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Chapter 16
The ground falls away. The wind whipping at my cheeks becomes dryer the higher we climb. We leave the dark and the rain behind, rising into the realm of the sun.
The light is blindingly bright. It paints the insides of my eyelids the red-orange of fire. I turn my head away, but that tucks me further against Dalca’s side, and I’m pretty sure that’s worse. My eyes adjust enough by the time the sandstone ring of the Ven whizzes by. Where are we going?
Dalca’s jaw is squared and tense as he flies us straight to the first ring, to a balcony-studded tower that’s a little set apart from the rest of the frozen-fire palace. I brace for impact as we speed toward a balcony at the very top, but Dalca pulls up with the sort of practiced dexterity that I really ought not to be so surprised by.
My legs take a moment to remember how to carry my weight, long enough for Dalca to open the glass doors that lead to the room beyond. I follow him, blinking against the darkness as my eyes adjust once again. A click sounds behind me as Dalca locks the balcony door.
“Dalca?”
“This part of the palace isn’t frequently visited,” he says.
By which I understand:No one is coming to save you.
“I’ll return when I can.”
“Wait—”
He strides out, an ornate door shutting behind him with a heavy thud. The doorknob—polished metal, carved to look like a tree branch—twists uselessly. It’s locked. The balcony door is locked too—an empty keyhole remains. Dalca must’ve pocketed the key.
I press my forehead to the wood and breathe. Too much rattles around in my head. A bloodless fury makes my skin crawl. Why couldn’t Pa just help us get him out, instead of defaulting to his tortured-and-disappointed-father routine? Why couldn’t Izamal just keep it together for another five minutes? Why couldn’t I get this right?
Under all the anger is a low chill that starts in my toes and pulls me under. I’ve messed up, again. I wanted to save Pa, just like I wanted to save those two fifth-ringers from the stormbeast. All my good intentions come to nothing. They’re not even that good, considering. While I was focused on Pa, Izamal’s been fighting for all the fifth—and who knows what kind of trouble he’s in because of me.
I hope he got away. I’m surprised to find I bear him no ill will. I do wish he hadn’t punched Pa, but I’m sure he wishes I’d told him the truth about the chances of Pa joining his revolution. I used him more than he used me, and regret sits like a stone in my stomach. I hope he’s free. The fifth needs someone who hasn’t given up on them.
And Pa—
I tell myself that Pa’s alive, that the rock prison didn’t suffocate him as I ran away. The Wardana will have saved him, even just so they can put on a show with the Trial. I can’t let myself fall apart and weep like a little helpless child. If Pa’s dead, I’ll know sooner or later, and then I’ll weep. Until then, I need to think.
I take stock of my prison. The room is all dark violet and deep blue,the colors of midnight. A tapestry wraps around the walls and up the domed ceiling, depicting a fairy tale forest at night, inhabited by creatures of legend. A will-o’-the-wisp, little winged fairies, a red-eyed wolf. Things to devour me in the night.
There’s a plush bed. A set of overstuffed chairs. There’s even a rug. None of it’s remotely comforting. None of it is remotely prisonlike, either, save for the locked doors. Why such comfort? I can’t believe that Dalca still harbors feelings for me, not now that he knows I’ve been lying to him. Let me not flatter myself—even the face Carver gave me couldn’t make up for that. But then why?
Pa’s worry about the locket—about his notebook—means there are things he has kept secret, that he still wants to be kept secret.
That’s why I’m here. Not because Dalca’s soft on me, but because he’s made the same assumption Iz did—that Pa must’ve taught me ikonomancy, that I know the secrets of the great Alcanar Vale.
But Dalca doesn’t know that Pa never trusted me enough to teach me anything. All he did was give me his notebook, and that to hide. Does it hold the knowledge Dalca wants? Pa wouldn’t be worried about the notebook unless it held something of importance.
There’s a long list of things Pa’s asked me to do—things that I haven’t done. Right at the top is to burn his notebook. I pull Ma’s locket over my head, running my thumb over our family ikon etched upon it. The weight of Pa’s notebook shifts inside.
I unclasp the locket and let the miniature book tumble out onto my palm. I don’t know an ikon that’ll burn the book, but I wager there’s one written in it that’ll do the job.
It hasn’t escaped me that there are no writing implements in sight. For all the luxuriousness of my surroundings, there’s nothing to do ikonomancy with.
There’s no hearth to scoop charcoal from. No sundust or other powders to pour in the shape of an ikon. I consider my fingers. I could bite them and use blood.
It’s a fairly large room, at least by fifth-ring standards. Fifteen paces take me from the door to the balcony, passing the bed and chair. I run my fingers along the tapestry wall as I pace, but on my way back, my fingers catch a groove on the wall. A clever door, meant to blend in, with a small knob covered in fabric matching the tapestry.
It opens to a bathing room; a copper tub large enough to sit in, a washbasin, and behind a partition, a water closet. Fancy. I prod around, but if they’re powered by ikonomancy, it’s not at this end. Perhaps they use ikons wherever the water comes from.
A bar of soap rests near the washbasin. On the stone, I draw a line using the edge of the soap, pleased to find it leaves a residue. Now that I have way to write ikons...
I whittle the soap bar with my nails until it’s thin enough to make such fine lines. With it, I draw the ikon for enlarging on the notebook’s cover. It grows to a readable size. It takes a little longer to scan it than I’d like, courtesy of having to decipher Pa’s code. But only ten pages in, I find it. An ikon for combustion, a complex one where lines angle sharply toward the center, tighter and tighter, until they form a dark circle. In the margin, Pa wrote,Much easier to use a match.
I lower the soap, just touching the cover of the notebook. I let out a long slow breath.
