Between Smoke and Shadow

3. Harrick

THREE

HARRICK

“I don’t think you’re supposed to leave,” Tora says. She watches me from the infirmary doorway with crossed arms.

This place is designed like a cave, with her at the mouth of it and everything else subdued in blackness. It’s supposed to be calming, according to the healers. Tiled floor of the finest black spinel, heavy drapes to block the sun, and paint darker than shadows themselves.

“I’m healed,” I say. It’s mostly true. I spent all of yesterday resting, but I don’t have time to lounge around for three days like the healers expect. There’s too much to do, especially with the upcoming celebration. In nine days, the Flood Season begins, and the Royal Committee will announce our betrothals.

“Does Mother know?” Tora asks. She pushes from the wall, adjusting her crown. Hers represents Haver Lake in the Wilds. Thousands of tiny water droplets form a crown, complete with miniature jumping fish. The metal snags her unruly braid, and she curses, fixing it in place. Like the queen, she hasn’t cut her hair in cycles, and it hangs far past her waist.

She looks like a younger version of our mother, and the antithesis of me and Malek. Where we are pale with dark hair and darker eyes, Tora is all golden: bronzed skin and fair hair with the lightest shade of violet irises. She is Mother’s only true-born, nearly two cycles older than Malek and I.

When the queen and king failed to provide a worthy heir, the Architect had no choice but to intervene. For the first time in fifty cycles, he fathered children: twin boys with magic stronger than any other descendant in time. Immediately after our birth, the Architect gave us to the king and queen to raise.

People whisper of our true mother, but no one knows who she is or what became of her. Some say she killed herself, either from the horror of seeing our power or from the depression of having us stolen. Others say the Architect had her killed or imprisoned following our birth. One way or another, I never knew her.

I’ve only ever had Mother. The king died when I was too young to remember, and the Architect has always been clear: Malek and I are his descendants, but we are certainly not his.

“Harrick?” Tora presses. “Does Mother know you’re leaving?”

“I’ve no idea,” I say. I shrug into my suit coat and lace up my shoes. “But it’s her fault I’m here, Tor. I don’t much care what she knows.”

I pluck my gloves from the unmade bed and slip them over my hands. My palms still radiate heat, tinted the lightest shade of red, but they’re better now. That said, I don’t need people whispering more than they already will be.

“Let’s go,” I say as I pass her. “This place feels like a tomb.”

Tora is quick to keep up with me. We walk without speaking, and I study the red-painted walls as we pass. The 195th floor is reserved primarily for medical purposes, so the decor reflects that. Portraits of visionary healers are painted directly on the walls and more than one sculpture of a medical device peaks between the window drapes.

“Are you truly feeling better?”

“Truly,” I affirm.

I nod toward the center stairwell, and Tora beams at me in response. It makes her look cycles younger. It’s been too long since we’ve been to the courtyard anyway, and I can spare another hour before returning to my responsibilities.

Hidden behind a magicked door, the stairs are only accessible to royalty. Tora enters her code and takes the steps two at a time. I go slower, pretending it’s because I’m in no rush, rather than out of breath. Using as much magic as I did, I won’t feel normal for a while. Stripping magic in and out of the body like that is exhausting, and my bones won’t soon let me forget it.

At the two-hundredth floor, Tora holds the door open for me, and I lead us onto the rooftop courtyard. A lazy sunset highlights us in shades of orange and pink as we round the center pool. The soft breeze ripples the water, distorting its reflection of blue sky and feathery clouds.

We cross over rough black stones, weaving between folded chairs and stored decorations. In nine days, this will all be transformed into an extravagant celebration. Exotic meats and delectable fruits, all enchanted to look and taste better than they truly are. Partygoers will crowd this large square, doing too much of everything: drinking, dancing, gossipping.

For now, the space is empty. Green, yellow, and blue trees, all varying in shape and size, line two sides of the yard. A few leaves drift over the Tower’s ledge. Tora stares as they plunge hundreds of feet to the ground below, but I shift my attention to the farside of the courtyard. The event stage, half-hidden behind bright foliage, will one day serve as my altar.

We stop once we reach the far corner, where only an iron-wrought fence separates us from the nauseating drop. It’s a long way down. I sit at the base of the metal rungs, facing the oval pool, and close my eyes. Tora slides into the spot beside me, and I let out a hard breath.

“I snooped,” Tora says after several minutes.

I crack an eye to look at her. She’s lounged against the railing too, head tilted toward the sky. Though she’s not crying, I get the sense she will be soon.

“On?”

“Our betrothals,” she says, voice cracking. “I went through Sorace’s desk after he’d left for the day.”

My stomach tightens, and I can’t think of what to say. Traditionally, princes and princesses are only told of their betrothals on the day they propose. We are to be informed on the morning of the season change and set to propose at the night’s celebration. Dozens of elites will attend, all wearing green in a vomit-colored sea of desperation. The rest of the crowd will be no better. They’ll fight to join our mangled family tree, if not as our spouse then as our friend, our associate, our anything.

Without my asking, Tora continues, “You were right, you know. They’ve picked Viana Llroy for you. Pretty girl with an ugly personality and an even uglier temper. I suppose they’re hoping for beautiful, vicious babies.”

I blow out a breath and close my eyes again. I’ve suspected Viana for a long time, what with my mother adoring her father, and yet the confirmation makes me sick.

“Well?” Tora asks. She nudges me with her shoulder.

“Well…what? There’s nothing to say.”

“Only a few days ago, you seemed okay with it,” she says, shrugging. “You’d been making jokes. Saying you’d just have to put a spike between your ears and it wouldn’t be so bad. She is pretty.”

“Yeah, well I can’t actually stab myself through the skull, now can I?” I snap.

Tora doesn’t respond. Her pale eyes scan my face and her mouth switches. Just when I think she’s going to cry, she lets out a sharp laugh.

“This is cruel, but you being upset makes me feel a bit better.” Her lips tilt into a quirked smile.

“That is cruel,” I agree, but I laugh too. “Why, who did they assign you?”

“His name is Nordan Kerr. I don’t think I’ve even met the man. But his name is Nordan . That has to be a bad sign.”

“I don’t know him,” I admit. “I think his parents meet with Mother every season though. They oversee the fruit production in the Reaping Grounds.”

“Maybe he knows how to cook then,” Tora says, her words softening. “Is he good looking? Gods, at least let him be good looking. Or kind. What are the odds he’ll be handsome and kind?”

“He’s short,” I say. “That’s all I remember. His hair might be brown.”

“You’re useless,” Tora snorts. She drops her head against my shoulder, only to pull back just as quickly. When I open my eyes, hers are puffy and red, like they can’t keep the tears in much longer. “Can we go over our plan? At least one more time.”

It’s a stupid game we’ve played for far too many cycles. We shouldn’t waste time pretending, but soon enough, we’ll both be fully grown and we won’t be able to do this at all.

“We’ll start in the Reaping Grounds,” I say. I twist to face the skyline. With my hands on the iron rungs, I glance at Tora. She’s already turned as well, propped onto her knees, grinning at me like she rarely does these days. We must look like children, and for the moment, I don’t mind.

“I thought we’d finally agreed on the Pit,” she says, creeping closer to the ledge. “We can collect some gems, maybe some magic. Save up enough?—”

“Hear me out,” I say, cutting her off. “We’ll start at the Reaping Grounds. That’s where we’ll have the quickest access to food.”

We’re facing the Reaping Grounds now. Once that sector was full of flourishing crops—lush vegetables and ripe fruit—and hundreds of plump cattle. Now, the ground is graying dirt and the animals are sickly.

“Once we have food, then we’ll move to the Pit.”

We shift to face Savoa’s mines. All the gems and metal we use come from the Pit’s underground network of tunnels. The sector looks the same as it probably always has: black gravel with massive equipment littered across it. Beneath the surface, however, cycles of earthquakes and floods have collapsed over half the tunnels.

“Then we’ll work our way through the City of Mirrors.”

We have to scoot now to see the eastern sector. Most commoners live there, and even from here, it’s the hardest to look at. Their city is in constant disrepair, destroyed almost every season and rebuilt worse than it was before.

“Maybe we’ll make it our home, or maybe we’ll just try to help a family or two while we’re there,” I say. I’ve always liked the idea of helping people, and Tora is one of the few people who understands. “Then we’ll make record time across the Deadlands.”

We turn again, our backs to the iron fence now. We can’t see the Deadlands from here, but we face its general direction. It’s the southernmost part of Savoa, and it’s a final, haunting reminder from Wyhel, the god who banished the Architect and his people. The Deadlands are what Savoa would be without Wyhel’s cyclical magic distribution, every Lightning Season. The entire sector is inhospitable, covered in scorching stone and toxic gasses.

“And then, the Wilds,” I say. It’s a salving breath through my lungs. “We’ll stay there as long as we like. Tame a beast or two, live off the land if we can.”

Backs still against the iron fence, we look to the western side. It is the lushest sector of all: towering trees of all colors with trunks as thick as my height; a freshwater lake, rumored to have no bottom; and wild animals of all kinds, many of which produce the finest meat. Aside from the Tower, the Wilds is the strongest remaining sectors, thanks mostly to Ksana Renat. Still, even it struggles. The lake is murky and too dangerous for swimming; the animals are often toxic and unsafe to eat.

“That’s a solid plan.”

Tora closes her eyes. I take another moment to scan our kingdom, my attention drifting to the mountains that surround it. The peaks are enormous and daunting, sharp daggers angled up and away from the earth. Beyond them, saltwater rushes in undulating, crashing waves.

“But if it fails…”

“If it fails, we’ll start climbing,” Tora finishes.

As children, we believed a utopian world lived on the other side of the mountains. We had seen the ocean rise and pour over the ridges, drowning half of Savoa with its saltwater. We had seen it, and yet, we still hoped a safe haven existed there, just out of sight. We stopped believing a while ago, and yet, we couldn’t bear to forgo the dream entirely.

“Yes,” I say, my voice a whisper. “We’ll start climbing.”

Tora falls silent as the sunset fades to a blackened sky. My throat tightens through the quiet. I can feel the weight of Savoa pressing heavier against me, tearing through my skin, piece by piece. Savoa will soon be mine, and these people will beg me to save them.

But just as there is no utopia beyond our mountains, there is no salvation for those who deserve it most.