Splendor and Spark by Mary Taranta

Author:Mary Taranta
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Margaret K. McElderry Books

Sixteen

BY THE TIME WE GAIN enough distance from the town house and any hellborne I might have attracted there, we’re all exhausted, too tired to even complain when Chadwick orders our stop in the middle of a wasteland of ash with no protection from the bitter wind. Jarrett starts a fire, and we huddle around it, pensive and silent, daring glances at each other, trying to guess how deep the Burn has taken hold, who will be the next to snap, and how. North’s greatest vice is his temper, but what would Elin’s be? Or Terik’s?

North separates himself from the fire—and the recrimination of the others. He sits alone, a slumped figure with a tattered map, staring across the Burn toward the shadowed form of Prevast on the horizon. Once again I’m reminded of cold nights on the farming terrace, plotting impossible escapes that turned ludicrous the later the hour and the more barleywine I drank. Seeing North now awakens that same aching longing, a desire to succeed, marred by the bittersweet sorrow of knowing the much higher probability of failure. I resist the temptation to join him, aware of the way the others keep me tagged from the corners of their eyes. Instead I stay close to the fire—and to my dagger. No one has spoken a word of dissent all afternoon, following Chadwick’s commands with a dutiful compliance I don’t fully trust.

After dividing us into shifts, Chadwick approaches North, offering him a canteen as he takes a seat beside him. Together they study the map, no doubt debating Merlock’s likely target—and why, if he wants to talk, he keeps moving forward rather than doubling back. I envy them their friendship, strong enough to survive a day like this.

Kellig watches me from across the fire. He’s been begging for scraps of magic from Sofreya all evening, to no avail, and the hunger I saw earlier has returned, manifested with the addition of a nervous shudder that wracks his entire body. He hasn’t injected any magic into his blood since joining us, and the withdrawal looks torturous.

He deserves it.

The light dances over the slick cracks of poison on his face and the dark bruises on his throat where Cohl’s fingers sank through the skin. He opens his mouth as if to speak to me, but I quickly turn away, focusing on the sky overhead, gauzy with clouds. On instinct, I raise my hands to frame the dimly lit stars. Almost there, I think, and the words are a satisfying weight, like the shell in my pocket I picked up for Cadence. Another promise, but this one for me.

When I fall asleep, my dreams are strange beasts, glimpses of Merlock in between stretches of darkness and flashes of a silver light. A cairn of stones is built upon my lungs, pressing me down, cutting off my air. I wake with a gasp, to find Kellig bent over me, hands flattened against my chest.

My immediate reaction is one of panic. He’s a transferent, and has tried to steal magic from me before.

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