The Ash-Born Boy (The Near Witch 0.5) Read online

  Table of Contents

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  THE ASH-BORN BOY

  By

  Victoria Schwab

  “Once, long ago, there was a man and a woman, and a boy,

  and a village full of people.

  And then the village burned

  down. And then there was nothing.”

  “How did you survive?”

  “The fire was my fault.”

  ONE

  The market coiled like a colored snake through the streets of Dale, patterned with the brown of the stalls, and the yellows and greens and reds of the things they sold.

  People chattered, and children laughed beneath the rare blue stretch of sky, cloudless and perfect, and, bolstered by the sun, they darted between parents and booths, making up games as they went. A group played a messy kind of tag that involved weaving and racing, everyone both a target and a pursuer. A boy grabbed for a girl, who dodged desperately, clipping the edge of a fruit stand as she went. She recovered and ran on with a high laugh, but the stand, heaped high with apples, started to tip. The vendor turned, but lunged too late. The apples were already rolling, and the table was already falling, and he cringed away from the inevitable crash.

  But it never came.

  A hand caught the table’s edge and steadied it. The apples settled, all but a small green one, which escaped, rolled to the lip, over, and into the rescuer’s other hand. The vendor let out a sigh of relief.

  “Master Dale,” he said. “Good day, and thank you.”

  The rescuer, a boy of sixteen, brushed the apple along the sleeve of his cloak. It was a velvety black, just like his hair. “Please, Peter,” he said. “That is my father, not me.”

  The vendor bowed his head. “Pardon, but I thought the son went by Master and the father by Lord. Have customs changed since I went to bed?”

  “No.” He bit into the apple. “But only my father's name is Dale.”

  The vendor cast a nervous glance around the market, unsure of what to do. All royals had two names, the one they were born with, and the one they took if they became a member of the ruling family. The first name could be anything, but the second was always Dale. It was the name of the city itself, and it was an honor. Peter knew that to call the boy anything else was a punishable offense, but he also knew of his temper, and even if he didn’t believe the rumors––deals with gods or devils, or worse, witches––he didn’t want trouble.

  “Apologies, Master…Hart.” He cast another glance around when he said the name, and this time swore he saw two people turn, an eyebrow lift, a word or two whispered beneath the din of the market.

  The boy brightened. It was his mother’s name, and it gave him some small pleasure to defy Robert by using it.

  “Thank you,” he said with a genuine smile. “And William’s fine, really. Now, how much do I owe you?”

  “Nothing.”

  He frowned, digging in his pocket. “Peter––”

  “Don’t matter what name you want to go by, William, I can't take money from you.”

  Will took another bite of the apple, and set three white disks on the table with an audible click. “Then I will simply forget a few coins here. A harmless mistake.” He drew a hand through the air above the market. “So many customers here today, you couldn't know whose coins they were.”

  He turned to go, and when the vendor opened his mouth to protest, Will cut him off with a backward glance, a smile, and a “Good day, Peter,” before vanishing into the market crowd.

  It was a hard thing, to vanish, especially when the people parted for him. Most of them didn’t stare. No, in fact, they did the opposite of staring, averting their eyes and granting him too wide a berth for such a crowded place. It only drew more attention. Still Will did his best to enjoy the apple and the blue-sky day and the fresh air as he made his way to the steps of the Great House.

  The town of Dale grew more up than out, a tangle of streets and houses, squares and gardens, all piled on a hill in the middle of the moors. In a land of valleys, Dale was the tallest thing in sight, and the Great House was the tallest thing in Dale. The steps were wide and stone, and swept from the looming structure to the streets, a shallow landing halfway between. The house belonged to Dale, not to the town but to those that held the name and title. But the steps belonged to the people, and on blue-sky days when the sun warmed the stones, the steps were the most popular spot in the town. From them you could see the streets running down from the great house like roots, tapering into the fields below. Dale sat on a large hill, and it sloped away to every side. The valleys at its base were dotted with lakes, each reflecting up a bit of sky. Usually the lakes were gray, but today they were pools of brilliant blue.

  Will found a spot on the steps and sat, his black cloak trailing over the stones like a shadow. The sun warmed the chain around his neck, the pendant safe beneath the collar of his shirt. He closed his eyes and listened to the thrum of people, and ran his fingers absently over a set of cuts on his right forearm. One was nearly faded, another was still faintly red, and the third was fresh, only a few days old.

  “What’s this? The prince sitting among commoners?”

  Will’s eyes drifted open, and he drew his sleeve down over the marks. “Are you calling yourself common, Phillip?”

  The boy’s face reddened. He was standing on the path at the foot of the steps, his blonde hair nearly white in the sun. Another boy stood behind him, and two girls stood out of the way, but clearly watching.

  “Watch your words, Master Dale.”

  Will stood, and descended the steps to the path. Phillip was a year older, but no taller than him, and a bit stockier. “Don’t call me that.”

  “Why not?” spat Phillip, drawing closer. The air that day was still, which was dangerous, because any unusual breeze, any gust, would be noticeable. “It’s your name.”

  Will thought of the scars, of the pendant around his neck, of the dire need to keep calm, especially here. Anger seeped through him, but he kept his gray eyes level, intensely aware of the market’s attention bending toward them.

  “Your mother earned it,” pressed Phillip, “when she climbed into bed with my uncle.”

  The air picked up around them now, rippling just enough for Phillip’s smile to sharpen. Will’s knuckles were white, but he didn’t blink, didn’t speak, didn’t move. He didn’t dare.

  Phillip finally shook his head, and laughed. “What? Nothing to say? You really are callous, Will. I’d have slit your throat for talking that way about my mother.”

  At that, Will managed a grim smile. “I don’t need to talk about her. Everyone else already does.”

  Phillip lunged, but Will had always been faster, and he dodged, and watched his cousin stumble forward against the steps. By the time Phillip found his feet, the eyes of the market were turning, the idle chatter dying as the crowd watched. Even Phillip knew better than to carry on now, but he let his friend, Ian, make a show of holding him back, while the girls stood and watched. One of them, Beth, was snickering, but the other, Sarah, looked sad. Will seized the chance, and turned away, letting Phillip curse him under his breath.

  “You’re nothing, Hart,” growled Phillip, and those who could hear drew in a breath at the insult of the name. It was one thing for Will to insist on it. It was quite another for it to be hurled at him.

  Will kept walking. His anger cooled as he climbed the steps, his fists unclenching and the blood flooding back into his knuckles. The sound of the market ebbed as h
e ascended. He brought a hand to the chain around his neck, and drew the pendant from beneath his collar as he made his way up, rubbing a thumb over the smooth metal face. Instantly he felt better.

  “Master Dale.”

  His grip on control was thin, so he kept walking. “Please wait.”

  He reached the top step. “William.”

  He paused, and glanced back. Sarah was standing several steps below, breathless, her dress bunched in her hands. Her hair escaped in wisps around her face.

  “Sarah,” he said, softening. “What is it?”

  She climbed the last few stairs and stepped up onto the path beside him. “It’s just…I’m sorry…Phillip was being…” She brought her hand to rest against his arm and he tensed. Most people went out of their way to avoid touching him. “Phillip was being an ass.” She bit her lip. “Phillip is an ass,” she amended.

  “You climbed the steps just to tell me that?” Sarah blushed. “I wasn’t sure if you knew.”

  Will almost smiled. “Alas, I did. But it never hurts to hear it again.”

  Sarah let out an easy laugh. Her gaze drifted up over his head to the Great House that rose behind him, and the sound caught in her throat. “Oh.” She looked around at the path and the arching trees––brought into Dale as seedling from the far-off forests––and the gardens that flanked the house, and the veil of low clouds, and woven through it all, the quiet.

  “I shouldn’t be here,“ she whispered. Her hand fell away from his arm, and Will was sad to feel it go. She twirled back toward the steps, but he reached out, and took her hand.

  “Stay,” he said.

  “Are you certain?” Will nodded, and Sarah’s smile was radiant. She wove her arm through his. “Would you show me the gardens?”

  He led her through a vine-wrapped arch into his mother’s pride and joy, the Great House gardens. They were not groomed, but wild, tangled and free as they might be on the moors, beyond the reach of Dale, where buildings gave way to valley and grass and, beyond the far rise, who knew what else. The sun was sinking now, the day losing half its light, hedges and trees blotting out even more to cast the gardens in shadows. Sarah pulled free and wandered a few steps ahead, turning in slow circles to take it in.

  He liked that she liked it. These places where nature ate up everything, they were the only ones where he felt…

  Sarah gasped, gleefully. “Is that…?”

  “Shush,” he whispered, even as his lips curled up.

  “A smile, I see it!” she said in a dramatic whisper. “You know what I think, Will?

  I think you’re not callous, or cold.”

  He forced his mouth back into a thin, grim line. “I fear you’re wrong,” he said. “I’m quite heartless.” But even as he said it, the smile flickered back to life.

  Sarah stepped forward, closing the gap between them. “I mean it. Why do you put on this act?”

  His smile slipped. “I…”

  Sarah didn’t wait for him to think up a lie. Instead, she kissed him. And whatever lie he would have given, it died on his lips as they met hers.

  A breeze caught up the loose strands of her hair. “Stop,” he said softly.

  Sarah smiled and leaned in to him, pressing her body flush with his. The air rustled the leaves and flowers around them, a low sound thread through the breeze. She tangled her fingers in the metal chain of his pendant and kissed him deeper, and while he kissed her back, Will slid his hands up her arms, over the bare skin until he reached her shoulders. There he stopped, curled his fingers, and guided her body back, carving a space between them.

  “Stop,” he said, breathless but insistent.

  She stopped, but the wind didn’t. It was still picking up around them.

  Fear crossed his face like a shadow, and he tried to calm down, but it was too late Control danced out of his grip, and the wind blew through the garden. His touch on her shoulders lightened as his body wavered faintly.

  “It’s true,” said Sarah in a hushed voice. “I’d heard rumors, but…”

  He tightened his grip, despite his thinning form. “Which rumors?” He asked coldly. “That I sold my heart for this? That I made a deal with a monster? That I am a monster? A demon?”

  “Or a god,” whispered Sarah, and Will laughed bitterly.

  “You only think that because you don’t know…” He stopped himself. The people knew of witches in Dale, but only as the stuff of stories, and only as those who dealt in earth and stone and petty charms. Not wind. If any witches fool enough to actually live here, he had never met them. His father made sure of that. As for Will…the sky was the realm of gods and godthings. And the boy whose temper seemed tethered to the air itself…they didn’t know what to make of him.

  “Don’t know what?” pressed Sarah.

  Will swallowed hard, and kissed her forehead. “I’m not anything but me.”

  She pulled back enough to look him in the eyes, and then drew his mouth to hers. The wind whistled around them, and he tensed.

  “Just let go,” she said against his mouth.

  He knew better. But the fight with Phillip had weakened his resolve and the strange glee in Sarah’s eyes broke it, and so, even though his arm still burned from the last cut, he gave in. He guided her back against a hedge, and kissed her breathless. The wind sang through the garden, tangling in her dress and his cloak, whipping around them both as his hands, more smoke than skin, wrapped around her waist and her hands, flesh and bone, wrapped around his back and––

  “William.”

  The moment broke.

  He pulled back, and the wind wobbled and fell apart at his mother’s voice. She was standing on her balcony––the garden was hers, and her rooms overlooked it––and even though she couldn’t possibly see Sarah from this angle, she said, “Miss Lowe, I think you best be getting home.”

  Sarah blushed, and ducked under Will’s arm––which was solid again–– brushing leaves from her skirts as she stepped into his mother’s line of sight.

  “I’ll walk you––“ started Will.

  “I’m sure Miss Lowe can find her way to the steps,” cut in his mother. Her words were harsh but her tone was warm, and Sarah gave a small nod.

  “Of course, Lady Dale,” she said brightly, as though she’d been given a reward instead of a reprimand. William often thought his mother had a kind of magic in her, too, not a talent for stone or water or air, but the things that flow in people. Sarah gave him a quick smile, and made her way out.

  Lady Dale plucked a leaf from the lemon tree she kept on her balcony, and dropped it over the stone rail. The wind was nothing more than a faint breeze now, and it floated toward the ground by Will’s feet. He watched it land, and felt tired, drained, half by the slip and half by the look in his mother’s eyes when he finally met them.

  “Inside,” she said. “Now.”

  TWO

  His mother was still on the balcony when he reached the room.

  Her back was to him as she stood, watching the day bleed into night, her hands resting delicately on the banister. She looked regal. Lady Katherine Dale belonged in the Great House. She always belonged. He was lucky, he knew, to take after his mother, from her black hair––though hers coiled and his fell straight––to her slim build, his real father only showing in his eyes, which were a much darker gray than hers. That mattered little, though, since he rarely met people’s gaze.

  He crossed the room now, and came out onto the balcony beside her.

  “I heard about what happened in the market,” she said without looking at him. “Word travels so fast,” said Will, leaning his elbows against the rail.

  “Why do you do this?”

  “It’s a foolish tradition. And it’s not my name. It’s not anyone’s name.” “I won you that name, William,” she said, sternly. “You will take it.” Your mother earned it, when she climbed in bed with my uncle.

  Will pushed off the banister and went inside. He was Lord Robert’s son, and heir to Dale,
but not by blood. His mother had arrived in the city pregnant, and wed Lord Dale within a month. And yet, the people of Dale seemed willfully blind to the question of his descent. Perhaps they thought the two had met before, beyond the town’s edge, and William, conceived before rings, was still Robert’s flesh. Perhaps they didn’t care. Perhaps his mother had enchanted them, charmed them into forgetting. Only Phillip seemed intent on pressing the issue. The fact was, William was born in Dale, and was its heir, and to most, the legitimacy of his birth was far less scandalous than his power. That they whispered about in taverns and alleys, and sometimes even on the steps.

  “One day, you will be Lord Dale,” pressed his mother, following him inside.

  “I do not want it. And I do not think the people want it either. They call me cold, heartless, empty,” he said, feeding a stick to the fire that burned despite the season in her chambers. “Callous.”

  He stared into the flames.

  “Let them think you callous, then.” “But I am not.”

  “But you are different. Whatever word they put to it, it’s there. Inescapable. Let them think you callous and cold. Let them think you a monster or a godthing.”

  “They think me all those things, and yet they think me Robert’s son. How is that?” he asked, archly.

  His mother ignored the question, as she always did whenever he suggested her influence over people.

  “Let them think you a demon or a god,” she said. “Let them fear you. It does not matter.”

  “It matters a great deal to me,” he snapped.

  His mother sighed, sliding into a chair beside the fire. “The market is one thing…” And she didn’t even know of the fight with Phillip, he thought. “…and then the girl in the garden. Sarah. Really, William? Showing off with magic?”

  “I wasn’t––”

  “Surely there are other ways to woo a girl than to put on such displays,” she continued. “And besides, Sarah belongs to Phillip. Is that what prompted this? To provoke your cousin?”