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THE PALACE
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THE NIGHT’S PEACEFUL dreams felt like the break in a storm. Something new was on the horizon, and even her subconscious knew it. The morning sun broke easily over the tents, but Savara had not fully woken, even as she was ushered into the carriage.
Griffin hadn’t given her much of a reason as to why they had to leave at the crack of dawn, only that it would be best to arrive under sleepy eyes. Whose? She didn’t know, but if it were truly necessary, Griffin would’ve told her... at least, that’s what she hoped. His irritating habit of dealing in half-truths and secrets had been confirmed to her by Sebastian the night before, and she knew he was keeping facts from her—important ones.
The dawn sky and stillness in the air lulled her into a state between dreaming and waking. Her imagination ran free beside the carriage. Savara pictured stallions, flying in flaming strides beside them. Each whip of their necks sent sparks into the air. She smiled at their frolicking. But the sky turned above them. The angelic glow of dawn gave way to grey clouds. Thick tendrils of smoke slithered across the grounds beneath them. One by one they snapped at the stallions, plucking them mid-motion from the clarity of day, ousting their flames until they were no more. Out of the restless dark, she heard a voice call out, Where are you hiding...
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THE CARRIAGE HIT A stone in the road, jolting Savara awake with a small scream.
“Sav, are you okay?” said Jasper, reaching over to steady her from the seat opposite.
She blinked, finally wide awake. “I’m fine,” she said as she waited for her heart to calm. “What happened?”
“You fell asleep,” he smiled. “You glow in your sleep,” he added with a blush as he pointed to the spots on her arms where the invisible symbols were. He dawned her uncle’s spectacles, fixing them on the bridge of his nose before returning to the window. “I think we’re here.”
Savara pushed herself upright in the chair and looked outside. The rolling hills gave way to rooftops and sandstone streets below them. Under the warmth of the glowing orange sun, something cold lined the city, palpable from their ever-diminishing distance. Cold, but familiar, she thought. I’ve been here before...
She slumped back against the seat and looked over at him again. He’d traded his clothes for a white cotton tunic and brown pants. He’s adapted quickly. More so even than she had. Jasper gazed in awe at the world beyond the carriage, for once oblivious to her stare. He looked happier than she’d seen him in a long time. Some of the guilt lifted from her chest, the rest gnawed at her as she watched him look on in ignorance, unaware of the dangers this world held, especially for him.
“Jasper...” Savara began, wanting to apologise for their argument the day before. She knew she should say something about it, something along the lines of “I’m sorry for snapping,” but when he turned to her and smiled that lackadaisical smile of his, she knew he’d forgotten.
“Yes?” he replied, his large brown eyes twinkling more than they ever did back home.
“Promise me you’ll be careful,” she said, unable to bring herself to remind him of their fight.
“So long as you promise the same.” He rested a hand on her knee and squeezed gently before returning to the window again, caught up in the charm of the new world.
Savara stared at him a little longer. He looked heroic under the shifting light of the windows—like the men dreamed up in fairy tales—but at the same time, she couldn’t help remembering what Brass had said about him. He still looked different. Whether or not he could read their language or learn their pasts, he still was different. And somehow, she didn’t think different was a good thing.
The carriage slowed. Her smile faded. She looked outside at the sprawling city streets below them, noticing the city had a familiar pulse beating somewhere at its core. The feeling might have been familiar, but the place was not. All the thoughts that had taunted her over the years of not fitting in came back to her in an overwhelming succession. She may be from here, but she was just as much an impostor as Jasper was, only, she knew to fear it. Now, back in the city of her birth—the city she’d forgotten—she scarcely felt at home.
Something in the wind itself spoke of tragedy as it swirled through the expanse of the ruined town. It roamed where it pleased, blustering through open windows and doors, making curtains float like the ghosts of their owners. The back alleys were noticeably darker. Shadows had been taking up residence ever since the attack on the palace. This newfound darkness gave way to darker dealings and shadier slums.
Where are you hiding... the voice in her mind whispered again. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end.
They were to part ways when they reached the outskirts of the city. Jasper and Sebastian were to look for supplies to bring back to the camp, while Savara and Griffin went to seek out answers. She knew that Griffin had only agreed for Jasper to come along to keep him from doing something stupid—which is also why he urged Sebastian to babysit him. Griffin assured her that Sebastian would be the hardest person for Jasper to pick a fight with, seeing as he could singe his lips shut if necessary. If this was his attempt at a joke, it needed work, she thought, though with Griffin she could never be sure.
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SAVARA AND GRIFFIN managed to slip through these slums mostly undetected. Griffin expressed his surprise at finding so little resistance and hoped that Jasper and Sebastian were having just as much luck as they were. Strolling through the vacant streets and hollow alleys, Savara sensed the eyes of the underbelly watching closely—that word of the arrival of cloaked strangers was moving quickly from house to house, making its way to unfriendly ears.
“It feels broken...” Savara whispered as she stared at the crumbling buildings and charred roofs. Everything around them was made of either sandstone or wood, but in her mind, it all looked like tinder.
“It wasn’t always like this. Osiir used to be a beacon of light and hope to the world, back when the monarchy was in power. It was smaller back then,” Griffin said stoically. “Keep your head down,” he added as they approached a man leaning against the wooden porch of a little ash-stained house, watching them intently.
Savara couldn’t help herself. She sensed his glare on her skin. The man pulled a cigar from his back pocket, placed it in his mouth slowly, and sparked a light with his fingers. The small flame from the cigar cast grim shadows over squinted, citrine-coloured eyes as they sized her up. Griffin must have noticed it too because he pulled her close and quickened his pace. Behind them, the man exhaled a deep red cloud of smoke and vanished behind a corner.
Each slow step brought them closer to what Savara could only describe as an off-kilter fairy-tale palace. Towers of marble traced by veins of ever-burning magma stood in such a way that, if the wind hit at the right angle, a melancholy song poured from their empty windows. The gardens had grown since the last inhabitants graced the premises. No more galas or banquets to require their trimmings. Weeds had become kings to kingdoms of rock and mud, hailed by the fallen petals of many springs. Stone by stone, the paths were being swallowed by grasses, hungry to reclaim spaces they once owned. Ivy climbed the colder walls in a slow battle between earth and fire that earth was beginning to win.
“They say this palace was built on hallowed grounds,” said Griffin as he approached the door. “An ancient power protects it, allowing only those with the blood of the House of Orrin to enter. It cannot be breached, invaded, or destroyed.”
The emptiness around them hinted at the truth in his words, and yet they were intruders. They dared step where kings and queens once strolled. They could’ve easily come to pluck the riches from the troves inside.
“Then, how did we get through?” Savara wondered aloud, but Griffin was already two strides in front of her and far out of earshot. The overgrown hedges and rusting iron fences guided them away from the darkened city and closer to something even more ominous: the palace. The word alone intimidated her. Griffin had promised answers from Osiir. She hadn’t for a second imagined they’d be rummaging through palaces like high-class thieves. What was she expected to find there anyway? City birth records seemed too common to be kept in a palace.
“Are you ready?” asked Griffin, waiting expectantly with an orb of blue light hovering just above his palm. His eyes brimmed with intrigue, even if the rest of his body remained calm.
No, Savara thought without hesitation. Part of her wanted to run back to the comfort of her too-springy mattress in her stuffy old room in the house that kept as many secrets as it did cobwebs. How could anyone be ready for this? And yet, another part of her found itself battering against a cage in her chest she hadn’t known existed. Her heart beat heavy for every doubt that filled it, thumping like a stallion against its corral.
Whether she’d wanted them to or not, the imposing doors opened, beckoning them inside. If she ignored them now, everything—even her uncle’s death—would’ve been for nothing. Savara gave in to the lure of the mysterious palace, finding a certain déjà vu in the silent swing of the doors and the hum of the air inside.
A faint, triumphant smile curled at Griffin’s lips as he slipped through with ease. Savara took a deep breath and followed hesitantly, ushered further in by the closing of the door behind her that sent an echo reverberating through the dark.
One by one, the sconces on the walls came to life, illuminating the walls with blinding white flames. Savara shielded her eyes until they could adjust. At the far end of the hollow hall, a spiralling marble staircase led to the upper levels of the palace. To each of the sides, others led to darker chambers. Austere portraits lined the walls. Faces both old and terrifying stared back at them like guards at attention. The shifting light of the sconces brought life to their acrylic cheeks.
“Maybe there is some truth to those rumours after all.” Griffin dropped his hand and let the little orb of light fade away.
“What do you mean by that?” she asked, letting her eyes wander around the room as she went about grazing every portrait gently with the tips of her fingers. The ones closer to the entrance were older; their figures, shadowed; their paint, dull but cared for. The ones in the middle were newer, envisioned by younger eyes, painted by younger hands.
She stopped suddenly.
Her hand hovered over one of the last portraits in the succession. The occupant of the glistening golden frame stared off into the distance, but nothing was too out of range for her glowing amber eyes. Under the tips of her fingers, movement stirred from within the portrait.
“Griffin,” she called into the emptiness of the hall. “Who is this?” Something about the painting seemed familiar, like a forgotten tune resurfacing one note at a time.
Griffin walked over to her and looked up at the gentle face in the painting. “You really don’t remember anything, do you?” he asked.
Savara shook her head. “That’s what I’ve been telling you.”
Griffin sighed. “This is the Queen of White Fire... your mother.”
Mother. She slid her fingers over the woman’s rose-painted cheeks. Atop a head of blinding curls sat a wreath of gilded flames. The woman in the painting was fierce and regal. A queen. And I’m just... me. Somehow, touching the painting created more distance between the person she was supposed to be and the one she felt she was.
Her, a princess? The idea itself was ludicrous. Savara could barely organize a room, let alone a kingdom. She wondered if maybe that was what Griffin wanted from her, from the missing memories. For her to re-emerge from the mental fog and remember her place among the royals. For her to somehow regain control and lead these people out of the dark.
He’s got the wrong person, she thought as her fingers recoiled. Her mother’s eyes gazed on, but with her bubbling shame, Savara could no longer meet them.
She followed the rest of the paintings down the hall, running her hands over their delicate brushwork, unaware of the similarity between her actions and those of another some weeks ago.
Arriving at the base of the staircase, she almost missed the final portrait. Under-lit and scorched through in places, the youngest of all the painted faces glared down at her with sorrow-tainted eyes. She imagined the child had been forced to sit for hours, enduring the dullness of having their portrait painted.
This painting lacked the gilded frames of the others, scorched and torn in an act of fury so great it emanated from the ripped curls of canvas. But it was the way those weary eyes looked out at the viewer—searching—that made her bones shiver.
She need not search her memory to find this figure; the charcoal eyes and their rainbow-coloured splotches told her all she need know.
Savara stared up at the portrait and wondered how long ago it had been painted, and why she looked so...sad. “Griffin, this is...” she began, but turning back to where he’d once been, she found she was all alone in the empty hall. “...me.”
