House of Marionne

Let me go, I try to yell, but the hand across my face muffles my screams. I claw, scratching at the arms wrapped around my limbs.

“Primus, relax.” Their voice lilts with mischievousness, not malice, and the thump in my chest slows. I can hear the Tavern’s revelry faintly in the distance. A door creaks, and I land on my feet. Something hits the back of my knees, and I fall into a chair. I blink, but the dimness is thicker than the velvet robes hanging on the bodies encircling me. A flame erupts near my shoe and my grip tightens on my chair. It flickers, dancing as if on the tip of a candle. A robed figure works his magic over the flame and it stretches into a thread of fire, tracing the edges of a sun carved into the floor around me. I draw my knees to my chest as the flames encircle me, my mind and heart racing, trying to make some sense of what is happening.

Heat wafts against my skin from the fiery barrier now between me and twelve faces glowing beneath their hoods in the flames. Daggers hang from their belts. Some wood-handled, others leather, or bone, and a few in shiny metals embedded with jewels. Firelight dances on their razor-sharp edges.

“What is this?” I ask.

“Primus, what is your charge?”

“Honing one’s dagger. Arduous is the work of the laborer.”

“Aye.” A chorus of table-beating ruckus follows my answer but there are no tables in sight. One robed figure steps over the flame, and I blink in horror, waiting for his robe to catch fire, but it doesn’t. He hands me a shard of metal and a block of wood.

“What someone is given, they may never again find,” he says. “What they earn, they will have a lifetime. Areya Paru, Mother of Magic, Journal of Inscriptions, volume one.”

If they intended to hurt me, they would have done that by now. I take the items tentatively.

“You must prove you can make the dagger you will hone for Second Rite.” The hooded figure gestures at the table. “Mereri.”

Wood for a handle, metal for the blade. I suddenly understand: I have to transfigure it into a dagger here in front of everyone. My throat closes at the thought of demonstrating my magic in front of someone. So many someones. I grab the wood and the flat piece of metal, turning them in my hands. The shifting I’ve tried so far has worked for the most part. Please, magic, behave. Don’t fail me now.

I rotate the block of wood over the flames, imagining it changing. Heat swells in my gut as my proper magic answers with the fury of a sandstorm. I shift at its intensity, holding firmly in place, rotating the metal steadily over the kor. For several moments the only sound in the room is the thud of my heart knocking against my ribs. Suddenly the silver flat of metal shifts, elongating. It stretches, thinning. I slide closer to the flames, salivating with anticipation at my magic working swiftly and properly. The blade stretches to a point until it forms a sharp dagger tip.

The faces around me are still, stone expressions. Now, to attach its handle. I rotate the blade, careful to keep my fingers away from its sharp edge, and press it to the wood, letting the kor engulf it on every side. The flames lick my hands, and the dusty magic inside blows about violently. I hold it there.

“Come on.”

My magic obeys and the wooden block shifts, molding to the curve of my palm, into the shape of a handle as it affixes itself to the blade. The wood softens against my skin, shifting to a different material. Leather, by the feel of it. I tighten it in my fist, overcome with a smile I can’t push away.

I hold the dagger up for everyone to see. It’s plain but correct, and I’m jostled with rumbling applause. The lights lift and I can see, finally, everyone around me. They pull back their hoods and the kor flickering around the room disappears.

“Catch,” a robed figure with long locs says. “Put it on.”

A bundle flies toward me. “What is—” But it unfurls in my hands. It’s a dusty pink cloak like the rest of them are wearing. I throw it over my head, and they surround me in ceremonial precision. Hands set on my shoulders, one after another, like a link of chains, pushing me down to my knees. I kneel and turn my palms up. I’m not sure how I know I should, I just do.

“May Sola Sfenti forever illuminate your path,” the one with locs says before nudging me. “The prayer.”

“May I prove to be a proper steward. May I prove worthy.”

“Pray that twelve times, every night.” He helps me up. “Welcome, you’re nearly there. Supra alios.”

“Supra alios,” the room chants.

The crowd takes turns offering me handshakes.

“I missed your name,” I say to the one with locs.

“Casey, seventh of my blood, Retentor candidate. I’m social chair this Season, responsible for transitioning all the noobs after First Rite.” He hands me a short stack of books. Latin Primer; Declensions for Beginners; Journal of Inscriptions, vol. 1. “You’ll need these to get you started. There’ll be more later.” He sets a small box with a ribbon on top. “And this is a little something from all of us.”

Inside a speckled, milky stone glimmers.

“It’s a Reactor Enhancer. Extremely rare.”

“Wow, thanks,” I say, realizing I’m still smiling embarrassingly large.

Casey takes my dagger, examining it. “You shifted it nicely, the handle’s even changed materials. Not bad. You’ll need to push your magic into it to pass Second Rite exam . . . among other things, but your mentor will guide you on all that.” He glances at my diadem.

I fight the urge to flinch. I’ve earned this. I’ve forged my blade fair and square.

“You’re off to an impressive start.” Casey joins the others, and the crowd moves to the door. It opens to darkness, but when we step through, we’re back in a long corridor at the Tavern.

I’m tugged along, jostled with revelry, arms slung over my shoulders, shaking hands, thanking each person kind enough to say anything to me at all. I make a point to look into the face of everyone who talks to me without looking away, stubbornly determined to soak up every dreg of this moment.

“Rikken, a round—kizi,” I shout.

The crowd parts for us, and as they shed their robes and ease onto the dance floor, I do the same and grab a blue fizzy drink. Abby finds me in the crowd and raises a toast.

“To Quell! Miss Badass Extraordinaire!”

I let the senselessness take me and toss back the kiziloxer. It’s bubbly going down like drinking soda too fast, and a ripple of calm breaks over me, my muscles going languid. Every inch of me soothes, like a knot coming undone, and I stare at the cup with pinched brows.

“Don’t worry, it’s magic, not liquor.” Abby laughs. “Rikken is an entire rule follower. Ask me how I know.”

I giggle. “I feel . . . so . . .”

“Relaaaxxeed?”

Laughter bubbles up my throat. We signal Rikken for another round, and I spot a brooding figure. Jordan’s perched over a table alone in a dim corner. He raises a glass to me and I’m not sure if it’s the kiziloxer or the way he looked at me in etiquette, but I don’t sense even the slightest hint of indignation. He is legitimately proud of me. I raise my glass to him but turn my back so the huge, bashful smile on my lips remains a secret. What’s come over me? I glare at the glass. It must be the blue drink.

Hours later I’m standing on top of a table, balancing on one leg with the entire Tavern crowd as an audience. A girl from House of Oralia with an eccentric diadem of silver and multicolored stones watches me, folding her arms. The world has been a bit fuzzy around the edges since about kiziloxer number . . . actually I’ve lost count. But I’m not sure I’ve ever felt more alive.

I finally make my way back to the bar, where a stern-faced Jordan is hovering. The top two buttons of his shirt are undone, and stress lines mar his perfect skin. He straightens at my approach and starts to speak, but instead his expression hardens.

“You’re ruining my vibe.” I wave for Rikken.

“Your vibe?” Jordan asks.

“Yes, my vibe. You’re brooding.”

“I’m not brooding, I’m just watching.”

“Your watching is brooding.”

Rikken slides a drink my way.

“I’m perfectly relaxed, thank you. This is my natural state.”

“That’s unfortunate,” I say, reaching for the drink, which is intercepted by Jordan.

He pulls a large bill out of the pocket of his blazer, far too large for a single drink. “Thanks, Rikken, but she’ll pass.”

“Hey, I wanted tha—”

He steps closer and he’s so tall I have to look up to really see him. “Walk with me.” His voice is silk this time, and low, as if he’s sharing some intimate secret he wouldn’t want anyone else to hear.

“I—”

Hunger unfurls in his eyes. “Just outside.” His words are a breath and yet hit me like gale force winds. I nod but stand frozen. Not from fear, from something else I can’t quite put into words. “Please.” There’s a song between his words. He walks off leading the way and I follow, foolishly curious to dance to it.

Outside, the night is chilly, but I’m warm all over, either from the kiziloxer or just the thrill of emerging and earning my dagger still buzzing through me. We walk past the park, farther than I’ve ever wandered, until we reach a marble courtyard of towering pillars etched with names. Jordan stops at one, tracing some of the names with his fingertips.

“Unmarked assume this is another war memorial. But this one’s ours.” He presses his fists together gently to his chest.

I don’t recognize any of the names. “These are people in the Order who’ve died?”

He inclines his head. “In service of protecting magic.”

I don’t know what to say, and after a moment we keep walking. Jordan glances at me.

“You should drink some water. It’ll help.”

“I feel amazing.”

“Yes, but in the morning.”

“You wanted to take me on a walk to tell me to drink water?” I fold my arms, the boldness coursing through me altogether foreign.

“I wanted to take you on a walk to—” He stops, and those hard lines meet the challenge in my expression.

“Yes?”

He glances at my diadem, then keeps walking. “You need to keep your wits about yourself. You’re different.” The lilt of disdain I usually find in his tone isn’t there. He speaks with respect, admiration even.

Because I emerged.

“I thought you never come to the Tavern.”

“I don’t, only when I have business there.” He rests on a railing wrapped around another memorial.

“You were alone at a table looking like you’d lost your best friend. What sort of business were you onto tonight?”

He looks at me but says nothing.

“I’m your business?”

We walk another beat in silence.

“You’re not drinking.”

“Does that surprise you?”

I sneer at the rhetorical comment. He points at his eyes, then mine. His tone shifts. “You need to be observant.”

“I notice more than you think.” Because I’ve always had to.

“Oh?” he asks with a challenge.

I clear my throat. “You were in the Tavern tonight because you wanted to be, not because you had to be. Though you have convinced yourself otherwise. You carry around some kind of candy in your pockets, which is just weird. You haven’t had a haircut since I met you. And you haven’t been able to meet my eyes without looking away since I’ve emerged.” I gaze right at him.

He, predictably, looks away to keep from smiling.

“Impressive, though you’re not as right as you think you are. Add humility to your goal sheet.”

“That’s comical coming from you.”

He huffs and it’s almost a laugh. “You have no . . . filter.”

“Maybe you just have too much of one.”

Suddenly, hushed voices slice the air in the distance. Jordan stops me with his arm. My body buzzes at his touch. I move back a bit, to put some distance between us. We spot a couple biking through the park, and his posture softens. Slightly. We keep walking.

“So tell me, what’s it like being a Dragun?” I ask. Maybe now he’ll tell me what I really want to know: Does he use toushana? “I read you must master three types of magic.”

He doesn’t respond.

“What are yours?”

He stops.

“If you can share.”

His hand rises ever so carefully, halting just before touching my face. I take a deliberate breath because it seems I’ve forgotten how to.

“Close your eyes.” The tips of his fingers brush my eyelids, and his touch is gentler than a breeze. “Now listen.”

“I don’t hear anything.”

“Yes, you do.” He’s so close I can feel his breath on my skin. It’s warm and inviting, and the urge to curl into him tugs at me. “Describe what you hear.”

“Wind and rustling leaves.”

The crinkle of leaves morphs into a flit of bird chirps. One at first, then more until the breeze whipping through the trees is soundless and I could swear I’ve been transported to an aviary. I open my eyes, looking for a bird, some source of the sound. But only find Jordan, blowing air between his fingers.

A dark memory stalks through my mind and I take a step back. The Dragun hunting me could manipulate sound, too. I dig a nail into my palm to stay in the present. “You can transfigure sound?”

The chirps fade, his magic wearing off.

“An Audior is the proper term.”

“Was it hard to learn?”

“It’s in my blood. Headmistress Perl is my aunt, so our magic is strong.”

“And what about your other two strands?” Why does one of them look like toushana?

“May I touch your hand?”

The question catches me off guard. The gentleness of his tone, the lack of expectation. He’s entirely confusing, and my insides swim with flutters. My hands are warm, the curse in my veins at bay. The idea of letting him touch my hand, on purpose, unsettles something deep inside me in a thrilling way.

“Never mind,” he says. “I didn’t mean to make you nervous.”

“I’m not nervous,” I lie.

“Sure, Miss Marionne.”

“Call me Quell.”

“Quell.” My name rolls off his tongue like suede, with an inflection, a smoothness I could listen to over and over again.

“Watch closely.” He drags a thumb down the center of his face, and his skin morphs as if it’s being unzipped to reveal someone else behind it. His green eyes bleed to brown, his features twisting until he’s completely unrecognizable, several inches shorter, with a long beard and hooked nose. He holds the disguise a moment, straining. Then he releases and the disguise dissolves. He groans.

“Are you okay?”

“Feels like your head’s being squished between metal plates.” He pants. “The longer you hold it, the more it hurts. And the more disguises you master, the more taxing it is to use them. I’ve only taken two personas—face, body, voice, the whole bit, which required a long time of studying them, their mannerisms, their personalities, and a bit of their blood. But after I used the face I just showed you for the first time, I was in bed for a week.” He shudders.

He’s an Anatomer. “I didn’t mean to make you—”

“I wanted to.”

Something shifts between us.

“Well, it’s very cool and a bit creepy.”

That almost gets a laugh out of him.

“And the third magic?” Hope cinches in my chest, eager to hear what he might reveal.

“Tell me what you’ve done to prepare for honing.”

I bite down, trying to hide my disappointment.

“Honing is difficult, Quell. I hope you’re focused.”

He’s definitely evading telling me what I want to know. But he’s opened up a bit.

“I bet I could be a Dragun.” I scrunch my face in the meanest expression I can muster and push my lips out. “Watch me brood.” I wrinkle my forehead and narrow my eyes before lunging a punch into his arm.

“That actually hurt.”

“Told you.”

“That’s all you think we do is brood and fight?”

“That’s all you show me.”

He shifts on his feet. “So you think that’s all that’s there?”

“I don’t know. But I’ve got those two parts of it down.” I punch him again, and he reaches for my wrist to try to stop me. But I twist away. “Ooo and I’m faster, apparently!”

He reaches for me, but I dart out of his reach in the nick of time. “Would you calm down already? You’re going to draw attention.” He plants his feet, determined not to run.

“Make me.”

He snatches at the air for me again and misses. I run back toward the Tavern, gasping with laughter, and then a cloud of black swallows me. I chill down to my bones as Jordan reappears right in front of my face.

His hand wraps around my wrist. “I win.”

My laughs settle into breathless panting as I realize how little space there is between us. He stares, and it’s like standing too close to a flame.

“Still.” I step back. “I had you for a minute.”

Moonlight illuminates the rigid angles in his face. Each chiseled with absolute precision, rhythmically carved, a work of living art. Suddenly I notice the tiniest scar on his eyelid. And that his nose is ever so slightly crooked. A smile tugs at my lips.

“We should get you some water.”

We walk back to the Tavern in comfortable silence, and I smile the whole way. His lips brush the back of my hand when he tells me good night, and I hold on to the feeling until I’m back in bed.

It feels a bit like playing with fire.

But, more than anything, it feels good.