Page 21 of Between Smoke and Shadow
“We don’t need two cycles.” He glances between me and Tora. “If he wants extra magic, we’ll take every drop of it this Lightning Season. We’ll bottle it all, spare nothing. It should be enough to open the portal. Might not hold for long, but it’ll get us and the Architect through.”
“You suggest we leave our people?” Tora snaps. “And, worse, use all of our magic to do it. The entire kingdom would collapse. Everyone would die, Malek. Does that not bother you?”
“Our only people are the descendants, and there’d most likely be enough magic to get them through.” He rolls his eyes before returning the bottle to its shelf. “Do you honestly think we’re going to geteveryoneout? We’re not, Tora. And if you think for a second we’re wasting magic on mortals, you’re delusional.”
I switch the handkerchief to my other hand. We meet in this bunker at the end of every Earthquake Season, and italwaysgoes like this. Mother says the Architect needs more time. Tora fights with Malek about right versus wrong. And I sulk in the background until I feel forced to intervene.
I’ve always tried to keep the peace, but right now, I don’t know why I bother. The Architect’s never going to open a portalto the Old World. He’s been here over two hundred cycles, kept alive by engorging himself on raw magic, and he hasn’t managed it. Even if he could, I don’t know why he would. He’s got it in his head he’ll be welcomed back, if only he can get there. As if their god didn’t personally banish him.
“We’re going to save as many people as we can,” Mother says, staring pointedly at me, as if offended I didn’t offer the solution myself. “Until the Architect decides we’re ready, there’s no point in arguing.”
Her eyes flicker to my crown. It’s molded to represent all of Savoa with components for each sector. Roots for the Reaping Grounds, teeth for the Wilds, glass for the City of Mirrors, rocks for the Pit, all twisted together with strands of magic. It’s fit for an heir, and by the look on Mother’s face, she doesn’t think it fits me.
“Fine,” Tora says.
Malek doesn’t respond.
“Now, let’s go,” Mother says. “We’re expected to make an appearance.”
Malek’s jaw ticks, and one of his darker scars hitches. I’ve heard elite women whispering about him, theorizing the marks on his face and body. They tend to assume the wounds are from training or scandalous nights with his so-called concubines. I know better. Malek only ends up with new cuts after a late night in the City of Mirrors, and there’s nothing admirable about them.
We walk through the bunker and back toward the main hub of the Tower. Malek and Tora start arguing again. I lag a few paces behind them and Mother, hands tucked into my pockets. I’ve never understood their desperation to flee our world for one only the Architect has seen. As if his judgment should be trusted, when he’s the reason we’re not there. Or the fact that the Old World washishome, never ours.
I’d prefer to stay here. If we used this hoarded magic, Savoa might not be so bad. We could repair this land rather than abandon it, but I’ve only ever been mocked for that idea. Even Tora wants to leave, though I think that’s more about escaping her title than Savoa itself.
The four of us gather into a darkened lift, one hidden and unknown to most in the Tower. Malek and Tora are still arguing as I press the keypad, and my sister is about to break into tears. She always lets Malek get to her, even when she knows he’s a liar, an entitled child who only thinks of himself.
“Enough,” I snap as the lift stops. “Let’s just make it through the night.”
Fifteen minutes later, we stand on the 199th floor, just outside the event center. Mother pauses at the metal door, sounds of the rehearsal party filtering around us.
“No less than twenty minutes,” she says, eyes shifting between us. She looks only to Malek as she adds, “And behave. There is no need for theatrics tonight.”
“Very well,” Malek says with an exaggerated sigh. He flashes the mischievous grin everyone but Mother hates. “I’ll save it for the Celebration.”
Before she can respond, Malek is through the door and into the bustling party. Mother and Tora go next, and I enter last, letting the door settle behind me. The muffled quiet of the hallway is gone, replaced with a cacophony of last-minute preparations. The center is filled with elites and royals, along with their servants, and lowly shop owners. Trinkets spill over tables as the sellers compete for their place at the Celebration. Low and high guards line the wall, bodies tensed and motionless. As I lean against the door frame, a high guard appears in my peripheral vision, hovering.
I ignore him.
Malek thrives in this type of environment. He loves the chaos, the endless possibilities. There are pretty women to seduce and tipsy men to fight when he’s bored. Three elites surround him now, one hanging on his arm as he grins at her. I never asked Tora who will be betrothed to Malek, but I pity the woman, whoever she is.
I scan the room until I find Viana. She’s stunning, wearing a juniper gown and a mask of braided gold and green. Her cheeks are flushed, her hair in an intricate knot on her head. Several men gawk at her, glancing between her red-painted lips and her low-cut top. My stomach twists unpleasantly, and I scan the area around her. As expected, Saskia is at a nearby table, and behind her: Rune Ealde.
Saskia approaches Viana, and the two ladies compare raindrop necklaces. The pendants are white stone, and if they’re the same as last cycle, they’ll turn red when wet.
Rune remains in the background with Viana’s servant. Their heads are low, hands clasped, mouths closed. Rune wears the dark yellow veil and shoes I sent to her room this morning, and there don’t seem to be any additional scars on her face or neck. I’d sent something to Viana and Saskia’s rooms, too. Not accessories but a letter, warning them of the laws and the consequences of abuse against servants, authorized by Queen Elaria herself.
It’s not true, of course. There are no laws against abusing servants, and Mother has never sent an authorized letter over something like this. She’d find it trivial. I’m just hoping Saskia and Viana don’t figure that out.
“It’s horrible, isn’t it?” Tora asks, startling me.
“What?” I ask. I shift my attention to a nearby statue. One of the vendors has crafted a life-size model of the Architect, made entirely of that ivory stone.
“What they do to their servants,” she says. Her voice is low as she steps closer, nodding toward Rune. “See that one’s face? All cut up. I’d bet you her master did that.”
I don’t respond, but I allow myself to look back at Rune. She’s in the exact same place, same position. I wonder if she notices me staring.
“It hurts, you know?” Tora whispers. “That we let that happen.”
