CHAPTER 7

All Is Light

The night before they brought the prisoners to town, Sefia took a lantern from the supplies, retrieved her pack, and sneaked up the hill to a secluded spot overlooking camp, where she pulled out the Book. Drawn by the light, moths began flinging themselves against the warm glass globe, making shadows flicker and jump over the on the cover.

“Show me the impressors,” she whispered.

But when she opened the Book, instead of a location, she got images of beatings, burned flesh.

Disgusted, she closed the Book again. Maybe she had to be more specific: “Where are the impressors now?”

But when she turned the pages, all she saw was more stories of torture and mistreatment—her parents’ legacy. The reason she was here.

As the hours passed, Sefia tried commands, orders, pleas, anything to get the Book to show her what she wanted.

But the Book would not cooperate.

The paragraphs revealed blood and bruises, scorched skin and scars, but every time she thought she’d found the impressors’ whereabouts, the story shifted. It went deeper into the fight, or farther into the past, or switched to another scene entirely.

It was as if the passages in the Book were as fluid as the Illuminated world, ever-shifting, slipping past her like leaves on the surface of a stream.

With a groan, she rubbed her temples. She could master the Book. She had to. For Archer, and for herself. She glared at the cover.

The first time she’d seen someone consult the Book, she’d been in the office of the Guard, deep beneath the city of Corabel.

Taking a deep breath, Sefia whispered the words Tanin had used the last time they’d seen each other: “Show me where the last piece of the Resurrection Amulet is hidden.”

As she parted the covers, she gasped.

A page was missing. Only the margin remained—a jagged range of paper peaks.

Was this what Tanin had seen? She’d been furious. What did you—? Did Lon do this?

Sefia ran her finger along the torn edge. Had her father done it?

There was one way to find out.

She closed her eyes, summoning her sense of the Illuminated world, and when she opened them again her vision was filled with eddies of gold, passing over and through the hills.

When she turned her Sight on the Book, however, she nearly cried out. It was blinding, like staring into the sun, all the brightest fires bursting and expanding, sending out arcs of flame and drawing them in again.

Squinting, she traced the ripped page, using the damage to focus her Sight on the one piece of history she was searching for.

Pain pulsed at her temples. White crept in at the corners of her vision. The Illuminated world pitched and rolled around her in nausea-inducing undulations as images and sounds lurched out of the sea of light: a ship’s cabin—night creeping in at the portholes—voices murmuring “We have to” and “It’s been written”—the tearing of paper—the splitting of fibers.

A silver ring studded with black stones—slender brown hands speckled with scars—delicate shoulders—black hair pulled into a knot.

Her mother.

Her mother had removed the page.

The Illuminated world grew brighter, narrowing her field of vision to a pinprick. But she did not lose sight of her mother.

It had been eleven years since she’d seen Mareah, and here she was now, perfect, so close Sefia almost felt like she could reach out and touch her.

“Mom,” she whispered.

Of course, her mother didn’t hear her. She was just a moment in history—one story among billions. The light swelled. This wasn’t the sea of gold Sefia was used to. This was pure, excruciating brightness. She couldn’t see anything, couldn’t get her bearings, and she felt more than saw the riptides of the Illuminated world flashing past her, carrying her farther from her own time, her own body.

“S-sorcerer?” someone asked.

She was slipping away into torrents of light. She tried to gasp, but she had no lungs. She tried to blink, but she had no eyes.

Then, a distant shout: “Archer! Archer!”

Did time pass—seconds, decades, millennia?

Then, the pressure of someone’s hand on her cheek.

And a voice, enfolding her, drawing her out of the light: “Sefia.”

With a cry, she came plummeting back into her skin, and she shuddered at the shock of air in her chest, the blaze of pain in her head, and the dizzying twist in her stomach. She opened her eyes—

And saw nothing but white. Endless fields of white.

Someone—Archer, she recognized him now—gripped her shoulders. “Sefia, talk to me. Are you okay?”

She rubbed her eyes. Her knuckles were hard. Pink spots appeared in the whiteness. “I can’t see.”

“You what?”

Before she could explain, a gunshot rent the air, searing her ragged senses. The horses cried out in fear.

“Impressors!” someone shouted below.

Sefia reached blindly for her knife. The smell of gunpowder and frightened animals was thick around her. It was chaos—boys yelling, swords clashing.

“It’s the impressors who escaped last night,” Archer said.

A gun went off nearby, and for a moment his familiar form left her. Someone screamed. The gun went off a second time. But there was no second scream.

“Aljan. Stay with her.” Archer returned to her side. “I’ll be back.”

She found his face with her hands. “You’d better.”

He pulled her near, so close she could feel his breath on her lips.

Kiss me.

Do it.

Then Archer was gone. Bullets ricocheted around her. In the commotion, the prisoners began pounding against the sides of their crates, calling for help.

Somewhere close, a revolver clicked—jammed. There was the crack of knuckles on flesh. She was thrust aside as a body hit the ground nearby. Someone moaned.

“Aljan?” Sefia whispered. Her fingers flexed on her knife as she blinked, straining to see something. Anything.

Someone pinned her wrist and wrestled her to the ground. Her blade dropped. She was forced facedown in the dirt.

She flailed with her free hand, grabbing, snatching, but all she caught was air. Without her vision, she couldn’t use Illumination.

The man on top of her laughed softly. “You gave us the slip in Cascarra, but we’ve got you now.”

The trackers. They must have joined the ambush.

Her arm was wrenched behind her so hard she gasped with pain.

Her tendons pulled. Her bones creaked. But the brightness was fading from her vision, revealing the curve of a pebble, the shape of the horizon.

Just a little longer before she could see again.

Just a little longer before she could fight back.

Suddenly, the tracker grunted. The weight on her lifted. There was a rush of air, the crunch of bone.

Someone touched her elbow. “Friends of yours?”

Kaito.

“Serakeen’s trackers,” she said.

Laughing, Kaito pulled her to her feet. “You really are a magnet for trouble, aren’t you?” There was the sound of a scuffle. “Aljan, get up. I’m missing the fun.”

Then with a whoop he left them.

“Sorry, sorcerer. I couldn’t . . . He got me from behind,” Aljan muttered.

“Are you okay?”

Something scraped along the ground. When he spoke again, he sounded distracted. “Yes.”

The fighting continued for another minute or two before the sounds of battle ceased. Archer’s voice reached her, clear and firm, directing the others to secure the new captives, check the dead, see to the wounded.

Then he was with her again, his fingers flitting over her injured wrist, her face. “You’re hurt.”

“Not much. Kaito stopped them.”

He let out a relieved breath. “And your vision?”

“It’s coming back. I tried to use the Sight on the Book, but I didn’t think it’d be so bright . . .” Squinting, she found the blurred features of his face, the orb of the lantern, Aljan’s slender figure crouched nearby, the tracker unconscious in the dirt. “Do you see the Book?”

“Aljan,” Archer said, nodding.

In the boy’s lap, she could just make out the shape of the Book, with its hard, glinting corners. Gingerly, he touched the cover, as if it might burn him.

“This symbol . . .” He looked up, and even with her blurred vision Sefia could see his expression was filled with hurt. “What is this? Are you one of them?”

Sefia flinched. “No . . .” She trailed off, not knowing what to say.

My parents were. They’re the reason you were taken. They’re the cause of your suffering.

Beside her, she could feel Archer tense up.

If Aljan knew, would he turn on her? Would the others? Would Archer be forced to choose between her and the only people who understood what he’d been through?

He needed them—she knew—maybe even more than he needed to stop the impressors.

“I stole it,” she said.

Slowly, Aljan turned the pages, caressing the words as if they were precious things. “Why?”

“It’s what we’re going to use to beat them.” She extended her hands. Hopefully.

With only a little reluctance, Aljan passed it to her—hard covers, metal clasps, the only way she could make amends for what her parents had done to Frey and the boys . . . and to Archer.

“Book,” Aljan said, testing the word thoughtfully. This was the most animated she’d ever seen him. “A weapon of paper and ink.”

Sefia smiled. “Their greatest weapon. And we’re going to use it against them.”

Archer nodded at the tracker’s unconscious form. “Take him to Frey, will you, Aljan? She’s dealing with the prisoners.”

“Yes, Archer.” With one last glance at the Book in Sefia’s arms, he began hauling the tracker toward camp.

Archer’s golden eyes were shining when he turned back to Sefia. “We did it. We got them—the impressors and the trackers. No one’s out there hunting us.”

He looked so exhilarated, hair mussed and tawny skin nicked with cuts and scrapes, not the haunted boy she’d come to expect but someone full of breath and life. But then her gaze fell to his neck, and she was reminded of what her family—the family she still missed, keenly—had done to him. She looked away guiltily.

“You should’ve seen Frey and the boys,” he continued. “They can fight. Whatever Tanin throws at us next, we’ll be ready.”

Rubbing her eyes, she took in their surroundings: the dry hills, the bloodied earth. Aljan and Frey were shackling the prisoners while Scarza stripped the dead bodies, pulling out daggers and spare cartridges and tossing them one-handed to Kaito.

They had done it. And after they surrendered the prisoners to the authorities tomorrow, they’d do it again. If she could figure out how to wield the Book.

When Archer returned to camp, Sefia remained on the hillside alone. Sitting back, she smoothed her hand over the Book’s cover, listening to the moths beating their papery bodies against the lantern, the cheers as the others welcomed Archer into their ranks.

She could have looked for the impressors again, could have combed through the pages, searching for cities and landmarks.

But she didn’t. She sat forward and brought the Book to her lips.

Most of Sefia’s memories of her mother were clouded, like images in a tarnished mirror: sculpting creatures out of snow, sipping spiced chocolate at the kitchen table, building words out of alphabet blocks when Lon was working in the garden. She hadn’t known how alike their hands were—thin, strong, adorned with dozens of scars—hadn’t realized until now just how much she missed her.

“Show me my mother,” Sefia whispered. “Please.”