A Spark of White Fire

  I rock back on my heels, furious and frustrated. There’s a frightened king on the throne and a sly, cruel man whispering in his ear. A man who almost killed my mother and brothers. And we can’t even punish him for it.

  “You haven’t asked me the most important question of all,” Kirrin says, grinning.

  I tread cautiously. “And which one is that?”

  “How did I find out about the flammable house? About the assassin who was supposed to stab Alexi when he was alone and unarmed at a temple? About the raksha demon that tried to drown Bear last year?”

  Max glares at the trickster god. My fists clench at my sides and my nails press half moons into my palms. Have my brothers been hunted the entire time they’ve been exiled? I can wrap my head around my uncle and brother at war, but this is different. This is murder, as cold and sharp as winter.

  “I assume you found out because you’re a god,” I say to Kirrin, but I know better. I know how little the gods sometimes see.

  “I knew,” Kirrin says, and Max looks away as if he’s been defeated at last, “because Max told me.”

  The floor tilts, but there hasn’t been a rock assault. I turn to Max. “Is that true?”

  “Yes.” He says the word so quietly, I barely hear it at all.

  “You saved them all those times? You’ve been keeping my family safe for years?”

  “Safe,” says Max with some bitterness. “Alive, yes. Safe? No, I haven’t been able to keep them safe.”

  “But why would you even try?”

  “Because I can’t stand the idea of them dead.” He laughs, the sound sadder than anything I’ve heard in a long time. “We grew up together. They were my family.”

  “Wait. You’re not jealous of them? You love them?”

  “Of course I’m jealous of them, but that hasn’t kept me from loving them.”

  “But,” I protest, incredulous, “but that’s not how you behave. You act like you don’t care about them at all.”

  “And what would happen if I acted like I did? Would my father trust me with any control if he knew how much I want to keep his enemies alive? I can’t protect them if I have no power.”

  My mind spins. It’s obvious, of course, as soon as he explains it. Give a little bit of the truth to make them believe the lie. How many times have I used that lesson? It shouldn’t surprise me that he has, too. He’s used the jealousy to hide the love.

  There’s still one thing I have to know. “Why did you exile them if you knew they’d be hunted? How could you love them and still take their home away from them?”

  “I hoped you’d ask him that,” says Kirrin triumphantly. “Tell her, Max. Tell her why you came up with the idea to send them away.”

  He grits his teeth. “Leave it alone.”

  “I shall not.” Kirrin pivots on his heel to look at me. “He sent them away because if they’d stayed, they would have been executed.”

  I shake my head. “No, Elvar wouldn’t have—”

  “Elvar is afraid, and Selwyn has trickled poison into his impressionable ear for a long, long time.”

  “But Rickard never said—”

  “It never got beyond their immediate family. Selwyn suggested it to Elvar and Guinne. He claimed it was the only way to ensure the coup would be successful, the only way the boys would never be a threat to Elvar’s claim to the throne. Selwyn, of course, didn’t expect his own nephew to get in the way. Max refused to support the plot. He convinced his father that Alexi and Bear would be no trouble if they were exiled. He rather cleverly pointed out that it would win Elvar goodwill with the rest of the star system that he would undoubtedly lose if he executed his brother’s children. Elvar didn’t really want to kill the boys, you know. And thus”—Kirrin spreads his hands wide—“Alexi, Bear, and Kyra were sent away from their home, and the boy who saved them was reviled for it.”

  My eyes fill with tears. “I hated you for what you did. I refused to trust you because of it. Why didn’t you tell me the truth?”

  “Why does the truth matter?” Max asks. “It doesn’t make me any better than I was ten minutes ago. I won’t betray my father or mother, no matter what they’ve done or would have done if I hadn’t stopped them. If there’s war, I’ll fight it for them until the end. I’ll fight for them even if they allow my uncle to convince them that they have to destroy everyone else to keep themselves safe. So why, Esmae, does the truth matter? What difference does it make?”

  “It makes a difference to me.” It makes all the difference.

  He swallows, but doesn’t reply, instead turning to face the god. “Why couldn’t you just leave it alone?”

  “You know why,” says Kirrin. He claps his hands. “Now, as much as I’d like to chat all day, I’d better go give Alexi a certain someone’s ten thousand silvers.”

  “Kirrin,” I say, before he can go.

  He pauses. He already knows what I’m about to ask him.

  What did he say when he was still playing the part of the soothsayer? You have a fierce, roaring lion heart. It believes in hope and love today, but will it always? Will it in seven weeks’ time?

  “The seven weeks you mentioned—”

  For a brief moment, the mischief is gone from his eyes. “You already know the answer, Esmae.”

  And it’s true, of course. I know.

  The duel will be in seven weeks. The broken arrow. My blood on the grass.

  I want to not be afraid, but I am. I’m afraid even as I refuse to believe it could happen. Even as I swear again and again that it will not come to pass.

  “I’m sorry,” says the god.

  Puzzled, Max asks, “What exactly is supposed to be happening in seven weeks’ time?”

  Kirrin gives him a guilty look, then darts out of the room. It’s odd that he’s never told Max about the future he and Amba have seen. They seem to share so much else, so why not this?

  Max stares at me. “You’re going to ask me what he meant,” I say. “And I’ll tell you, but not today. I can’t talk about it today.”

  He nods but says nothing more.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  I confine myself to my suite for the rest of the day, pretending I’m unwell. I don’t know how to face the king, queen, or their monstrous confidant so soon after finding out they almost murdered my brothers.

  At some point that evening, while shut up in the bedroom of my suite, I realize I can hear sounds in the outer room. I open the door in a fit of temper, ready to confront the unwanted intruder—

  —and find that the intruder is Rama.

  The real one, not a face on a piece of tech.

  “Rama!” I shriek. I throw myself at him, almost knocking him over. He hugs me back and laughs. “What are you doing here? How did you even get into my suite?”

  “That bad-tempered friend of yours has your passcode,” he tells me. “She let me in. We didn’t think you’d mind the intrusion. As for why I’m here, what kind of question is that? You sent a goddess on an errand to speak to me. Let me repeat that: a goddess. On an errand. It struck me that we might never have a real conversation again if I didn’t come here myself.”

  I scrub at my wet eyes. “I’m so, so glad you did.”

  “And I’m so glad you’re glad, Ez,” he says, throwing himself across the sofa. “Because I have every intention of abusing the king and queen’s hospitality and planting myself in this realm for the foreseeable future, so you may find that you get fed up of me long before I can find the energy to return myself to Wychstar.”

  I curl up on the opposite end of the sofa, pushing his legs off to make room. “I saw your brother at Princess Katya’s wedding. He said you couldn’t be bothered to make the journey to Winter. And yet you came here.”

  “This may be news to you, Esmae, so brace yourself: You are not the wedding of a princess I’ve never met. I can muster a tiny bit more effort on your behalf.”

  “And I do appreciate that effort.”

  “You owe me exactly two
hundred and twelve favors for this,” he replies, eyes shut as he feigns indifference.

  I reach across the sofa and curl my hand into his. “It’s all a mess, Rama.”

  He opens his eyes. “Tell me.”

  The words spill out, big details and small, my position on the war council, how kind Elvar and Guinne have been to me and how they almost had my brothers executed, the kiss and the truth about Max, what Elvar told me about King Darshan and Rickard, Lord Selwyn and the simulation chamber, Rickard’s curse, my new relationship with my brothers, and, finally, the blueflower.

  “I’ve never heard of anyone who was protected by a blueflower,” he says. “Amba must care very much about you.”

  “I don’t think gods care like that,” I say, but even as I say it, I wonder if I’m wrong. Beloved by gods. They keep saying gods, not god. Amba could be one, but who are the others? Have I ever even met them?

  “What would have happened to you if we’d both fallen, Esmae? That day you saved me?”

  It was years ago. We’d stolen a small ship from King Darshan’s dock. Rama, who had started flying lessons the month before, decided he’d become an expert and wanted to show off. We flew out to the shields, as close to the stars as we dared, and Rama tried every trick he knew. He flipped, he dove, he made the ship twirl in the air like a dancer.

  He didn’t know the ship had been so easy to steal because it had been set aside for repairs, pushed into a dusty corner of the dock where no one cared to keep an eye on it.

  In the middle of a roll, the faulty hatch slammed open. We both fell, but Rama slid out of the open hatch while I hit the wall beside it. I grabbed his hand before he could slide away into space, but he was too heavy and I started to slip.

  He cried then. Begged me to let him go before we both tumbled from the ship. I could see his face below me, tear-streaked and terrified. I could see the stars and the gas clouds swirling far below. My hands were sticky with sweat. I held on and refused to let him go.

  In the end, I wedged my foot over the console and pulled a lever, spinning the ship around again. We tumbled back into the ship and slammed the emergency hatch closed, sobbing in terror and relief. We were so pathetically miserable when King Darshan’s guards found us ten minutes later that the king didn’t even have the heart to be angry.

  “We were halfway out of the shield,” I remind Rama now. “We would have both been sucked out into open space and ripped apart if we’d fallen. I don’t know how a blueflower could have saved me from that.”

  He huffs. “I was hoping you’d say you risked your life because you knew you would have been fine. Why didn’t you just let me go?”

  “Would you have let me go?”

  “In a heartbeat,” he says, and I giggle.

  With my news all spent, Rama finally tells me his: what he’s been up to since the last time we spoke (not much); what his father has been doing (“stewing, mostly, and plotting . . .”); and all the small, pointless details about everyday life that I’ve missed dreadfully these past weeks (“there’s a horrid cat in the palace who keeps trying to take naps on me,” “the cook is trying to poison me, I swear it,” “I’ve been told I sleep too much, and at inappropriate times. Is such a thing even possible?”).

  At the end of it all, only one thing remains unsaid, and I can’t bring myself to mention it. Titania told me what he had said to her. Don’t let me lose her. So how can I tell him what Amba and Kirrin have seen?

  Seven weeks.

  I’ll tell him another time.

  The sun lamps have turned dawn-pink by the time Rama finally gives in to his eternal lethargy and yawns. I yawn in sympathy and climb sluggishly to my feet, my dress crumpled and creased, and help Rama find his way back to the guest suite he’s been given while he’s here.

  A few of the guards eye me askance. Jemsy from the Hundred and One, who is on duty tonight, grins mischievously as I pass. Rama almost splits himself open when I tell him their reactions are probably because they can think of only one reason why the rumored lover of their future king is roaming the palace with a visiting prince at such an hour.

  “Oh gods,” he says, wiping tears from his eyes. “I’m so happy I came.”

  If he comes to feel differently in the days that follow, when he starts to see for himself just how matters stand on Kali, he doesn’t let on. As a prince of Wychstar and my oldest friend, he has an open invitation to stay as long as he likes, and Elvar and Guinne go out of their way to make him feel welcome.

  I try to appreciate that, but I find it difficult now that I know the truth. I can’t forgive it. I avoid my aunt and uncle as much as possible and keep myself busy where I can.

  Rama, meanwhile, does the same. He adapts to Kali so beautifully that anyone would be forgiven for thinking he’s lived here for years. He earns an invitation to family meals. He visits Titania. He puts on a brave face and actually attends the state events when he’s invited. He doesn’t fall asleep in public. He explores Erys with Max. He watches me train the Hundred and One. He helps me keep hold of my temper every time I set eyes on Lord Selwyn. He draws me out of the miseries I fall into, even when he doesn’t understand them.

  I fly Titania to Arcadia a few times, even taking Rama with me once or twice. Bear tries to teach me how to use a mace, which is something Rickard never achieved, then gives up and teaches me how to play dice instead. Alexi teaches me how to fish. I teach them the games the children play on Wychstar. We spend hours under the weeping trees. I start to call my brother Alex and don’t even notice until days later.

  My brothers and I quickly learn what we can and can’t talk about. We can share our frustrations about the gods who meddle in our lives; we avoid talking about my mother, who refuses to see me, no matter how many times I ask. (Why do I still ask? I should stop. I wish I could stop.) We share stories of Titania; we avoid all discussion of Kali.

  Except for one time, when I say something innocuous about the markets of Erys and Alexi looks up at the sky like he can see Kali there.

  “We rebuilt the streets of Arcadia when we came here and made it our home,” he says. “We built the city. We chose where the markets would go, where the weapons would be built, where the livestock would live. We chose what we grew in the orchards, which of the rolling hills to convert to training fields. We chose every piece of our castle. And it was only when it was finished and we stepped back to look at it that I noticed—we’d tried to recreate Kali.” His voice cracks, and he looks away from the faraway point in the sky. “But you can’t recreate Kali.”

  I never mention Kali to either of them again.

  “Do you wish you’d stayed on Wychstar?” Rama asks me one day.

  “No.”

  “Answer a little faster, why don’t you,” he grumbles.

  It’s that lull after dinner again. Everyone is chatting or reading or dozing by the artificial fire. A servant pours drinks. Max tests the wine before he allows it to be served. Grandmother says something deliberately inflammatory, and Rickard deflects it. Rama tells a popular Wych folk tale to entertain everyone. Elvar takes his second cup of wine, then asks if I’d like to stroll around the gardens with him. We sit on our usual bench. I can hear Rickard’s laughter from inside. Elvar drinks from his cup.

  And then his face turns purple.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  It’s the sound that gets my attention. I’m counting the stars when I hear the terrible rattle of his breath. I look over and see he has his hands pressed to his throat. It’s such an unexpected and appalling sight that for half a second, I can’t even think.

  So my mother’s poison finally slipped through the cracks.

  And then there’s a moment—just a fragment of a moment—where I see it all unfolding: Elvar will die; Max won’t want the throne; the war council will take the easy way out and declare an end to Alexi’s exile; and my brothers will return home. The crown will return to where it should always have been. No war, no battle, no bloodshed. No death except that of the
usurper king. Just one man. An easy, quick end. Just the simple solution I came here for.

  And all I need to do to achieve it is do absolutely nothing.

  So it comes as a shock to me that I can’t. The brief glimpse of the future blinks away, replaced with a terrible horror.

  The usurper king was once a boy who just wanted to be worthy.

  The usurper king gave me a home.

  The usurper king cried when he touched my face.

  He was a monster, but now he’s just my uncle.

  The pieces in my game of Warlords are all jumbled up, and I don’t know which side is which anymore.

  And so, I scream for help.

  In the immediate chaos that follows, the world is just snapshots. Max slams a needle into his father’s chest. Voices rise in panic. Guinne pleads with someone to tell her what’s happened. Lord Selwyn tries to soothe her. Max and Rickard crouch on the ground beside the fallen king. Elvar’s hand grabs Max’s wrist and then he goes gray and still.

  I snap to life, spinning away from Elvar, and look across the gardens and into the family parlor. Max tested the wine, which means the poison was added to Elvar’s glass afterward. No one has left the room since the servant who poured the wine left, and that was before the test. The person who put the poison into Elvar’s cup is still here.

  I dismiss possibilities one by one, until I’m left with only the three guards. Henry and Juniper—they’re loyal to Max and I can’t see any possible way either of them could even know my mother.

  But the third guard, oh yes, he’s older. A grizzled bear of a soldier who probably served for years while my father and mother ruled.

  His eyes meet mine, and he sees the accusation there. He blanches, his guilt plain, and then he makes for the door.

  I pounce. The force sends him to the ground. He grabs a knife from his belt and lashes out. I dodge, but the blow slices my arm open. The pain makes me hiss, but the wound quickly closes up. I spring onto his chest and slam my foot down on his knife hand. He grabs hold of me and throws me down again so hard my head spins. His knife slashes at my throat, but only nicks it.