Kingsbane (Empirium 2)

Eliana looked quickly away from them. “Now I’m ready.”

Ikari gestured at the bellows. “Then, my lady, I ask that you begin to feed the flames.”

Eliana obeyed, pushing down the dark lever of the bellows pump and listening to the subsequent hiss as the tuyere fed air into the hearth. The flames snapped and popped, blooming. She pushed the lever again, and a third time, a fourth. So close to the fire, the heat enveloped her like a second shimmering skin. Sweat dripped down her back, her neck, her forehead; her nostrils burned from the smoke, and her watering eyes itched terribly.

With each pumped breath of air, the heat became more unbearable, and her instinct screamed at her to move away. It was too hot by these flames, too dangerous. She needed cool air; she needed water.

Instead she gritted her teeth and pushed down the bellows pump.

“‘A sword forged true with hammer and blade,’” she began reciting, “‘flies sure and swift.’” She raised the pump and pushed it down once more, timing her movements with the words of the Metal Rite. She had tried hard to put such prayers out of her mind over the years, but hadn’t been able to because Remy wouldn’t ever shut up about the goddamned saints.

Remy, Remy. But she couldn’t think about him. Not now, not tonight.

“‘A heart forged in battle and strife,’” she continued, “‘cuts deeper than any blade.’” Another lift, a push, a hot hiss of air into the flames. “‘A sword forged true with hammer and blade…’”

The acolytes stationed around the room, including Ikari, began to recite the Metal Rite along with her. The only one to remain silent was Simon, standing near enough that Eliana could have reached back and caught his fingers in hers. She was grateful for his silence. It was the fulcrum upon which she balanced her work.

“‘…Flies sure and swift.’” She followed the paths of the sweat coursing down her arms and back, using them to trace the lines of her muscles as she worked. “‘A heart forged in battle and strife…’”

“‘Cuts deeper than any blade,’” came Ikari’s steady voice.

Beside Eliana, Simon shifted. She recalled what he had told her as they walked to the Forge earlier that evening: Remember what you felt that day on the beach. Remember it, and channel it into every movement you make tonight.

She had read as much in the books he had retrieved for her, as well as others she herself had worked with the royal librarians to find. She had to keep her mind clear and focused during the forging, direct her thoughts along every muscle and bone in her body, and dig deep within herself for the memory of how her power felt on the beach—a memory she had been working diligently to stifle.

But she could stifle it no longer.

With the Fall of the Blood Queen, the magic that had once illuminated humanity’s path to the empirium had vanished.

And, somehow, Eliana had to find it again. Find it, and control it.

“‘A heart forged in battle and strife…’” she muttered.

“‘Flies sure and swift,’” Ikari and the acolytes echoed.

Eliana had read that a true forging process, back in the First or Second Age, might have taken many days, many fires.

But Eliana did not have that kind of time—and neither did Navi.

“A heart forged in battle and strife,” she said, eyes stinging, “cuts deeper than any blade.”

Ikari held up her hand, signaling Eliana to stop.

Eliana moved toward the hearth, each breath a scorching gulp, her thoughts an urgent haze of heat and memory. With a pair of tongs, she picked up each metal scrap and deposited it in the crucible. First, with a dull clang, the bronze bell. Then the long length of thick copper chain and the brass pipe.

Then, last of all, her necklace.

It hung from the tongs, turning slowly, the chavaile’s wings glinting in the firelight.

She shouldn’t think of them—she shouldn’t, she wouldn’t—and yet the memories rushed at her, eager and cruel: herself, in Rozen’s lap, running her fingers across the necklace’s engraving. Falling asleep against Ioseph’s side as he read to her from a battered copy of The Book of the Saints. Remy, proudly presenting her with a sketch of her necklace—except, in his version, it wasn’t the Lightbringer riding the chavaile. It was Eliana herself.

She faltered, nearly dropping the tongs.

“Simon,” she said hoarsely.

He stepped closer, his overheated arm brushing against her own. “I’m here.”

“Tell me I won’t be like her.”

“No. Say it yourself.”

Fury snapped through her at his words, pure and clarifying, but he was right and she knew it.

“I am not like her,” she said, through her teeth. “I am like no one but myself.”

Then she dropped the necklace into the crucible and returned to the bellows. She pushed past the ache in her muscles to feed the flames and prayed to the ruthless saints her brother worshipped.

• • •

With each pump of the bellows, she recited the Metal Rite.

Then the Fire Rite, then the Sun Rite.

She recited each of the seven rites, which she remembered because first Ioseph and later Remy had carved them into the walls of her heart.

She prayed until her voice grew whisper-thin, her throat an aching column of fire, and as she prayed, she imagined pushing her words down her arms, through the bellows, into the flames. She imagined herself as a beast made of fire, licking up the sides of the crucible, heating it. She imagined her necklace melting, the lines of the Blood Queen’s scarred face morphing into ruin.

I am not like her.

Her mind unraveled and narrowed, both at once. A vision came to her, shimmering with heat: Herself, walking along a narrow ledge across a deep chasm. She had to breathe just so and step just so, or the ground beneath her would crumble, and she would fall.

She would not think of Rozen or Ioseph.

She would not think of Remy’s voice condemning her as monstrous.

She instead remembered the beach—the world erupting at her fingertips, the sky tearing itself open at her command.

She revisited that moment of abandon, when her hands steamed hot with Rozen’s blood. She remembered it and then pulled back from it, holding the memory in her palms like a crystalline creature. She hardly breathed for fear of shattering it. Treading lightly along the chasm yawning beneath her, she bore the treasure of Rozen’s death in her cupped hands, and then, opening her fingers, dropped it into the abyss.

She was not sad to see it go. Instead she pushed against the walls of her mind and held the feeling of her body’s perfect blazing balance like a full cup in the valley between her shoulders. a looked quickly away from them. “Now I’m ready.”

Ikari gestured at the bellows. “Then, my lady, I ask that you begin to feed the flames.”

Eliana obeyed, pushing down the dark lever of the bellows pump and listening to the subsequent hiss as the tuyere fed air into the hearth. The flames snapped and popped, blooming. She pushed the lever again, and a third time, a fourth. So close to the fire, the heat enveloped her like a second shimmering skin. Sweat dripped down her back, her neck, her forehead; her nostrils burned from the smoke, and her watering eyes itched terribly.

With each pumped breath of air, the heat became more unbearable, and her instinct screamed at her to move away. It was too hot by these flames, too dangerous. She needed cool air; she needed water.

Instead she gritted her teeth and pushed down the bellows pump.

“‘A sword forged true with hammer and blade,’” she began reciting, “‘flies sure and swift.’” She raised the pump and pushed it down once more, timing her movements with the words of the Metal Rite. She had tried hard to put such prayers out of her mind over the years, but hadn’t been able to because Remy wouldn’t ever shut up about the goddamned saints.

Remy, Remy. But she couldn’t think about him. Not now, not tonight.

“‘A heart forged in battle and strife,’” she continued, “‘cuts deeper than any blade.’” Another lift, a push, a hot hiss of air into the flames. “‘A sword forged true with hammer and blade…’”

The acolytes stationed around the room, including Ikari, began to recite the Metal Rite along with her. The only one to remain silent was Simon, standing near enough that Eliana could have reached back and caught his fingers in hers. She was grateful for his silence. It was the fulcrum upon which she balanced her work.

“‘…Flies sure and swift.’” She followed the paths of the sweat coursing down her arms and back, using them to trace the lines of her muscles as she worked. “‘A heart forged in battle and strife…’”

“‘Cuts deeper than any blade,’” came Ikari’s steady voice.

Beside Eliana, Simon shifted. She recalled what he had told her as they walked to the Forge earlier that evening: Remember what you felt that day on the beach. Remember it, and channel it into every movement you make tonight.

She had read as much in the books he had retrieved for her, as well as others she herself had worked with the royal librarians to find. She had to keep her mind clear and focused during the forging, direct her thoughts along every muscle and bone in her body, and dig deep within herself for the memory of how her power felt on the beach—a memory she had been working diligently to stifle.

But she could stifle it no longer.

With the Fall of the Blood Queen, the magic that had once illuminated humanity’s path to the empirium had vanished.

And, somehow, Eliana had to find it again. Find it, and control it.

“‘A heart forged in battle and strife…’” she muttered.

“‘Flies sure and swift,’” Ikari and the acolytes echoed.

Eliana had read that a true forging process, back in the First or Second Age, might have taken many days, many fires.

But Eliana did not have that kind of time—and neither did Navi.

“A heart forged in battle and strife,” she said, eyes stinging, “cuts deeper than any blade.”

Ikari held up her hand, signaling Eliana to stop.

Eliana moved toward the hearth, each breath a scorching gulp, her thoughts an urgent haze of heat and memory. With a pair of tongs, she picked up each metal scrap and deposited it in the crucible. First, with a dull clang, the bronze bell. Then the long length of thick copper chain and the brass pipe.

Then, last of all, her necklace.

It hung from the tongs, turning slowly, the chavaile’s wings glinting in the firelight.

She shouldn’t think of them—she shouldn’t, she wouldn’t—and yet the memories rushed at her, eager and cruel: herself, in Rozen’s lap, running her fingers across the necklace’s engraving. Falling asleep against Ioseph’s side as he read to her from a battered copy of The Book of the Saints. Remy, proudly presenting her with a sketch of her necklace—except, in his version, it wasn’t the Lightbringer riding the chavaile. It was Eliana herself.

She faltered, nearly dropping the tongs.

“Simon,” she said hoarsely.

He stepped closer, his overheated arm brushing against her own. “I’m here.”

“Tell me I won’t be like her.”

“No. Say it yourself.”

Fury snapped through her at his words, pure and clarifying, but he was right and she knew it.

“I am not like her,” she said, through her teeth. “I am like no one but myself.”

Then she dropped the necklace into the crucible and returned to the bellows. She pushed past the ache in her muscles to feed the flames and prayed to the ruthless saints her brother worshipped.

• • •

With each pump of the bellows, she recited the Metal Rite.

Then the Fire Rite, then the Sun Rite.

She recited each of the seven rites, which she remembered because first Ioseph and later Remy had carved them into the walls of her heart.

She prayed until her voice grew whisper-thin, her throat an aching column of fire, and as she prayed, she imagined pushing her words down her arms, through the bellows, into the flames. She imagined herself as a beast made of fire, licking up the sides of the crucible, heating it. She imagined her necklace melting, the lines of the Blood Queen’s scarred face morphing into ruin.

I am not like her.

Her mind unraveled and narrowed, both at once. A vision came to her, shimmering with heat: Herself, walking along a narrow ledge across a deep chasm. She had to breathe just so and step just so, or the ground beneath her would crumble, and she would fall.

She would not think of Rozen or Ioseph.

She would not think of Remy’s voice condemning her as monstrous.

She instead remembered the beach—the world erupting at her fingertips, the sky tearing itself open at her command.

She revisited that moment of abandon, when her hands steamed hot with Rozen’s blood. She remembered it and then pulled back from it, holding the memory in her palms like a crystalline creature. She hardly breathed for fear of shattering it. Treading lightly along the chasm yawning beneath her, she bore the treasure of Rozen’s death in her cupped hands, and then, opening her fingers, dropped it into the abyss.

She was not sad to see it go. Instead she pushed against the walls of her mind and held the feeling of her body’s perfect blazing balance like a full cup in the valley between her shoulders.