White Heart of Justice (4 page)

I limped back to the tent's opening. A few other students offered to help me, but they'd had so much spiked cider I thought it more likely they would fall than me so I declined. After waiting a few more minutes I decided Ivy and Rafe must have gotten stuck somewhere and I slipped out, leaving Lord Lawless to dispense unjustice alone.

I opted to explore the cold side of the square first—the side with the snow demons instead of the bonfire—and hobbled around toward them. Up close, I not only recognized which demons had been carved but what frivolous offerings had been left to them. I was happy to see that no one had left anything truly offensive. Tonight might be the Festival of Frivolity, but tomorrow would be just another day. Some demons didn't take kindly to being the butt of a joke. (In fact, some demons didn't take kindly to anything. But thankfully no one had carved
those
demons out of the snow.)

Instead of the usual bowl of blood, the offering in front of the snow carving of Lilith was a bowl full of miniature sugar lilies. Estes had been given a pile of fish bones and Cliodna, assorted paper birds: avocets, sheathbills, and snipes, jacanas, plovers, and lapwings. Ionys just had a pile of empty cider and wine cups in front of his snow carving.

I walked over to the bowl of sugar lilies, stole one out of the dish and popped it into my mouth. In return I left my bloody tooth, perversely pleased at how disgusting it looked against the sugar lilies. Ironically, Lilith would probably appreciate my gift. The tooth had been a true sacrifice after all—and what demon would quibble about whether they received blood, bone, or tooth?

I turned toward the fire, thinking I would look there next for Ivy and Rafe when I saw him—not the Angel I was looking for, but the Angel I'd avoided all last semester.
Peter Aster.

He looked the same. Long, bone white hair tied back with a black leather strap. An angular, almost beautiful face—and that grim, disapproving look.

“Hello, Peter.”

“What happened to your hair?”

Was he taking lessons from my father? No
hey, how have you been for the last six months?
No
sorry I almost let your boyfriend (now ex-boyfriend) die.
Honestly, his asking me about my hair after the way our friendship had ended made Karanos' insistence on avoiding small talk look positively cheerful.

“Sasha de Rocca burned off the end of it.”

“And your face? What happened?”

Unfortunately his tone conveyed more horror than concern. Peter Aster had once been my best friend. We'd grown up in Etincelle, the small village across the Lethe from New Babylon where all the rich kids with magic grow up. Peter's estate abutted ours. A long time ago, I'd even dreamed of marrying him. No more. Even though I wasn't with Ari anymore—and even if Ari
was
a demon (and, truth be told, he wasn't just a demon; he was a drakon, a rare subset of winged demons born to human mothers)—I could never forgive Peter for almost letting him die.

But that was six months ago and Peter had broken no laws and he'd kept his distance from me since. Until now.

“Ludovicus Mischmetal happened,” I said.

“Vicious,” Peter spat out the name.

We stood on the dark side of the square, eyeing each other up. Finally, I asked him what I'd been thinking.

“What do you want, Peter?”

At one time, it had been me. But not really. He hadn't wanted Noon, the woman with waning magic; he'd wanted Nouiomo Onyx, as she should have been born, with the waxing magic of a Mederi. For years, we'd searched for a way to reverse my magic. But last year I'd elected to live my life as Luck had intended, with the magic I'd been born with. Peter hadn't taken my decision very well. And if it weren't for the fact that he'd almost let Ari die, I would have tried to make amends.

“Actually,” Peter said, “I came to ask you what you want.”

I frowned at him. “What do you mean
what I want
? I want what I've always wanted—to survive being a student here.”

Peter's face softened and he stepped toward me. “And who could blame you? This whole”—he waved his hand around in a sweeping motion indicating all of St. Luck's—“experience has likely been horrible for you.”

My frown deepened. No doubt, parts of it had been. But I could not say that, as a whole, my
entire
experience here at St. Luck's had been horrible.

“Noon, last year you came to St. Lucifer's to hide while I searched for a way to reverse your magic. Now, this year, you're on your way to becoming the second year
Primoris
. Forget about your hair or your face, what happened to
you
?”

I barked out a laugh. Last year I would have stared back, mouth agape, perplexed about why Peter couldn't understand my coping strategies. This year I was just irritated that he was wasting my time. I was becoming impatient to find Rafe. As the night progressed, my jaw was getting sorer and my headache was getting worse.

“I decided I wanted something different, Peter.”

“You want to be a demon executioner? Noon, you hate to kill.”

It wasn't just what he said; it was the way he said it. Peter had always been slightly egotistical and more than ambitious, but until six months ago, those traits had always seemed harmless, charming even. Last year, Peter and I had shared a single goal: find an ancient, mythical, powerful spell, which could, in theory, reverse my magic. We had different reasons for wanting it, but each of us had desperately desired that I become what I should have been in the first place—a waxing magic user instead of a waning magic user. I'd wanted magic that could grow and heal, not destroy and kill.

So Peter was right. I did hate killing things. And I didn't want to be a demon executioner. But he was also wrong. Because, though what he said was accurate, his tone implied that I still hated what I was. And that wasn't true. Not anymore.

“There are plenty of Maegester positions that don't involve killing, Peter.”

His eyebrows rose. “Really? How many? One? Two?”

“Actually, there are six.”

“And you're hoping the Demon Council will place you in one of those positions,
when you've fought your way to the top
?”

“I don't need to hope. I'm not on my way to
becoming
the second year
Primoris
, Peter. I
am
the second year
Primoris
. And when I win the Laurel Crown Race,
I'll
get to choose where I work next semester.”

I turned on my heels but he grabbed my arm. I felt my signature expand. I tried to shake him off but instead he stepped closer. I didn't want to—
couldn't
—fight with him. Physical sparring between waning magic users and Angel spellcasters was
highly
discouraged.

“
Win
the Laurel Crown Race? Become this year's Laureate?” Peter's expression was equal parts astonished and angry. “Noon, you can't be serious.”

I willed my expanding signature to slow. Emotionally, Peter was a tougher opponent than Vicious, but I knew how to control my magic now.

“I am,” I said simply, a few moments later, after I'd calmed down. But Peter wasn't going to leave off.

“So which demon would you spend your residency with? Which demon out of the six will get the benefit of your services next year if you win?”

“Actually, I won't be working for a demon next year, Peter. I'll be working for a Hyrke. I plan on offering my services to the Jaynes family. I hope to secure a position on the
Alliance
.”

Peter looked less surprised than the group at the Gridiron had looked when I'd told them that I wanted to work for the Jayneses next year. He nodded his head in an ambiguous gesture, considering.

“And you'll be satisfied sitting second chair to a Hyrke riverboat captain?”

I shrugged and twisted free from his grip. “Why wouldn't I be?”

Peter grimaced. “Because you're an Onyx; that's why. And you're a Ferrum.”

“What are you saying, Peter? That just because I'm Karanos and Aurelia's daughter that I'm blood bound to adopt my ancestors' patrician arrogance?”

“Non procul a proprio stipite poma cadunt.” The apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

I scoffed. “Yeah? Well I prefer ‘
vitibus uvae dulces veniunt a fortibus
.'”
From strong vines come sweet grapes.

“Noon, have you looked in the mirror lately? You don't look sweet. You look . . . terrifying.”

My signature bubbled and roiled. My palm itched to fire up a weapon. But I kept it all tightly under my control.

“See you around, Peter,” I said, stepping back.
I hoped I didn't.

I turned to go, and put about three feet between us, when his voice stopped me.

“There are other ways to reverse your magic than the one we were first pursuing,” he called to me.

“We went down that road,” I said slowly, turning around. “It was a dead end.”

“No, it wasn't. You just got . . . sidetracked.” I knew he was talking about Ari. “With your blood, Noon, you deserve a greater role in Halja's future than the one you'll have if you work on the river.”

I blew out my breath and glanced around the square. Somewhere nearer to the fire a pack of students were singing. I looked over at the bowl of sugar lilies that had been left for Lilith and remembered my tooth—and all the other sacrifices I'd made.

If I became this year's Laureate, would I really choose to work for the Jayneses?

I sighed. The only thing I knew for sure was that I didn't want to continue talking to Peter.

“Defending Hyrkes from
rogare
demon attacks sounds like honorable work to me, Peter.” I turned around a second time, determined to walk away, but Peter's rushed words stopped me.

“Halja has magic that's more powerful than waning or waxing,” he said to my back. “More powerful even than faith magic.”

I frowned, but didn't turn back toward him. His words made me uncomfortable.

My tongue worried the hollow spot left in my gum by my missing tooth. The wind whistled in my ears as if my whole body was hollow, not just that one spot.

Finally, I stopped worrying over the hollow spot. I gritted my remaining teeth, raised my hood, and walked away.

Chapter 3

A
fter leaving Peter it didn't take long to find Rafe. He was coming out of Lord Lawless' tent looking for me. His face brightened when he saw me—and then immediately fell.

“Why didn't you come over to the fire when you first came up?” Rafe asked, taking me by the elbow and leading me over to an empty bench. His face held all of the concern that had been lacking in Peter's. We sat facing one another and I lowered my hood so that Rafe could get a better look at the injuries I wanted him to heal. Gently, he took my chin in his hand and turned my face toward the fire. I gave him a smile, intentionally poking my tongue through the gap in my teeth. His eyes widened and then narrowed.

“You let Vicious knock your tooth out?”

“Let him?” I said jerking my chin away from Rafe's fingers. “Hardly,” I growled. And then in a lower voice I admitted, “He surprised me.” I looked up and met Rafe's taupe-eyed gaze. So like his mother's gaze earlier this evening—and yet so different. Rafe's gaze was as warm as the bonfire we sat next to, whereas Valda's had been as cold as the Gridiron. I told him I'd won the match and that I'd be racing for the Laurel Crown starting next Friday.

“What do you think your target will be?”

I shrugged. “Who knows? Something difficult to retrieve, that's for sure. Know any good tracking spells?”

“Why?” he said, quirking his mouth. “Am I going to be your Guardian? Did Friedrich relent and agree that we could work together again?”

I frowned. He hadn't. Yet. Rafe's questions made me realize my biggest priority for tomorrow would be to visit the office of the dean of Guardians and start groveling. Rafe was considering me carefully. He always did that. It used to make me uncomfortable. Now, I was used to it, although I did often wonder what he was wondering about. After a while he said:

“You know I can't cast a spell that will actually grow your tooth back, right?”

“I know.”

“But I can cast an illusion so that people won't be able to tell.”

“No,” I said. “Leave it.”

Rafe arched a brow at me. “Another intimidation tactic for your opponents? I'm not sure it makes you look tough, Noon.”

“What does it make me look like?” I asked, remembering Peter's comment that I looked terrifying. Rafe's gaze dropped from my eyes to my swollen lips.

“Like someone who's going to have trouble chewing.”

I rolled my eyes. “Get on with the healing, spellcaster.” I scooted closer. Rafe had told me that he didn't necessarily have to touch me to heal me, but that it made it a whole lot easier.

“Close your eyes,” he said.

I gave him a puzzled look. He'd never asked me to do that before. But my head was pounding, and arguing with my unofficial maverick Guardian Angel wasn't something I had the energy for.

I closed my eyes.

I felt his fingers settle beneath my jaw as he held my face in place.

“I met your mother earlier tonight,” I murmured. Almost imperceptibly his fingers tightened their grip.

“Oh?”

I remembered where I'd seen Valda Sinclair before—at Rafe's brother's funeral, twenty years ago or more. I hadn't been there (and even if I had been, I would have been too young to remember). I “remembered” now only because there'd been an accident involving magic during my assignment last semester. We'd each been given a piece of someone else's memory. I'd been given Rafe's memory of his infant brother's funeral. He'd drowned when Rafe was six years old. Even now the memory made my throat ache and my eyes tear.

Rafe had been given a memory of Ari's, but he'd refused to tell me which one, even though I was in it. The only thing Rafe would share (after much coaxing and not a small amount of threatening) was that, in the memory, I was fully clothed. I hadn't brought up the subject again.

“What did she want?” Rafe asked, pulling me back into the present.

I shrugged. “To observe me?”

My chin, jaw, and inside of my mouth now felt agreeably warm whereas my swollen lips and aching head felt soothingly cool.
Magic,
I sighed pleasurably. Every now and then, it had its perks. I opened my eyes. Rafe was staring back at me.

He had the most beautiful eyes I'd ever seen. Not that I'd tell him that. It would be awkward and, besides, he'd only say something inane in return like
I eat a lot of carrots
. But they were. Yellow tourmaline flecked with gold. A most unusual color.

I blinked and scooted back, raising my hand to my jaw. The blood, swelling, and soreness were gone.

“What does your mother do for the Divinity?” I said instead.

“She's one of the Amanita,” he said.

My gaze met Rafe's again. I was suddenly glad I hadn't known that earlier. The Amanita were an old, powerful order of Angels. There were only four of them at any given time and each of them was more dedicated to the order than to anything else, even their own families. No one knew what the exact requirements were for entry into the Amanita but there were rumors of secrecy pacts sealed with an Angel's equivalent of sacrifice, tales of initiation rites that some did not survive, and myths of mysterious magical practices. I suddenly wondered if that's what Peter might have meant when he'd said
Halja has magic that's more powerful than waning or waxing . . . More powerful even than faith magic
.

“Rafe,” I said, sitting up straighter, “do the Amanita practice faith magic like the rest of the Angels?”

“Of course.”

“But that's not all they practice, is it?”

He looked at me keenly.

“No . . . they also practice perennial magic.”

“I didn't think anyone
could
practice perennial magic.”

I didn't know much about it, other than it was more ancient than the Amanita, but I'd always thought of perennial magic as magic that was associated with a place or a thing, rather than magic that could be wielded by a person.

Rafe made some noncommittal sound. I thought that would be the end of the discussion—that he wouldn't want to say anything more—but then he said:

“The Amanita are sworn to
eradicate
the practice of perennial magic. They claim it's blasphemous. The order was founded in medieval times as a response to Metatron and his magical experiments. The Amanita loathed Metatron. They believed he was the worst thing to ever happen to the Divinity.”

My eyebrows shot up. I'd never heard this side of Metatron's history before. All I knew was the history that everyone knew: Metatron, a medieval Angel scribe, had supposedly fallen in love with Justica. He'd spent the better part of his life traveling around Halja in a rickety old oxcart bringing news from outpost to outpost and adjudicating small disputes along the way. That his judgment was illegal and highly unenforceable is often glossed over in the histories because Metatron had been such an extraordinary Angel. The Host viewed him as an inscrutable inventor, whose magical devices had varying degrees of success. His most famous creations were supposedly made for Justica. He made numerous sets of ensorcelled Sanguine Scales (which he no doubt sold for exorbitant sums of money to outposts desperate for an “easy” way to dispense justice; their judgment was rumored to be less fair than a coin toss and their punishment to be cruel and extreme). He is also said to have made at least one sword for Justica, which Metatron claimed was his
magnum opus
. He was nothing if not a consummate showman and salesman. I knew some Angels viewed his legacy with a gimlet eye, but I hadn't realized an entire order had sprung up to fight against it.

“The Amanita believe that Metatron's work defied everything an Angel stood for, because he practiced perennial magic more than faith magic.”

I nodded. That made sense. The Angels' identities and magic was tied with their faith.
If Metatron hadn't put his faith first, could he even be called an Angel?
But Rafe scoffed when he saw my nod.

“The Amanita practice perennial magic though. When they are infrequently asked to justify their hypocritical practices they respond with platitudes like
similia similibus curantur
.”

“Fight fire with fire,” I murmured.

Rafe grunted. “An Angel would probably say
like cures like
.”

“And what do you say?”

“Valda has her own vision of how the world should work and that vision isn't always in sync with the more mainstream Divinity's vision. Or mine. All Angels have faith. But each of us practices it in a different way.”

I knew then that Rafe would say no more, but it was enough. The fact that Valda Sinclair was one of the Amanita went a long way in explaining the chilliness I'd sensed from her this morning and in the memory that I now had of Rafe's brother's funeral. I squeezed his arm in sympathy as a thought suddenly occurred to me.

“Remember how we destroyed Justica last semester?”

“We?”
Rafe cocked a brow at me.

“Well, I mean
I
did. But then you recast her . . .”

“In your image,” he said, laughing now. “How could I forget?”

“Want a chance to make amends?”

“Absolutely not,” he said.

“Come on,” I said, dragging him to his feet. Now that my injuries were healed I was full of energy. “I'm not talking about carving anything from stone or casting anything with magic. Let's make her out of snow. No one has yet.”

“What will we win?”

I shrugged. “A rusty ax? A paper ice pick? Who cares? The fun is carving them, right?”

Two hours later we'd recast Justica out of snow. Our snow carving was three times as big as anyone else's and we'd added something that no one else had—an Angel. There, in the center of St. Luck's and the Joshua School, we'd carved Justica and Metatron in a wintery clinch. Justica had Metatron bent back over her arm. Her snow white hair seemed to writhe in the wind as she lowered her face to his. In our frozen tableau, her love for him was irrefutable.

We would either win the Festival of Frivolity's snow carving contest or we'd both be kicked out of school.

*   *   *

T
ired as I was later that night, I forced myself to read the two residency offers that Karanos had handed to me after my rank match with Vicious. I opened the crisp, white envelope with the gaol seal on it first, unsurprised to see that it was from the Office of the New Babylon Gaol.

O
FFICE OF THE
N
EW
B
ABYLON
G
AOL
A
DIKIA,
P
ATRON
D
EMON OF
A
BUSE,
I
NJUSTICE, AND
O
PPRESSION

Dear Ms. Onyx,

Our patron has been following your academic career with interest and would like to extend an invitation to you to spend your fourth semester residency working for her at the New Babylon Gaol. A job description and brief list of duties is included within this letter.

It is our understanding that you may become a contender for the Laurel Crown. Please note that while Adikia has employed several Laureates in the past, winning the Laurel Crown is not a prerequisite for the position. You are our patron's top choice and the residency offer will be open to you regardless of your final class rank or race placement.

Working at the New Babylon Gaol is challenging, but fulfilling. Adikia only employs Maegesters who have proven, measurable, powerful magic. There are only a dozen or so demon prisoners at the gaol. (As you are aware, most
rogares
are summarily executed after trial and conviction.)

Your primary job would be to assist the other Maegesters by keeping the
rogare
prisoners restrained and contained. Resident MITs may also be called upon to search prisoners, supervise hard labor assignments, enforce rules and regulations, and mete out punishment to rule breakers. The specific form of punishment is at the enforcer's discretion but may include boiling, burning, and flaying. If you accept the offer, you would also have an opportunity to perfect your combat techniques, weapons skills, and use of personal restraints on the
rogare
prisoners.

Thank you for your consideration. We look forward to hearing from you.

Adikia's humble and obedient servant,
Volero Travertine, Warden

Toward the end of Traverine's letter, I'd started clutching my stomach. Yes, I'd come to terms with who and what I was, my role in Haljan society, and the need for the magical services I could provide. I was a waning magic user. My magic was deadly and my purpose was to be a demon peacekeeper, which sometimes meant I needed to execute
rogare
demons. I didn't like killing, but I was capable of doing it. Especially if it was to protect innocent people from harm. Torture, however, was another matter entirely. I knew that some sins were so heinous death would be too kind for the perpetrator. But I honestly didn't think that torture was the answer. I didn't know what the
rogares
at the New Babylon gaol had done, but I did know that I wanted no part in torturing them.