Page 3 of Between Smoke and Shadow
The Architect tips his chin down at the prisoner, much like he’s looking at an unidentifiable bug. Like the guards, my fatherwears a form-fitting suit that hides his entire body. But where theirs are black, the Architect’s is the color of dried blood.
The servant’s knees buckle as he sobs again, and though I can’t see the Architect’s face, I know he’s grinning. He descends the platform, letting the harsh snow and wind overtake him. With a gentle sweep of his hand, he removes the servant’s off-colored veil. It breaks away all too easily, flitting to the ground and settling over the ice. Behind the quivering man, the crowd averts their gaze to the cobblestone.
“May your magic be more worthy than you,” the Architect says. With a twitch of his head and a spark of magic, his mask vanishes. From the side, he looks like an ordinary man of no more than forty cycles. Dull brown hair, lightly weathered skin, a sloping nose. I’ve often wondered if we look alike, or if our only similarity is in our eyes. Dark blends of violet, so deep they’re almost black.
The Architect cups a hand around the back of the man’s head with taunting gentleness. The servant trembles to the point he could be seizing. Darkness spreads over his pants—he is not the first to wet himself today.
I tighten my jaw, hard enough my teeth should crack. If I was mortal, maybe they would.
“Tell her?—”
The servant’s words cut off, replaced by his choking scream. The Architect leans into the hideous sound, a tight smile straining his lips. With gloved hands, he forces the man’s eyes open, paralyzing his once thrashing body. I watch him work, as if he’s solving a complex problem and not murdering a man.
Pieces of dull magic, so thin they look like strands of hair, twist from the servant’s eyes. It is not outward magic, nothing he could have used. It is the magic of his soul, of his very being—and the Architect devours it in a single breath.
Once it stops, when the man is nothing but a corpse, the Architect releases him. His body collapses with a heavy thud and his head lands upon his killer’s boot. Those startling, unseeing eyes stare up at me. The Architect, with his mask back in place, kicks the servant’s head to the ground. He steps over his victim’s body and wordlessly returns to the stage.
I’m still staring at the servant, at his gaping blue eyes, when I hear her. I have seen more than a hundred mourning children in my lifetime. I have heard them sob and wail and plead uselessly to the sky. But this girl isn’t crying—she’s screaming. A tortured but ferocious scream, high pitched and painful.
The crowd parts for her. The girl has darker hair than the dead man, but her eyes are the same unmistakable blue. She’s not wearing a mask, and I’m almost too distracted to process anything else. Beautiful. Her eyes are stunningly beautiful. Her voice strains against her scream as she collapses at her father’s side. With shaking hands, she pats his face like she’s trying to wake him.
This is how I would have looked, I think, had I tried to save Quil.
“Ahh, and you must be the daughter,” the Architect says. His words are lazy, almost amused, as he turns away from her. Settling back into his throne, he nods to the guard, who captures her without hesitation. “Thank you for saving us the trouble.”
The guard presses the girl’s palm against her father’s hand. Magic sparks from the guard’s gloves, and slowly, the brand disappears from the man’s cold skin and carves itself into his daughter’s instead. New blisters, violent red and throbbing, join old ones, until her left hand is more wound than flesh. She sobs and thrashes, face twisted in raw panic, and I make myself watch.
The girl slackens when it’s over. With her mangled hand lifted toward the sky, she studies the burned mark. It is identicalto her father’s, only its mouth now overflows with debt. Her scream vanishes as she traces the wound, as she realizes just how many cycles she now owes.
When her eyes lift, they find mine. It’s no more than a second, her vibrant blue against my dark violet. And yet, in that brief moment, her shocked rage burrows into my bones and tells me I’m a coward. I force myself not to react, to look on with only that unimpressed expression.
Once they have taken her away and I have returned to my quarters, I finally allow myself to cry.
ONE
RUNE
We meet in the burning room. Nine of us now, all tucked into the far corner, faces slick with sweat, eyes squinted against the furious blaze. We sit with damp shoulders pressed together, choking on scorched air, waiting for Vale to begin. For now, he doesn’t acknowledge us.
The newest member—Arnelian—is the first to speak. He’s older, skin thick and wrinkled, hair more gray than black. He’s lived more cycles than any of us, and he’s got a smug expression, like this alone makes him better. I don’t entirely blame him–I’ll be smug too if I reach his age.
“There are no cremations tonight,” he says. His words are strangled and rough, an accent from the Pit. He wasn’t born here. He’s not paying the debt of a dead family member like most of us. He’s here because of something he did, and by the markings on the back of his hand, he’s not getting out anytime soon. Arnelian clears his throat, but his voice is still ragged. “We should move from the flame, where it’s not so?—”
“No,” Vale says. He doesn’t snap or yell, but the elderly newcomer straightens like he has. He doesn’t argue—nobodyargues with Vale.
He sits directly to my left with three parchments in front of him. Despite being malnourished and unkempt, Vale is attractive. Smooth dark skin, expressive eyes, and relatively straight teeth. He glances between a pair of hand-written reports and a wrinkled page from an old book. His fingers leave oily prints everywhere he touches.
In the time before he speaks again, I mentally recite my report. It’s too hot to focus though, the heavy air making my brain slow and jumbled. This burning room, between its suffocating heat and the taste of charred skin, is our safest place to meet. There’s nothing but the crematory and the stone alcove we’ve claimed, tucked behind the fire and out of sight. Nobody ever comes here unless they’re depositing a corpse.
To my right, second-in-command Caleah looks at me. Her dull brown eyes, cloaked by flimsy veil, are hooded and shadowed with dark circles. She’s a cycle younger than I am, but she’s smarter. Probably the smartest in this room. I wasn’t surprised when Vale made her second, two seasons before he made me third. I’ve been here longer—but she undoubtedly has more to offer.
“Our people suffer here,” Vale says, drawing my attention. His voice is low and harsh, and he spits each word like a curse. “Alive, we fill the forgotten halls of the Tower. Our scarred hands build this kingdom that fails us. The crown starves us. Beats us. Weakens us until they hope we can never fight back.
“And dead, our corpses are dragged here. Tossed into a burning grave like diseased animals. Their fire devours us—takes every insignificant drop of our magic—to make sure we are useful, even in death.” Vale pauses, his dark eyes shifting to the vibrant flames. “This room is our eternal hell. One day, we will all be nothing but blackened dust in the bottom of that burning tomb. This crown we live to serve…they want to destroy us. So we must destroy them first.”
“Together,” I whisper. The word fills the room, expanding through nine chests, bleeding from nine cracked mouths. Arnelian stares, jaw slackened, skin flushed, eyes unnaturally bright. As our group grows, I’ve found this moment to be one of my favorites: when hope lights even the darkest of shadows. I’m still watching the awe in Arnelian’s expression when Vale clears his throat, startling me back to attention.
“Rune,” he says, nodding at me. “Any updates?”
