Chapter Twenty-Four

For once, I don’t dream. My head hits my pillow as heavy as a stone. I don’t remember falling asleep, but my body reels at being roughly woken. My roommates are already on their feet. Virian grips the handle of her hairbrush like a dagger. The Baylan initiate who woke us dodges a slipper Dayen throws at her face, and she grabs at her singed eyebrows, screaming.

“You’ll be late for the test, brats!” the initiate hollers as she storms away. “If you want to stay in your room and be sent home tomorrow, you’re welcome to it.”

My mother will be executed, I remember, and I shiver awake. I slide my palms down my cheeks. I have no idea what time it is. The skylight above still glows with moonlight. It must still be the middle of the night. I need to get to her as soon as I can, tests be damned, but I can’t just leave, or I risk being even more exposed.

We stare at one another a few blinks longer, then hastily throw on more clothes and fix Dayen’s dried flowers in our hair, just in case. We run to catch up to the eyebrowless initiate. She does not slow for us. She stalks down the hall and damns us all to the Three Freezing Hells.

The great hall is lit with flaming braziers, and Bamal, head of the Makers sect, pairs us up. It feels too soon for another test, but because the party occupied the day, time must be made up for, she explains cheerfully.

Arisa is nowhere to be seen, and Teloh is not present among the Guardians that travel with the Maker. These are small mercies that I grasp tightly. Heavens help me, I can’t stop thinking about our kiss, but I want to scream at him, too. I wonder if he feels as tortured as I do: half anger, half hope.

“The Makers are the keepers of spells and magic lore in Tigang. We teach all the Baylan in the country how to create orasyons. On behalf of the Makers, I welcome you.” Bamal interrupts my stray thoughts.

She is all crisp efficiency, with traditional beaded necklaces, and hair in a tidy bun. A pair of spectacles perches on her nose. She sends each pair of us off with an initiate and bag of supplies.

I’ve been paired with Ingo, the chosen one. It’s a dubious pairing, and my impression of Ingo has not improved. Three filigreed gold rings glint in each ear—enough for us to eat for months, I think sourly. He still carries himself as if he’s already Raja of Tigang, straight-backed and dripping with disdain. At least one of us looks well rested, and it’s not me. He grimaces in my direction and then away with a scowl.

I could not care less. My mother will be executed on the last day of the Sundo. That means winning won’t serve me; only survival matters. There are only two more tests after this one, and I need to break her out as soon as I can. The disdain of one rich boy will not stop me, and he’d best not get in my way.

Even at the late hour, Baylan are busy pulling screens loaded with pulp out of water baths and drying freshly made papers. Some Baylan grind minerals and plants into inks, while others copy orasyon onto stacks of papers as we walk past their workshops. It looks as if they are stockpiling enough spells for a siege. Bamal passes the Baylan without even a sideways glance.

She guides each pair into a small room. Our room has one table and two chairs at its center. Upon the table waits a stack of papers. Quills, pens, and bottles of paint in different consistencies cover its wooden surface. There is everything we could need to perform a spell.

The Maker turns to address us. “Spells of blood and spit only power the simplest of spells. Magic is life. Spend a breath on magic, and that is one less breath at the end of your life.” Even a child knows this. I fight my impatience. I need this test to be over quickly, so I can focus on getting my mother out of here.

“The door will be locked, and your task is to get out of this room. This will test your knowledge of magic as well as your creativity. The ruler of Tigang does not have to be a powerful spell caster, but they must know the basics of magic and how orasyon may be combined. You’ve each been matched up based on your abilities so that those who are not trained in magic are not left at a disadvantage. There is no time limit,” she says.

I perk up. Perhaps this test will be useful. If Ingo knows a spell to open the door, I can use it to unlock my mother’s cell. I could ask Tanu, but he’s likely to tattle to my sister, and Kuran would stop the Sundo before allowing me to take that kind of risk.

Ingo smirks, but I don’t think that the test will be as easy as it sounds. The bag of supplies Bamal provided us is full of leathery dried fruit and cool bottles of water. She does not expect quick results.

She walks out, and the wall seals shut behind her as if there was never an opening to begin with. I wonder if it is illusion, but if it is, the spells must be written on the outside of the wall and not the inside.

I trace where the door should be with the tips of my fingers. I feel the faint outline of it, though I can’t see its seams. The beginning of a vision pulses at my temples, but it disappears when Ingo speaks.

“You shouldn’t have taken Nen’s punishment.” He lifts his chin at me. His tone makes me feel as if I am a naughty child.

“So much for an easy pairing,” I mutter beneath my breath.

“Nen would have been sent home anyway. Now he just looks weak,” Ingo says.

I wish I didn’t have to talk to Ingo at all, but I’m too tired to be anything but blunt. “I doubt anything I did would change anyone’s mind about him.”

In truth, I’m not sure if it was the right choice, but it is one that I can’t change because it’s done. All my notions of right and wrong feel thinly stretched of late.

“Let’s just get out of here and over this,” I grumble.

Ingo raises his chin. “I suppose your village didn’t teach you much magic.”

“I was born in Bato-Ko. This is my home, and my family has lived here for generations.” My voice sounds more certain than I feel.

“Then why has no one ever heard of you?” he asks.

Of course the other candidates have been gossiping, too. I fight my irritation because this is not my fault but my family’s. I just shrug. I have no quarrel with Ingo, only dislike for people who are too quick to judge. “My grandmother is Yirin Jal.”

His mouth tightens. Now I am curious, because I’m too aware that I know less about my grandmother than he does. It’s the same look Manong Alen gave me when we first met in the Archives: cautious.

“Then I apologize for my mistake.” He bows, but his words are hollow, and I know nothing has changed between us. I doubt he would have begged pardon if my family was not one of the oldest in Bato-Ko, so I reserve my dislike for him.

I rub my bandaged left hand and frown because my fingers still ache whenever I touch them. They’re useless for writing, and I hate that I put us at a disadvantage. Magic requires precision and a faultless memory. I possess neither.

“My writing hand is no use.”

His smile is barely more than a grimace. “I’ve been preparing for this my whole life. I know what to do.”

Ingo opens one of the bottles on the table and dips a fine-tipped brush in various paints. He tests them on a paper. Some paints are thin and watery, while others pool and blob. I know too little about magic to guess what difference in paints might have on an orasyon, but he seems to have a preference, and he settles on a solution that looks like ink.

I sink into the chair opposite him. I wish I could ask him what he knows of my grandmother, but that would make me look even less his equal. Family is everything to the Tigangi, more important than gold. Lovers can come and go, but blood is forever, we say. If Ingo knew that my mother was disowned, he’d treat me as less worthy of respect than the floor beneath him.

He paints several orasyon and symbols onto a paper: circles in circles, geometric lines, each perfectly even in width and thickness. He does it with practiced ease, and his recollection is effortless. His fingers are flecked with blue when he’s done, but there is a small, pleased curl to the corner of his lips. I still don’t like him.

“Where was the door?” he asks. There is no trace of doubt on his face, but I don’t share his confidence. Why would they put two people in a room if one person could accomplish the task alone?

He pricks his finger with a sharp needle and uses the dot of blood to adhere the paper to the wall before incanting a word.

We both topple over from the force of the spell, and my ears ring from the noise. I wince as I stand; I’ll have bruises on my hips come morning. Ingo’s mouth moves, but I can’t hear what he is saying until the ringing stops. I hope it was an apology, I think smugly. Ashes slide down the wall and onto the floor, but there is not a scratch on it. As I pat myself down, however, I notice that Dayen’s flower, once dead, begins to plump in response to his magic. I hope Ingo doesn’t notice the difference.

“I suppose I’ll try, too.” I pull over a chair, then grab a bottle of ink and a paper. I copy his posture. I run through all the orasyon I know: for light, to ignite a fire, to remove body hair, to find lost possessions, for sleep. My repertoire is crudely limited. I have no idea what might help. I grasp a brush clumsily with my uninjured hand and drip an ugly blob down onto the paper in front of me.

He sighs. “You must be joking. Don’t waste the paper.” He grabs a fresh sheet. As much as I hate it, I know he’s right. I crumple my page in frustration and tilt the chair backward to wait, even if it’s the last thing I want to do.

…

Sweat circles soak Ingo’s tunic, and his cheeks are red. If we looked terrible coming into this room, we are all claws and teeth now. Any patience that might have smoothed the way between us is long gone. I need to get out of here.

Our dimming oil lamp flickers and sends long screaming shadows across the walls. The table is covered in drips of paint and smudged with blood. I can’t tell which fluids are which in the fractured light. His hands and forearms are thick with dark stains. Even his neck is smeared, where he’s rubbed at his gold chains.

I think we’ve spent all night locked in this room, but it’s hard to tell. The food and drink are long gone. Even the air is stale, because only a thread of wind passes through the tiny opening in the ceiling.

“Are you well?” Judging by the health of Dayen’s warning flower, I’m worried that he’s done what the initiate warned and used too much of his life to do magic. I still don’t think we understand the purpose of this test. None of his spells have made more than a mess on the door. But if I’m exhausted, Ingo looks like he’s fallen asleep with his eyes open. When I tap at his shoulder, his cheek slides into a pool of paint on the table.

A fresh red line of bumps climbs up his arms, and the rash spreads. I scramble away from him. Alen the Archivist had a rash just like this. Oh Hells. I frantically check over my skin, but I find nothing. Ingo doesn’t wake when I kick at his leg with my slippered toes. The test is forfeit without him, but maybe that’s the point. The room suddenly feels too cramped.

I frantically slap the wall and yell for help, but I hear nothing when I put my ear to the stone except my blood pounding in my ears. Maybe they can’t hear me. Maybe they don’t want to hear me. It feels like the Healers test all over again, only this time, I’m certain that Arisa is involved.