Queen of Air and Darkness
Page 133
* * *
Slumped against the wall of the Gard cell, Diego held his brother in his arms.
Jaime had fallen asleep at some point during the night before, or at least Diego assumed it was night—it was hard to tell when there was no way to measure the passage of time except for meals, and those were served irregularly. There was only sleeping, eating, and trying to conserve Jaime’s strength.
Jaime breathed against him, low irregular breaths; his eyes were closed. Some of Diego’s earliest memories were of holding his brother. When he was five and Jaime was three, he had carried him everywhere. He’d been afraid that otherwise Jaime, toddling around on his short little legs, would miss out on all the things in the world Diego wanted him to see.
Sometimes at the end of a long day, his baby brother would fall asleep in his arms, and Diego would carry him to bed and tuck him in. Diego had always taken care of his brother, and the helplessness he felt now filled him with rage and despair.
For so long, he had thought of Jaime as a little boy, quick and mischievous. Even when he’d run off with the Eternidad, it seemed like another of his games, one where he was always slipping out of trouble and playing tricks. But in these past few days, as Jaime had grown weaker but refused to speak a word to Zara about the heirloom, Diego had seen the steel beneath his brother’s playful attitude, his commitment to their family and their cause.
He kissed Jaime on the top of the head; his black hair was ragged, messy and dirty. Diego didn’t care. He was filthy himself. “Siempre estuve orgulloso de ti,” he said.
“I’ve always been proud of you, too,” Jaime murmured without opening his eyes.
Diego gave a rough chuckle of relief. “You’re awake.”
Jaime didn’t move. His brown cheeks were red with fever, his lips chapped and bleeding. “Yes. I’m awake, and I’m going to hold this over you forever.”
Forever. Most likely neither of them had forever. Diego thought of the heirloom, its optimistic infinity symbol looping over and over, promising a never-ending future. Eternidad.
There was nothing to say. He stroked Jaime’s hair in silence and listened to his brother breathe. Every breath a struggle, in and out like rough water through a broken dam. Diego’s desperation for a stele was like a silent scream, rising in the back of his throat.
They both looked up as a familiar clanking sound announced the arrival of what Diego guessed was breakfast. Surely it had to be morning. He blinked at the dim light coming from the open door of the prison. A figure came closer to their cell; it was Anush Joshi, carrying a tray.
Diego looked at Anush without speaking. He’d given up begging any of the guards for help. If they were monstrous enough to sit back and watch Jaime slowly die, then there was no point asking them for anything. It only made Jaime feel worse.
Anush knelt down with the tray. He wore the livery of the Council guard, his dark hair tangled, his eyes red-rimmed. He set the tray on the ground.
Diego cleared his throat. “Jaime’s too sick to eat that,” he said. “He needs fresh fruit. Juice. Anything with calories.”
Anush hesitated. For a moment Diego felt a flicker of hope. But Anush only pushed the tray slowly through the gap in the bottom of the door.
“I think he’ll want to eat this,” he said.
He stood up and hurried away, closing the prison door behind him. Keeping Jaime cradled against him, Diego pulled the tray toward himself with one hand.
A jolt of surprise went through him. Lying beside the usual bowls of gruel was a stele, and a note. Diego seized them both up with a shaking hand. The note read: You were the only one who was kind to me at the Scholomance. I’m leaving Idris and the guards. I know there’s a resistance out there. I’m going to find it.
Take care of your brother.
* * *
“What’s that?” Kit called; he could see Ty coming down the dirt road toward the highway, a witchlight rune-stone in his hand. It cast him into shadow, but the small crouched creature on his shoulder was still visible.
“It’s a wood rat,” said Ty. The witchlight blinked off as he joined Kit by the side of the highway. He was all in black, with the glimmer of Livvy’s pendant at the collar of his shirt.
Kit, who was not a fan of rats, eyed the animal on Ty’s shoulder with some wariness. It didn’t look like the usual sort of rat: It had rounded ears and a furry face and tail. It appeared to be nibbling on a shelled nut.
“They’re harmless,” Ty said. “They like to collect things for their nests—bottlecaps and leaves and acorns.”
The wood rat finished its snack and looked at Ty expectantly.
“I don’t have any more,” he said, plucked the rat off his shoulder, and set it down gently. It scampered off into the bushes by the roadside. “So,” Ty said, dusting off his hands. “Should we go over everything we have for the spell?”
Kit’s stomach knotted. He was half-wondering where Dru was, half-anxious about what Shade was going to do. If the warlock planned to stop Ty, he was certainly waiting until the last minute.
“Sure,” Kit said, pulling the list out of his pocket. “Incense from the heart of a volcano.”
“Got it at the Shadow Market. Check.”
“Chalk powdered from the bones of a murder victim.”
“Same.”
“Blood, hair, and bone of the person to be brought over,” Kit said, a slight catch in his voice.
Ty’s pale face was like a half-moon in the darkness. “I have a lock of Livvy’s hair and one of her baby teeth.”
“And the blood?” said Kit, gritting his teeth. It seemed beyond grim to be talking about pieces of Livvy, as if she’d been a doll and not a living, breathing person.
Ty touched the pendant at his throat, still stained with rust. “Blood.”
Kit forced a noise of recognition through his tight throat. “And myrrh grown by faeries—”
A twig snapped. Both of them swung around, Ty’s hand going to his waist. Kit, realizing, put a hand on Ty’s arm a moment before Drusilla stepped out of the shadows.
She held up her hands. “Whoa. It’s just me.”
“What are you doing here?” Ty’s voice crackled with anger.
“I was looking out my window. I saw you walking down toward the highway. I wanted to make sure everything was okay.”
Kit was impressed. Dru really was a good liar. Face open and honest, voice steady. His dad would have given her a gold star.
“Why were you talking about faeries and myrrh and all that other stuff?” she went on. “Are you doing a spell?”
Ty looked a little sick. Guilt hit Kit with the force of a whip. Ty wasn’t good at lying, and he didn’t do well with surprise changes to plans he’d made. “Go back to the house, Dru,” he said.
Dru glared at him. “I won’t. You can’t make me.”
Kit wondered if any of this was still playacting.
“If you send me back, I’ll tell everyone you’re doing weird spell stuff with evil chalk,” said Dru.
Ty flushed with annoyance. Kit pulled Ty toward him by his sleeve and whispered in his ear, “Better let her come with us. If we don’t, and she tells, we could get caught or get Shade in trouble.”
Ty started to shake his head. “But she can’t—”
“We’ll make her wait outside the cave,” Kit said. He’d realized they would have to do that anyway; the first words Shade said would undermine the careful half-truths Kit had told Dru.
Ty exhaled. “Fine.”
Dru clapped her hands together. “Woo-hoo!”
They crossed the highway together, and Dru took off her shoes when they reached the sand. It was a soft night, the air tickling their skin, the ocean breathing in low, soft exhalations, rushing the tide up the beach. Kit felt a sort of ache at the center of him at how beautiful it all was, mixed with bitterness at his father for never bringing him here. Another truth denied to him: His city was beautiful.
As were other things. Ty kicked his way along the edge of the sand, his hands in his pockets. The wind lifted his hair, and the strands clung to his cheekbones like streaks of dark paint. He was purposely ignoring Drusilla, who was playing tag with the tide, running up and down the beach with her hair askew, the cuffs of her jeans wet with salt water. She looked over at Kit and winked, a conspiratorial wink that said: We’re helping Ty together.
Slumped against the wall of the Gard cell, Diego held his brother in his arms.
Jaime had fallen asleep at some point during the night before, or at least Diego assumed it was night—it was hard to tell when there was no way to measure the passage of time except for meals, and those were served irregularly. There was only sleeping, eating, and trying to conserve Jaime’s strength.
Jaime breathed against him, low irregular breaths; his eyes were closed. Some of Diego’s earliest memories were of holding his brother. When he was five and Jaime was three, he had carried him everywhere. He’d been afraid that otherwise Jaime, toddling around on his short little legs, would miss out on all the things in the world Diego wanted him to see.
Sometimes at the end of a long day, his baby brother would fall asleep in his arms, and Diego would carry him to bed and tuck him in. Diego had always taken care of his brother, and the helplessness he felt now filled him with rage and despair.
For so long, he had thought of Jaime as a little boy, quick and mischievous. Even when he’d run off with the Eternidad, it seemed like another of his games, one where he was always slipping out of trouble and playing tricks. But in these past few days, as Jaime had grown weaker but refused to speak a word to Zara about the heirloom, Diego had seen the steel beneath his brother’s playful attitude, his commitment to their family and their cause.
He kissed Jaime on the top of the head; his black hair was ragged, messy and dirty. Diego didn’t care. He was filthy himself. “Siempre estuve orgulloso de ti,” he said.
“I’ve always been proud of you, too,” Jaime murmured without opening his eyes.
Diego gave a rough chuckle of relief. “You’re awake.”
Jaime didn’t move. His brown cheeks were red with fever, his lips chapped and bleeding. “Yes. I’m awake, and I’m going to hold this over you forever.”
Forever. Most likely neither of them had forever. Diego thought of the heirloom, its optimistic infinity symbol looping over and over, promising a never-ending future. Eternidad.
There was nothing to say. He stroked Jaime’s hair in silence and listened to his brother breathe. Every breath a struggle, in and out like rough water through a broken dam. Diego’s desperation for a stele was like a silent scream, rising in the back of his throat.
They both looked up as a familiar clanking sound announced the arrival of what Diego guessed was breakfast. Surely it had to be morning. He blinked at the dim light coming from the open door of the prison. A figure came closer to their cell; it was Anush Joshi, carrying a tray.
Diego looked at Anush without speaking. He’d given up begging any of the guards for help. If they were monstrous enough to sit back and watch Jaime slowly die, then there was no point asking them for anything. It only made Jaime feel worse.
Anush knelt down with the tray. He wore the livery of the Council guard, his dark hair tangled, his eyes red-rimmed. He set the tray on the ground.
Diego cleared his throat. “Jaime’s too sick to eat that,” he said. “He needs fresh fruit. Juice. Anything with calories.”
Anush hesitated. For a moment Diego felt a flicker of hope. But Anush only pushed the tray slowly through the gap in the bottom of the door.
“I think he’ll want to eat this,” he said.
He stood up and hurried away, closing the prison door behind him. Keeping Jaime cradled against him, Diego pulled the tray toward himself with one hand.
A jolt of surprise went through him. Lying beside the usual bowls of gruel was a stele, and a note. Diego seized them both up with a shaking hand. The note read: You were the only one who was kind to me at the Scholomance. I’m leaving Idris and the guards. I know there’s a resistance out there. I’m going to find it.
Take care of your brother.
* * *
“What’s that?” Kit called; he could see Ty coming down the dirt road toward the highway, a witchlight rune-stone in his hand. It cast him into shadow, but the small crouched creature on his shoulder was still visible.
“It’s a wood rat,” said Ty. The witchlight blinked off as he joined Kit by the side of the highway. He was all in black, with the glimmer of Livvy’s pendant at the collar of his shirt.
Kit, who was not a fan of rats, eyed the animal on Ty’s shoulder with some wariness. It didn’t look like the usual sort of rat: It had rounded ears and a furry face and tail. It appeared to be nibbling on a shelled nut.
“They’re harmless,” Ty said. “They like to collect things for their nests—bottlecaps and leaves and acorns.”
The wood rat finished its snack and looked at Ty expectantly.
“I don’t have any more,” he said, plucked the rat off his shoulder, and set it down gently. It scampered off into the bushes by the roadside. “So,” Ty said, dusting off his hands. “Should we go over everything we have for the spell?”
Kit’s stomach knotted. He was half-wondering where Dru was, half-anxious about what Shade was going to do. If the warlock planned to stop Ty, he was certainly waiting until the last minute.
“Sure,” Kit said, pulling the list out of his pocket. “Incense from the heart of a volcano.”
“Got it at the Shadow Market. Check.”
“Chalk powdered from the bones of a murder victim.”
“Same.”
“Blood, hair, and bone of the person to be brought over,” Kit said, a slight catch in his voice.
Ty’s pale face was like a half-moon in the darkness. “I have a lock of Livvy’s hair and one of her baby teeth.”
“And the blood?” said Kit, gritting his teeth. It seemed beyond grim to be talking about pieces of Livvy, as if she’d been a doll and not a living, breathing person.
Ty touched the pendant at his throat, still stained with rust. “Blood.”
Kit forced a noise of recognition through his tight throat. “And myrrh grown by faeries—”
A twig snapped. Both of them swung around, Ty’s hand going to his waist. Kit, realizing, put a hand on Ty’s arm a moment before Drusilla stepped out of the shadows.
She held up her hands. “Whoa. It’s just me.”
“What are you doing here?” Ty’s voice crackled with anger.
“I was looking out my window. I saw you walking down toward the highway. I wanted to make sure everything was okay.”
Kit was impressed. Dru really was a good liar. Face open and honest, voice steady. His dad would have given her a gold star.
“Why were you talking about faeries and myrrh and all that other stuff?” she went on. “Are you doing a spell?”
Ty looked a little sick. Guilt hit Kit with the force of a whip. Ty wasn’t good at lying, and he didn’t do well with surprise changes to plans he’d made. “Go back to the house, Dru,” he said.
Dru glared at him. “I won’t. You can’t make me.”
Kit wondered if any of this was still playacting.
“If you send me back, I’ll tell everyone you’re doing weird spell stuff with evil chalk,” said Dru.
Ty flushed with annoyance. Kit pulled Ty toward him by his sleeve and whispered in his ear, “Better let her come with us. If we don’t, and she tells, we could get caught or get Shade in trouble.”
Ty started to shake his head. “But she can’t—”
“We’ll make her wait outside the cave,” Kit said. He’d realized they would have to do that anyway; the first words Shade said would undermine the careful half-truths Kit had told Dru.
Ty exhaled. “Fine.”
Dru clapped her hands together. “Woo-hoo!”
They crossed the highway together, and Dru took off her shoes when they reached the sand. It was a soft night, the air tickling their skin, the ocean breathing in low, soft exhalations, rushing the tide up the beach. Kit felt a sort of ache at the center of him at how beautiful it all was, mixed with bitterness at his father for never bringing him here. Another truth denied to him: His city was beautiful.
As were other things. Ty kicked his way along the edge of the sand, his hands in his pockets. The wind lifted his hair, and the strands clung to his cheekbones like streaks of dark paint. He was purposely ignoring Drusilla, who was playing tag with the tide, running up and down the beach with her hair askew, the cuffs of her jeans wet with salt water. She looked over at Kit and winked, a conspiratorial wink that said: We’re helping Ty together.
