The Heartwood Chronicles

Here’s the first of the vignettes from the life of Master Zoya, whose story was a precursor to the Heartwood Chronicles. This takes place in Serepentina and is more of a character study of her mother, Princess Jouhara. I liked writing her, but she’s not someone I would want to be acquainted with in real life!

Birth

Princess Jouhara of Serepentina sat in front of her mirror and examined the proud, pale face reflected in it.

Skillfully applied powder hid signs of fatigue—the shadows under her eyes, the lines around her mouth. A touch of red brightened her thin, nearly bloodless lips. Her shining dark hair was coiled in a complicated knot, the enameled white lily of her lacquered black hairstick starling against it. Her thin eyebrows arched skeptically. Long lashes framed her dark, dangerous eyes.

She was the most beautiful and most powerful woman in the Dragon Court.

She would make that known tonight.

Curse Daiichi, she thought. Curse him for allowing himself to be killed. No emotion, however, was allowed to disturb the tranquility of the madeup face in the mirror. Jouhara turned a long metal pin over and over in her strong white fingers.

A hunting accident, they had told her, false sympathy on their faces.

She knew better. Someone at the court had arranged for her husband to be killed, timing the strike for when Jouhara was at her most vulnerable, unable to extract swift revenge.

And now her schemes had fallen apart. The marriage that had meant to cement her position had abruptly ended, had come to nothing after all.

The pin snapped in her fingers. Jouhara brushed the pieces off her kimono, and they tinkled to the floor.

She would have to start all over again. She could not afford to waste a single opportunity. It was the time of the Maple Leaf, the season of the Lantern Festival. Nobles and dignitaries from all over the empire came bearing tribute and taxes.

She had to salvage what she could from the collapse of her plans.

Jouhara rose to her feet in a whisper of expensive fabric. The stiff silk of her kimono was a pale silver, embossed with white flowers. She was ebony and ice, night and moon. She would stand out amongst the bright colors and fussy decorations of the other women, draw all eyes to her.

They would see that Princess Jouhara, oldest daughter of the Dragon Lord, was still a force to be reckoned with.

Artifice and skill had restored to her face what the past two weeks had taken away. But they could not take away the discomfort of her swollen breasts, the ache between her legs, the soft flabbiness of her belly. Those were to be endured, and disguised by cunningly tailored clothing.

There was a soft knock at the door. Jouhara turned her head. “Enter.”

The door opened. Emi slipped in and sank to her knees, her head bowed, her right hand upon her heart, the lily brand that marked her as Jouhara’s on the back of it.

“Speak,” said Jouhara.

“Your brother, Lord Tobio, wishes to pay his respects. He waits your pleasure in the antechamber.”

“You may bring him into the inner drawing room. I will see him there.”

“Yes, my lady,” murmured Emi.

There was something else. Jouhara could tell from the slight rise of the woman’s shoulder. Plain, colorless, and discreet, Emi made the perfect servant, but her mistress had known her for a long time. “What other news?”

“Lord Tobio came to the capital in the train of the High Priest of the Warrior Aspect, my lady. The High Priest has been granted an audience with the Dragon Lord; they meet this evening.”

“Indeed.” Behind her mask, behind the bored coolness of her tone, Jouhara’s thoughts spun. The monks and nuns of the Warrior Aspect had kept aloof from the court as long as she could remember. Their holdings, their monasteries and abbeys, farms and fisheries and timberlands, were exempt from taxation—much to the chagrin of the princelings and lords of the court.

Why would the High Priest come to court at a time like this? Could it be…?

“You may leave now, Emi. Serve Lord Tobio the ruby Kaidan wine. We might as well use it for something.”

#

Jouhara lingered in her chamber for some time after Emi left, thinking. Tobio was her favorite brother, but it wouldn’t do to let him presume on their relationship. He was only a bastard son.

Emi waited beside the door to the drawing room when Jouhara appeared and silently slid aside the panel. Jouhara sailed inside, armored in reserve and strength, ignoring the sudden stab of pain in her belly. It still hurt to walk, sometimes.

No one must be allowed to notice it.

Tobio turned away from a brush painting in blue and smoky grey, a new acquisition since his last visit. “Sister.” He came forward, hands outstretched.

“Tobio.” She allowed him to take her hand gingerly in his. It amused her to see him handle it so carefully, as if it were made of the thinnest glass.

“You are well?” Tobio looked into her face, his own scrunched into a worried frown. He was shorter than she was, homely and plumpish. He must’ve inherited his physique from his mother, a woman, Jouhara had been told, who’d been more comfortable than beautiful. The dalliance was considered a mistake on the Dragon Lord’s part, though no one had ever dared say that out loud in front of his daughter.

“Of course.” Jouhara withdrew her hand. “Better than you, in fact.” Tiredness ringed his eyes, stubble covered his cheeks and chin. He had known better than to present himself in travel-stained clothes though; Jouhara approved of the sober-hued material of his tunic and trousers, well-made, good quality, unassuming.

Tobio knew his place. She liked that about him. Liked having someone whom she could relax around.

Not completely, though.

Never completely.

She sank down upon an upholstered couch, its curved legs and back stained black and polished to a high shine. Even the upholstery was a rich ebony, embossed black lilies on a black background, shot through with traces of silver. Tobio remained standing until she waved him to a spindly straight-backed chair. The couch was the only remotely comfortable piece of furniture in the room.

Jouhara did not permit others to get too comfortable in her presence. She liked her visitors a little off balance, a little on edge.

“It has been a while since you were last at court, little brother.”

Tobio tugged at his collar, clearly embarrassed. Well, given the circumstances of his last visit, he would be. Jouhara watched him fidget with faint amusement and fondness. Poor Tobio had never learned to hide his truest feelings.

That was the price he paid for having a sheltered upbringing. Jouhara and her other brothers and sisters had never had one. They were stronger for it.

“I should’ve come earlier,” Tobio said abruptly. “I had hoped I would come at a happier time, but instead I find you in autumn—sorrow and joy intermingled. My condolences on the loss of your husband, sister.” His expression was sincere and earnest.

Jouhara waved a languid hand. “Daiichi let his guard down. Don’t repine too long, little brother. The Dragon Court does not allow anyone much time to grieve.”

“But still—” Tobio caught himself and chewed his lower lip. It was a bad habit he’d been allowed to have too long as a child. Jouhara would have trained him out of it had she had the raising of him. With nine years separating them, it might’ve been possible if he had lived at court and shared a mother with her.

Tobio shook his head. “I came expecting only to partake in your joy. It might be in bad taste now, but…” Again, he hesitated.

Jouhara took pity on him. “Whatever you bring, it will be welcome to me.” She allowed herself a smile, a dip of her head, the lowering of her darkened lashes.

“Then…” Tobio rose, bowed, and proffered her a box in the same lacquered black wood as her furniture. There was something endearingly clumsy about the gesture, and Jouhara knew her expression was softer than necessary as she smiled her thanks and opened the gift.

Her eyebrows lifted as she took in a pair of long earrings set with black diamonds. A tasteful, expensive gift, befitting a princess. So Tobio had learned this much, though jewelry was more the present of a husband or lover than a brother. But Daiichi had gotten himself killed, and it would be good for the court to see her accepting gifts again. The black diamonds would do very well at certain upcoming events.

“My thanks, brother,” she said. “Your gift pleases me greatly.”

“I have something for the little one also.” Tobio produced a light wooden box this time, longer than it was wide, made of a light wood. Its top was painted with flowers, splashes of primary blue, red, and yellow, gaudy and garish. It looked ridiculously out of place in this chamber of night and steel, on her snow-white lap.

Jouhara watched her own hands, the fingernails painted scarlet, slide open the inner drawer. Nestled inside it was a wooden rattle. It clattered faintly as she picked it up, a small thing with a wooden handle that fit completely on her hand. She realized she was frowning; she smoothed her brow.

No one should see anything she didn’t want to convey.

Tobio watched her anxiously. “Does this also please you, sister?”

Jouhara exhaled softly. “It is charming. A good funeral gift for an infant. It will add the right note.”

Tobio’s eyes were shadowed. “So, it is true, what they say? I had hoped that the rumors were exaggerated.”

Jouhara dropped the rattle into her lap. “They are true. The child was born with a weak body, unable to bear her own magic. It is devouring her now, soon it will devour her completely.” No tremble broke her well-modulated tone; Daiichi’s daughter, like himself, was a disappointment.

“Can anything be done?” Tobio asked.

Jouhara lifted a shoulder in a slight shrug. “Perhaps. But she would likely remain of weak body, perhaps of weak mind. It is no kindness to let such a child live.”

“You are harsh, sister,” Tobio murmured.

“I live in a harsh world,” Jouhara reminded him. “As do all of us who are sons and daughters of the Dragon Court. Instead of worrying about a dying infant, you would do well to watch your own back, brother.”

Her warning went unheeded. Tobio perched at the edge of his chair, clasping and unclasping his hands. Jouhara watched him, unmoving. He would unburden himself to her soon enough. Silence was a potent weapon.

“Then let the Warrior have her,” Tobio burst out. “Let the priests and nuns of the Warrior have the child. Let them—”

A metallic shing and the room darkened. Hundreds, no thousands, of steel needles leapt from behind frames, under furniture, from the ceiling. A swarm of them, long, narrow, blind and pitiless, bound to their mistress, pointed at Tobio’s heart, his eyes, his ears.

Jouhara sat unmoving at the heart of her flock. With one twitch of her finger, she could end Tobio’s life—either swiftly or lingeringly, as she desired. She knew it, and he did, too.

“Are you, Tobio,” she said softly, “playing at politics? Using my daughter as a bargaining tool?” At the back of her mind, something darkly bitter-amused stirred. She’d harangued Tobio for years about his careless attitude. Why shouldn’t he finally heed her lessons and turn on her? Shifting loyalties were nothing new in the Dragon Court.

Tobio held himself rigid, trying not to look at the needles poised mere inches from his eyeballs. “No,” he said. “I have no desire to involve myself any further with the Dragon Court. If not for you, I would retire from it forever.” The vehemence in his voice sounded real enough, but…

“The High Priest. You brought him here. What did you promise him, Tobio?”

“I promised nothing that was not mine to give.” Perspiration beaded his forehead, but he held himself straight and looked at her directly. Fearlessly. “I promised only a possibility and my support.”

“Support for what?”

“The revival of the compact between the court and the priesthood. The giving of a royal child to be raised up in the Warrior’s service.”

Jouhara’s eyebrows arched. “That archaic custom? Why does the High Priest want a child now?” The rift between the royal family and the priesthood had occurred a century ago when the balance of power tilted towards the Dragon Court. That had been inevitable, as her ancestors had had the patience and foresight to gather great magical ability into the royal line. Jouhara approved. Power was everything, and nothing was more powerful than magic.

Giving away a child of magical heritage—no matter how sickly—was unheard of.

“Perhaps to bridge the gap between court and monastery.” Tobio hesitated and said, with awkward gentleness, “There are other ways of life out there, sister. Other ways to live than the machinations of the Dragon Court.”

“Those other ways are at the mercy of the strong,” said Jouhara dismissively. “They exist only as long as the powerful suffer them to.” But her mind was racing. If she could turn this sudden sentimentality of the High Priest’s into an advantage…

“What does the High Priest offer in exchange for the privilege of raising a royal child?”

“The taxes on the Yoiji holdings, to be given to you, as the mother losing her child.”

Jouhara tapped the arm of the sofa with one long finger, thinking. The Yoiji holdings were some of the richest territories of the Isles. She would have to gift part of the tribute to the royal treasury, but even with what was left over, she’d have the means to finance her next scheme. It would give her greater freedom, greater flexibility, and dispose her father to look upon her more favorably.

Tobio gazed at her steadily. “There is a place for you at the monastery, too, if you choose it.”

Jouhara flicked her fingers, and her swarm of needles withdrew to their hiding places. “Bury myself in stone and prayer? Is that how you see me, Tobio?” She permitted herself a smile, a mocking twist of her lips.

A long pause. Then Tobio shook his head and dropped his gaze. “No.”

“I want the taxes on Yoiji for sixteen years, even if the child dies.” Jouhara raised her index finger. “A guaranteed annual income based on the average revenue of the past five years. I will not agree to anything less than that. Is the High Priest prepared to meet such terms?”

“I told him you would drive a hard bargain.”

“Our father’s approval is necessary,” said Jouhara bluntly. “The Dragon Lord is loath to give away even a wastling. I have precious little favor with him, and if you wish me to burn it on your behalf, you must pay for the privilege.”

“We understand.” Tobio inclined his head. “Thank you, sister.”

Jouhara made a shooing motion. “Now go. I must think and prepare our approach.”

#

She met with Tobio again the next day, tired but triumphant. “It is done. The Dragon Lord has given his permission.”

Tobio stood just within the doorway, clad in traveling clothes. The scent of cha-smoke clung to him. “Yes.  We leave within the hour.”

Jouhara glanced at the window, at a sky the color of living steel, blue-grey with flashes of sunlight gold. “A storm comes. Travel safe.”

Tobio hesitated. “Will you not come up to the nursery? To say farewell.”

Jouhara leaned her head against her hand. It felt heavy, and the pins that held her hair in place seemed to have found every tender spot on her scalp. “I am not sentimental. You know this.”

“So I do.” He turned to go.

“Tobio.”

He looked back.

“Don’t get attached,” she warned. “The child will not live long. She has not even the strength to cry.”

He bowed, but said nothing. It was no use him saying anything. They both knew that Jouhara’s words would change nothing.

Tobio’s heart was too tender. He couldn’t help getting attached.

Jouhara sat in silence for a long time after he left, staring at the wall. Plans and schemes swirled in her mind, but she could grasp none of them.

After a while, she realized that she was gripping the wooden rattle that was to have been a funerary gift for that frail, waxen infant who was her daughter. Jouhara lifted it absently and gave it a shake.

A faint clatter stirred the air, was quickly swallowed up by steel and silence, ghost white walls and polished black furnishings. Like the child who had come and gone from her life, it disturbed Jouhara’s life only briefly.

She placed the rattle carefully upon the table. The quiet, efficient Emi would deal with it.

The next time she entered the room, it would be gone.

Heartwood readers, I need your feedback.

The Heartwood Chronicles are a passion project, born during a time I was suffering from extreme burnout. The first file I have for the project dates from 2013 and is descriptively (if not creatively) titled “Serialized Episode Thing.” In it, Amber was originally called Amanthea. I’m not surprised I changed her name!

I began serializing the story in the summer of 2018. At first, I released shorter, weekly episodes, but after feedback switched to the current biweekly format. The serialization was not without its hiccups. Thanks to life, other projects, and my own creative process which often requires backburner time, I’ve had to take several breaks. Even so, I’ve released four complete story arcs and two bonus stories, all totaling up to over 100,000 words. I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished with this story, especially considering this is my hobby side project.

Now it’s time for me to evaluate the future of the Heartwood Chronicles. As I consider how far I can go with it, I’d love to have your feedback in the way the story is delivered to you. I’d appreciate it if you could fill out a brief survey, which you can find here.

In other news, I’ve been working on a series of scenes and stories from the life of Master Zoya. I’ll be sharing them here over the summer in between working on the fourth book of my Reflected City series, so keep an eye out for them.

Thanks for coming along with me on this journey!

Lisette sat on the parapet atop Heartwood Academy, her knees drawn up to her chest, her eyes fixed on the dark shapes of the distant mountains. Their jagged peaks, bare and barren, thrust into the sky. The wind that blew her hair about her face held a sharper, colder bite. The westering sun filled the fields of Carradia with gold.

It was a perfect spring evening, perfect for soaring in the sky, perfect for soaking up the glorious sunshine, but Lisette could no longer partake of it.

The darkened sun in her chest was an ever-present ache, a blow from which she might never recover. She longed to take in more light into herself, to banish away the darkness that had gathered inside her, but it was no use.

She could not dislodge that dark sphere nor drain it of its black energy.

And with it, she could no longer fly.

And so Lisette sat on the parapet, without the wings that were now useless to her, as if daring the drop below to intimidate her.

If she fell, she thought dully, she would probably survive. Sun mages didn’t die easily.

It was not a comforting thought.

The door to the rooftop opened. Lisette didn’t turn her head, didn’t turn to look at the newcomer until Kael leaned beside her, resting his arms on top of a higher segment.

Lisette looked at him out of eyes narrowed by the wind. “I suppose you’ve come to yell at me for letting Amber get hurt, even after I told you I’d look after her. You can’t coddle her forever, you know. She’s a Heartwood mage now.” Her words came out too sharpish, too shrewish. Hurling them at him didn’t make her feel any better. All she felt was small and cold and aching.

“I don’t like my friends getting hurt,” said Kael, “but I’m not blaming you for it.”

Lisette hunched a shoulder. “Then why are you here?”

“I got back today,” Kael went on, “and heard that Ainsley left the Headmaster’s office in tears after you accused her of stealing your brother and selling him to slavers.”

Lisette huffed. “That’s stupid.”

“I know it’s an exaggerated rumor,” Kael agreed, “but she was upset.”

“All I wanted to know was where she was two months ago. If her story about being away on a job checks out, then she has nothing to worry about, except that someone is using her face and Heartwood’s reputation to steal magical children from unsuspecting families.” Lisette’s voice cracked; she stopped and swallowed.  “And if not…” Her lips pressed into a tight line.

Kael fixed his odd golden gaze on her. “You didn’t used to be so mistrustful of Heartwood students.”

“Well, yeah, maybe I should’ve been.” Lisette paused, then said, “I saw Ashe.”

Kael’s stare didn’t waver.

“He was working with the crew we fought up there, hired on to remove the traces of their operation. He’s caught up in shady stuff.” She hesitated, but Kael had always had good instincts. He’d been the first one of their generation of Heartwood students at the academy. For a while, it had just been him and Lisette and the older ones. In a way, Kael was almost a brother. “What did you think of Ashe, when he was here?”

“When he was here?” Kael shifted his gaze to look above her head, remembering. “I thought he wanted to be more part of things than he was.”

“Really?” said Lisette, skeptically. “He didn’t respond to friendly gestures.”

Kael shrugged. “It was just an impression. But I never thought he was bad when he was with us. Now? Who knows?”

“You didn’t like Tamsin much,” Lisette said. That had always puzzled and annoyed her.

“I didn’t dislike her. She was selfish and a bit of a show-off, but I didn’t think there was much harm in her. I just didn’t idolize her.”

Lisette gave a short laugh. “Unlike me, you mean.”

“There weren’t any other girls around. It made sense you’d latch on to her. And she is fond of you, you know.”

Lisette exhaled. The older girl had brought her charges back to Heartwood Academy, handling train tickets and meals with competence, but her air had been subdued. She hadn’t pressed excuses or explanations on Lisette, and their goodbyes cordial rather than warm. Lisette had been grateful for that.

Kael said quietly, “Master Zoya sent for Master Plumeira.”

Lisette grimaced.

“She’s the best one to help you cleanse your magic.”

“I know.”

Another pause. Then Lisette said, slowly, dragging the words out from the depths of her soul. “What if it doesn’t work? What if she can’t help me?”

There. The words were out, brought out from the darkness and into the light.

Kael looked at her. “You’ll adjust.”

“You mean shift my magic from light to…whatever this darkness is?” Lisette touched her chest and gave a shaky laugh. “I’ve had enough of sitting in dark cellars and caves to last me a lifetime.”

He shook his head. “I don’t know what’ll happen with your magic. But you will be fine. You’re strong, and when you’re not, you have us. It’ll be okay, Lisette.”

A band around Lisette’s heart loosened. She managed, “I don’t know where you get your baseless confidence from, but it’s reassuring right now.”

He grinned. “As long as it makes you feel better.”

“Naia changed her magic,” Lisette mused. “It seems to be working for her.” Doubt edged her voice. The bubbly Kaidan girl had, at times, an almost-manic quality to her voice, her laughter, since their return. And Amber would sometimes fall silent mid-sentence and stare off into space, her focus clearly turned inward.

We all went to the Spines, and we all came back changed. Lisette’s shoulders twitched. She thought about the people she’d gone with, the ones she’d encountered, and the ones who were absent. Amber and Naia, Tamsin and Ashe, her mother and Olina and Micah and Shade…

“I asked Ashe,” she said out loud, “about Shade.”

Kael didn’t visibly tense, but Lisette felt something sharpen in him. “Did you.”

“He said everything he had to say was in the report.” Lisette grimaced. “It was not a satisfying conversation.” She didn’t know why she was continuing to probe that old wound—with Kael of all people—but she plowed on, asking the question she hadn’t been able to face back then, “What did you find when you went to where it happened?”

“Nothing to disprove Ashe’s account.” Kael’s face was set, even a little bleak.

It was on the tip of Lisette’s tongue to ask, Was there something between you and Shade? The question had nagged at her from time to time in the six months before Shade’s death. She hadn’t broached the subject with Shade, because she wasn’t sure how ready she was to deal with a change in her friend group.

Despite how much of an almost-brother Kael was, she couldn’t ask him now. What would be the point?

Shade was dead, but Micah and others like him, kidnapped magical children, were still alive.

No matter how it much it had shaken her to revisit Cloud Village, to encounter Ashe in the forest, she couldn’t let herself be mired in the past. Micah was out there still. She had to find him, save him from the Red Dawn.

And to do so, Lisette had to get her magic back.

No matter what form it took.

Author’s Note: This epilogue wraps up the Cloud Village Arc. I enjoyed writing Kael and Lisette’s conversation and bringing out the fact they go a long way back. I think I need to see more of their sibling-like interactions!

Now that this arc is over, I’m shifting my attention back to my novel projects and back-burnering the next part of the Heartwood Chronicles. I’ll return to Amber’s storyline and bring back some things from the very first arc in Hopeswell. Don’t forget that the mysterious employer who tested her is still out there…

In the meantime, I’m hoping to write and post sporadic vignettes about Heartwood characters. Amber and Kael interactions are always fun, for example, and we haven’t seen Troi at all this arc. Now I have this mental image of him suffering through a meeting of the Kaidan Cultural Appreciation Club that Naia coaxed him into attending, ha ha. Also, Master Zoya existed as a character in my head long before Amber and co. showed up, and I’ve got stories about her life in her home country that I want to get on paper.

If you have any requests, let me know! And since this is the last episode of the arc, I would love to know what you enjoyed and what you’re hoping to see in future installments. If you’d like to support the serialization with a donation, you can do so using the form below. Thanks!

Lisette thought she dreamed, but she couldn’t be sure. She thought someone picked her up, but it must’ve been a memory, because she was ten years old again, had lost herself in the night forest, and fallen down into darkness.

Voices ebbed and flowed over her head.

“…found a stray?”

“…you didn’t see—she lit up! She’s one of us!”

“Master Zoya said…”

The whispered discussion went on, but it didn’t touch Lisette. She floated in a daze, her body light, her mind drifting. She turned her head into someone’s chest, and half-heard, half-felt the rumble of a voice.

“She needs warmth and rest. I’m putting her to bed.”

The voice was quiet, not especially commanding, but the others fell instantly silent. Lisette was aware of their retreat, of distant bustling. She struggled to get past the uncaring haze that wrapped her around. She must’ve shifted a little, because the last voice said, “Go to sleep.” And Lisette did, her fingers curling into the fabric of someone’s shirt…

 ***

Lisette awoke.

Birds called in the pale dawn that covered the forest. Long hushes lay between their trills, as if the earth still slept, trees and bushes and plants still drowsing in the cobwebby shadows.

Lisette twitched and winced at the dull, heavy throb in her chest. Something soft slipped down her shoulders. Lisette grabbed a handful of fabric and held the garment up in front of her face.

A hooded grey sweatshirt.

Her guts knotted. Lisette sat up straight, ignoring the icy jab above her heart. She hadn’t crawled into this hollow on her own; she had been placed there, with dried bracken to soften her sleeping area and covered for warmth. Her wings, sadly bent, lay beside her.

The care with which it had been done left a sour taste in her mouth, set her teeth on edge.

Lisette struggled to her feet, the sweatshirt dangling from her clenched hand, and snatched up her wings. One look around to catch her bearings, then she headed due west.

Every sense was on alert for even a whiff of the sweatshirt’s owner.

***

Lisette was beyond surprises. All she felt was a kind of grim tiredness when she emerged into the clearing with the manmade building she’d seen from the air last night and found a figure standing in front of it, staring up at its metal roof, now buckled into shiny frozen waves.

“Ashe,” she said.

He turned in that leisurely manner he had. He looked the same as always, dirty blonde hair falling across his forehead, shoulders slouching, watching the world through reddish eyes. His pants were baggy, his long-sleeved shirt plain, his dark gloves fingerless. The only thing missing was the ubiquitous sweatshirt, and that she held in her hand.

His face held that same detached expression. It rubbed against the raw places of Lisette’s soul; she just managed to snap her teeth shut and swallow back the hot words that rose to her lips. Instead, she strode towards the building.

“It’s empty,” Ashe said as she approached the door.

“I want to see for myself,” Lisette snapped. She balled up the sweatshirt and threw it in his direction without looking. She set her shoulder against the door and shoved; it gave way into an interior of thin sunshine and green shadows.

She walked into a building that had obviously been touched by Chaos. Springy moss grew underfoot. The building was all one enormous room, punctuated by supporting pillars. Frozen white flowers had burst out of one pillar; another had been riddled by destructive magic until only a thin lacework remained. It would collapse before long.

There was nothing else to see. The building was, as Ashe had said, empty. Here and there were the remnants of furniture and apparatus—a broken chair on its back that sprouted several extra legs, a cloud of glittering glass shards in one corner, defying gravity without fuss. Lisette moved around the perimeter, careful where she placed her feet, avoiding the glass. The room had probably been partitioned with screens at one point; the low-ceilinged area at the back likely private cells for the occupants.

What the occupants had done here, Lisette only knew from what Acidia had let drop.

She turned back to the doorway and stopped short. Her nostrils flared.

There, on the whitewashed wall right next to the open door, was a giant insignia in bold strokes. A stylized dragon’s head in black. A red sphere in its mouth.

The Red Dawn.

Lisette studied it, narrowed-eyed.

Then she left the building.

Ashe still stood outside, now wearing his hoodie, his hands buried in his pockets. It reminded Lisette of the first time she’d seen him, but at least he didn’t have his back to her.

“Where is everybody?” she asked. “Did they have children with them? Where did they take them?”

Ashe lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “I’m only the clean-up crew.”

Lisette’s patience snapped. Kael was laid-back and Troi aloof, but at least she knew they cared about something. Ashe had always been so emotionless, as if he was just a shell over emptiness. As if he had no soul.

It infuriated her.

She lunged forward and grabbed him by the front of that thrice-blasted sweatshirt. “Where have you been for the past year?” she hissed. “And why are you here? Are you working with them now?”

He did not resist, regarding her without interest. “Why does it matter to you? I’m not with Heartwood anymore.”

Red ringed his pupils and bled into the brown irises. Ainsley’s vivid purple eyes were striking; Ashe’s disturbing. He was so quiet, so unassuming, you sometimes forgot the alien strangeness of him.

Or what his magic could do. Magic she had put herself in reach of.

Even at full health, she wouldn’t have been able to beat him. But Lisette couldn’t back down now.

She made a disgusted sound and let go of his shirt. Her gaze slid sideways as her eyes smarted. “What happened with Shade?” she asked.

“You saw the report.”

“I want to hear it from you,” she snarled.

“We went on a mission. I was careless. She died.” No change in his voice. Still soft, still even, still inexorable.

Lisette’s breath hitched. Darn. Why was she bringing this up now, heaping her sorrow over Shade on top of her anxiety for Micah and Amber and Naia?

“Did they expel you, or did you leave on your own?” she demanded.

“I couldn’t stay afterwards. Does it matter?”

“Yes!” she yelled. “Yes, it matters! She was my friend, and you…” she faltered. Ashe didn’t have friends—he didn’t invite that kind of connection. But he had been a staple of Heartwood, one of the original students, the first name on the list Tamsin had brought up a few nights ago.

Ashe regarded her with mild curiosity.

“You didn’t have to leave without a word,” Lisette said finally. Her anger, quickly stirred up, was just as easily quenched. She was too tired to sustain it anymore.

Her chest still ached.

Several silent moments went by. Ashe said, “I didn’t have anything to say.”

Lisette gave a bitter ghost of a laugh. “You never did. But maybe the rest of us wanted—needed—some kind of explanation, some kind of closure.”

He cocked his head. “Did you?”

She met his gaze. “Perhaps I did.” Her lips twisted. “I didn’t blame you back then.”

“But you do now?”

“How can I tell?” Lisette threw out her arm, encompassing the scene. “Not when I find you here. Not when it looks like you really did”—her brows drew together in a frown—“turn out bad.”

“Maybe I did,” he said. “That happens, you know, even at a place like Heartwood. Not everyone who goes there is good and admirable.”

Like Tamsin. Lisette averted her face. In the soft light of day, it seemed silly to feel so betrayed. It wasn’t as if Tamsin had handed her over to her mortal enemies. Perhaps she had really meant it for the best. And yet…

“Looks like you already found that out,” said Ashe softly. He stretched out his hand towards her. Lisette tensed, but she already knew that it was futile. She had put herself in his range, her suns were depleted, her magic twisted into something dark, and she was just plain tired.

 Ashe’s hand stopped an inch from her chest, right at the place where the dull ache lay. “You’re hurt,” he said.

“Yes,” she admitted.

“I could take it away.”

Tears sprang to her eyes. Lisette shook her head. “No.” Her voice rasped. “The price is too high.”

His hand dropped. He shifted, settling his weight back to his heels. He turned, walked to the building, and placed his hands against its side.

The silence grew heavy, swollen with impending magic. It pressed against Lisette’s skin. The world seemed to hold its breath. She tipped her head up.

With a soft, soundless implosion, the entire building collapsed into motes. Lisette caught sight of an interior pillar, a fallen chair, before they, too, shivered into dust. A glittering cloud hung in place for a moment, then dissipated.

Ashe bowed his head. Lisette exhaled, realizing the tension in her back and shoulders. This was Ashe’s magic and his curse: the power to destroy something so thoroughly that all that remained was swiftly-vanishing dust.

And it wasn’t only limited to metal and stone and wood. She recalled the whispered warnings, the things she had witnessed.

Magic wasn’t meant to sit in your suns indefinitely. It wanted to be used, to be let out, to do something in the world.

In Ashe’s case, the results could be—had been—disastrous. Despite his care, despite his control, despite his quietness, no one could ever forget what he was capable of. What his magic could do if it slipped its leash.

Maybe that’s why he’d left.

With a twitch of his shoulders, Ashe turned away without a word and headed into the forest.

“Ashe!” Lisette called to his back.

He stopped. He didn’t look back at her.

“Don’t let them take you,” she said fiercely. “Don’t give in to the Red Dawn. It doesn’t matter what your magic is. What happened to Shade was an accident. You don’t have to walk a dark path.”

Ashe lifted a hand in acknowledgment. And then he walked on, disappearing under the trees, leaving Lisette behind in an empty clearing.

***

Naia and Amber were lurking at the top of the path that led into Cloud Village. Lisette felt a shadow lift from her heart when she saw them both. Naia charged down to meet her and hugged her hard. Lisette allowed the embrace.

“I’m glad you escaped the river,” said Lisette, as Amber joined them. The pattern mage looked pale and had some truly awful looking bruises on her face, but she seemed otherwise unhurt.

“So are we,” said Amber wryly, no sting in her words.

Naia, on the other hand, had a hectic flush on her cheeks. Her eyes were bright and her manner even bubblier than normal. She chattered on about the duo’s adventures, including something about a woman who knit the rain and two characters she referred to as Hooya and Wolf. Lisette guessed who they were as Naia described her fight with many dramatic gestures.

“I’m sorry you had to deal with two of them alone,” said Lisette.

“I don’t think I’d have been much use,” Amber put in.

Naia shrugged. “It wasn’t so bad. Chaos was killing them on the inside. But ooh, speaking of killing, there was a creepy guy on the road. Amber and I saw him touch a corpse—it had to be either Stetson or Rey from what they said—and it just vanished.”

Lisette nodded grimly. “I know. I met him. It was Ashe.”

Naia and Amber exchanged glances. “You know him?”

“Yes,” said Lisette. “He was one of the original Heartwood students.” She started back up the path and the two followed.

***

Cloud Village was a hive of purposeful activity, even in the early morning. Women and children scavenged whatever had survived from the ruins of their homes. The few men who remained walked the perimeter or hauled heavy loads. The rest of them would be out in the forest, hunting any Chaos-formed creatures before they became a nuisance.

Her people, Lisette thought, picking up whatever remained of their lives and continuing on. Enduring, as they always had. Something stirred inside her, maybe sadness, maybe pride.

Jonquil saw her and came over. “I’m glad you are safe,” she said simply.

Lisette nodded.

“The Snoutbeck?”

“Dead.”

Jonquil rested a hand briefly on Lisette’s shoulder. “You’re hungry. Sit down and I’ll get you something to eat.”

Lisette was too tired to disobey. She folded herself down on a tree stump and watched Tamsin use her ropes to lift a fallen tree from one of the cabins. The older mage gave her a relieved smile, but didn’t come over.

“She found us, you know,” said Amber quietly. Lisette looked up at the pattern mage hovering nearby, her tattered cloak on her arm. “This morning. Tamsin was out with a search party and felt the magic that brought Naia back together. She came and found us.” She hesitated. “Tamsin told us what she’d done, scheming to bring you back here. I think she’s sorry.”

Lisette stared off at where the trees overhung a slope dotted with grave markers. The Cloud Village cemetery, where her father was buried. She would pay her respects there later, allow herself to feel sad. Anything to take away the hollowness in her soul. “I’m not angry with her anymore, if that’s what she’s afraid of.”

“I don’t think that’s it,” said Amber. “It’s more like things won’t be the same between the two of you.”

“Not everyone who goes to Heartwood is good and admirable,” Lisette quoted and gave a scoffing laugh. A child brought her a bowl of hot porridge, and she dug greedily into it.

After several minutes, Amber said, softly. “Your suns are different.”

“You mean one is tainted,” Lisette corrected. “What does it look like?”

“Oily black. Twisted. What happened?”

“I was bitten by the bat-creatures that attacked us in the caves.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Yes.” Lisette dropped her spoon in the empty bowl and stared at its wooden interior. “Amber, I can’t fly anymore.” Her wings hung down her back, empty and useless. The heavy blockage in her chest prevented her from powering them with the golden magic that had always run in her veins.

“Don’t be defeatist,” scolded Amber. “Once you get back to Heartwood, the Masters will fix you up.”

“Maybe.” Lisette put the bowl down by her feet, and her gaze went to Jonquil, coming up with two pieces of layered cake. She gave one to each of the girls.

“I’m sorry for whoever’s celebration was ruined last night,” Lisette said. The seven-layered cake with prune jam filling was a staple of Cloud Village feasts—for weddings and wakes, holidays and namings alike.

“We made it for your homecoming,” said Jonquil quietly.

Lisette had nothing to say to this. She took a bite, and memories, sweet and bitter all mixed up together, swelled achingly inside her. She forced them back down. Someday, she supposed, she would need to confront them, sort them out.

But not today. Not while cobwebby greyness enveloped her, not with that obsidian fist clenched insider her chest.

Not with the urgency of the present throbbing in her bones.

Lisette put aside the plate and looked her mother in the eye. “Tell me what happened to Micah. Who was the mage who took him away to Heartwood?”

Jonquil searched Lisette’s face. Lisette didn’t know what her mother saw in her expression, only that Jonquil gave a slow nod, as if she, too, was accepting the reality of the way things were. “It was a girl who took Micah and Raoul away,” she said. “A girl with golden hair and purple eyes and a cloud of paper birds.”

Amber stifled a gasp. Lisette’s face grew stiff.

Ainsley.

Author’s Note: This was quite the packed episode to write, with so much of the past bubbling up. I’m excited to see where all these threads will go! Which questions are you most interested in seeing answered?