“I call to the sky above, to the burning stars and endless dark. Lend me your light, your vastness, your fire. Lend me your magick so I might put things right.”
Heat licks down my arm, curious at first, then insistent, a swarm of small, wild creatures climbing down from the sky, burrowing into my fingertips, claws scoring along the path of my veins.
“I call to the earth below, to the molten rivers that churn beneath, to the stone that cradles us all. Lend me your strength, your steadiness, your fire. Lend me your magick so I might put things right.”
The ground trembles beneath me. Heat swells up through the arches of my feet as if the core of the world has opened to me. It surges through my legs, into my belly, burning as it rises.
The two currents braid. Earth climbs. Sky descends. Terrestrial heat threads up my legs as starlight pours down my arm, stretched high overhead. They meet in the beating hearth inside my chest, and everything that has felt ragged, messy, broken snaps into place.
Old wounds stitch closed with a warmth that is made both of comfort and recognition. A silent healing that says I knew what to do all along. I had the tools, I only had to learn how to use them.
“Thank you.” My voice wavers as tears prick my eyes.
Beings shimmer in the fire threaded through the storm. This time, I am not afraid. I finally know what they need from me, and I am more than happy to oblige.
Thank you, the ghosts whisper in return, voices soft as ash.
I am a conduit between sky and sand, between above and below, the past and the present. I am rise and ruin, mercy and consequence, the turning point that rewrites every small undoing into a new beginning.
My hands go to my chest, fingers splayed over thehot, steady beat behind my sternum. Power gathers there, and I walk toward the storm with that drum in my mouth.
A shape moves in the flame. Fortune steps out of the cyclone. Her cloak billows around her feet. Everywhere it touches turns blackened, charred. The sight of her is not a surprise so much as realization, as if a thought I never finished has finally finished itself.
She reaches for me with that hand covered in gem work and glowing like rubies trapped in flame. I reach back. My palm meets hers. The jewels are hot as lit coals, but I don’t pull away.
“You remember.” The shadowed line of her chin dips as her fire-bright eyes meet mine.
“I remember,” I answer. “And now they need to.” I motion toward the people of Wands who have gathered their injured and are cowering from the storm. “Show them what they were before the script. Show them how they hurt, and how they healed. They are ready to remember.”
My magick answers. Heat blooms across my right hand, a blossom of fire under the skin. Blisters rise along my fingertips like small moons. I taste ozone and ash, smoke and char.
As she receives my magick, Fortune sucks in a breath and closes her eyes, her whole face going dark beneath the shadow of her cowl.
“We will help them to remember.” Fortune’s body jerks, pulled by some will of the storm. She’s sucked into the whirlwind, a living shard of light dragged back into the sand and fire.
A crack races through the storm like lightning,splintering the cyclone’s body. The current rips along my palm, scouring nerves raw and leaving a trail of pain that blazes up my arm. Like with Fortune, I don’t let go. I’ve run from hurt my whole life, but sometimes pain is the price of moving forward.
I dig my fingers into the storm. The wind howls with a sound that is part thunder, part chorus. The blisters along my fingertips bead, swell, then burst. Stars of pain flash at the edges of my vision, but I keep my palm pressed to the storm.
“Show the kingdom!” I command. “Make them remember!”
The cyclone reels, then bends, arcing toward my outstretched hand. Sand around my feet vitrifies into a sheet of glass that sings under the pressure, then shatters back into grit with a brittle groan.
From within the storm, the specters wail, echoing Fortune, echoing me, their mouths shaping a single word until it’s everywhere.
Remember! Remember! Remember!
Twenty-Six
The storm shudders.
The kingdom holds its breath.
The spell ignites.
Sand rains down in a furious sheet as specters of fire burst from its heart. They shoot out by the dozens, then in hundreds, like flint meeting steel. Every eye in the kingdom tilts toward the horizon as the howling fire ghosts streak straight for the Tower.
The storm reshaped the land. The tower now stands tall and proud, obsidian columns thrusting from the sand like black spears piercing the pale throat of dawn.
