Incendiary (Hollow Crown) Page 4

  I lift my chin, a dare. “How do you know?”

  “You don’t have the eyes of a killer.”

  It’s a strange thing for a soldier of the king to tell me. Me, a Whisper. A dissident. A Robári. But it has the desired effect.

  I hesitate and the soldier lunges.

  He’s right. I wouldn’t kill the kid—but I would hurt him, if it means saving us both. I give Francis a hard shove as I swipe my dagger in a wide arc. The guard just dodges the tip of the blade.

  “Run!” the soldier yells to Francis.

  Francis, whom I saved. Francis, who now looks at me as if I were the one who set the fires in the first place. He kicks open the kitchen door and runs out into the streets. This is what the king and his justice do. They twist the truth to make us out to be villains—the force behind all the raids and the scorched towns, the reason the kingdom is suffering. I’ve played into their hands.

  “In the name of the king and the justice!” the soldier shouts, and I feel the pressure of a blade in the nook between my neck and shoulder.

  Stupid, Ren. I can practically hear Dez growl the words at me.

  “You are under arrest!” He presses the edge of his sword a bit harder, and I move instinctively toward the door, but I know he has no plans of letting me go. The blade slices into my skin, stinging cold against a warm trickle of blood. I grind my teeth, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of hearing me cry out.

  “There are more of us,” I hiss. “There will always be more of us.”

  He may be behind me, but I sense the rigidity in his body, like an extension of his sword against my neck. “Not for long.”

  Choose the option that brings you back to me.

  My hand is close enough to my pocket that I can reach for the vial of poison. A brief moment of pain instead of capture. I think of Celeste’s body a few feet away. She had the strength to drink it rather than be a prisoner again. Maybe I’m not as hopeless as I think I am. I want to live. I do. I’m out of options, Dez, I think.

  As if I’ve conjured him, Dez appears through the smoke like one of my memories coming to life. He is covered in soot and ash from head to toe. A gust of wind tousles his dark hair, and there’s a wildness to the melted gold of his eyes. When he sees the blade at my neck and the blood running down my chest, a calm deadliness overtakes him. He draws his sword.

  “Let her go,” Dez orders.

  But the sword stays where it is. I stomp on the relief blooming in my heart because he shouldn’t have come for me, and I know when this is all over, I will have to answer for my mistakes. Blood drips from my cut, hot and sticky, down onto the floor, sweat stinging the open wound.

  I see the commander in Dez take over as he must realize two things: First, I cannot help him. A single move from me, and the soldier will push his blade fully into my throat, cleave me in half. Second, Dez is too far away to stop him.

  But Dez is no ordinary soldier. His thick black brows knit together as he works his magics. He palms the copper coin I know is hidden beneath his tunic, drawing on it to strengthen his gift of persuasion.

  Robári are to be feared because we can leave a mind hollow. But Persuári can sense emotion and twist it into action, making you live out your most hidden impulses.

  Dez’s power bends the very air around us. It intoxicates the senses. He can tap into your desire to do good and make you hand over your coins to a stranger. Proclaim your heart’s desire. Jump off a cliff—but only if the impulse already exists.

  The soldier grunts as he’s overwhelmed by Dez’s magics, frozen in place. His trembling hand causes the tip of the blade to waver against my skin, digging into my wound. I cry out despite myself, a stinging sensation spreading along my neck and arms.

  Dez comes within inches of the soldier. His magics prickle along my skin, like invisible beetles crawling all over me.

  “Let. Her. Go,” Dez says again. When he uses his power, his words are accompanied by a hypnotic chime, like a spirit calling out from another realm. Effortless, as Dez’s magics always are.

  He must be amplifying the soldier’s obedience and using that to twist his body. Except now he’s taking orders from a Moria, and the soldier screams against the movements he can’t control. The soldier trembles, fighting with all his might. But he isn’t stronger than Dez, and finally he does as he’s told.

  Free of the blade’s edge, I stumble away from Dez and the soldier, crawling back toward Celeste’s corpse. I still have to get the alman stone. Blood runs down my skin, but the pain of the cut is nothing compared to the heat that scorched new scars on my hands.

  “Drop your sword,” Dez says.

  The soldier’s face turns red. I’ve seen others bend easily, but this one strains against the force of it, his body locked in place like a statue coming to life.

  This is why they fear us. This power that alchemy and clerics can’t explain. A power that is a gift and a curse.

  “You don’t need another soldier’s sword,” I mutter to Dez as I crouch next to Celeste’s body.

  “Perhaps not, but I want it.” Dez holds his hand out, and the air undulates around the guard like heat on the desert.

  The soldier twitches, his hand shaking until he relinquishes his hold. The metal clangs on the stone floor. Dez is swift to pick it up and turns the bloody blade on the soldier.

  “Kill me, bestae,” the soldier spits at Dez. “Do it!”

  Dez moves gracefully around the soldier and presses the sword’s point onto the Fajardo family’s crest stitched on the front of the guard’s tunic—a winged lion with a spear in its mandible and flames roaring around it.

  “Killing you is easy,” Dez says, punctuating his words with a grin. “I want you to return to your men. I want you to tell them that it was a Moria bestae who spared your life. That the Whispers will take back their lands and you’ll never be able to hurt our people again.”

  “The king and the justice will destroy you,” the soldier says, his body overcome with tremors. “All of you!”

  While he’s distracted by Dez, I take this moment to turn Celeste’s face toward me. I press my fingers along her throat. I don’t feel anything, but I saw her in Francis’s memory. I watched her swallow the alman stone.

  As I pry her jaw open, a soft white light emits from the back of her throat. The acrid stench of vomit and charred skin makes my stomach roil. I shut my eyes and reach in, feeling along the swollen slick of her tongue. May the Mother of All forgive me.

  Letting go of an anxious breath, I get my fingers around the alman stone, then pocket it.

  “Let’s go, Ren. Provincia Carolina is a day’s ride.”

  I nod, even though I know we have no outpost in the Carolina region. The soldier doesn’t seem gullible enough to take this misdirect, even under Dez’s persuasion, but he’ll have to report his encounter in excruciating detail to his superiors. It’ll send the king’s men on a fool’s errand and split their forces, perhaps even give us time to reach our base undisturbed.

  “Wait outside and don’t move until we’re long gone,” Dez commands. But the minute Dez is out of reach, the spell will break. We have to move quickly. I chance a look at the soldier. His face is red, spit bubbling at the twisted snarl of his lips. I know today will only fuel his hatred of us. For now, we have to save ourselves.

  Dez drapes my arm around his shoulder, and together we hobble out the door and vanish into the smoky streets.

  Chapter 4

  When Dez and I reunite with the rest of our unit—Sayida, Margo, and Esteban—the five of us head north for half a day, following a winding path through the Verdina Forest. Even the king’s guard can’t be everywhere at once, and the dense trees and gnarly roots jutting from the ground make it a hard enough journey by foot. It would be nearly impossible for the Second Sweep’s horses.

  We move with purpose, cutting through dew-covered brush, following the rays of light that filter through the thick canopy of verdina trees. We keep walking until it’s safe to
stop, until the insides of our boots wear the skin of our feet raw, until we reach the bank of the Rio Aguadulce. The rapid white river is such a welcome sight. The five of us discard our packs and weapons and kneel at the water’s edge. I tug off my spare gloves and drink until my belly hurts and my fingers are numb from the cold. I remove the makeshift bandage Sayida made for me when Dez and I first returned to the rendezvous point.

  Sayida is a Persuári, like Dez, though she is also skilled in medicine and healing. For centuries, when the kingdom of Memoria was free and thriving, those like Sayida and Dez were often medicuras by trade because they can tend to ailments while keeping their patients calm and serene.

  I grind my teeth to muffle the cry that scrapes my throat. Splashing ice-cold water onto the wound helps a bit, but now that we’ve got a place to stop for the night, I’m going to have to let Sayida take a needle to it.

  “We’ll set up camp here between these boulders,” Dez says, surveying the area by the riverbank, where the roots are so high above the earth, it’s as though they’re trying to get up to take a stroll. It’s a good enough location with plenty of shade and a fallen tree trunk that will be of help when we have to wade across the river. He wastes no time in cleaning his stolen sword.

  Esteban frowns at me, which I’m used to. “I worry about the king’s men,” he says, scratching at the uneven tufts of facial hair he’s attempting to grow. With his smooth brown skin and full lips, he’d be quite handsome if he shaved it, though that wouldn’t do anything for his personality. “The Second Sweep will alert the toll men on the route out of the provincia. The inspections will be more thorough or they’ll increase the travel tax—we can barely—”

  “Let’s get through this night first,” Dez says, trying to keep his voice light. “It wouldn’t be a complete mission without a good deal of worry to keep us sharp.”

  Esteban’s thick black lashes rest on high cheekbones as he takes a moment to compose himself. It’s a hard thing to do, standing up to Dez. One year younger than me, Esteban came to the Whispers from Citadela Crescenti, with its tall palmetto trees, scorching sun, and never-ending festivities. He clears his throat. “But—”

  “Not now,” Dez says, voice strong but with a hint of weariness. He examines his polished sword as he stands, and for the briefest moment, Esteban flinches. Sayida keeps her head down, her dainty fingers busy with a suture kit.

  “When?” Margo comes up behind Dez, hands on narrow hips. She’s four fingers shorter than him, but her anger elongates her somehow. Margo’s blue eyes are heavy with dark circles, her freckled face red from the wind and sun. She doesn’t try to cover up the burned splotches, like many other Illusionári would do. The only vanity Margo allows herself is her set of pebble-size solid-gold earrings. And even those are only worn as metal conduits to enhance her magics.

  “Peace, Margo,” Sayida says softly, sensing a fight like a seabird might a distant storm.

  Esteban scoffs. “There’s none of that to go around.”

  “Are we going to talk about what happened in the village?” Margo demands. “Or does the little incendiary get to do whatever she wants, even if it means putting us all in danger?”

  I wince at her words, but Sayida remains beside me. She places a calming hand on my uninjured shoulder. Anger simmers beneath my skin, but I won’t try to pick a fight with Margo. Not while I’m wounded, at least.

  Dez’s nostrils flare. “What do you want me to say, Margo? We did everything to get to Celeste as fast as we could. We were too late, but not all is lost.”

  Her blue eyes fall on me, cold and loveless. Wide pink lips curl into a scoff. “Not all is lost? We couldn’t be sure the pair of you got out alive. Then you show up, this one half-dead and you with a new toy. You’re the one always saying not to bring attention to ourselves! Why didn’t you show the Second Sweep the hidden passage through the mountain while you were at it?”

  I hate the way she says this one, but I swallow the names I’d call her because I will make things worse.

  “Enough,” Dez says. The echo of his deep voice lingers.

  Sayida unspools a long black thread and cuts it with a flick of a pocket blade. Margo’s frustration turns her lips into an ugly scowl. Esteban twists the cap of his flask. I listen to the sound of a woman singing, Francis’s mother. My tear ducts sting, so I close my eyes and usher that stolen memory into the dark with the others.

  “I know you’re tired,” Dez says, dragging his fingers through his hair. “But we recovered the alman stone and we’re not far from the mountain borders. We’ll be safe when we’re back in Ángeles.”

  “And then what?” Margo says, the last word coming out strangled. “It’s been ten months since we lost our hold of Citadela Riomar.”

  Dez goes completely still. We all do. But Margo keeps throwing his biggest defeat in his face.

  “If we lose more ground, if we’re pushed back any more, we’ll be going right off the cliffs and into the sea. We can send as many refugees as we want across the sea and into foreign lands, but there is no such thing as safe anymore.”

  “I know exactly how long it’s been since I lost Riomar,” he says with more patience than I’ve ever summoned on my own. “I think of it every day. Every day.”

  “I didn’t mean—” Margo starts.

  “I know what you meant. Hear this. I will do everything I can to win this war, but I can’t do it alone. I need all of you. A unit.” His golden eyes cut to Margo, who straightens up, not at attention, but like a challenge. “And if you didn’t believe there was any hope at all, you would have left us long ago, Margo.”

  She tilts her chin up and points a finger at me. “I stay to make sure she doesn’t betray us again. You’re careless with your life when she’s on missions.”

  I’m used to Margo, more than Esteban, getting her digs in when I make a mistake. Across all the miles we’ve traveled, my insides have been knotted against their disdain, but this feels different. When Dez pulled me from the scavenger unit and onto his, Margo was the first to claim that I was too slow, too loud on my feet, too weak to carry a sword. I trained every day and night to prove her wrong, but it hasn’t been enough. It’s like she’s waiting for me to go running back to the justice. I hate that everything I am can be summed up in few words. Scavenger. Thief. Traitor.

  Will they allow me to be more? Today I stuck my hand in a dead woman’s throat to retrieve a magic stone. I don’t have the energy to fight with Margo. But Dez does, and I wish he wouldn’t.

  “Come now, Margo,” Dez says, his face set as if daring the others to contradict him. “Are you angry because I went back for her or because Ren saved a boy’s life? It wasn’t you who ran into the burning village alongside me.”

  “You told us to stay behind,” Esteban bursts out. “We had to retrieve the packs.”

  Dez bares teeth in a humorless smile. “You see? We all played our parts. We’re alive. Ren retrieved Celeste’s alman stone.”

  “And got caught,” Margo mutters.

  “When we get caught, because it does happen to the best of us, we figure out a way to keep fighting. Keep the mission alive. Destroy the Arm of Justice. Restore our kingdom and the lands of our ancestors. Or have you changed your mind?”

  “I haven’t,” Esteban says.

  “Good. We are all alive, and we are together. That’s more than I can say for Celeste San Marina.” We all nod, and he lets a tight moment pass before he says, “Sayida, can you stitch Ren up, please?”

  “I’ll do what I can,” Sayida says. The needle and thread are on a swatch of clean cloth, and she washes her hands with a square of soap in the river.

  “The rest of us will make camp,” Dez says, trying to catch my eye.

  I refuse to look at him. He doesn’t understand. He can’t. I don’t want him speaking on my behalf. It only makes things worse with the others.

  Above us, dark clouds move quickly across the sky, leaving a cool breeze. Perhaps the goddess is still look
ing after us, and perhaps this is her mercy on rebels always running from a mad king—a reprieve from sweltering heat.

  I sit on a patch of dry grass while the others finish building a ring of stones for a fire. Sayida cuts another swatch of relatively clean cloth with her pocketknife and uses it as a rag to blot as much of the blood around my wound as she can.

  I try to stare at her face and ignore the burning sensation that spreads across my shoulders and chest. Sayida’s eyes and hair are dark as midnight, and the gentle outward slope of her nose is accentuated by a tiny diamond stud on the left nostril. Her skin is the light brown of the sand dunes in the Zahara Canyons with a smatter of black beauty marks across her chest. She always has a slightly red tint to her lips, a habit left over from her time as a singer four years ago. Now, nearly nineteen, she’s still the nightingale of the Whispers, singing as she mends our cuts and sews up our wounds. It’s almost enough that you don’t think about the pain. Almost.

  I grimace, tensing my shoulder as she puts pressure on the wound.

  “Sorry! Mother of All, this is a long cut, Ren,” she says, never taking her eyes off her own swift fingers. A nervous chuckle leaves her lips. “But, of course, you knew that.”

  “Now I’ve got matching scars on either side of my neck,” I say, maudlin. “The world simply insists on attempting to behead me.”

  “Or Our Lady of Shadows has sent her guardians to watch over you.” Sayida strikes a match and runs a long needle through the small flame.

  I make to laugh, but something about the fire makes me gasp and nearly fall backward. It’s silly, utterly pathetic how I can build a flame at camp and run through a razed village and watch a boy’s memory of a guard set on fire, but then this small drop of flame causes me to lose my breath.

  “Ren?”

  It’s happening again. Why is it happening now? Sayida squeezes my arms to try to snap me out of it. My body feels paralyzed as my vision splinters with pain. A memory I keep locked in the Gray breaks out.

  Small hands grip the windowsill of the palace. Diamond glass panes reflect my face back to me. The stark black night sky explodes with the bleeding orange and red of sunrise. My rooms fill with smoke. It sifts through the seams around the door.