Chapter 2 #2
Sorry, Gray, but you’ll thank me later. Wispy silver threads of light spring from my fingertips and shoot through the trees. Concentrating, I pull the spirit with me and throw it down in the fugitive mender’s path.
A vast oak tree falls from the sky, landing with an echoing boom in front of the mender. The dead oak slams into the ground, and I hold on to the image. I focus on the rough brown bark and the sticky sap embedded in its grooves. I’m not limited to human life energies.
Please don’t turn into a corpse tree. It needs to look real.
The Hawks scream in surprise, and the man skids to a stop. He doesn’t realize it’s not solid. He stops long enough for our horses to reach him. Gray jumps from his mount and clasps crafter-made bindings around his wrists.
My first prisoner.
The man begs the Hawks to free him. The sound sends a sharp pang through my navel.
He may have been swindling people, but who knows what they’ll do to him at Malachite Prison.
I send up a prayer to the Riveners that they’ll watch over him.
Riveners guide spirits across the divide between this world and the after, but they also watch over us in life.
I have to hope they’ll spare some mercy for this man.
At Malachite, prison guards could siphon the Morphia out of him against his will and lock the jars of his magic away on the Celestial cruise ship.
It’s what could happen to me if I fail my trial.
A feeling like cold skeletal hands wrapping around my throat holds my voice captive. I throw up a prayer for myself too. With any luck, the Riveners will take pity on a girl who also bridges the gap between the living and the dead.
I leap from my horse and follow Gray toward the prisoner. Gray mutters harsh words under his breath, avoiding my eyes. Jasper prods the man in the back until he seats himself atop Jasper’s horse. The man’s eyes shine with unshed tears.
An urge to grab his hand overtakes me. It’s an odd sensation as I’m usually uncomfortable with physical touch from resurrection, but his misery seeps from him in tangible waves. The pressure in my navel spreads to my chest.
Tomorrow, this could be me. The thought propels me to take one step closer to the man atop Jasper’s horse.
“How could you do this?” he spits, his tears hardening to anger.
“To your own kind?” He knows the tree was mine.
The bark has started to decay into crumbling gray flakes and smells of acrid rot.
The man lunges forward, revealing a knife tucked away in his boot. I gasp as the glint of silver cuts toward my chest. He wields it with two hands, catching the edge of my cloak. The Hawks around me notch arrows, but only one flies.
I stumble backward as an arrow pierces the man’s upper arm. A woman with long black hair unbound rides toward us on the back of a massive chestnut mare. She lowers a large bow. The prisoner slumps, the arrow sticking out of his shoulder.
Lysandra Jamison pulls back on the reins and skids to a stop beside us. “Careful there, wild girl.”
“Are you okay?” Gray asks. Any anger he harbored toward me for disobeying him dissolves. When I nod without speaking, he looks to Lysandra. “She’s not coming with us to the prison. Will you see her home safe?”
The knot in my stomach tightens. There’s no way he’s leaving me behind, but I can’t find the words. What’s gotten into me? I’ve dreamed of hunting with the Hawks since Leith left on his first mission, but maybe I’m not cut out for this.
All the Hawks in my province are non-Morphic. I can understand why most Morphics aren’t eager to hunt their own kind, but I’d never had any qualms about it. Like Leith, I believed capturing the dangerous ones would make people less afraid. But then why did seeing that man in cuffs rattle me?
All I know is I don’t want to take this man to prison. Even if the Hawks don’t go inside, it’s still eerie getting close. But it’s better they think almost getting stabbed is what makes me hesitant. I’d rather be seen as scared than sympathetic toward a prisoner.
Lysandra’s blue eyes linger on Gray. He hasn’t had much to say to her since her son, Leith, died. She nods. “Of course.”
“I’m fine,” I say, knowing Gray won’t leave unless he hears it.
For a moment, his eyes soften as he looks at me.
He’s the boy who made me wildflower crowns, and I’m the girl who chased bullies with rat spirits as he and Leith egged me on.
He nods to me, looking like he wants to say something, but thinks better of it.
He checks the man for additional weapons before swinging back up onto his horse.
“Come on,” Lysandra says. “I’ll take you home.”
The Hawks ride off together. Unease raises the hairs on the back of my neck, and I can’t shake the feeling that I should have joined them.
Windowless, with dark maroon walls and a thick rug stretching over wood floors, Father’s study is more a cave than a room.
Many centuries ago, before society evolved and learned the intricacies of Morphia, the non-Morphics used to call us witches.
Despite it being an ancient, often condescending term, Father reclaimed it and ran with witchcraft as inspiration for his interior design.
The moment Lysandra and I step inside, the simmering heat of a bubbling potion kisses my skin.
Father stirs the cauldron with a bare hand.
As an alchemer, Father’s gift of potion mixing makes him valuable to the council.
Two decades ago, he designed a potion that sears through rock for efficient access to gem deposits with minimal damage to the environment.
This saved the council many angry letters and made my father famous throughout Tamarynth.
Just last year, he brewed the cure for the Breathless Blight that spread through Kalenar and crowded the infirmaries for weeks.
While this cure earned him respect and continued to prove his usefulness, it also ignited further questions about Father’s power.
If he could cure a blight, could he cause one too?
Alchemy earned my father his place on the council that makes decisions for the realm, but one wrong move could jeopardize his standing.
Even though my father’s proved his usefulness, some of the council members still worry that his magic is dangerous.
Alchemers are the only class of Morphics who pay no price for the magic they create.
Not to mention, there are some potions Father and his alchemer ancestors have been banned from experimenting with.
Potions that lengthen life, erase memories, and act as poisons.
Father was once asked by a man visiting from the province of Laverne what was to stop him from making a potion that controlled people’s minds. Father didn’t deign to answer but told me later it is the same thing that stops a man from killing his brother. He is not a bad person.
I can’t imagine conjuring spirits without paying dearly with the deathmares I’ve come to know so well both when I’m asleep and awake.
Sometimes I’m jealous of Father tinkering with new potion recipes for hours on end with no consequences.
Although he’s quick to remind me even alchemers have limits.
His father showed him the basics before he died—potions for cleaning, simple medicines, and those to briefly increase strength or speed.
But it takes lots of experimentation and failed attempts to make complex concoctions.
When Father finally notices me, he yanks his hand from the potion and steps out from behind his desk. He wipes his hand on a cloth and wraps me in a tight embrace, resting his chin on the top of my head. “I shouldn’t have let you go,” he whispers.
“I’m fine,” I manage, but tears prickle at the corners of my eyes.
Lysandra stands back from us. Her eyes settle on the potion on Father’s desk. Even after Father dissolved their union and married my mother, he maintained respect for Lysandra and above all, his son.
Leith should have been an alchemer. The gift of alchemy passes from father to son, but Leith was born non-Morphic.
This wouldn’t be unusual as Morphia runs through families randomly, but alchemers are different.
Father and Lysandra were shocked, but I never heard them complain.
If anything, Father almost seemed grateful Leith was not burdened with the task of producing potions for the realm.
Lysandra swallows hard, blinking back tears.
Seeing Gray and the potions in one day must bring the memories back to her.
I avert my eyes from her before our gazes meet.
The guilt I feel around Lysandra clings to me like the pungent stench of death.
She’ll never see Leith again. Never get the closure of speaking to him because I can’t bring him back.
I’ve tried time and time again, grasping her hand so hard my knuckles turn bone white.
Nothing happens. It’s like I’m up against a block. I fail her every time.
I pull away from Father. His brows pinch as he adjusts his waistcoat. Something stern in his expression makes me take a step back. Whoever brought him the news of the fugitive mender’s attack must have also shared that I used Morphia during the hunt.
“You must do well tomorrow,” he rumbles. “There is no alternative.”
Yet there is. My gaze wanders to the oil painting hanging over the mantel.
A grand black cruise ship drifts in calm aquamarine waters with a glowing lavender mist around the bow.
The Celestial was created as a vessel to contain the Morphia magic extracted from dangerous Morphics who fail their trials.
The cruise ship was not only a place for wealthy patrons to experience the wonders of Morphia magic at low risk but also a way to give Morphics one last chance to keep their abilities.
Father’s eyes follow mine, and his mouth tightens.
“The guests hold the staff to impossible standards. It is a punishment, a dangerous one not to be taken lightly.” He returns to his potion and drops an eagle talon in the liquid bubbling a pale green color.
“Promise me if something happens, you won’t board the ship. ”
Lysandra places a hand on my shoulder as I bristle, but I tear free of her grip. “You’re saying I should let them suck the Morphia out of my body and leave me—”
“Like your mother and sister … and brother, I might add,” Father finishes calmly. “Non-Morphic.”
Lysandra freezes at the mention of Leith, but I run blazing hot.
How dare he use my brother to influence me.
Mother’s always been non-Morphic and wanted Eliza and me to give up our abilities.
Eliza was only too eager, not wanting to be used and employed only for her healing, but Father understood what it meant to me.
Resurrecting the dead makes me feel the most alive.
I thought he cared as much as I did.
The pit in my stomach grows, weighing me down. He does care, but the realization settles like a physical barrier between us. If I had to go to the Celestial, it would embarrass Father.
It’s not going to happen. He’s only telling me this because I panicked yesterday. It’s my own fault if I lose control during my trial. If I am dangerous, they should take it from me.
Still, I can’t deny the impact his words have on me. Doubt is a weed. It adapts to my excuses and grows as he waters the roots I’m desperate to rip from the ground. Even if he’s right, I can’t look at him.
With as much calm as I can muster, I leave Father’s study before he can see his words have shaken me.
Lysandra follows on my heels. We emerge outside together on the raised porch overlooking the sprawling gardens and green grass of my family’s estate.
I breathe in the earthy smell of mushrooms and fragrant herbs Father uses for his potions.
The caw of ravens and crunch of carriage wheels turning over gravel meld in a harmony of sound as I close my eyes.
I know the creak in every floorboard of this estate, and I’ve grown so used to the smell of sage that it’s strange when I enter a home without it, but I can’t imagine any of this without my magic.
“I want to give you something,” Lysandra says.
She reaches into her woven bag and pulls out a homemade book.
“A gift before your trial.” I take the book from her, then flip gingerly through the pages.
Sketches of Leith and me. She must have been watching the two of us, and I never realized she was there.
Leith and me plunging our hands into icy streams for fish.
Leith helping me learn to ride. The two of us sitting under a tree as he read aloud from a book.
“You’ll do well tomorrow,” she says. “I know it.”
I blink hard to clear my lashes of rain droplets and tears. My eyes shut as I fight to swallow the spiked lump in my throat until Lysandra grips my arm tight and squeezes.
A carriage marked with the official Tamarynth seal, pulled by large black horses, groans as it bumps along the stony path to Damarcus Estate. My mouth dries, and Lysandra’s hand on my arm is the only thing that stops me from running back inside.
They’re here.
The judges for my trial have arrived a day early. And they’re sleeping under my roof tonight. One thought holds me hostage as I watch them.
The trial is tomorrow. The trial is tomorrow. The trial is tomorrow.