Incendiary (Hollow Crown #1)(8)

But what marks her as one of us, one of the Moria, is the thick copper ring. The intricate etchings reflect her ranking among the elders of the Whispers, and the copper tells me she’s a Persuári. A refrain from the cruel rhyme sung in schools and taverns throughout the kingdom pops into mind—one copper heart persuades senses vast. On closer inspection I notice the green saliva dried on her chin. Poison.

“Oh, Celeste,” I whisper, an ache in my chest as I pocket the copper ring to bring back to the elders. Purple-and-blue bruises mar her wrists like bracelets. She must have fought hard. In her hand I find a small glass vial drained of the poison we all carry with us.

It was Celeste who’d insisted that Robári not be turned away from the Whispers. Most of the elders refused to train us, but Celeste was different. I hoped that I could be different with her help, too. Over the last decade the king has forced the Moria living peacefully in Puerto Leones to flee the kingdom. Celeste has helped families stay and trained young ones to use their powers without hurting others.

I draw the symbol of Our Lady over her torso, marking the V pattern of the constellations of the goddess. “Rest in Her Everlasting Shadow.”

Then I whisper, “I’m sorry.”

I have to search her body for the alman stone. Dez would do it in a heartbeat, I know. Perhaps Sayida would hesitate the way I do, but we came here for the mission. So, holding my breath, I pull back her ash-covered cloak.

“Mamá!” a voice warbles from somewhere deeper in the house. “Mamá?”

A child’s voice. I wasn’t hearing things. There’s a survivor in here. I know I should focus on my task—find the alman stone—but the weakness in that cry cuts into me, urging me away from Celeste and to the back of the house, where I discover another door. It’s unlocked, but when I try to push it, there’s a weight blocking the way.

“Don’t move!” I shout, my voice muffled by the scarf. “I’m here to help you!”

“I’m trapped!” the child sobs. “The man tried to pull me out but I ran back in and then everything fell—”

“Just stay there,” I say, eyeing the door. I take a few deep breaths, then charge. I slam into the door with all of my weight, but it gives only a couple of inches. I look around the room for something to help me push. I grab a broomstick leaning against the wall and use it as a staff, wedging it between the opening. With every ounce of strength I can muster, I push.

Inch by inch the door widens enough so that I can squeeze into the room.

At the sight of me, a boy whimpers. “Who are you?”

He can’t be older than five—six, at most—with large brown eyes, skin made darker by smoke, and a mop of auburn curls. A heavy wood crossbeam has pinned him to the floor and there’s a stitched doll clutched in his fist. Is this what he ran back in here for? He should have run away and never stopped. There was a time when I could have been this child, parents taken by the king’s justice. Thank the Mother at least he doesn’t have any external injuries.

“I’ve got you,” I say, making sure my scarf is tight over my face. He might be a child, but it’s best he doesn’t get too good a look at me. After all, I’m still a Whisper.

The boy starts screaming. “Mamá! Mamá!”

I didn’t realize what I might look like to a child trapped in a house about to collapse—my face and hands covered in soot, my dark eyes rimmed with kohl. Daggers at my hips and black leather gloves reaching for him. I was about his age when I was taken, though the palace guards wore decidedly finer armor.

“Please,” I beg. “Please don’t be scared. I’m not going to hurt you.”

He doesn’t stop screaming. His panic makes him choke and cough even worse until, for a moment, he pauses to gasp for air. And in that pause, I can hear a sharp metallic whistle pierce the sky. Esteban’s signal—the Second Sweep has arrived.

Over the pop of fire, the terror of the boy’s whimpers, and the thunder of my own heart, there’s a rumble of hooves pounding the parched earth.

I pull down my scarf, breathing in short, shallow gulps of air. We need to get out—now. Holding out my hand, I show the child that I want to help.

“Don’t be afraid,” I tell him.

The words don’t mean anything to him. I know that. But I also know that I can’t leave this boy behind to die—and I can’t wait for him to calm down before the Second Sweep finds us.

The gallop of horses is getting closer.

I grab the boy by the wrist. The elders have warned me against using my power unless it’s on people they choose. They don’t trust that I can control my magics. But its side effect is one sure way I know to put him into a painless stupor long enough that I can carry him out to safety.

The boy’s screaming louder, unable to do anything other than call out for his mother. Keeping hold of his wrist with one hand, I bite the tip of my glove and pull, my hand now exposed and clammy. The glove falls to the ground as the cry for a mother who won’t answer pierces my eardrum.

So I do what I must. What I am feared for. Why the Whispers distrust me and why the king’s justice used me.

I steal a memory.

The raised scars whorled on the pads of my fingers heat up, stinging like a match on bare flesh as a bright glow begins to emanate from my fingertips. When I make skin-on-skin contact, my power burns its way through the mind until it finds what it’s looking for. The magics sear fresh scars onto my hands as I grapple with something as slippery and transmutable as a memory. When I was a girl, I screamed and cried every time I used my power.