White Heart of Justice (3 page)

“Don't worry,” he said. “I know a good Hyrke dentist I can recommend.” He clicked a nail against his sharp, silvery teeth and formed a new weapon, a huge glowing fireball. He held it delicately with his right hand and deftly tossed it in the air, catching it easily. He then wound up as if to pitch it. As he stepped forward, his left hand moved toward my cheek. This time I was ready. I caught it before it could connect. Drawing inspiration from his horrible moniker, I viciously wrenched his wrist, twisting it in an intentionally unnatural angle. I put all of my weight and magic into the move and jerked until I felt a sickening crunch. At the same time I blocked his fireball with a waning magic ball of my own, but mine wasn't fiery—it was
dark
. My dark magic blast hit Vicious, knocking him off his feet and into the air. He collided with the nearest stone pillar and slid to the floor, barely conscious.

I walked over to him. I wanted to tell him I was sorry. That I hoped I hadn't broken his wrist and that I always tried to win the matches with a minimum amount of magic.

But this was the Gridiron. Apologies were unnecessary and unwanted.

So all I said was, “Don't worry, I know a good Mederi.”

Vicious looked up at me from the floor. His voice was slurred and thick. “
You
should have been a Mederi, Onyx. You're an abomination. A woman with waning magic?” He made a sound of disgust as he tried to get up. I didn't offer to help. “At least
my
injuries can be healed by a Mederi.” He made a sound that was part laugh, part cough and hauled himself to his feet. “No Mederi can grow your tooth back,” he said, pointing at my now-battered face.

I raised my eyebrows. “Huh,” I said, my swollen lips likely producing an ugly grimace. “Well, you've obviously never met my brother, Nightshade.”

I gave the judge a perfunctory bow, picked up my tooth and cloak, put the former in my pocket and the latter around my shoulders, and limped over to the stone bench where Seknecus and the others sat.

Seknecus' signature was as hard as ever. But not in a harsh, hostile kind of way. Rather, to me, it felt strong and supportive. Karanos' signature was well cloaked and his face was expressionless. Friedrich looked pleased, although I couldn't figure out why. He and I didn't get along. Last semester I'd lost control of my magic and had accidentally destroyed an irreplaceable statue of Justica, the Demon Patron of Judgment, Punishment, and Mercy, which had been in the Joshua School's possession for centuries. (I'd also told Friedrich and the Joshua School to
shove it
, that I didn't need
or want
a Guardian Angel,
thank you very much
, so we were still battling over whether I should be allowed one now that I wanted one and, if so, who it should be.)

“How did everyone else do today?” I mumbled, not out of meekness but because it was hard to enunciate with a fat lip. Seknecus knew what I was really asking.
Was I still ranked
Primoris
? Would I be competing in the Laurel Crown Race?

So far, I'd beaten all but one of the MITs I'd sparred with. The matches hadn't been easy, especially the ones with the other MITs from St. Luck's. Sasha (a distant cousin of mine who had only contempt for me) had burned off the end of my hair. Brunus (a cruel, repulsive MIT whose signature always reminded me of rotten cabbage) had broken my nose. Unfortunately it hadn't stopped me from experiencing the noxious stink of his signature during the rest of our match. Tosca I could have easily killed—if I had the stomach for it, which I didn't. But I'd become very adept at hiding my revulsion to violence. In the Gridiron, posturing and presentation were part of the ranking system. If you
looked
weak, the judge assumed you
were
weak.

Brunus was the one MIT out of all of the second year MITs in New Babylon who had bested me. This year, his hatred of me had only increased. His naked animosity toward me had propelled him into a fighting form he might never have achieved otherwise. He'd been so aggressive and brutal during the rank matches leading up to ours that he'd actually killed one of his opponents, an MIT from Gremory Tower—Martius Einion, the only child of a poor, elderly Host couple who lived on the outskirts of Etincelle. Then, after trying and failing no less than seven times during
our
rank match to kill
me
, he'd passionately (and madly) declared that he'd rather
die
than watch me win the Laurel Crown. It was revolting to know that he had scored enough points throughout his matches to possibly overtake me today.

“Congratulations, Onyx. Brunus lost his match. You're still St. Luck's second year
Primoris
. If you elect to compete, you'll be starting with the rest of the racers a week from today.”

I nodded, hiding my relief and satisfaction, and glanced at the rest of my audience. Karanos was contemplating Vicious with narrowed eyes. He was likely still assessing Vicious' capabilities and trying to figure out where to best place him.

Friedrich's head was bent close to the vaguely familiar woman. They finished speaking and met my gaze. Friedrich positively beamed.
Had he forgiven me for destroying Justica's statue already?
Since destroying it, I'd tried to meet with him at least half a dozen times to discuss how I could make amends, but each time I was told, “When suitable reparations have been determined, you will be notified.”

The woman simply stared. It was unnerving—and not just because most stares are. It was unnerving because her taupe-eyed contemplative stare was one I'd been subjected to many times before. My Guardian Angel from last semester, Raphael Sinclair, had the same eyes. Suddenly I knew who she was and where I'd seen her before.

This was Rafe's mother, Valda Sinclair.

She rose from the bench and walked over to me. Even after having sent a man who was nearly twice my size crashing into a stone pillar not two minutes prior, my instinct was to stay alert. I suddenly felt as if the match wasn't over.

Karanos' gaze shifted to Valda and he frowned.

“I want to ask her a question, Karanos,” she said dismissively, which spoke volumes about her position in the Divinity. “If you win the Laurel Crown Race, where do you want to serve your residency?”

I paused. Not because I was thinking about my answer. I knew exactly where I'd choose to work next semester if I won. For years, all I'd wanted was to become a Mederi—a woman whose magic was waxing instead of waning; a woman who could grow and heal with her magic instead of burn and destroy. But I'd learned to accept my waning magic. And while I didn't love it, I was proud of my achievements and I no longer longed to be something I wasn't. I had a new dream. One that was much more compatible with my waning magic than my last dream, but one which was not typically held by Laureates—Laurel Crown winners. I fought not to clear my throat. Glashia's Artifice class had taught me better than that. Laureates didn't worry what anyone else thought of their ambitions. They pursued their goals without reservation.

“I want to serve as a sentry on board the
Alliance
,” I said.

Valda's eyebrows arched. Seknecus and Friedrich looked up. Even my father turned toward me. For once, he wasn't expressionless. In fact, a number of emotions played across his face: surprise, disappointment, and then derision . . . or possibly bemusement. The
Alliance
was my roommate Ivy's family flagship. It was a big double-decked vessel that took supplies, equipment, and passengers up and down the Lethe to the various outposts. Currently, the ship's captain was making do with cannons and worn-out spells as a defense. I knew for a fact from speaking with Ivy that he could benefit from having a Maegester on board. Problem was Maegesters, especially Laureates, didn't work for Hyrkes. They worked for demons.

“You want to win the Laurel Crown so you can work for a Hyrke riverboat captain?” Friedrich asked, clearly perplexed.

“That's right,” I said, keeping my chin up and meeting their stares.

Karanos harrumphed (another remarkable show of emotion) and pulled two sealed envelopes out of his pocket. He handed them to me.

“Your residency offers. Neither is conditioned upon your winning the Laurel Crown. So, if you don't win, or choose not to race, you'll likely be placed in one of these positions.”

I looked down at the envelopes. One was the color of clotted cream with crisp corners and a leaden seal bearing the image of a gaol. The other was a dirtier, more tattered version of the first with a crimson seal bearing the image of a waterfall.

The one with the gaol seal looked like it might be from the Office of the New Babylon Gaol. Its demon patron was Adikia. In Halja, once sinners were tried and convicted, they no longer had any rights. They were either executed or sent to gaol to serve out their sentences under the patronage of Adikia, who was also known as the Patron Demon of Abuse, Injustice, and Oppression. I repressed a shudder. And who knew where the envelope with the waterfall seal was from? Likely some outpost lord who thought a female Maegester might make a good sheriff.

“And if you do win,” Karanos continued dryly, “you might change your mind and accept one of these offers voluntarily.” He cleared his throat. For once, what Karanos thought was abundantly clear. He found the idea of a Laureate working for a Hyrke riverboat captain wasteful and self-indulgent.

It smarted just a bit that there were only two envelopes. I couldn't help remembering that last year's Laureate had received over twenty offers from various patrons.

All the more reason to win the race. Because if I didn't, the Demon Council would be able to place me in either of these residencies whether I wanted to go or not.

Or somewhere even worse.

Chapter 2

C
limbing up out of the bowels of Rickard Building where the Gridiron and our other dungeon-like training areas were took time. The only exits were high, twisty, ancient iron staircases, anchored solely at the top and bottom, which circled in tight, dark loops for four stories or more. I alternately limped and hopped, step by step, clutching the railing with my right hand while holding a lit fireball in my left. By the time I made it to the top, I was sweating and exhausted. I immediately doused the fireball and headed straight for the outer door with one goal in mind: find Raphael Sinclair. Angels weren't quite as good at healing as Mederies were, but Rafe would easily be able to heal all of my injuries except the lost tooth.

I shoved the heavy steel door of Rickard open and let it bang against the building's stone wall as I stepped gratefully into the clear, crisp evening air of Timothy's Square. I stood there for a moment, panting and surveying the square, looking for Rafe.

St. Luck's shared a campus with the Joshua School, an Angel academy. Timothy's Square was in the center of both schools and was often the site of various outdoor social events. Tonight was Friday and it was the Festival of Frivolity. To one side of the square was a giant bonfire, all glowing red and crackling. A group of students stood around it, drinking, talking, eating, and laughing. Ashes from the fire rose into the air like reverse confetti combining with the myriad stars splashed across the dark, indigo sky.

In the center of the square was a gathering of booths, tents, and kiosks—a collection of vendors granted a temporary license to sell their wares, confections, and libations for the next twenty-four hours. And on the other side of them were the snow demons. They weren't real—although plenty of demons in Halja were. They were
made
out of snow; they weren't
patrons
of snow. There were dozens of them. Immediately, I recognized several: Lilith (Luck's mate—even carved out of snow she appeared fiery and defiant as she charged two-thousand-year-old enemies astride a huge barghest brandishing a sabre made out of ice); Estes (Patron Demon of the Lethe, the mighty river that cut Halja west to east, depicted as a giant merman complete with a trident as large as Luck's lance must have been); Ionys (Patron Demon of Wine, carrying no less than half a dozen liquid peace offerings in his clawed hands); and Cliodna (Patron Demon of Waves and Waterbirds, portrayed as a long, lithe, snowy white swan). Each of them had been sculpted out of snow earlier today by St. Luck's and Joshua School students eager to compete for some ludicrous prize like an icicle or a snowflake.

But even I had to admit that a contest for something so trivial sounded pretty good right now. I limped through the crowd, keeping my hood up and my face averted. Everyone at school knew I had waning magic now—and that I knew how to use it, which meant I often came to class bruised and sometimes bloodied, but the lost tooth was new. Call it vanity but I just didn't feel like talking to anyone until I found Rafe. He'd said he would meet me here after the sparring session. We weren't allowed Guardian Angels for the rank matches, and even if we were, the Joshua School still hadn't okayed our partnership. Truth was, after I'd destroyed that priceless statue of Justica, Rafe had remade it, but in
my
image, not Justica's. I grinned remembering, but my lip split anew so I stopped.

Buffered from the slight wind by the crowd, I passed the booth where the Angels were selling hot apple cider. I'd wander over later to see if it was ensorcelled or not, and if so what the spell did to the drinker. Some of the Angels' ensorcelled drinks were fun and some . . . were not. I was just about to check the inside of one of the larger tents when someone grabbed my shoulder. Still jumpy from my earlier fight, I dropped my hood and pivoted, my hand held at waist level, palm side up, ready to hold an instantly forged fiery weapon. Luckily I stopped short of actually shaping the weapon because my “attacker” turned out to be Ivy Jaynes, my Hyrke roommate.

The look on her face told me how bad mine must look.

“Vicious was more vicious than I anticipated,” I said grimacing, which caused Ivy to gasp.

“Your tooth!”

I pulled it out of my pocket and showed it to her. She stared at it and then met my gaze. “You need a Mederi.”

“For now, I just need Rafe. Have you seen him?”

She shook her head. “Why don't you wait inside,” she said, gesturing to the tent I'd been about to enter, “I'll go find him. Fitz is in there. He was picked to be St. Luck's ‘Lord Lawless'—can you believe it?” She shook her head, clearly amazed at her cousin's unerring ability to find the gravitational center of any gathering of lunatics, dilettantes, or dramatists.

Unlike the snow demons, Lord Lawless wasn't based on anyone—or anything—that had actually lived. He was a character, which made Fitz the perfect choice to play him. Fitz was Ivy's fun-loving cousin. He was also a Hyrke. When I wasn't getting beat up and learning how to fight with fiery weapons, I spent all of my time with them. So when Ivy offered to go find Rafe while I hung out inside Lord Lawless' tent, I gratefully accepted and stepped inside.

There was a long line of supplicants. I took my place at the end and glanced around Fitz's “castle” for the night. It was opulently furnished with emerald and amethyst silks adorned with thick gold rope and peacock- and ostrich-feather tassels. Toward the back of the tent, Fitz lounged on an overstuffed settee, which had been placed on a raised dais. In front of me, fellow students waited in varying states of inebriation to speak to Lord Lawless. Ordinarily I would have bitten my cheek to keep from laughing—a more apt scenario for Fitz's Friday night pleasure could not have been scripted by Luck himself—but my mouth was too sore.

The Festival of Frivolity is nearly as old as the Apocalypse. Two thousand years ago, Lucifer's army trumped the Savior's in the last great battle, Armageddon. New Babylon—Halja's only city, and the city within which St. Luck's was located—was built on top of that ancient battlefield. In fact, St. Luck's used to be Fort Babylon and we were now standing where portions of Luck's army used to practice marching.

Both Lucifer and the Savior were killed at Armageddon. But their armies survived. Lucifer's army, the Host, evolved. His warlords, those with mixed demon and human blood, had children. Along with their blood, Luck's warlords also passed down their magic. The daughters (usually) became Mederies, or healers, and the sons (usually) became Maegesters, or modern-day knights. Since we aren't at war anymore, and haven't been for millennia, being a modern-day knight really meant knowing the law, and how to uphold it, as much as knowing how to fight. That's why we trained at St. Lucifer's, a school of demon law. When we graduated, those of us with Host blood would become Maegesters. We would be given jobs where we counseled, judged, and/or executed demons who disobeyed the law. Hunting down and persecuting Hyrke criminals would be left to the Hyrke barristers.

One night of every year, however, shortly after midwinter, everyone got a night off from following our country's strict rules. Sacrifices weren't serious, promises weren't kept, and laws did not have to be obeyed. We called it the Festival of Frivolity. (Although a more appropriate name might have been the Festival of the Drunk and Disorderly. Thankfully some of the more bloody and debauched aspects of the holiday had disappeared during the third century.) As with all Haljan holidays, the festival had a patron, but in keeping with the spirit of the holiday, the patron of the Festival of Frivolity wasn't a demon. In fact, the patron never had magic, which meant it was always a Hyrke. That patron presided over the festivities, granted boons, heard confessions (whether they were true or not is anyone's guess), gave out dispensations, and took liberties. In short, there could be no better choice than Fitz to serve as our school's festival patron, Lord Lawless.

The line moved fast and before long I was next to present myself to him. The student in front of me offered Fitz a broken pencil stub, asked for an A in Amnesty and Absolution, and received the completely fallacious reassurance that not only would he ace that class, he would be forgiven for all of his future sins in perpetuity. When it was my turn, I removed my cloak in a dramatic flourish and bowed, sincerely regretting that my dislocated kneecap prevented me from kneeling. Fitz would have loved it.

“Lord Lawless,” I said in a somber voice while keeping my head bowed, “I am Nouiomo Onyx of Etincelle, second year Maegester-in-Training here at St. Lucifer's school of demon law, daughter of Karanos Onyx, executive of the Demon Council, daughter of Aurelia Onyx nee Ferrum of the Hawthorn Tribe, and sister to Nocturo Onyx, the Mederi who goes by the name Nightshade.”

About midway through my introduction Fitz yawned exaggeratedly.

“Such a long
and boring
introduction, Ms. Onyx,” Fitz said, grinning in mock jest. “You know I can't grant boons to members of the Host. Tonight is for those of us without mag—”

I looked up and Fitz saw my face. Though he was outlandishly dressed in the most ornate king's cloak I'd ever seen, his expression rapidly changed from farcical to angry to sympathetic.

“Nouiomo Onyx,” he said in a quieter voice, “come forward.”

I stepped up to the bottom of the dais. Fitz leaned down from his makeshift throne until he was close enough to speak to me without anyone overhearing. There were so many other people packed in the tent, most of them talking to others, and nearly all of them heavily intoxicated, that our brief tête-à-tête went largely unnoticed.

“Please tell me Vicious looks worse,” he said, reaching for my hand and giving it a light squeeze. He and Ivy had the same coloring: fiery red hair, a ruddy complexion, and eyes as bright as malachite.

“No, but I won,” I said, giving Fitz my toothless grin. “Which means that I'll be the MIT that St. Luck sends to the Laurel Crown Races.”

Fitz looked dubious. “Congratulations? I think . . . Are you really going to race? Over a third of the racers are never heard from again.”

I thought of the two letters in my pocket. The unopened invitations from patron demons who wanted me to come work for them next year. And I thought of all the worse places the Council might send me if I didn't win the race and the ability to choose my own place of residency.

“Yeah, I'm racing,” I said. My voice already sounded tired. I hoped it was because I still needed to be healed after my fight and not because Fitz had just reminded me how dangerous the Laurel Crown Race was.

Fitz studied my bruised face. He looked as troubled as I felt, but opted to complain about the unfairness of the successfully completed rank match instead of dwelling on the lethality of the upcoming race.

“Well, I think it's ridiculous that they won't let Rafe cast some protective spells over you prior to a match. How is that realistic? Maegesters are always paired with a Guardian Angel in the field. Why shouldn't the rank matches reflect that?”

During Armageddon, the Angels had been our enemy. But two thousand years had taught (most of) us how to get along. Now, the descendants of Armageddon's warring sides worked together all the time. We'd learned that our magic was complimentary. While a Maegester's magic was inherited, an Angel's magic came from their faith, as well as their constant study and rigorous discipline. Angels were Halja's spellcasters. They had to memorize myriad spells in order to practice their magic.

I shrugged. “They want to assess
our
magic, not our Guardian's.”

Fitz laughed. “Besides, who could beat you and Rafe together, right?”

“Right,” I said slowly, looking around the tent. I knew who I was looking for. I'd said I'd come here looking for Rafe, but I was also looking for someone else. It was the same person I looked for on campus nearly every hour of every day—Ari.

Why? Because I was still in love with him, that's why.

Rochester, my former professor and sparring coach, had once told me I had a “soft spot” for demons. At the time he'd only meant that I shouldn't be so reluctant to kill the law-breaking ones. But now the memory of those words taunted me. Forget about a request to ace one of my classes—or even a request to beat every other MIT in the Laurel Crown Race—what I really wanted was for someone to knock my “soft spot” out the way Vicious had knocked my tooth out. But I was careful not to let my emotions show. Not only had the Gridiron taught me not to, but I didn't want to ruin Fitz's good night. After all, it wasn't every night that Fitz got to play Lord Lawless. In lieu of the Hyrke trade of making a frivolous offering in return for a fictitious boon, I granted Fitz a liberty. He said he wanted a kiss from me—on the cheek—but I was in no condition to honor his request, so I'd have to pay up later. Then, with a wink, he dismissed me from court.