Memories of Ash (The Sunbolt Chronicles Book 2) (7 page)

But I’m too wound up to fall asleep, my thoughts flitting from Stormwind to the mages in the mirror to all the things I don’t know. I try to slow my breath, still my thoughts. Stormwind taught me to meditate when I first came to stay with her. Under her guidance, I learned to examine the edges of each memory I hold, reaching for what it once connected to, sifting through the ashes in search of color or scent. As I have a hundred times before, I gather them to myself as a miser would his most precious jewels, counting them out one by one.

Here— here is a moment of laughter with a young man whose black and brown hair and sharp teeth hint at his true shape: a tanuki, or raccoon dog. He leans against a carved door painted a vibrant turquoise, his arms folded and his head tilted to the side, brown eyes twinkling with mischief.
Kenta
. Of my few memories of him, this is my favorite, for there’s no darkness in it, no fear or desperation.

Here’s another man, dark skinned and long fingered, whose face I only catch in fleeting glimpses. More than his visage, I remember his cloak, black as the night. What I recall of his name suggests how little I knew him:
Ghost
.

Then there’s a scattering of other people like a handful of seeds tossed to the ground for the birds to peck up: women with whom I may have shared an apartment, others whom I must have once called friends. Shop owners and street children, the people who filled my days. And from the last of those days, the Degaths.

I remember my last day in Karolene, the chain of events that led up to my sunbolt. These are the memories I do not want, the sorrow and fear and dark choices I made, the deaths I witnessed and allowed. The way I gathered sunlight to myself until it roared within me, a fury of flames that I unleashed upon the fang lord Kol, teaching myself in that moment to take the essence of what surrounds me and kill with it.

These recollections leave a bitter taste at the back of my mouth, and I turn my thoughts away from them. Instead, I draw up the memory of my mother as I saw her in Blackflame’s gardens, solitary and peaceful, unaware of my presence. The sight of her had nearly broken me with grief, as had the knowledge that she had abandoned me, chosen Blackflame over me. It was only afterward, in the quiet winter months spent in Stormwind’s cottage, that I began to wonder if there was more to her story. She is too great a mage to be held for so long against her will. But has she joined Blackflame to support him—or to undermine him? Nothing I have learned has brought me any closer to understanding her. Still, I hope. I cannot bear not to.

There are a few last memories, moments that I can no longer place in time: wandering a lush, flowered garden with my father tall and gentle beside me. Kneeling before my mother to recite a lesson I no longer recall. Drinking spiced coffee from a blue-rimmed cup in a busy marketplace. Bits and pieces, shards of the whole.

Through Stormwind’s tutelage I’ve recovered this much, and only this much. Most of my memories may never return. There will always be gaps in my knowledge of the past, gaps in who I am. This is the price of my bolt of sunlight, its single flash of irrevocable destruction. As I lie wrapped in my memories, I know that I’ve gathered as much as I can from the ashes.

Now I must remake myself, drawing upon the lessons my body retains: the clever fingers of a thief, the quick instincts of a girl growing up on the streets of a strange city. I cannot ever truly know who I was. It’s time to discover who I may yet be.

Hoofbeats echo across the mountainside, urgent staccato drumbeats.

I crouch beneath the low-growing boughs of my tree and peer through the needles. The sun has risen high enough to cast its light upon the forested slope, shining bright upon the rocky mountainside further on. The riders high above me slow their horses as they enter the trees, the path more pock-holed and dangerous than the scree-covered trail they just traversed. Foolish of them to have pushed their horses even there. They’re in a hurry, and no one hurries down these paths.

I wait, breathing slowly, and catch a glimpse of cloth flapping. Robes? I can’t be sure, but I don’t need to be. I already know. A handful of locals live on the mountainsides before Stormwind’s home, and almost none beyond. These riders want to get to her valley very, very badly. Blackflame must have sent them as soon as he learned where she lived, perhaps urged them on when the mages failed to locate the mirror. I clench my jaw, anger sparking within me. How dare he?

The riders continue on, the sound of their passage overloud in the sudden absence of birdsong. I hold my breath, wound tight with fury. The Council is worth nothing if they allow this—and they do, for how else would Blackflame have discovered Stormwind’s home?

I wait until the thud of hooves fades to stillness and the birds begin to speak again, then push myself to my feet. I don’t have time for anger right now. I can’t afford to be anywhere nearby once they realize I’ve already left.

Sonapur is the only place with a portal, the only way to Stormwind. A few quick calculations tell me that even if the mages turn back the moment they reach the empty valley, their horses will be too tired to make the return trip at such a brisk pace.

As long as I keep going, I should reach Sonapur before them.

I travel through the day, stopping only twice for twenty minutes’ rest. In the late morning, I feel the skittering, skin crawling sensation of the ward at the great deodar cedar triggering. Whatever doubts I might have held regarding the riders evaporate at once. Around noon, the wards on the cottage itself flare. I stumble to a stop with a rush of vertigo, the blood running cold in my veins. Then the wards are
gone
, their magic blasted to shreds. I bend over, my hands clutching my knees, shaking as my connection to the spell disintegrates. It takes me a few breaths before I can walk on, my legs not quite steady beneath me.

I reach Sonapur near twilight. Evening flows down into the wide vale, the western mountains silhouetted against the failing light. The great snow-covered peaks far to the north have begun to fade from view. Bright points lie scattered across the plain, twinkling cheerily. The markets will be closing now, the carpet weavers and wool dyers and spinners and shawl makers going home for the night.

Below me, the river I’ve followed these last few hours widens, pouring into a great lake dotted with lily pads and the faint smudges of lotus flowers. Docks stretch out from the shore, many of them crowded with fishing boats, a few with larger, merrily painted houseboats.

My path descends to the lake and joins a hard-packed dirt road that runs alongside it. At the edge of the forest, I kneel beside a spindly pine tree and trace a sigil upon it. I don’t put much magic into it; the brush of cool valley air and the rustle of leaves is enough for my purposes. When I walk on, I leave behind a ward no stronger than a glowstone, charmed to alert me to those who pass down the path behind me. Within a day it will run too low on magic to maintain itself, but a day is all I need.

I follow the road into the town, pulling out my glowstone as night descends. Though Sonapur is settling down, there are still people moving about here. I could easily ask for directions, but instinct tells me the fewer people who remember me, the better. At any rate, I can’t get too lost. If memory serves, all the major roads intersect at the great square where the portal stands.

As the road widens, the tightly packed mud-brick buildings with sloped wood-shingled roofs begin to spread out and then are replaced altogether by free-standing homes, multi-storied buildings, and well-made workshops. The dirt road is replaced by cobbles. At the last of the buildings facing the great square I pause, leaning against the wall.

The central area of the square has been designed as a park, with cobbled pathways and benches and a fountain. A row of lampposts bearing glowstones provide ample light to the groups of men seated around game boards of some sort, drinking tea and conversing. They act perfectly normal, but they leave a wide gap between themselves and the boundary wall of the portal, far to the right.

The portal itself is nothing more than a threshold with neither door nor room to call its own. Instead, a few stones on either side suggest a wall that never was, and the stones of the portal rise between them, straight and simple, the clean work of an expert mason long gone. A low wall encircles the structure with carved gates on either side, the far gate opening directly to the road. No doubt the wall itself is mostly for show, the portal protected by wards to keep trespassers at bay
.

Inside the enclosure stands a mage, his back to the portal, his cloak hanging open to reveal his robes and the hilt of the sword at his side.

The sentry means that accessing the portal will be somewhat more challenging than I’d thought. I should have expected it, but part of me hoped I would find it unguarded
,
as it had been when Stormwind and I visited in the spring.

Bolstered by the appearance of a trio of older women strolling the paths and the apparent respect with which the men greet them, I leave the street for the garden. I stop before the first of the food vendors. He pushes a cart with a built-in bowl of coals to keep his wares warm, and for a copper happily fills a tin dish with
chole
for me.

“The guards are new,” I say, nodding toward the portal as I take the food.

The man pauses, but doesn’t look over his shoulder. “Yes,” he says with clear displeasure. “It’s mages’ trouble, and none of us are happy to see it here. Were you planning on traveling, daughter?”

“No,” I lie. “Just passing through.” I take a bite of my food. It’s delicious, the chickpeas tender and the spices warming me all the way down to my belly. “They don’t sound like they’re here on behalf of the High Council.”

“They’re not,” the man says. “We’ve heard of mages being their own problem, but it hasn’t touched us here before. These men won’t allow anything through, not even a message to the Council itself. Best steer clear of them, daughter.”

“Yes,” I agree, and wander over to a bench to sit and eat. It’s sound advice, but there are more mages on my heels. I’ll need to pass through the portal before I get caught between them. Especially if they’re Blackflame’s lackeys, come to destroy what they can.

The portal is easy enough to study from the tops of the surrounding buildings. The mages below, for all their constant vigilance, never look up. There are two that I can see from here, one on each side of the portal. I sit for a full half hour, observing them and hemming Stormwind’s robe. Not once do the guards raise their eyes to the rooftops. Nor do the others who frequent the gardens, the vendors keeping their attention for their customers, the men focused on the games they play.

Once I finish sewing, I take the back stairs down to street level and make my way through quiet thoroughfares and small alleys until I’m far enough from the portal that my magic will be difficult to detect. I scale a low building and settle myself at the center of the flat roof. The streets here are near silent, the residents gone to bed. As long as no one heard me climbing, I doubt I’ll be found out.