Everblaze (Keeper of the Lost Cities Book 3) (20 page)

He didn’t say it like a question, but Sophie nodded anyway.

“Well, I know it does not change any of the things you’re facing. But I hope you know that you’re not alone.”

Right. She had friends she could put in danger. Just what she always wanted.

“I mean it, Miss Foster. I’m sure you’re hearing the same whispers that I am. But that does not speak for everyone. And the rest will understand with time.”

“I hope so,” she said, trying to hand back his handkerchief.

“Keep it. And let me solve one other problem as well.” He placed a plain blue square of glass in her palm. “Show this to Councillor Bronte and you’ll be off the hook for your tardiness. It should also make him go easy on you today—and if he doesn’t, call for me.”

The glass was cool to the touch, but it turned warm as she tucked it safely into her pocket. She meant to ask him what it was, but “Why are you helping me?” slipped out instead.

Master Leto smiled. “It’s part of my job, Sophie—to give light when it’s needed, and brighten up a bad day. Why else do you think they call me the Beacon?”

She’d honestly had no idea—and always thought it was a stupid title. But maybe it fit better than she thought. Even if she still hated calling him “Master.”

“Well, thank you,” she mumbled.

He opened the door to the empty common room and she made her way to the stairs, wishing her session wasn’t on the very top floor.

“There’s a faster way,” Master Leto told her as she climbed the first step. “But you’re going to have to hold on tight.”

He stomped his foot, making a rumbly thump, and Sophie barely managed to grab the gleaming banister before the silver stairway spun to life, whirling, faster than Keefe’s vortinator. She spun sideways and slantways and upside down through all the twists and turns of the stairway, and by the time she reached the top she was fairly certain she’d never be able to eat again. Assuming she survived the next two hours.

She needed several deep breaths to stop her head from spinning spinning spinning. But her nausea came crashing back as she stumbled into the small dim room.

Councillor Bronte sat waiting for her in the room’s only chair—a fancy silver throne that matched his fancy cape and crown.

He definitely looked ready to inflict some serious pain.

TWENTY-FIVE

Y
OU’RE LATE,” BRONTE INFORMED HER,
and his gleeful smile made it clear he’d used the extra time to imagine all kinds of miserable punishments.

Before he could deliver any of them, a familiar red-haired figure stepped out of the shadows. “I’m sure she has a good excuse,” Councillor Kenric told him. “And I’m sorry if I startled you, Sophie. Councillor Bronte apparently does not believe in providing his prodigies with light.”

“Inflicting feeds on
darkness
,” Bronte snapped back. “The fact that I have to explain that shows you have no place in this session.”

“My
place
,” Kenric corrected, “is to ensure Sophie’s safety—since you have proven that you will not always act with her best interests at heart.”

That was putting it mildly. When Bronte wanted to prove that Sophie’s abilities were broken, he’d basically used the session to torture her.

Still, she’d thought things between her and Bronte were getting better. He’d seemed genuinely interested in working with her after he’d discovered she could inflict positive emotions as well as negative—something he’d thought was impossible before then. But if Kenric felt he needed to chaperone . . .

“Regardless of what my weak-hearted assistant may claim,” Bronte said, jolting her back to attention, “this tower has strict rules about tardiness—as I’m sure you’re well aware.”

“I am,” Sophie agreed, pulling out the blue square Master Leto had given her. “That’s why I was told to show you this.”

Bronte’s jaw fell so fast, she was surprised it didn’t hit the floor.

“What could you have possibly done to deserve an amnesty?” he asked, lunging from his chair and snatching it from her hand. “When I attended here, these were reserved for extreme emergencies.”

“Well, maybe things have changed since the dark ages,” Sophie mumbled, earning a snicker from Kenric.

“The elves
never
had a dark ages,” Bronte snapped. “And I graduated long before the time period you’re referring to.”

“Really?” She knew Bronte was one of the Ancients—and he did have the pointiest ears she’d ever seen. But with his cropped brown hair and wrinkle-free skin it was so hard to imagine him being thousands of years old.

“Yes,” he said, shoving the amnesty into the pocket of his jewel-encrusted cape before he pointed to his throne. “Now take a seat. We have wasted enough time.”

“But . . . that’s your chair.”

“Thank you for that waste of words. Now sit.”

Sophie glanced at Kenric and he nodded, so she reluctantly made her way to the chair, half expecting to spot a bucket of boiling acid dangling above it. The sharp edge cut into her legs, and the cold, rigid back pressed into her shoulders like ice. It felt like Bronte had custom ordered The Most Uncomfortable Chair Ever Invented—and the designer had exceeded his expectations.

“As you know, my fellow Councillors have ordered you to conduct a healing in two days,” Bronte said to her, glancing sidelong at Kenric. “And they have asked me to ensure you’re prepared. Now personally, I don’t believe a twelve-year-old will
ever
be ready to handle such a task—”

“I’m thirteen,” Sophie corrected.

“Oh, that’s
much
better, then. Everyone knows teenagers are so full of
wisdom
and
experience
.”

“Hey, you guys are the ones ordering me to do this,” she reminded him.

“Actually, you can thank the other Councillors for that. I was—once again—outvoted.”

Kenric cleared his throat.

“Oh, quit rattling your windpipe,” Bronte snapped. “Now, as I was saying, I don’t believe a
thirteen
-year-old will
ever
be ready to handle such a task. But I am open to being proven wrong.” He crossed his arms and turned to face her. “Well, go ahead then.”

Sophie shifted in the miserable chair. “Uh . . . go ahead with what?”

Bronte rolled his eyes. “Did you or did you not tell me that positive inflicting is an essential part of the healing process?”

“Right.”

“Well then, show me how it’s done.”

“You . . . want me to inflict on you.”

“
Positively
, yes. Is that a problem?”

Oh, it was a problem. She’d only inflicted positive emotions once, during Alden’s healing, and she’d been so fueled by her desperation to bring him back that she’d acted almost entirely on instinct.

The only thing she was desperate to do now was pelt Bronte with sparkly alicorn poop.

“I believe the first step is to identify the emotion you want to unleash,” Kenric offered quietly. “At least, that’s what I remember studying. And with regular inflicting the primary choices are sorrow, envy, guilt, fear, and rage. So for positive inflicting they would be . . .”

“Happiness?” Sophie guessed. “And peace. And love. And, um . . .”

She tried to think of more, but they all seemed like versions of the emotions she’d already listed.

Were there really more negative emotions than positive ones?

“That’s enough to start,” Bronte told her. “So which is your objective?”

The thought of trying to make Bronte feel
love
made Sophie want to vomit. And she was feeling anything but peaceful at the moment. Which left her with: happy.

She squeezed her eyes tight and tried to remember happy things, hoping her instincts would kick in after that. Her childhood memories were mixed with too much sadness, now that she’d left her family, so she focused on her new life, remembering her friends, and Grady and Edaline, and Silveny. But even those memories were swirled with so much doubt and worry and uncertainty.

“I’m waiting, Miss Foster,” Bronte interrupted.

“Oh please, it’s only been a few seconds,” Kenric told him. “You’re doing great, Sophie.”

The glimmer of praise helped her relax, and she shifted her mind to smaller memories:
the day she rescued Iggy, her first flight with Silveny, every time she stared into a pair of beautiful teal eyes . . .

Warm energy swelled in her mind, and she fueled it with more memories until her brain felt ready to burst with the excess energy. Blue light rimmed her vision as she focused on Bronte and channeled the force out of her mind.

Bronte gasped as the emotion hit him, his sharp features softening as it sank in. A hint of a smile flitted across his lips, but it vanished just as quickly.

“That hardly counts as inflicting,” he told her—though his voice sounded lighter than normal. “Is that really the best you can do?”

She gripped the armrests of the throne, focusing on the one memory that felt the purest:
the day Fitz had first shown her she was an elf.
It was before she’d known about the Black Swan or the kidnappers, before she’d realized she’d have to leave her family. He’d swept her away from her world of headaches and blaring thoughts and the inescapable sense that she was too strange, too different—and shown her where she truly belonged. And for that one brief moment everything felt right, like a missing piece of her life had finally clicked into place.

She drew on the feeling, wrapping her mind around the spark and letting it grow into an inferno in her mind. Then she met Bronte’s cold, piercing eyes, wondering if he could see flames in hers as she shoved every ounce of energy toward him, slamming his mind with the hottest mass of happy she could muster.

Bronte gasped as the force hit him, but it quickly turned into a laugh.

No—a giggle.

She’d made Bronte
giggle
!

He covered his mouth like he was just as shocked as her, but more laughter slipped through his fingers, until his face turned red and his whole body was shaking.

“That’s amazing!” Kenric told her as Bronte dropped to his knees, laughing so hard he started to cry.

But as Sophie watched the tears stream down his cheeks she realized they weren’t tears of joy like they should be. His lips may have been smiling, but his eyes were pure terror.

She grabbed his shoulders, trying to shake him out of the frenzy. But Bronte kept right on laughing, turning more and more hysterical.

“Stay calm,” Kenric told her, taking Sophie’s hands and waiting for her to look at him. “Whatever’s happening, you have the power within you to fix it.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because I’ve seen the wonders you work, Sophie. You just have to believe.”

She swallowed so hard it hurt as she reached for Bronte’s temples. His pointy ears were much bendier than she’d thought, and when she pressed her fingers along each side of his face, his skin felt cold and clammy.

“You can do this,” Kenric repeated.

Sophie hoped he was right, taking three deep breaths before she shoved her consciousness into Bronte’s mind.

His memories felt like sludge. Thick and cold, like a snowdrift—and when she tried to sort through them, something kept shoving her back, sending her deeper and deeper into the mire.

Bronte?
she transmitted, calling his name over and over.

He didn’t respond. And when she tried sending happy thoughts—like she’d done when she healed Alden—the glimmers of warmth bounced off the sludge and stung her.

Stop it, Bronte!
her mind yelled.
Or you can get out of this yourself.

The harsh words sank into the darkness, which grew calmer and warmer as it absorbed the emotion behind them.

Is that the trick?
she asked. Did Bronte need
more
anger?

It seemed like a backward approach, but she was out of ideas. So she thought about Stina, and Marella, and the whispers that followed her everywhere. Of the rebels and the ogres and anyone who dared to try to hurt Silveny. Of the nightmares and the worries and the massive burden the Black Swan had dumped on her—before they completely abandoned her.

Every bitter thought poured out of her like a river, and as they surged through Bronte’s consciousness they melted the sludge, lifting her up and out until she was finally free.

Bronte sat up, gasping for breath and cradling his head.

Several seconds passed before he turned his tear-stained face to them and said, “We will never speak of this again.”

TWENTY-SIX

N
EXT TIME YOU ALMOST KILL
a Councillor, can I be there?” Keefe asked as he tossed a handful of gold powder on the path leading to the main auditorium. Lady Cadence had given them something called musk-tang and told them to coat every walkway on the campus. It wouldn’t have been such a terrible detention punishment if it hadn’t smelled like rotting bananas. Keefe told her the whole Sanctuary had been dusted with it.

Another protection against ogres.

“I didn’t almost kill him,” Sophie whispered, glancing over her shoulder to make sure none of the other prodigies were around. “I don’t know what happened—and neither did Bronte or Kenric. One second he was insulting me, next second he was collapsed on the floor.”

“Clearly it’s not a good idea to get you angry. Uh-oh, should I be afraid?” Keefe asked as she glared at him. “You going to knock me out or something, are you?”

“If only.”

She wanted to kick herself for telling Keefe what happened.

But she’d had to tell
someone
. The more she’d replayed the session, the more she felt a nagging itch in the back of her mind, telling her something was off.

“Besides, it wasn’t the anger that took him down. That was actually how I got him out of it. Which seems weird, doesn’t it? I mean, he was basically allergic to happiness.”

“Um, you have
met
Bronte, right?”

“I know. But I’ve been in some messed-up minds, and I’ve never felt anything like that sludgy darkness I felt today.”

“Maybe that’s what an Inflictor’s mind feels like. I mean, no offense, but what you guys do
is
kinda creepy.”