Page 113 of While the Dark Remains
Year4189, Month of the White Lady
Iljaria—the Prism Master’s house
Brandr and I turn nine today. Next year we’ll push up our sleeves and receive the first of our tattoos in the color of our patron Lords. Mine will be bronze, to warn everyone to be wary of my mind magic. Brandr’s will be red, though he has none of the power of the Lord of Fire that I can tell, and I’ve heard my parents speak in low voices that they fear his true patron is the Ghost Lord. But they can’t claim him for Brandr. It would mean casting him out of Iljaria society, because my people fear the Ghost Lord’s nullifying magic more than anything.
But this year there is only a token gift for each of us from our mother—esteemed architect and adviser to the queen—and a lecture from our father, the Prism Master.
We sit together in our father’s office, the diamond-paned window open wide, the summer breeze rushing in over the sea. I would pity Brandr, perhaps, if I were a kinder sister. He is sickly again—he’s always been sickly, from the moment we were born, plagued with every illness known to the world and rarely leaving his rooms. He sweats and shakes today, but there is anger in his eyes. He can hardly bear to listen to our father go on and on about bringing glory to our people, serving them with our gifts, being true and being strong.
Brandr is not strong. He has never been strong. And whatever magicdoesflow through his veins wreaks havoc on him. He hates everything, and he hates me especially, because I have all the strength denied him.
My lecture is worse. It’s all about responsibility, and not taking advantage of those weaker than myself, and how mind magic can easily be used for evil purposes—just look at the Bronze Lord. I squirm in my seat, acutely aware of Brandr’s ever-increasing anger, because who else would our father be talking about being weaker than me but him?
My eyes wander to the window. I long to be out of doors, reveling in the sweet scent of summer, basking in the warmth of the sun, which always feels like a miracle after the long darkness of Soul’s Rest.
“Are you listening, Brynja?” says Father sharply.
I suck in a breath and snap my gaze to his. “Yes, sir.”
Father frowns. “I suppose you can both go to your lessons now. I have things to attend to.”
Brandr stands shakily and leaves the room with agonizing slowness, but I hang back.
At first, Father doesn’t notice. He assumes I’ve gone, too, and shuffles through the papers on his heavy mahogany desk, all thought of me and Brandr and our birthday gone right out of his head.
I fiddle with the gift from my mother that I shoved into my pocket the instant she gave it to me: a beaded necklace with a hammered bronze pendant. Brandr got a red one. They’re pretty, I suppose, but they don’t evendoanything, which feels like a waste of Iljaria craftsmanship. I wonder if Brandr is mad about the necklaces. I wonder if he’s mad that we don’t even get a party for our birthday.
Because today is not about us. Not really. It’s about our sister, Lilja, who is six years older than us. Her patron is the Green Lady, though I’ve always thought she must have Prism magic, because her powers are greater than just growing things. She’s an inventor, infusing mechanical machines with her magic, like a carriage that doesn’t need horses, a self-powered drill, a clock that can cook breakfast, and lots and lots of other things.
Her latest project is a set of wings made of canvas and wood, stitched with power to make the wearer soar like a bird. I watched her make them. I watched her use them, flying so high I feared she would reach the sun. I didn’t dare ask her to let me try, though I dearly wanted to.
My parents are taking Lilja to Daeros to show off her inventions to the king, and maybe even sell some of them to him. They don’t care about the money, of course. They’re really going to see if the thing the Iljaria buried in the mountain so long ago remains hidden. They go every few decades, on one pretense or another. But pretense or not, Lilja couldn’t be more proud, and I couldn’t be more envious. They’re leaving this afternoon.
So I stand in my father’s office and wait for him to notice me.
“What is it, Brynja?” he asks after a while, without looking up from his desk.
I worry my lip, embarrassed that he knew I was here all along and was evidently just waiting for me to leave.
“I want to go to Daeros with you and Mother and Lilja. I’m old enough to go.”
He gives a little laugh. “You are no older than a dewdrop. You will stay here and look after Brandr.” He pulls out a blank sheet of paper and his lips move silently, words scrawling themselves onto the page without the use of a pen.
I ball my hands into fists and glare at the paper, pulling the words my father just put there right off again, and flinging them into a jumbled heap on the table.
“Brynja!” says my father sharply.
But I don’t care. I’m not staying home to look after Brandr.
I dart into my father’s mind, quick and slippery as a minnow.
A heartbeat later, he smooths the words onto the paper again. “It would be good for you to experience the land that once belonged to us,” he says. “You may come, Brynja. Pack your things.”
I smile bright as the sun and bolt out of the office before he realizes what I did.
Year4189, Month of the White Lady
Daeros—Tenebris
