m certain once he recovers, you’ll learn to make the most of it.”

  “Have I told you how much I hate you, brother?”

  “Not today, sweet sister.”

  Corwin opened his eyes, just enough to judge where his captors stood—both of them on his left, the man nearest. He wore an ornamental dagger at his waist, the golden hilt fashioned into the head of a bull and polished to a high sheen. Corwin closed his eyes again.

  “If only I could trade places with you,” the woman said. “Then I wouldn’t have to hate you quite so much.”

  Inhaling slowly, Corwin gathered his strength. He was weak from his captivity, but he wouldn’t let it impede him now. His need to escape was too great. This was worse than being in the mine. At least there, he suffered in isolation. But with his identity known, much greater damage could be wrought.

  His chances were about as good as he could’ve hoped for. There were no shackles on him now, no wall to climb. He had the element of surprise, and these two weren’t soldiers or guards, but wellborn and likely soft.

  “Do you really believe so?” the man said. “At least you will serve some purpose. That has to be better than to be a mere extraneous part in the machine.”

  “Oh, yes, you’re quite right.” The woman’s sarcasm was as thick as honey. “Because being used as a—”

  Lurching upright, Corwin grabbed the dagger and yanked it free of the man’s belt in one quick motion. Then he kicked out, the blow striking the man in the hip and sending him sprawling. With a yelp of fear, the woman tried to move away, but Corwin grabbed her by her long brown hair hanging loose nearly to the floor and jerked her toward him just as he gained his feet.

  Pressing the dagger to her throat, Corwin whispered in her ear, “Be still if you wish to li
ve.” He coiled his hand around her hair twice more, tightening his grip as he glanced about the room. To his surprise he was in an ornate bedchamber, the kind to be found in any castle or palace. It was large enough for several people to lounge comfortably—the four-poster bed alone was thrice the size of the cell he’d shared with Henry. All the furnishings were lavish, from the elaborately carved chairs and trestle table to the plush sofa upholstered in red velvet. A wardrobe bedecked in golden handles stood near the doorway to another chamber beyond. Corwin glanced through it, thanking his good fortune that there was an antechamber. Any guards posted outside would’ve been too far to have heard the disturbance.

  Sensing movement, Corwin glanced back at the man he’d attacked slowly rising to his feet, hands held out from his sides.

  “Be careful, princeling,” the man said. “My father may intend for you to remain alive, but if you harm my sister I will kill you myself.”

  The woman stiffened in Corwin’s grip, her head craned back as far as it would go to avoid the knife. Even still a thin line of blood appeared on her pale skin as she said, “Don’t provoke him, Eryx, for the dead god’s sake, he’s been in the nenir mines. He could be mad.”

  “Eryx?” Corwin laughed, recognizing the name. Good fortune was his boon companion, it seemed.

  “See, I told you,” the woman said. “Madness.”

  Corwin laughed again and gestured at the man with a quick flick of the dagger. “If you are Eryx Fane, then that makes your sister here Eravis. The only daughter of King Magnar, the Godking himself.” He gave her hair another tug in emphasis.

  Eryx made a sound like a hiss. “And you are Corwin Tormane. A dead prince come back to life. I do wonder how King Edwin will take the news once he finds out.”

  Corwin flinched. King Edwin, not prince. His brother had been crowned? But that was impossible. It would mean . . . “My father is dead?” He hadn’t meant to voice the question, but it came out of him before he could stop it.