Shimmer and Burn Read online

  “Wait,” he says.

  I throw myself back through the trees, shouting for Bryn, voice cracking as I gag on the lingering stench of burnt flesh. The only pain that answers my calls is my own: Wherever she is, she’s alive and unharmed.

  Even so, when she shouts my name, I pick up speed, angling through the trees before I find her, flat on her back, fighting against a boy pinning her down.

  I tackle the boy. He protests, hands flying toward my face, my wrists, holding my dagger away from his skin. “No,” he says, panicked. “Wait!”

  I draw back, confused. He’s not hellborne and he’s unarmed; he’s a child, barely older than Cadence, with round shoulders and a round face and shaggy hair.

  “Kill him,” Bryn growls, rolling onto her stomach to see us. Her hair hangs in wild tangles around her shoulders; dirt is smeared across her cheek.

  I’m pulled off the boy, momentarily suspended before my feet find purchase. A hand tightens against my shoulder but I wrench free, spinning to find North, crossbow in one hand, the other held open in peace.

  “You’re all right,” he says softly. He reaches for me but I step out of range, holding my blade between us in warning. North dutifully takes a step back as well, widening our distance. “We’re not here to hurt you. My name is North and this is my apprentice, Tobek.”

  The boy, Tobek, scrambles to his feet and falls behind North.

  “What do you want?” Bryn asks, as I hold tighter to the dagger, bracing my weight, debating which one to strike first.

  North and Tobek exchange glances. “That,” says North, “has a complicated answer.”

  Eleven

  NORTH LEADS US THROUGH THE woods, casting glances behind him every few feet, stopping to cock his head and listen. Tobek trails behind me, penning Bryn and myself between them, and I hold my dagger in an unrelenting grip. It was easier to trust a kind face in a crowd of infected monsters, but out here in the dark, after what I’ve just seen, I’m second-guessing myself and the faith I’ve placed in a stranger. A magician.

  Trust no one, I think.

  “We’re not far,” says North, crossbow half raised to his chest.

  “Too far for no explanation,” says Bryn, as her cloak snags on a rock.

  North watches her from over his shoulder. A branch snaps behind us, jarring as a gunshot. I flinch away from the sound, from the memory, and North’s eyes shift back to me, a slight furrow dividing his forehead. “My wagon is warded against the hellborne,” he says, turning. “It’s not far, and it is far safer than out here.”

  Bryn scowls and tugs her cloak free.

  Before long, the sky opens above me and I stumble through grass as high as my thighs. For an instant, the stars steal my attention before I remember myself. Swallowing hard, I switch the dagger to my opposite hand, looking past North to a wagon parked inside a circle of white stones.

  The wagon is old, faded, too long spent in the sun. Dark paint peels in layers, like the necrotic skin of the hellborne. White bleeds into blue and rust bleeds into everything, painting lines from the slanted roof down to the wheels. A stable door is shuttered closed at the top of a small stepladder; two horses graze with utter disinterest at the side. A campfire smolders from a dug-out hole flanked by more stones.

  North approaches the wagon, pressing his hand to the door. White threads of magic crawl across the wood and sink into the grain before a lock clicks and the door sags open. Slinging his crossbow over his shoulder, he steps inside and lights an oil lamp hanging from the ceiling. Heat spills out with intoxicating invitation, but I hang back, knocking into Tobek, who stands too close behind me.

  North waits, expectant, hands on his hips. “I have tea,” he says, gesturing to a tarnished samovar above a fat-bellied stove.

  “Your majesty, this is not a good idea,” I whisper urgently. “He knows magic.”

  “But he has tea,” Bryn says drily.

  North seems to remember the weapon he holds. He pulls off the crossbow and angles it against a chair before demonstrating his hands. “No magic,” he says. The fingers are bent, arthritic, the knuckles swollen into painful, reddened knots. My eyes crawl back to a face too young to be suffering such an affliction, barely older than me.

  Noticing my gaze, North straightens and tucks his hands across his chest as his face floods with color. Reluctantly, I follow Bryn into the wagon, ready to bolt at the first sign of attack.

  It smells sour inside, like sweat and old skin; like two men who live in close quarters and don’t often entertain. Dried plants hang in bushels from the beams of the ceiling; an apothecary’s chest hugs half a wall, full of drawers and topped with jars filled with rocks, some white, some gray, and some completely black. Books lie scattered across the top of the chest and the small table adjacent, spines and pages haphazardly shoved into place with no apparent system. The stove hisses on the opposite wall, beside a stack of splinted wood and a dresser, while two bunks are built against the back, both framed with carved designs. A single window is set into the wall above the top bunk.

  Someone painted stars on the ceiling.

  “Who are you?” Bryn asks, nose wrinkled in distaste.

  North blinks. “As I said, my name is North, that is my apprentice, Tobek, and this”—a ball of orange and white fur joyfully barrels toward his legs and he scoops it in his arms—“is Darjin.”

  A cat. It purrs with rusty glee as North cradles it to his chest, scratching beneath its upturned chin. He smiles down at the cat, softening the otherwise fierce lines of his face. Even his eyes are black, I realize, when he looks to me again.

  I look away, uncomfortable. Still guilty. Does he know that I pulled a trigger and chose my sister over someone else? Surely murder leaves a mark, some physical note for everyone to see. If he knew, would he have saved my life?

  Has he saved my life? After all, he made the first bid in the marketplace, and while I wanted his help at the time, that was before I knew he could stop a hellborne heart with just his hands. What could he do to someone like me?

  Tobek stands at the bottom of the stairwell behind me, blocking our escape. Unlike North, he has not relinquished his crossbow, and a low burr of warning raises the hairs on my neck. “Bryn,” I whisper, tugging on the edge of her cloak. There are too many walls and not enough doors.

  She shakes me off with an irritated scowl. “You weren’t looking for guests to invite to tea,” she says.

  North sets Darjin onto a chair. Cat fur clings to his coat, unnoticed. “You’re obviously not safe out there,” he says. “Certainly not alone. We’re leaving for Corsant in the morning, and I’m happy to take you anywhere along that route—”

  “We’re on our way to New Prevast,” says Bryn. “Either you can help us or you’re wasting our time.”

  “New Prevast is seven days in the opposite direction,” says North.

  Bryn falls back, flicking her wrist dismissively. “Then you can’t help us.”

  North’s hands curl around the back of a chair. He chews his lower lip as his thumb taps an impatient rhythm. “How did you end up at that market?”

  “Irrelevant,” says Bryn. “Why were you there? And why did you follow us into the woods?”

  The complicated answer. North colors slightly, shifting his weight. Exchanging looks with Tobek, he tilts his head toward one shoulder, considering his words. “For four years,” he says slowly, “I’ve been tracking down rumors of Merlock’s whereabouts; any magic cast by the king only lasts so long as he does. If I could kill Merlock, I could potentially stop the plague from spreading any further. All evidence suggests that he’s sought refuge within the Burn in the hopes that no one will find him—”

  “Your king is a coward,” says Bryn.

  “But he is still the king,” says North with a tight, reflective smile. “And while he lives, Prince Corbin cannot inherit the magic he needs to save Avinea.” Drawing a breath, he studies his hands on the back of the chair. “The spell that binds you two together,�
� he says at last, looking up. “I’ve never seen one that strong before. Tobek smelled the charge of it from the road. Unfortunately, so did every hellborne in the area. Magic like that is worth a fortune, and people are willing to kill for it. As I said, you’re safe here, for now. There are wards on the wagon, but out there . . .”

  “Is this an offer or a threat?” Bryn straightens.

  “It’s magic,” North repeats, and a flicker of excitement colors his voice, brightening his eyes. He looks more his age now, vibrant in his enthusiasm. “Without a trace of poison in it. That’s . . . that’s impossible. In four years, I’ve never found anything more than a thread or a spark or even a—a candle leftover from before the war. Yet here you are, brighter than the sun.” Sobering, he says, “I want to buy it from you.”

  “It’s not for sale.”

  “You want a binding spell?” I ask, looking from one to the other, uneasy. “What would you do with it?”

  “Unravel it,” says North, shifting his attention to me. “I’d probably lose some of the magic in the process, yes, but I could save the rest and—”

  My heart sinks. “You’re a transferent too?”

  North blinks. “Yes.”

  Despite my dagger, I look around me for something heavier, deadlier—a contingency plan. North is not a large man but he looks huge, with that kind of power. A single touch could destroy Bryn’s mission—and my life.

  “If I was going to steal it, I would have done it by now,” he says ruefully, noticing my unease. “Look, I can’t enter the Burn unprotected. I’d be poisoned within hours, either dead or hellborne within days. Clean magic—enough of it—could be used to pave a path, giving me the chance I need to search for Merlock.”

  He takes a step toward us. Both Bryn and I tense and he freezes, startled by our reaction. “Tea,” he explains, eyebrows furrowed, pointing to the samovar.

  “Boundary line,” Bryn says, drawing an imaginary line through the air before gesturing him back over it.

  He straightens with a slight frown. “This is my wagon.”

  “This is my magic,” she counters. “And you were going to pay that man five hundred pieces of silver for it.”

  Tobek chokes. “Five hun—I told you no more than one! One thirty at the outside! That silver’s got to last us another two months!”

  North ignores him, frowning at Bryn. “So then name your price.”

  She smiles, savoring the shift in power. “A man who carries five hundred pieces of silver isn’t just looking for Merlock and strange spells to buy off girls in the marketplace. You have a patron.” She tents her fingers against the table, appearing to study her chipped nails before her eyes cut toward North. “Prince Corbin.”

  I’m grateful she has experience in negotiations while my experience is more in hitting until it hurts. I wouldn’t have even considered wondering where the silver came from, only where he might have hidden it.

  North does not look nearly so impressed with her conclusion; he looks annoyed. “Yes,” he says, “my search is being funded by New Prevast, but that is not—”

  “Here’s my offer,” Bryn says, flicking a hand to silence him. North closes his mouth, eyes flashing. “Take us to New Prevast, introduce us to your prince, and then, and only then, I will release this spell to anyone his majesty so chooses.”

  North cocks his head, forcing a tight, humorless smile. “As I said, New Prevast is seven days in the opposite direction. I’m not the only one looking for Merlock, and after tonight, my biggest competition has just become my newest enemy.” He points beyond the wagon, back into the woods. “I need more than just a maybe that I made the right decision in burning that bridge by saving your lives.”

  “It’s the strongest spell you’ve ever seen and your prince is getting desperate,” says Bryn.

  “My prince.” North’s eyes narrow, a slash of black against his olive face, the distinction simmering between them. “Who are you?”

  “Avinea’s last chance,” says Bryn.

  Snorting, North runs a hand through his hair. “Humble as well as cryptic.”

  “There’s no shame in knowing my worth.”

  “And there’s no shame in gratitude,” Tobek says, with a flash of indignation. “Baedan and her men would’ve eaten you alive!”

  “You only saved our lives because you wanted something from us,” Bryn says. Scorn colors her voice and her expression shifts, so subtle as to be almost imperceptible, and yet, it transforms her from a pretty girl in a muddy dress to a queen without a crown. “I’ll kiss your feet when it’s actually warranted.”

  Tobek’s features darken like a summer thunderstorm but North shakes his head. “Dinner,” he suggests tightly. Scowling, Tobek spins on his heel, slamming his way outside.

  North waits a moment, biting his lip before he looks back at Bryn, studying her with a slight frown. “Are you Merlock’s daughter?”

  “What? Good god, no!” Bryn laughs scornfully. “My father is a king, not a coward.”

  North’s brow furrows. “So a princess wants to go to New Prevast to see a prince,” he says slowly. “But the prince doesn’t entertain everyone I drag to his door. I need names. Places of origin. Who sent you, and why now?”

  “My name is Bryndalin Dossel.” Bryn tosses her hair back, chin raised high. “And where I’m from is irrelevant to you, as is my purpose.”

  “Not good enough, Miss Dossel.” He shakes his head. “After twenty years of being ignored by every country within reach, what could you or your father possibly hope to gain in Avinea?”

  “I am not here for my father,” she says with a warning tone. “And if you can’t help us, we’ll just find our own way to New Prevast.” She turns, sliding her arm through mine and pulling me toward the door. We’re halfway down the stairwell before—

  “Wait.”

  Bryn flashes a grin of triumph to me, but immediately sobers before she turns to face him, haughty. “Yes?”

  “If I take you to New Prevast, that binding spell is mine,” says North, dark eyes blazing. “I won’t wait for Prince Corbin’s leftovers.”

  Bryn tips her head back, considering. “Agreed.”

  He extends a hand. “Will you shake on that?”

  “I will not,” she says. “And if you ever try to touch me, I will kill you.” Releasing me, Bryn pulls a small ring from her finger and drops it on the table. It spins before settling. “It’s gold,” she says. “Consider that as good as my word. Take us to New Prevast and the spell is yours.”

  My breath catches. I know that ring. It belonged to Thaelan’s grandmother and would, he had confided one night beneath the stars, one day be his wife’s. I had held it toward the moon, my insides as green as the stones nestled between the tiny diamonds, wanting the impossible so badly I couldn’t breathe. He never mentioned it again and I always believed he’d given it to Ellis, the girl his father chose for him.

  “Where did you get that?” I whisper.

  Bryn shrugs, indifferent. “From Pem,” she says.

  My chest cracks along the scar tissue and floods with bile. The only way for Alistair to have gotten that ring is to have taken it from Thaelan. Stolen it.

  And then he gave it to her.

  Dropping the dagger, I lurch down the stairwell, out into the field. Tobek looks up from the fire, rotating something on a metal spit. He calls out a warning regarding the stones around camp but I ignore him, breaking into a run.

  The ground is hard, unfamiliar beneath feet so long accustomed to cobblestones and the furrows of our farming terraces. Mountains chew the horizon and I run for them, drawn by the only symbol I have of home and Cadence, but the mountains stay just out of reach. Even the Burn is too far away, no more than a ribbon of fire that colors the horizon gold.

  Hopelessness overtakes me and I feel the first warning edge of pain reminding me that the last two days have not come easy. Gasping for breath, I fall to my knees, crying for Cadence, for Thaelan, for myself—for believing a girl fr
om the Brim could rise as high as the castle, as far as the stars.

  The stars.

  There are thousands of them, an entire ocean overhead. Tipping my head back, I raise my hands and frame a span of sky—two hands’ worth and no more, the most we ever saw from the roofs of Brindaigel. It settles me with its familiar view.

  Footsteps approach behind me. I don’t have to look to know it’s North; Bryn would never deign to follow me. I lower my hands, my cropped hair falling forward, past my chin.

  “What do you want?” I ask.

  “You do like running,” he says wryly. When I don’t respond, he takes another step closer. “I have to ask you to stay within the stone ring for your own safety,” he says. “I can’t extend a ward beyond its borders and the hellborne are far more active in the night. Especially tonight.”

  Turning, I see North with his head rocked back to the sky as if to guess what I was looking at. He worries his lower lip beneath his teeth, eyes hooded with shadow when they fall back to me. “You wanted me to win that bid this afternoon,” he says.

  “You were the only one who looked like he wouldn’t peel my skin off,” I say.

  “You were right. You’re safe.”

  I snort, casting a derisive look at my wrist. “Maybe. For now.”

  North edges closer. “Do you need help?”

  I need my sister. Answers. Why did my mother steal the king’s magic and then waste it on saying good-bye? Why didn’t she run, like I would have done? Like I should have done, when I had the chance?

  Why did I listen to Alistair Pembrough after four months of planning to kill him?

  “How much would it cost to remove this?” I ask, brandishing my arm toward North. The spell shifts beneath my skin, dark as the smoke that rises ahead of us.

  Remorse clouds his face. “I can’t do that.”

  “You’re a transferent, name your price!”

  “No, I mean”—he crouches to see me eye to eye—“the spell originates in Miss Dossel. I can’t remove it through you.”

  Frustration floods my veins, edged with despair. I can’t run, I can’t escape. She’ll kill me if I try.