Spark

  

  Anna Holmes

  Copyright © 2019 by Anna Holmes.

  Copyright © 2019 by Anna Holmes.

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover art copyright Jason Nguyen 2019.

  Author photo by Emily Piotrowicz 2019.

  Title art copyright Sabrina Watt 2019.

  Published by IngramSpark.

  First Printing, 2019

  ISBN-13: 978-0-578-49336-7

  For Stephanie, master worldbuilder, smasher of patriarchy, slayer of library school, ever wary of the Ides.

  This book is for you.

  Chapter One

  Alain

  A chair. Thank gods, in the midst of swinging swords and swirling skirts, I’ve managed to find a chair.

  I fall into the chair with a stiff thump and try to ignore the hemmed-in feeling. I don’t know how a room that’s all vaulted ceilings and glass walls can seem like such tight quarters. The small ensemble of musicians churns their way through a reedy set of Elyssian folk songs on the dais hidden from my view by the throng of dancers packed onto the dance floor. That’s probably it. Too many people, too many sets of eyes.

  I’d love to be able to blame the discomfort on the stiff wool jacket with its assorted trinkets dangling from the front or the stuffy ballroom, but as stifled as I feel by both, there’s something else tugging me into my newfound seat.

  As I pull my damned achy leg in to avoid tripping Caelin’s third cousin or whatever, the only person more uncomfortable in this room than I am edges her way between the rubbing elbows. Tressa is graceful on her four legs, careful not to step on toes. The only acknowledgement she gets are sidelong looks and whispers about the centaur in the ballroom. “Dear gods, Prince,” she huffs, setting her hand to her chest. “Don’t scare me like that. I assumed someone stabbed you.”

  “Why does your mind automatically go to stabbing?”

  “It’s either that or poison,” she says with a shrug. “Did you trip over your petulance?”

  I try to breathe through the next volley of wrenches in my leg. “What gave me away?”

  She gives me the driest look I think I’ve ever seen. “Please. You’ve hardly said a word all night and you keep sending away the fellow with the tray of tiny foods.”

  “I had a tiny piece of bread with tiny fancy cheese on it,” I protest.

  “An hour ago. The last time I came by.”

  “Are you really paying that much attention to the cheese habits of the room?”

  She points at her blue uniform jacket. “I am working tonight.”

  “Aren’t we all?”

  Even Caelin has been at work the whole night, discussing the same trade negotiations and postwar politics she wrestles with all day, but this time in motion. She hasn’t been without a dance partner since the doors opened. She catches my eye over some young man’s gold shoulder fringe and makes a face. I smile back for her benefit, wiping it off before the song rotates her around again.

  “You could ask for a dance, you know,” Tressa says.

  The nerves from my hip to my ankle fire off in rapid succession, and I force myself to look around the room to keep from wincing. Little balls of light hang in the air—a common alchemical trick, popular with those with literal gold to burn. The luster it lends to the skin of people below is a pale imitation of the light Caelin gives off naturally. That is abundant tonight. She dances like light on glass. “I’m not much of a dancer,” I answer with a quiet laugh.

  “I can tell you want to,” she says, still watching Caelin.

  “I’m pretty sure she doesn’t want to drag my rickety leg across the dance floor.”

  Now she looks down at me, folding her arms. “How can someone be so smart and yet so dense? Why do you think she keeps looking this way?”

  “Funny thing about making circles—”

  Before I can finish, she hauls me up and out of my chair by the elbow. “The song is ending. Go now.”

  I try to budge myself—even just an inch. It feels like fighting a particularly frenzied cyclone. Too much activity, people clapping, people moving. Staring, at Tressa, and me—still the subjects of curiosity. The Queen’s traitor, hidden in his study at the University until it’s time to drag him out for one of these official things. Dull and dense air in my chest, dampness in my palms, ache, ache, ache up and down the leg, the bad leg, the one I gave up for someone who never existed at all—

  A hand slips through the crook of my elbow, pulling me from my mind back to the marble floor. Caelin smiles at my side, but her eyes aren’t in on it. “I think I’d like some air,” she tells me. “Care to join me?”

  I nod, and she deftly carves us a path through the throng toward the balcony. This move doesn’t earn me any fewer looks. Caelin is leaving the dance floor, and whether it was my intent to take her or not, I’m thoroughly and silently reproached for it. Before the room becomes overwhelming again, we can shut the wide doors on the noise and warmth of it. She presses her back to the glass and pushes out a breath. “Thank gods.”

  I prop an elbow up on the stone railing and let myself lean for a moment. “A valiant try, Your Effervescence.”

  “What do you mean?” she asks a little too innocently.

  “It’s all right. You don’t have to pretend not to enjoy your party for my sake.” Guilt wipes out a portion of the light that clings to her open face. I stand again. “I’m sorry to have taken you from it.”

  “This is where I want to be right now,” says Caelin, and this time, I believe her.

  She crosses the balcony and leans into me with her arms about my waist. Carefully, I lift her crown so I can rest my chin on her head without getting skewered. “Honestly, though,” I tell her. “I’m being a poor sport. I’ll try to get my head right and we’ll go back in there soon.”

  “You are not. You’ve not thrown a fit and sat in the cake or what have you.”

  “A low bar you’ve set for me there, Your Generosity. Besides, that would be both a waste of a truly massive cake and incredibly difficult for me to pull off.”

  She pats my chest. “If anyone could manage, it’d be you.”

  I could, if these damned inhibitors weren’t clamped above my elbows. They keep me from casting any significant magic, which in turn pacifies the people probably still watching us through the glass, at least enough to react with derision instead of fear. She didn’t ask me to wear them, and I didn’t offer, but it seemed a small enough concession. I hadn’t taken into account the sudden desire to sit on top of a very tall cake. Shortsighted as ever. “The cake has nothing to fear from me.”

  Besides, even if I wanted to, I couldn’t do that to her. It’s a rubbish enough feeling knowing I’m pulling her away from her birthday festivities. I lift my head in realization and start digging through my belt pouch. “Since I’ve dragged you out here…”

  “Mm. It was rather the opposite, dearest.”

  “You’re right. I couldn’t drag you if I tried. I think I’m the only person in this kingdom with negative muscles.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t go that far. You have…maybe a half of one?”

  I feign a harrumph and continue to push aside the myriad pens and loose coins and scraps of parchment hiding in my pouch. “That’s what I get for trying to give you your birthday present."

  She picks her head up in interest, then catches my wrist as I shift around the glass vial. “Is that…?” She pries the thing from my hand, lifting it to the weak moonlight to examine the green liquid. Of all the assorted things I haul around these days, the antidote is the only one that leaves an anxious hole in my chest i
f it’s missing. Her hand brushes the mostly pink scar just north of her collarbone. “Alain, that’s all done now. You still carry this around?”

  “Just in case,” I say, reaching out for the antidote. “No chances.”

  She closes her fingers around the vial before I can take it back, setting her other hand to my face. “I’m all right,” she assures me, the slight tilt to her lips more sad than smile. “What about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “You look tired.”

  I turn back to digging in my pouch. “Probably because I am tired.”

  “The dreams?”

  I’m not sure how Caelin manages this. Barely two minutes on the same balcony and she’s already managed to pry free both of the things I’ve been clutching close. I nod my dully throbbing head as I finally locate the little bundle of handkerchief. I set it in her hand to shift everything back into the pouch. “Aha! I knew the blasted thing was in there.”

  “Alain—”

  “Let’s leave them, love. They already ate up most of last night. I’d rather not give them any of this one.” She doesn’t look keen on the idea, but at last she nods. I set my hand to her cheek. “Thank you. There’s time enough for that on the other three hundred and some days of the year. You only get one eighteenth birthday.”

  She arcs a faintly shining eyebrow. “Presumably there will be a nineteenth and a twentieth.”

  “And we’ll talk of less depressing things then, too. Now.” I hold the loosened bundle to my chest. “About forty years ago, there was an object caster somewhere near the Clockwork City who placed the original enchantment. It was left to go fallow by those who took it from its original owner, and the rather clever spell hid itself in the mundane materials the object is made of.” I hold the bundle a little further away and touch my fingertips to it. “Let me just give the spell a little hand up again.”

  She leans forward, staring intently at the bundle. I’m afraid there won’t be much to see, but the utter absorption is damned adorable. As soon as I’m about to tell her as much when my leg gives an extra wrench and my lifeline seems to swell into a tidal wave. From my fingertips, a blue spark flares to life, soaking into the handkerchief until it fades completely. Caelin stands up straight. “What did it do?” I lean forward and push out a ragged breath, trying to come up with the energy for a response. All at once, she seems to realize that wasn’t intentional. Her hand flies to my shoulder. “Alain? What’s happened?”

  “I’m fine,” I get out. “Just…a little rusty, is all.” She looks at me, mouth cocked to one side as though she’s ready to reach straight into me and grab the truth out. A quick listen tells me that despite the surge, the enchantment took. I’m pretty sure the hum is loud enough for casters four counties over to hear. “I helped it up and out, and it’s ready for you to use.”

  I set the bundle in her lap, and her hands hover hesitantly over it. She’s still looking at me, uncertain if she wants to drop my magic’s little temper tantrum. I give her a little smile and nod toward the bundle. She smiles back and unwraps it the rest of the way, laying the thin silver ring bare in the moonlight.

  Her head jerks up and all at once I realize that somehow, I have managed to ass this up so, so much more than I thought possible. Gods, Alain, you gave her a ring. Without comment. You are an unmitigated ass.

  Quickly, I reach out and find the tiny latch which pops the ring open. Even quicker, I blurt, "It belonged to your aunt. It’s, um—here." As carefully as I can, I unclasp her earring, drop it in her palm, and replace it with the ring. "This should not in any way let you hear when someone is lying," I tell her.

  She flinches, but recovers quickly. “It certainly does,” she laughs. “Where on earth did you find this?”

  “Took some digging and a certain merchant's help. It was mentioned in one of the books in my bedroom, and I couldn't remember seeing it, so I made some inquiries. Apparently it was lost when the Legion moved in, sold away without the buyer ever knowing what he had. Arrow found it and brought it back. It lost its magic over time, but it was easy enough to…”

  She seizes me and jams her mouth into mine. These have been rare lately—too many people around at all times, but at the moment, she doesn't seem to care that a whole party sits behind glass doors. I can appreciate that. "Thank you," she says when she pulls back.

  I rub at the back of my neck. "You…may want to take that off for now. People lie about little things constantly; you'd go mad with the noise."

  She does, folding it back into a ring. She holds onto it and look at it for a moment, then back at me. "I—um—which hand, exactly, should I put this on?"

  Forget the leg wrenching. The whole of me is being wrung out. “Which…hand do you want to put it on?"

  “Well—you know, er—which had you had in mind?”

  “I don't really think that much matters, does it?” Her eyes flash, and gods, I just keep getting assier. I stumble over myself to add, “I mean, you are the queen, and I—”

  She pulls the crown from her head and stuffs it into my hand. “There. Now I'm just me.”

  Just her. As though knowing that somehow removes my ass potential. It may even enlarge it. I force a breath, the prongs of the crown eating into my palm. “I,” I begin slowly. “Would like…you know….”

  She studies the ring. “There is another option,” she says.

  “Yeah?”

  She unlatches the ring and closes it again around the chain of the pendant she always wears around her neck. “We can choose a hand later. When we’re ready.”

  “I think I know which hand I'd like it to be later,” I say.

  She smiles at me, and the whole dark balcony seems bathed in light. “I have an idea which that might be. Thank you, Alain.”

  Well, I’m an ass, but a happy one. I grin stupidly in return. She puts my torso into a fine, if not restrained, tackle, and I fold her into an embrace. “Happy birthday, love.” She holds on tight—so tight I mistake the shivering for strain at first. I’m told hugging me is like getting cozy with a flounder on certain nights, and I’m guessing, based on the clouds of her breaths and the chattering of her teeth, that this is one of those nights. “Let’s…get you back inside, yeah?”

  She nods, standing on her toes to give me a brief kiss before offering me her arm again. I hastily set her crown back atop her carefully arranged pile of hair and tuck back that little bit that always escapes her careful arrangements. Caelin beams, literally, and even I warm up again as we head back inside.

  The vultures descend instantly, of course. Subtly, because it would be bad form to suddenly drop conversations and dance partners, but it’s amazing how many start edging closer the second the door shuts. Above their heads, Tressa starts waving to catch my attention. I tilt my head questioningly. She frowns deeply, then lifts her hands—one on an invisible shoulder, one suspended in midair. Tressa lifts her eyes to the ceiling as if to ask the gods themselves why, and she drifts back and forth in a beautiful, sarcastic mime of a dance. I can’t help myself. I mouth, what?

  In response, she glowers in glorious incandescent rage and mouths back, ask her to dance, arse! I shoot her a nervous little grin and nod just once.

  Gods love Tressa Nuthatch. May everyone find themselves cudgeled with a friendship like hers. I steady myself. “May I have this—?” I begin.

  Caelin takes my hands and rights me, placing a kiss to my cheek. “Only all of them, if you want them.”

  I’ve been a very careful trained traitor, showing deference at every turn. In Elyssian court, where every glance is a dropped hint, this is possibly the most radical message she could send. I can only look back at her, dumbfounded. Caelin sets one of my hands to her waist. “Are you sure?” I ask her in a whisper.

  “Oh, they’ve had a bloody year to get used to it,” she answers, grasping my other hand in hers and fixing me with a smile that might just make me trade places with her and glow. “So yes. I’m sure.”

  It’s eas
y enough to mistake the clatter that follows as a bit of misplaced percussion, but all heads turn away from the musicians. Perhaps a bit sluggishly, I follow everyone’s gaze to the glass door that’s just been flung open. A host of black-clad Plain women stride in two by two, along with an incredibly pissed off Riley Bannon, who keeps strafing off to the side trying to get around them. It doesn’t work until he finally manages to burst through, bringing his personal patch of shadow and irritation with him. Bannon shoots an angry glance backward and clears his throat. “Your Highness. It is my…duty…to present Prince Daryon of Folgia.”

  The circle of women breaks to reveal a man with bronze hair like a lion's mane flowing down to massive shoulders. His tanned face splits in a smile the moment he manages to get his hair out of his face. “Caelin!” he cries. “Or is it Your Royal Majesty these days? No matter. I have come to wish you many happy returns!”

  She smiles demurely, a sure sign that she wishes she were hitting something with a sword. For once, I know the feeling. I have never before found myself so irritated by someone’s wardrobe. In of themselves, his breeches serve the basic function of pants, but they also share with everyone in the room the exact contours of his…everything. The powder blue silken shirt with its beaded collar clings just a little too much. Politely, she ignores all that. ”Daryon. This is a pleasant surprise. Thank you. I'd like to introduce you to my prince consort, Alain Northshore."

  I begin the customary greeting, but none of this matters. The prince of Folgia seems to have stopped listening after pleasant surprise. He sets a hand to a hip, his blue velvet cape flapping about him like a swarm of awkward moths around a lamp. He rubs at the bridge of his nose with a broad hand. “I must apologize. There just was not enough time to respond to your invitation. You know how overseas travel can be, especially with your airships so…what is the word—temperamental over water.”

  Caelin shoot a murderous glance at Bannon, who spreads his hands helplessly as though to say don’t look at me, I didn’t invite him. Something tells me she'd be extremely interested to find out who did. She obfuscates well, smiling warmly. “Well, whatever the case, welcome. We were just about to resume the dancing.”