First Turnabout

The flame leads us deeper.

I don't know how long we walk. Long enough that I stop counting Nail's scratches. Long enough that the air gets so warm I start sweating through my shirt. Nail wipes his forehead with his sleeve every few steps, breathing heavy.

I ain't breathing heavy at all.

Then the tunnel opens up.

Nail stops so suddenly I almost walk into his back. He raises the lamp, and the light spills out into a room.

Not a cave. A room.

Shelves line the walls, tall ones, the wood half rotten. Most of 'em are empty, or just full of dust and crumbling things that might've been books once. But some of 'em still hold something. Old covers, cracked and black. Rolled-up papers tied with string.

In the middle, there's a desk. Stone, like everything else. A stool tipped over beside it.

And on the wall behind the desk, carved deep into the rock, there's a circle.

A drop. A stone. A swirl.

And a flame. Big as the others.

My legs stop working.

I know this room. I've seen it in my dreams these past few days. The shelves, the desk, the mark on the wall. The only thing missing is the man with the burned face, scratching away at his papers.

"Ash." Nail's voice sounds far away. "Ash, you alright?"

I don't answer. I can't.

'Cause there's something on the desk.

It's small. A little piece of black rock, hanging on an old metal chain. The same circle's carved into it. Four shapes. All the same size.

The pendant.

In my pocket, the stone is burning now. Not warm. Burning, like it's trying to tear through my clothes. And the pendant on the desk, I swear, it's glowing. Faint and red, like the last coal in a dying stove.

I walk toward it. I don't decide to. My feet just go.

"Hey, don't touch that!"

My fingers close around it.

It's warm. Not hot like the stone. Warm like a hand holding mine. And for a second, just a second, I hear something. Not words. Just a breath. Somebody letting out a long, tired sigh, like they've been waiting a real long time.

"What," a voice says behind us, "is that?"

***

The mages are standing at the entrance of the room.

All three of 'em. The brown one in front, his staff glowing faintly at the tip. The white one beside him. And Bay, behind them both, holding her staff, a ball of water floating above it, glowing blue.

Nobody moves.

The white mage's eyes go from me, to the pendant in my hand, to the wall behind the desk. To the mark. To the flame, big as the others.

His face goes pale.

Nail breaks the silence. "We just got here. It's all yours."

But nobody hears him. Or they don't care.

"That's..." The brown one squints at the wall. "That ain't the Order's mark."

"No," the white mage says, his face stern. "It isn't."

He steps into the room, slow, like he's walking toward a wild dog. His eyes never leave the pendant. It's still glowing in my hand. It's getting brighter.

"Give it to me, kid."

I want to. I really do. But my fingers won't let go.

"I said, give it to me."

"He's trying," Nail says. He steps in front of me, lamp in one hand, pickaxe in the other. "Can't you help? Whatever this is, it's stuck to him."

The white mage don't even look at him. He's staring at me, and something changes in his face. Like a door closing.

"I've always wondered why the Order's mark looks the way it does," he says, a hint of fear in his voice. "And the Acrid. That's why it stopped in front of you. It knew something."

The brown one's grin is slow. "Huh."

"His Grace was right." The white mage lifts his hand. "Something has woken. You're dangerous."

"Wait, Mistral, what are you saying?" Bay's voice is small. "He's just a boy. We don't know—"

"We know enough." The white mage, Mistral, cuts her off. He doesn't take his eyes off me. "You know the Prelate's orders."

"No witnesses," the earth mage says with a smirk.

"No, wait!" Nail shouts.

Nobody's listening.

"Get that pendant," the earth mage adds. "Cut his hand off if we have to."

Mistral don't hesitate. He raises his arm.

"Hogg—"

Nail moves.

I've seen him swing a pickaxe a thousand times. Steady, careful, never wasting a single swing. This ain't that. This is wild and fast and desperate, the whole weight of him behind it.

The wind blade never comes.

There's a sound. A wet, heavy sound I ain't ever gonna forget.

The white mage stands there for a second. His arm's still raised. His mouth's still open, halfway through the word. Then his knees fold, and he drops, and he don't get up. Nail's pickaxe is buried in his chest.

Nail stares at him, eyes wide. I never knew he could make a face like that.

He's scared.

"I..." His voice cracks. "I didn't... I just wanted him to stop..."

Nobody says nothing.

Then the brown mage screams. Long and raw and so loud it rings off the walls.

It snaps Nail out of it. He grabs me by the collar and yanks me toward the tunnel.

"Ash, let's go!"

"Djed!"

The floor rips open.

Two spears of stone burst up from the ground. One catches Nail in the leg. The other wraps round my ankle like a fist, locking me in place. Nail goes down hard, the lamp flying out of his hand and shattering against the wall. The flame spills across the floor and sputters.

"Nail!"

"You think I'll let you go just like that?"

The brown mage walks toward him, slow, and he ain't bored anymore. His face is red and twisted, and he's smiling. Smiling like this is the most fun he's had in his whole life.

He drops his staff.

He don't need it. He grabs Nail by the collar and hits him. Again. And again. No chants, no magic. Just fists. In the face, in the stomach, everywhere. He don't miss a single part of him.

"Do you know what you've done?" he hisses. "Dirt like you don't touch a mage."

Nail screams.

I've never heard Nail scream. Not once. Not when he broke his hand at the mine. Not when we went three days without food. Not ever.

"Stop!" I beg. "Stop it, please, please!"

I pull at my leg. The stone won't give. I pull harder, till I can feel my skin tearing. I don't care.

Nail's dying. I have to help Nail.

The brown mage finally lets go. Nail drops to the floor, barely moving. The brown mage picks his staff back up, steps away, and raises it toward the ceiling.

"Khetem, hedj."

The rock above Nail cracks. A slab the size of our whole door tears loose and comes down.

The sound it makes when it lands, I'll hear it every night for the rest of my life.

"NAIL!"

He's still there. Still alive. The slab's on top of him from the waist down, pinning him flat to the floor. His face is red, his lips are turning blue, and he can barely breathe.

But his eyes find mine. And even now, he's mouthing something.

Run.

I can't. I can't move. I can't breathe. I can't do anything.

The brown mage glances back at me. At the pendant in my hand, still glowing. And for the first time, he hesitates.

Then he turns to Bay.

She's still standing at the entrance. She ain't moved. Her water's gone, splashed somewhere on the floor. Her hands are shaking, and her eyes are wide and wet, and she's staring at Nail like she can't understand what she's looking at.

The brown mage crosses the room in three steps and slaps her across the face.

The sound echoes.

"Do something!" he roars. "Mistral is dead, and you're just standing there cowering!"

"C-Cowan..." Bay swallows. Fear is all over her face. "You... you tortured him. He was innocent!"

"Innocent?" Cowan jabs a finger at Mistral's bloody chest. "That's innocent? Finish the boy, or I swear to the Three, you're next once I'm done with him!"

Behind him, the slab is still pressing down on Nail. He's still breathing. Barely.

Bay touches her cheek. Her lip's bleeding.

She looks at me.

And I see it in her face. The same face that smiled at me in the street. That said take care of yourself, Ash. That gave me water when nobody else would.

It's breaking.

"I'm sorry," she whispers. She raises her hand, and it's shaking so hard I can see it from here. The air around her fingers goes cold. Ice starts forming, sharp and thin. "I'm so sorry, Ash. I'm so, so sorry..."

I don't move.

This is my fault. I wanted the double pay. I wanted better food. A better life. I said I can do it, and Nail came down here 'cause of me, and now he's dying, and I can't do nothing but watch.

Bay's lips start moving. "Sti—"

And then the world slows down.

The ice stops growing. Bay's mouth stops halfway through the spell. Even my own tears hang in the air, like somebody grabbed time by the throat and squeezed.

And in the quiet, right behind me, so close I can almost feel the breath on my neck, somebody sighs.

Calm. Old. Tired. The same voice from the street.

Do you want my help, Ash?

I look at Nail. At his face, still turned toward me. At his lips, still shaping that same word. His face is almost as gray as the stone, and the floor under him is dark with blood.

Run.

Sorry, Nail. But there ain’t nowhere for me to run.

"Yes."