The Yellow Lord nods. “It is my purpose, Eldingar. It is why I was made.”
I take a breath, struck by a sudden realization. “It will kill you. To expend that much power.”
He gives me a wry smile. “It is my purpose,” he repeats. “It is why I was made.”
Grief sticks hard in my throat.
“Young one,” he says gently. “Go.”
I turn. I go.
I tell myself that at least everyone in the mountain will be safe. At least Saga and Vil and Ballast, at least Gulla and Rute and Finnur and all the children from the Collection, won’t be consumed.
Saga will survive. Ballast will survive. I’ll make sure of it.
They will hate me forever. But they will survive.
When I emerge from the tunnel that leads to the mountain’s heart, I find Brandr waiting in the corridor. There’s no disguising where I’ve been, and I tell myself I don’t need to feel guilty—I have just as much right as my brother to speak with the First One.
I fold my arms across my chest and face Brandr with my chin up. “What did the Yellow Lord mean by a trial of power? What are you going to make him do?”
Brandr frowns. “Brynja, I thought you’d be in bed by now.”
“I’m not a child, Brandr. It’s hardly the fifteenth hour. Now what did he mean?”
A muscle twitches in my brother’s jaw. “He’s to execute the prisoners in the great hall. You’ll be there to watch, never fear.”
I stare at him in abject horror. “You can’t do that.”
“Of course I can. I’m Prism Master, and acting ruler of the mountain. I candowhatever I want.”
Panic wrenches in my gut, and my heart beats too quick, too hard. “That’s not our way, Brandr. That’s not the Iljaria way. We don’t kill people in cold blood! The First Ones taught us to hold life sacred, to uphold peace, to—”
“And you say you’re not a child,” he cuts me off, mocking me. “Do you really believe all that, Brynja? The Skaandans, the Daerosians—I don’t care who they are or what you think they have or haven’t done. They’re guilty of defiling the Iljaria’s sacred land. They’re guilty of dealing out blood and death and war. They’re guilty of murder. Justice must be had.”
“And you think you’re the one to deal it out?” I demand. “You’re not a First One, Brandr. You’re not even the ruler of the Iljaria. You’re just—you’re just—”
His eyes go hard, magic rolling off him in prismatic waves. “I’m just what, Brynja?”
I step toward him. I reach out my right hand and touch his cheek, his stubble rough under my fingertips. I lift my hand higher, to his temple.
Power sears me and I gasp in pain, a vision wrenching through me with horrible sharpness.
Brandr sits on a stool in the corner of our father’s office, watching him lock my magic inside of me. He hates me. He hates meso much, because I have been deemed useful, and he is weak and small and alone.
Brandr sits in the dark of his room, a single lamp burning on the table beside him. He reads an ancient book, its pages so brittle and soft they crumble as he turns them, so he reads as quickly and as thoroughly as he can.
The book is about the Ghost Lord. About the power our parents won’t admit that he has, the power that is eating him from the inside. The powerhe fears so deeply will kill him if he does not learn how to channel it. The book tells him that the Ghost Lord’s power does not nullify other magic, as all the tales say. It consumes other powers. Absorbs them. And grows. If he can learn how to wield his gift, he need not be sickly and weak any longer. He can be strong.
It is hard to learn, in the dark, in the quiet. But he does. Slowly. And bit by bit he becomes stronger. Until he can glean pieces of magic from our mother, little specks she won’t realize are missing. Until he can absorb power from our father, enough that our father begins, at last, to notice him.
Our father is proud that Brandr’s power has finally shown itself, relieved that it is not the abominable gift he feared it was. And our father begins to train him in the wielding of Prism magic. Because he does not know that the magic Brandr uses is his own. He does not realize, until it is too late, that as Brandr grows stronger, he grows weaker.
Then itistoo late, and there is nothing left of our father but a hollow shell, and Brandr grows tall and strong, bursting with power. It is Brandr who releases our father’s body to the stars while our mother stands near, cold and sad and not understanding why, not understanding how. Or perhaps simply not wanting to understand.
I jerk back from my brother, head wheeling, heart pounding. For an instant, my magic was mine again—it drew those images from Brandr’s mind. But now, even though I scrabble and reach, it’s gone again, its absence a hollow in my very soul.
Brandr doesn’t seem to have noticed any of this. He just frowns at me, like I’m a pesky fly. “Don’t worry, little sister. Your despicable king will be the first to die. I’ll make sure you have a prime seat.”
