Memories of Ash (The Sunbolt Chronicles Book 2) (44 page)

“You’re telling me that if I want to look pretty I should sit still?” I say with disbelief. Around the room, my dozen guards exchange glances, then eye Splinter uncertainly.

“It doesn’t matter how you sit,” Splinter replies, moving toward a shelf of jars between the windows nearest me. The guards there take a few steps out of her way. “The struggle will be within.”

I don’t answer.

It takes her a quarter of an hour to mix what she needs. She measures the ingredients from the bottles with precision, using silver measuring spoons and a dropper. Then, her back to me, she pauses over the potion. I feel the focused flash of power, snapping bright and strong from Splinter to the cup, transforming the potion. She turns, the cup in her hands, and nods toward the chair.

Fighting to keep my expression still, I walk over and sit. Don’t fight, I tell myself as a pair of lycans approach to strap down my arms. At least they are considerate of my wounded arm, careful not to jar it. They push up my sleeves, buckle the wide leather straps over my forearms, then kneel to secure my legs. My fingers curl around the ends of the armrests, my grip so hard it hurts. I can’t fight my way free, nor does Splinter want me to fight this potion. But what do I care about looking pretty? Why would Splinter even tell me that?

As she steps before me, I meet her gaze. She is all hard angles and grim flatness. She is not beautiful, but she is exceptionally striking. Hers is a face one is unlikely to forget. She holds the cup out to me, ready for me to sip from, but I continue staring at her, as understanding dawns: pretty things are easier to pass off, more easily accepted, and more easily forgotten.

“Thank you,” I say, and drink the potion.

It tastes like nothing in particular, mud and grass and metal and— apple? And then it slides into my stomach and I forget about the taste.
It burns.
For a heartbeat, I fight it, my stomach churning as the magic in the potion spreads its acid. Don’t fight, I remind myself, my whole body clenched around it. Images flash before my closed eyes … Val telling me to choose this. Stonefall warning me I sought my own death. The phoenix speaking of ash, his path through the sky a line of flame.

Ash.

I have already burned, and this pain, this potion, is but an echo of what I chose with my sunbolt.
Welcome home
, I tell the inferno.
Come and be done with it.

The pain expands from my center to my entire being in the space of a single breath. And then it focuses, my arms blazing until I feel the skin peel back, blackening and falling away, my bones charring.
Come and be done
, I repeat, and in my mind I think of Kol, monster though he may have been, burning as I burn now.

I have done this to others. Let it come back to me.

The burning ceases. It stops so completely that I can barely comprehend it. I feel myself sag in the chair, am suddenly aware of the faint whisper of breath in my lungs, the rush of my blood in my ears, the reawakening of the wound in my arm.

“Well done,” Splinter says, somewhere above me. I nod my head once, without opening my eyes.

“Give her a few moments to rise,” Splinter tells my guards.

Are you there?
I ask, wondering if Val would have sensed what was happening to me and already come. He doesn’t disappoint.

Yes. Are you well?

Well enough.

What just happened?

I’ve been marked, which means I might still have some hope of becoming a source slave. It’s a temporary measure while they decide.

I see,
Val says. Perhaps there really isn’t anything more to say.

There’s a rustle of footsteps, and I open my eyes as two lycans unstrap me. I expect Val will leave when he needs to. I doubt I’ll notice when he goes.

“That’s a marking?” Ravenflight stands behind the lycans, studying my arms. Her voice is soft with surprise. “It looks like lace!”

“Yes,” Splinter agrees coolly. “She welcomed it. It did not have to fight its way across her arms.”

I rest my head at a tilt, make myself look down. Starting on the back of my knuckles and spinning out across my arms to disappear beneath my sleeves, a dark tracery shows, as fine as lace but shaped like the work of a calligrapher’s pen, swirls and flourishes and intricate interweavings. It is lovely in its way, as a spiderweb might be to the spider, though not its prey.

One of the mages behind me makes a sound of disgust. “What kind of coward
welcomes
it?”

Splinter spares me having to answer. “It takes greater courage to welcome fire into your bones than to push it away. Struggling is the natural instinct.” Her expression, as she considers me, is one of mild curiosity.

“Fire and I are old friends,” I tell her, my voice rasping. “Ice would have been different.” Even the comparatively light touch of the truth spell was difficult to bear.

“Perhaps,” she says. “But you also know what it is to burn.”

I shrug, and find that my body does not hurt quite as badly as I thought it would. I heave myself out of the chair, take two wobbly steps, and realize I’ve used most of my strength welcoming my future.

Ravenflight, barely an arm’s length away, steps quickly forward to steady me. The rest of my escort forms around me, some moving into the hallway to await me there, the others coming up behind me.

“Farewell,” Splinter says as we reach the door. I glance at her quizzically, still somewhat disoriented, but she has already returned to her papers and potions.

My escort slows to a stop just inside the building’s entrance. There are more guards here, guards I didn’t notice on our way in — or perhaps they were only posted here once I entered. They’ve closed the doors and don’t seem keen to open them. Ravenflight transfers my arm to one of the lycans and steps forward to speak with the guards.

I’m exhausted to the point of numbness, and my magic is irreversibly bound inside of me now. Whatever is on the other side of those doors doesn’t seem to matter very much. Except that I won’t be able to lay my head down and let go until I get back to my room in the infirmary.

“What’s wrong?” I ask the lycan beside me.

A slight hesitation. “Students outside,” he says, voice low. “The garden is filling.”

“You know I can’t hurt them now.” I say the words loud enough to draw the attention of Ravenflight and the two lycans conversing ahead of us. They glance back.

“Yes,” she replies.

“Then let them look. What does it matter?” I meet her gaze evenly. “After all, the more they see of me, the less likely I’ll be able to escape.” Unless I look like a weak, incapable girl, unable to stand on my own, with my head downturned so that all they’ll see is my hair. It’s the beginning of a plan, and not one of my better ones, but there it is. Make it clear that I don’t expect to escape, give those around me an image of my weakness, and run like a hunted deer. Assuming, of course, that I can get through the doors that will be locked against me.

One thing at a time,
I caution myself
.
They should reduce my guard now that I’m marked and can’t use magic. That’s a start. Right now, I need to rest. There is still some time between now and tomorrow, when the Council finally decides what to do with me.

Ravenflight murmurs something to the lycans, they respond, and she turns back to me. “We’ll move as quickly as possible. Do not respond to the crowd, nor speak out loud.”

I nod. My escort pulls in around me. The guards at the door step outside to clear a space for our passage. And then we’re out, walking faster than I know how to place my feet. I stumble as we pass through the hastily cleared arcade. At the front, Ravenflight lights a bright blue ball of magefire to precede her, sending students scurrying out of the way. It won’t burn them, but it makes it abundantly clear that she will not allow our way to be impeded.

As we step down from the arcade, I lose my footing again, and only the lycan’s grip on my elbow keeps me from sprawling flat.

“Slow down,” he snarls at the mages ahead of us, steadying me yet again. They do, but not much. We hustle across the gardens, cutting corners where the curving paths and low growing bushes allow. Night is falling, the glowstones lighting the paths so that the world seems bathed in shadows.

I can hear the voices of the students now, can see them following us, or hurrying through the gardens to line our path, faces seeking mine. I drop my chin another notch, wishing my hair was long enough to mask my face, and let my feet still falter when they will. I am weak. No one need worry about the threat I pose — there is none.

But as we turn right past the gardens and make for the infirmary, I hear a student call out, her voice carrying clearly over the shuffle and murmur. “You ought to be ashamed! She can barely walk and you’re making her run — for what? She could have killed half the guard but she didn’t, and you can’t let her walk in peace? Shame!”

Another voice echoes, “Shame!”

Someone else responds with a rather eloquent curse word, and a few choice descriptions of what they think of the speakers for defending me, and the next thing I know, the lycan has scooped me into his arms and we’re running. I bury my face against the stiff leather and velvet armor and consider how quickly these rumors escaped the confines of the hearing room. Who did the talking? And how much got out? Or perhaps the rumors were already out this morning, the comments I heard from the crowd their reaction to putting a face to the circulating stories. They had certainly sounded like they expected see a great towering warrior mage instead of me.

The lycan carries me all the way to my room. Once we enter the building, I expect him to put me down. When he doesn’t, I tell him, “It’s all right. I can walk now.” He ignores me, as does the rest of my escort. A few minutes later, he deposits me wordlessly on my bed, turns, and walks out
.

The mages mill about, checking the wards in my room one last time. They complete their work, casting me glances as they leave. I don’t look up. Whatever they’re thinking doesn’t seem all that important right now. The remaining lycans file out with them.

Ravenflight pauses at the foot of my bed. “There’ll be a guard posted outside your room. I’ll tell Brightsong to check on you.”

“Thank you.” My voice is raspy and small in the room.

She hesitates a moment longer, then departs, closing the door behind her.

I sit alone on the edge of my bed, my fingers curled into the sheets beneath me. I should take off my boots and lie down. I know this, but it seems a far greater effort than I can manage now. Slowly, I turn my head to gaze at the dark sigil brushed onto the wall above my bed. In my mage’s sight, it pulses with a muted light, nothing like the bright blue-white of the sigils on the other walls.

At least I have this: I can still see the magic in the world around me, still sense the spells enveloping me. Even if I will never again be able to cast one.

My hands tighten into fists around the sheets.

I am still a thief. One way or another, I will steal my freedom back.

But without my magic, I no longer quite believe myself.

I look up from contemplating the near impossible feat of taking off my boots. From the hallway I can hear raised voices: the gruff tone of a male guard, and a cool steely voice that cuts right through his. I’ve barely been in my room three minutes. Who could they possibly be arguing with?

The door flies open. My mother sweeps into the room in a rustle of silk, the door slamming itself shut behind her before the lycans can reach it.

I stare at her, my thoughts stuttering. She is wrapped in a sea
-
green kimono, lavender embroidery spreading over the silk in a cascade of flowers and petals. Her hair has been done up in an elaborate styling of curls and waves, pinned with hair combs that glitter with amethysts and pearls.

Wordlessly, she drops a charm on the floor and steps on it. I hear the faint crackle as it breaks, and then a familiar pressure builds against my ears.

“You know who I am,” she says. Behind her, a guard pounds on the door. She gives no indication of noticing.