Page 5 of Between Smoke and Shadow
“If there is,” says Vale. “We’ll find it.”
After Vale leavesfor the night, I do a sweep of the alcove while Caleah reads over her texts one last time. She stands beside the far brick wall, where Vale carved a small cubby to hide our stolen goods. He’ll need to expand it, now that he’s planning to steal weapons andexplosives. I’m tempted to ask Caleah what she thinks of that.
“How did you read the text?” I ask instead. I pick a tiny piece of lint off the floor and toss it into the fire. “Without Viana noticing, I mean.”
Caleah shifts her mirror in and out of her sleeve. Hers is almost too large to fit, but she once told me she can’t breathe well without it. It’s why we all carry mirrors, after all. Not because they’ll actually protect us, but because they at least give us the illusion when we need it.
“The key is to act with purpose,” she says. She steps past me, chin lifted, as if demonstrating as she leads us around the fire. Like me, she carries the debt of a dead relative, but I don’t know anything more than that. I’ve never asked who committed the crime or what it was. All I know is that her brand has nearly as many beryls as mine. She glances at me before continuing. “Always have your excuse ready and be sure-footed. But small and unsupposing too, if you can. Too much confidence will catch their attention.”
“You’ve thought a lot about this,” I say, hating how my voice shakes. It’s not that Ihaven’tthought about how to stay alive. This just suddenly feels too real, too dangerous. One wrong move and I’ll join my father’s ashes in this pit.
“We’re going to be fine, Rune,” Caleah says. Her hands twitch at her sides, as if she’s debating reaching for me. Shedoesn’t. Instead, she nods toward the fire, a chasm between us. “Remember the motto.”
She offers one last smile before slipping through the burning room’s only door. I linger at the flames after she’s left, probably for longer than is smart. I hated this Tower when they first dragged me here, and I’ve hated it every day since. I’ve dreamt of escaping, of running until I find myself back in the City of Mirrors, back in the childhood home I barely remember. I plot the countless ways I could kill the crown, if I ever got the chance.
Anger has taken root so deeply inside me, I can no longer tell what’s flesh and what’s fury. And yet, I still taste the fear, feel it pulsing through my bones where I wish magic lived instead.
When I finally leave the burning room, I repeat the faction’s motto in my mind. They were the words Vale told me all those cycles ago, when our desperation planted the seeds of a rebellion.
We’ll find a way out, Rune,he’d said. He even took my hand, squeezing as he said what eventually became our motto:While others fight to survive, we fight tolive.
TWO
HARRICK
I am a child playing pretend, and everyone here knows it. The four elite representatives are my biggest concern. They glower at me from behind elaborate masks, their unimpressed expressions hollowing my stomach. My skin itches with their blatant disapproval, but I can’t afford to show vulnerability. I keep my shoulders squared as I stand at the end of the table, organizing parchments into careful piles. Despite the sharp spike of my heartbeat, I force myself to act bored.
“Let’s begin,” I say. “From my notes on your previous?—”
I’m cut off by an abrupt rumbling.
At first, I think it’s an earthquake, but a quick glance to my right proves even worse. A dark-haired servant stands at the far side of the room, his thin hand shaking against the lever to the window’s cover. The protective shields, glowing pale red with low magic, peel from the window like skin pulled from bone. The servant trembles, his already pale face growing near-translucent with blood loss.
“Stop,” I demand, hands tensed at my sides.
The servant immediately complies and sucks in a weak breath. His shoulders sag as he cradles his burnt hand to his chest. Mortals aren’t made to touch magic. The window’s lever islaced with it, and now, the man is vibrating in agony, his hand already swollen with blisters. He doesn’t cry—he barely even moves.
“Explain yourself,” I say. My words are clipped, as if I’m annoyed. I am, I suppose, just not at him.
The upper half of this room’s window is now exposed. The shields exist to fortify the Tower during Earthquake Season, to keep the windows from collapsing and the building with them. It takes days to get these shields in place before the start of the season, and only seconds to free the magic, to let it leech back into the room.
“I hoped to see the mountains,” the man stutters.
It’s a blatant lie, and it’s so poorly conceived, I can only assume Demetrius Llroy is behind it. Representative for the City of Mirrors, he’s as cruel as they come. Built like an overgrown weed and bearing the personality of an aggressive hound, Demetrius is Mother’s favorite lackey.
I stare out at the Savoan mountain range. Its jagged ridgeline, silhouetted by the dying sun, rises hundreds of feet higher than the top of the Tower. Every few moments, a crash of waves strikes against the barren peaks and surges between them. I follow the saltwater as it cascades over the mountain range in elaborate patterns, until it disappears behind the thick foliage of the Wilds. Though not visible from here, pools of translucent water collect at its base, making animals sick with its salt and slowly devouring the forest floor.
When I was young, Quil explained Savoa was like a bowl and our world was like the tub I bathed in. Our land sat in a wide expanse of water, and during Flood Season, water rose higher than the lowest peaks of our mountains, spilling into our bowl. Even in the days before the Flood Season officially begins, water leeches between the mountain peaks, seeping into what little fertile soil we have.
I clench and loosen my fists, feeling the bite of restless magic within them. The servant keeps his eyes low, but behind his thin veil, his tongue darts between his lips as he watches me.
I’m going to kill him, he thinks—and still, he pulled the lever. I wonder what Demetrius threatened him with.
“You are dismissed,” I tell him. My voice is stale, blunt. I sound angry, and I hope he knows it’s not at him. He probably doesn’t.
The man scampers from the room with a grateful nod. Behind me, Demetrius scoffs and Oris Fhell, representative of the Reaping Grounds, echoes his sentiment. Beyond the four representatives, three servants and six guards remain in the room. I glance between the servants, at their ill-fitting coveralls and their cowered stances. Weak, defenseless, terrified.
“All servants. Dismissed,” I bark. They hesitate, only momentarily, before hurrying from the room. I’ll ensure they’re paid, but I’m not going to worsen this moment by announcing it. I’ve already given the representatives plenty to report to Mother.
