I think of night, and I think of my former serf, Elva. Her homeland, Obsidia. The darkness that filled my chambers, lit only by an orb of light cast by the boy cradling her in his arms. The dull gut-punch of betrayal as realization dawned on me.
I wonder if Elva has told Hal the truth – that ever since I unknowingly returned the powers of her ancestors to her using the Eye of the Soul, she is no longer Fidra.
She is a Mage. AShadowMage.
My breath curls upward in silver clouds. I nestle closer to Flint.
How will Hal and Elva navigate this, I wonder? There’s a cruel irony to it – an aching, hopeless sort of beauty that reminds me of the tales my mother told me as a child. Buthow can this one possibly have a happy ending when it is a story about what happens when light falls in love with darkness? How can they ever coexist, when one consumes the other?
I don’t pretend to know much about love, but to me, that sounds an awful lot like doom.
4
Elva
Ican hear my heart beating.
It pummels at my ribcage. It keeps me awake. Condemns me to consciousness when all I seek is oblivion.
The sky is a deep, velvety black, peppered with pinprick stars.
If it weren’t for the opulence of this bedchamber, or the raven-haired boy sleeping at my side, I could be a thousand miles away, gazing out at the eternal night of Obsidia.
I see it when I close my eyes. Our cottage, with its thatched roof and smoky fireplace, dozens of nightshine blooms snaking up the walls. Amma, humming softly while she prepares our evening meal. Stew, maybe. Or soup – beansprout and nettle – with fresh, salty bread. Papa, whittling perhaps, or chopping wood, or counting coppers – always doing something with his hands. My older sister, Astrid, singing quietly to herself, one hand stroking Kjara, our moon panther, stretched out peacefully at my feet.
I try to ration my memories. I keep them contained, like birds in cages, and only open them one at a time. It’s easier this way. In small doses they sustain me. I live off them.
But lately I’ve found myself consumed by thoughts of my family, of the life that was ripped away from me. Of who I was, and now,whatI have become.
I used to dream about the Shadow Magi: my ancestors, with eyes that glowed like fallen stars, capable of wielding darkness so impenetrable it could swallow the sun. I was ten before I saw my first dawn. It broke around the same time as my heart – beams of light gilding the waves as the slave ship sailed across the Second Sea.
Nobody knows for certain why the Magi lost their magic all those years ago, just as I don’t know why that magic was returned to me. All I do know is that if my secret were discovered, I wouldn’t have long to wonder.
As if to taunt me, a tendril of shadow escapes from my fingertip. I ball my hands into fists, resisting the urge to shudder as fear rattles through me. I’ve always been frightened, for as long as I can remember.
Elva’s afraid of her own shadow, Astrid used to say.
If only she knew how right she was.
My sister saw fear as a hindrance – something that needed to be stamped out.
Don’t be such a baby, she’d hiss as I edged behind her, clutching her arm while the other children played, launching themselves from the rocks and into the starpools below. And when we returned home, Astrid soaking wet and glittering, me bone-dry and ashamed, my father would just smile in his quiet, gentle way and pretend not to notice.
It was my mother who would sit me on her lap, prise my hands from my face and murmur softly,Don’t shut fear out, Elva. Invite it in.
I’ve tried to heed her advice – to welcome fear rather than cower from it, because fear is a response to danger. And sensing danger is key to survival.
The Earth Cleaver told me that if I wanted to survive, I’d better keep my mouth shut.
The day after my powers awoke, I remember coming to, surrounded by herbs and tinctures and vials of medicine. When I realized who was standing over me, I let out a piercing scream. He simply sighed and offered me a glass of water. Then he told me what happened. But not how. Orwhy.
Why now? Whyme?
Hal mutters something unintelligible in his sleep and shifts his arm to cradle me. What would he say, I wonder, if he discovered that I am now … what? A Mage? A monster? He’s a Castellion – they are the same in his eyes. I fear the truth would break him. Breakus.
I swallow, willing away the lingering shadows, concentrating on his face. These past few weeks have taken their toll. He looks older than his twenty years.
When I slipped into his chambers to say goodnight, he kissed me like he needed me. So I stayed. It’s risky, being with him like this. But as long as I’m back in the serf quarters before dawn, nobody should notice. Nobody except my bunkmate, Ingra, but she’ll always cover for me, and she’d never betray me to Matron.
