Page 26 of Between Smoke and Shadow
Guilt prickles the edge of my consciousness, but there’s no time to stop. I twist back to Malek, hands raised and magic ready. I’m a second too late. Malek has already conjured a beast, a terrifying monstrosity with the body of a crocodile and the muscular limbs of a lion. It charges me, crashing through my half-formed vines, as if they’re nothing but dust.
The beast smashes against my torso, heavy paws slamming me to the ground. We slide nearly a foot across the marble with the hybrid’s weight settled over me. My breath sputters, oxygen disappearing in painful bursts. A sharp pain radiates through my skull and blurs my vision.
The hybrid’s claws bite through my shirt, tearing my skin and puncturing my ribs. I need to focus. If I can get myself centered, I can get out of this. A few vines is all I need to tie this creature and get it off me. But everything hurts and my vision is going black.
I hit my headhard.
Even as the world darkens, I hear Malek’s cackled laugh. I can imagine his grin, the excitement in those narrowed eyes. This is what he’s always wanted: a dead brother and a guaranteed throne.
With a snarled roar, Malek’s beast shoves off my chest, only to crash back against me. I hear cracking, snapping, my ribcage shattering against my organs. I try to scream, but nothing comes out. There’s only the crunch of bone, the warmth of blood splattering against my chin and out my mouth.
Black overtakes my vision until I can’t see or hear or feel anything at all.
I’m not sure how long my senses are gone, but they return in an abrupt snap. Everything, all at once. Breath and sound and the steady pulse of magic through my bones. Tora is screaming again, wailing, but at least she’s okay. Her sobs grow quiet, replaced by multiple guards pushing into the space around me. They shout orders and Mother’s voice filters between them.
I don’t try to get up. Even without Malek’s hybrid on my chest, I’m not sure I can move. My body might be shattered. It certainly feels that way. I’m sucking wet breaths through my lips, the taste of blood bitter on my tongue.
A healer kneels at my side and presses his hands against my ribcage. He frowns at what he finds, but he doesn’t tell me the damage. I can’t find the energy to ask.
“I’m putting you to sleep now,” he says. His voice is calm, almost hypnotic. “All will be better when you wake.”
I know he means my injuries, but I pretend he truly meansall. That when I wake, I will be stronger, faster, smarter. When I wake, I will be the most fearsome caster, more powerful than the Architect ever was. They say I was born with more magic than any other descendant in Savoan history, and maybe when I wake, I will believe them.
“He is waking,”says a voice. It’s foggy and distant, like it’s coming from another world. “Quick. Fetch the Architect.”
A moan rumbles from my chest. Everything hurts. A sharp throb pulses against the back of my skull and it feels like my lungs aren’t working. My bones are worse. It’s like someone chipped them into a million pieces, only to sloppily reconnect them. I move my hands up my ribcage, groaning as the bones flex against my touch.
“Don’t, my prince,” the foggy voice says. “Leave it be.”
It takes three tries to open my eyes. Bright lights shine overhead, and the man holds another light in his hand. He hovers it above my face, tilting my chin with his fingers.
“Very good,” he says.
I have no idea how this could be good, let alonevery good. I wince as he moves his hands over me, pulling at one eyelid, then the other. He promised I would wake better, but I’m far from it. Maybe Malek’s magic has infested my body like a disease, and the healer’s power isn’t working. Maybe this is how I die, shattered in the infirmary, each breath harder than the last.
“What’s wrong with me?” I ask through a wheezy gasp.
“The Architect requested we postpone further treatment,” he says, still moving his hands over my body. “We will heal yousoon, but we must wait until he arrives. I’ve already sent for him.”
“No,” I say. It sounds more like dust than my voice. “Don’t send for him. He’ll only?—”
“I will onlywhat?”
I close my eyes at the Architect’s voice. It is deep and menacing, despite his impossible age. The healer scampers from the room, his clicking shoes replaced by heavy footsteps. Even with my eyes shut, I recognize my father’s walk. Purposeful and slow, like a bloodthirsty predator, closing in for the kill. As a child, I did everything to resolve the Architect’s hatred of me. I trained hard, studied hard, practiced magic until my hands were burnt and raw. It was never enough. I am nothing more than a vessel for the Architect’s magic—my mind, to him, is a nuisance.
I open my eyes when he reaches the bedside. His clothes conceal his entire body and face, but more importantly, they hide the fact he’s dying. After countless cycles, the Architect’s human body is struggling to survive, even as he regularly gorges himself on excess magic. It’s kept him alive this long, but his time is running out. Unless he can get back to the Old World to beg his banisher for mercy, he will likely die before I do.
The Architect leans over me, face concealed but disgust prominent. His crown of weathered bones gleams from between the center of his red wolf mask.
“What will I do, my boy?” he asks. He remains still for several seconds before his hand finds my chin. He squeezes hard enough that he might add a broken bone to my collection.
“I only meant?—”
“Save your lies. Your mother told me of your squabble with Malek,” he says. He perches on the edge of my cot, and I groan at the jolt of movement. The Architect scoffs. “Picking a fight over such a trivial matter? Pathetic. Butlosingthat fight? Unacceptable.”
I don’t have a response to that. He’s right, at least about the shame of losing.
“He framed a servant for murder. He’s going to have her killed,” I say, glaring at the Architect, hoping I come off more confident than I feel. “I will not be a king who allows the unjust abuse of my people!”
