A Spark of White Fire

  Guinne frowns. “She wished that? Exactly that? She didn’t try to word it more carefully?”

  “She didn’t think to,” says the old queen grimly, “and so Amba granted her wish. Queen Vanya died that very day.”

  I pale. “But gods can’t hurt mortals without becoming mortal themselves! Amba couldn’t have killed her.”

  “She didn’t have to. All she had to do was give Kyra an idea, and let Kyra act on it if she chose to. And Kyra did. In all the time she’d spent on her youthful adventures, she’d picked up a few unusual skills and she knew just how to meddle with elevator mechanics to ensure that the elevator in question would malfunction. And it did. With Vanya inside.”

  I open my mouth but no words come out.

  “To be fair to Kyra,” the old queen continues, “Vanya wasn’t supposed to die. When the elevator mechanics went awry, Kyra had intended to arrive on the scene as if by pure coincidence, activate the emergency brake, and save her. Amba had told Kyra that if she saved Vanya, the queen would be so grateful, she would grant Kyra any favor.” Cassela sighs, an old, sad sound. It must be so painful for her to talk about the death of her own child like this. “What neither Amba nor Kyra knew was that the emergency brake on that particular elevator was unreliable. She pressed the button, but it stuck. She had to press it again, and by then it was too late. The brake didn’t catch in time.”

  “An accident,” says Elvar softly. “That’s what the engineers called it. No one realized.”

  “Cassel became king and Kyra became his wife,” the old queen says. “Kyra’s conscience would not let her rest easy, much as it will surprise some of you to hear she has one. She came to me and confessed the truth. She hoped I would grant her absolution.” Cassela snorts. “I did not. You know how they say that the gods’ favorites can wreak havoc with just a few words? I am one such favorite. And I wreaked havoc. ‘Your selfish desires brought destruction to my daughter’s door,’ I said, ‘and so I curse you to a future in which your daughter will bring the same to yours.’”

  “Cassela, how could you?” Rickard demands. “You didn’t just curse Kyra. You cursed a child who had done nothing to deserve it!”

  “As I said,” the old queen replies, with a hint of what could be shame, “I’m sorry. I, too, was careless with my words.” She turns to me. “When she gave birth two years later, Kyra bore twins. First came a boy, perfect and loved, and then a girl, who filled Kyra with terror. Amba let you believe she was heartbroken to part with you, but the truth is, she wanted only to protect her son. As soon as Cassel left the room, she snatched you up and put you in a sealed boat and jettisoned you out into the darkness of space.”

  “She didn’t do that!” I protest. “She gave me to Amba, and asked her to take me somewhere safe.”

  “She put you in a sealed boat,” the old queen says again, gently this time. There’s too much pity on her face.

  “Kyra shipped her away in a pod?” Elvar demands. “A newborn baby? How did she expect the child to survive?”

  The silence hurts my ears.

  “She didn’t,” I say, my tone numb. “My mother didn’t expect me to survive.”

  Splinters cut into my heart. I don’t want to believe the old queen’s words, but I do. Because her story fills in the gaps. It answers questions I never dared to ask, afraid of how much the truth would hurt. Why would you send your daughter away only to reunite with her later? It never made sense that she wanted me to find a way around the curse when I was older. Why not, instead, keep me close and teach me about the curse early on so that we could be careful yet still stay together?

  So many questions I didn’t want to ask, but now I have the answers all the same.

  I’ve loved her all my life, and she wanted me dead.

  “She was not quite so cold as that in the end,” the old queen tells me. “There was little chance that the child in the boat would survive, but Kyra regretted her rash act, and she called upon Amba a second time. ‘Let her live,’ Kyra prayed. As before, she did not choose her words well. What she should have said was: Let her live, but let her live a life that will never allow her to enact the curse upon me.” Cassela shrugs one shoulder. “She did not say that. And, as before, Amba granted Kyra her wish.”

  Let her live, my mother had said. And as far as my mother knows, I’m now the exact enemy she feared. Let her live. And so Amba took her at her word and did just that. She let me live so that I could grow up and take a warship away from my brother. She gave me a blueflower jewel that would let me live no matter who tried to cut me down. Let her live. My mother couldn’t have had the faintest idea what would result from that wish. If she had, perhaps she wouldn’t have made it. Perhaps she wouldn’t have shown what little mercy she did.

  The silence in the dining room is absolute, broken only when Cassela, herself, hobbles across to the table and drops unceremoniously into a chair.

  “Well?” she asks. “Are we going to eat or not?”

  So my mother cast me adrift. And before that, she killed a queen. And the person who cursed her for it was my own great-grandmother.

  I spent my entire childhood wanting a family, and this is the one I got. The gods have a twisted sense of humor.

  I want to flee, but I stand my ground. Why should I feel embarrassed or ashamed? I didn’t make any poorly worded wishes. I didn’t curse anyone. Like Titania earlier today, I was just the tool someone used to try and destroy someone else. I was the arrow, the old queen the archer.

  No, that’s not quite true. Grandmother may have turned me into an arrow, but I took back control the day I asked Rickard to train me. I took back control when I competed for Titania. I did that. No one made that choice for me.

  And that choice is why I’m here. I refuse to flee.

  Dinner is a stilted, awkward affair. My appetite is gone. And Lord Selwyn, the queen’s brother and the king’s shadow, uses the opportunity to ask me a series of questions obviously intended to catch me out in a lie. I expected to be treated with suspicion, and had prepared for it, but I’m too tired to guard myself well.

  In the end, what makes me snap is not the questions, themselves, but Lord Selwyn’s use of my name—Alexa. The name I wanted to claim so badly, the name so like my brother’s, the name my mother gave me, the name that now hurts.

  “Lord Selwyn, would it be too much to ask that you call me Esmae? I find my given name quite unbearable after Grandmother’s story.”

  Lord Selwyn raises his eyebrows. “How I envy your blissful certainty that one can so easily discard a name, dear princess.”

  “And why can’t she discard it if she wishes to?” Sybilla asks. “Why should Esmae Rey be any less suitable than Alexa Rey?”

  “Ez-may.” The old queen overemphasizes the syllables with the expression of someone picking up a dirty handkerchief. “I’m not sure it’s a name for a Rey. Mind you, nothing can be worse than Abra. Kyra’s family name! She gave birth to a second son and named him after her own family! We can only be thankful he goes by Bear, which does not exactly scream royalty but at least is not her name.”

  “Bear’s name is irrelevant, Cassela,” says Rickard, “And I see no reason why Esmae can’t be a good name for a Rey.”

  “What does it mean?” she presses. “For Alexa, you know, means protector. As does Alexi, for that matter. Both are excellent names.”

  I’ve always assumed Madam Li picked my name at random when I was taken to her as a baby. I never bothered to find out what it means. It was supposed to be temporary, a placeholder until the day I could proudly claim the name Alexa Rey.

  Max is the one who answers. “It means beloved.”

  “That is hardly suitable,” Cassela complains. “Beloved is not a good name for someone who will one day be queen of Kali.”

  The entire table pauses, a theater tableau of half-raised forks and glasses poised at lips and widened eyes. Lord Selwyn’s teeth snap together like this has only confirmed his belief that I am a viper in their nest.
Rickard gives me a look of profound pity.

  Very stiffly, I say, “I’m afraid I fail to see how my ascension to the throne is inevitable, Grandmother. Surely Max’s children will inherit after him?”

  “And who will inherit if Max dies before he has any children?” Lord Selwyn asks. “You will, dear princess, as the only Rey left on Kali. It would be only natural to consider that an attractive possibility.”

  “Esmae doesn’t share your sense of ambition, Selwyn,” Rickard says, his voice dry as dust. “What you consider an attractive possibility is unlikely to be so to her.”

  Rickard’s statement eases some of the tension, but it’s already too late: I see the fleeting doubt on some of their faces, the suspicion, there and gone again. Elvar and Guinne twitch their heads in my direction. Jumpy. That’s what Rama said his father used to call them. I don’t think they’re seriously wondering if I intend to assassinate Max, but Selwyn has let the idea creep across the table like poisonous smoke, and it’s only a matter of time before someone breathes it in.

  I glance at Max to see how he’s taking the idea that I would murder him for his crown. He looks somewhat amused.

  “No one’s talking about Max dying,” Cassela says irritably, jabbing a piece of lamb with her fork. “I was referring to the fact that the line of succession is by no means decided as yet. We don’t yet know for certain that Max will inherit the throne when Elvar dies. Elvar could name Alexa his heir instead.”

  My mouth falls open. Is that even possible?

  Lord Selwyn is even more aghast. “Absurd!” he snaps. “The king would never disinherit his own son.”

  Cassela scoffs. “Why not? It wouldn’t be the first time a ruler made that choice.”

  “And I am not the king’s own son, anyway,” Max points out. He doesn’t look amused anymore.

  That statement just seems ridiculous to me, but neither Elvar nor Guinne argues.

  “I’m curious,” Lord Selwyn says coldly, “was the princess invited to Kali just so she could replace my nephew?”

  Max opens his mouth, but I reply first, just as coldly. “Why should it matter who is named heir? Alexi was my father’s heir, yet you may have noticed he is not king. Clearly, the line of succession is utterly irrelevant on Kali these days.”

  Lord Selwyn’s smile shows teeth. “Those are rash and poorly considered words, princess, and you may wish to take them back.”

  “I see no reason to take back words that are merely facts. Alexi was my father’s heir. Alexi is not king. What part of either of those statements is untrue?”

  I regret the words as soon as I see the way Lord Selwyn’s knuckles go white around the stem of his glass. “I will not be spoken to with such insolence,” he snaps. “This is not Wychstar.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Max fix his father with a look so intent that I’d swear Elvar can feel it. The king’s voice cuts across the table. “That will do, Selwyn. As king, I think I am better suited to decide what behavior will or will not be tolerated. Let us leave it at that.”

  Guinne tries to steer the conversation away, but then there’s a rumble in the distance, and it grows like thunder until the glasses clink and the silverware rattles noisily on the table. Sauce sloshes over the side of a bowl and splashes the snowy tablecloth, a spreading stain that looks like blood.

  Anxious, I glance at Rickard for reassurance. He gives me a small smile. “It’s just a rock assault. Nothing to worry about.”

  I had no idea they were this intense. I whip my head around to the window, but the skies look calm. No space debris, no asteroids. The rock must have struck us on the other side of the ship.

  The room trembles and my muscles tense. It’s a brief disturbance, hardly even a minute long, but in that minute, it feels like the asteroid may just tear the base ship apart.

  I almost wish it would.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I wake just after the sun lamps spill dawn into my suite and dress quickly. If Lord Selwyn is even half as determined to send me back to Wychstar as I suspect he is, today may be the only chance I ever get to see Kali.

  It’s early, but the palace is already thrumming with activity. The base ship vibrates far below us and the austere, honey-colored hallways are filled with footsteps, the clink of dishes, a multitude of different voices. Servants curtsy to me as I pass them, an odd experience I don’t think I’ll ever get used to, and every guard I encounter asks me if I need an escort.

  I stop at a balcony to look out at the city. The Scarlet Nebula is a stain far beyond the shields. Small ships dart to and fro, on patrol or on a trade mission. The streets below twist and turn, busy with shopkeepers and armorers and traders. Crooked, copper-colored chimneys spit coils of smoke that curl up and are sucked away into the base ship’s flues. The sweet, spicy scent of Kali’s traditional berry wine drifts across the crisp, recycled air. Every now and then, an electronic voice crackles mildly over ever-present speakers, summing up the population’s use of resources: Kali is currently at 85 percent human capacity. Water pressure will be reduced by 1 percent for the next two hours.

  I watch silver specks working at battle formations on a distant training field: the Golden Lotus; the Dove’s Kiss; the Embrace—all oddly beautiful names for such sharp, disciplined movements, all so familiar from my own lessons with Rickard. Two small warships face off above the field’s soldiers, their armed warriors leaping clumsily from one wing to the next as they learn how to battle in the air. Wing war is as popular on Kali as it is on Wychstar for obvious reasons; Rickard spent much of our time training me in it.

  I watch the ships wistfully. I don’t miss the swordplay much, but there was beauty and exhilaration in racing across a flying ship. I miss the precarious dance from wing to wing.

  Time to move on.

  The palace, itself, is immense, but I explore as much as I can without attracting too much attention: the kitchens, the dock, the dice rooms, the banquet halls, the weapons room. I breathe in the leather and metal and fire of the weapons room. I watch the dice players win and lose money, property, even loyalty. I lose myself for over an hour in the library, in the pages of books on mythology and politics and glorious adventures.

  I try very hard to not think about my mother.

  Eventually, I find myself in front of the gods’ altar in the conservatory. A simple, ancient column, made of the smoothest and darkest marble, the altar is inscribed with the two hundred and nine names of the major gods. The room is domed, glass-roofed, and exposed to the stars, and there’s the usual wooden bowl in front of the altar for offerings. It’s a beautiful place.

  I didn’t think to come with milk and honey, but I could make a different offering. I check myself: tights, tunic dress, leather vambraces, and just the one pocket in all of that with only a scrap of creased paper inside it. I smooth the slip open and turn it over. I must have scribbled the first half of a geometric equation on it at some point, because all that’s left is a few inky numbers faded from a wash. It’ll do.

  Each of the gods’ symbols has been carved into the floor across the conservatory. My eyes fall on the wolf symbol of Valin, mostly because it looks like a careless child has scratched over it with a knife, but he’s a god of wisdom and choices and that seems fitting for the circumstances. I don’t think I’ve ever met him, but he’s always portrayed in paintings and books as a knight with a sword on his back and one of the deadly hounds of the Empty Moon crouched loyally at his side.

  I smooth the creases out of the paper and fold it into the shape of a hound before placing it in the offering bowl.

  “Valin?” My voice is hardly more than a whisper, but it’s audible; you have to say their names out loud to get their attention. “I don’t know what to do. I may not have much time here. And my mother—”

  “He can’t answer you.”

  I spin around. Max stands in the conservatory doorway. His eyes are fixed on the offering in the bowl and there’s a funny look on his face.

 
My own fills with heat. “I didn’t know you were there. How much did you hear?”

  “Most of it,” he admits. “Why do you feel like you may not have much time here?”

  “I expect your uncle to try to send me back to Wychstar. You may have noticed he doesn’t like me much.”

  “He can try sending you anywhere he likes. And he’ll fail. It’s not his decision to make.”

  I wonder if Max means it, but I don’t press the issue. Pointing to the wooden bowl, I ask, “Why are you so sure Valin won’t answer me? Only the gods decide who they answer.”

  Max shakes his head. “I didn’t say he won’t answer you. I said he can’t. He’s gone.”

  “He’s dead?”

  “About a hundred years ago. Didn’t you know?”

  “No.” I give the altar a rather bitter look. “Well, that’s typical. I ask a god for help and it turns out he doesn’t even exist anymore.”

  Max fixes his gaze on the clumsy, creased paper hound in the bowl. “What did you hope he could do for you?”

  I shrug. It’s not a matter I intend to talk to him about. Instead, I ask a question that’s bothered me since yesterday: “Did you try to kill Alexi?”

  He frowns. “What?”

  “I overheard General Saka and Alexi talking yesterday. They mentioned a fire.”

  Max pauses and then says, “When we exiled Kyra and your brothers, we sent them to a house in one of Winter’s cities. We had it built for them. It was supposed to be a safe place, somewhere they could make new lives for themselves.” He scrubs a hand over his jaw. “There was a fire about a year after they arrived. They got out just in time.”

  “But?”

  “But Leila Saka is obviously convinced the house was a trap and the fire was my attempt to murder Alex and Bear.”

  “Was it?”

  Max gives me a long, silent look that makes me feel like I’ve made a mistake. “You ask an awful lot of questions for someone who only wanted to come home,” he says before walking away.