There was healing in that gentle caress. The faint headache he’d had receded, and he found he could breathe easier, as if unburdened from whatever aches and torments had previously ailed him. Beside him, Vera looked at her hands in amazement at whatever cut or pain had likely been healed. A collective sigh of contentment blew from the crowd.
Then—a cry of surprise broke through the night. Baz felt the air shift ever so slightly as murmurs rose in the ensuing quiet. A chill ran up his spine. He knew those voices did not belong to the living. The Shadowguide was at work.
The Darkbearer lifted their arms up to the sky, manipulating the darkness so that it danced above them. Another delegate stepped up to their side, pressed their hand on their arm. The Darkbearer unleashed the gathering dark, making it plume toward the calm waters. The river erupted, a tidal wave of dark water that splashed the students on the banks. Curious droplets that were neither liquid nor solid nor gaseous reached Baz, and in them he saw—what did he see? It was his own face reflected on the multiple facets of a prism, old and young and not quite himself, but versions of him that could be. The work of the Seer, then.
This was big magic, Baz thought, an impressive feat for those who needed to rely on bloodletting tonight—every house except for those of House Waxing Moon who answered to the waxing gibbous phase. He had no doubt that every student who performed would be showered with offers of internships and coveted positions.
His gaze cut to Emory, who watched the procession with a look of rapture, maybe even longing. It stirred something in him, reminding him there was beauty in this kind of magic. He found it hard to take his eyes off her—her slightly parted lips, the way her hair framed her face, fringe brushing her brows, curling slightly at her temples. The silvery glow the moon cast around her, like an ethereal aura.
Beautiful.
He only looked away once the Waxing Moon delegation appeared. The four students wore high-collared dresses made of diaphanous panes that shimmered palest blue to deepest indigo, cinched at the waist by a thread of silver. A sudden melody filled the air. One of the students plucked away at the strings of a guitar and began to sing in a language Baz wasn’t familiar with, voice low and soft. Another student wound her voice in the song, lovely and bright, and it was as if Baz could see the reverberations of the music in the air around them, gliding over the river along with the boat.
Everything the notes touched grew and bloomed, heeding the music’s call: fish curved out of the water like synchronized swimmers; algae crept along the sides of the boat, interweaving with the great vines of hollyhock that adorned it, the vegetation dancing in time with the strings; nightbirds and crickets and frogs lent their own voices to the song, and the night became an orchestra, the river a stage, with the two singers as their conductors.
A third student joined their voice in the mix, compelling the crowd to dance. Baz felt a presence brush against his mind, the stroke of a finger along the walls of his innermost self. And why not dance? he thought as the rhythm pulsed. He tapped his foot to it, felt everyone around him stir. Beside him, Vera broke out in a laugh as she stood and gave an elated twirl, heeding the call of the Glamour’s compulsion.
It was only when the music subsided to deafening applause that a distant part of Baz thought this sort of magic was wrong, but it was so innocent a thing, and the music had lifted his heart in a way he hadn’t known in a long time, that he simply let it go, eager to see more.
The Full Moon students did not disappoint. There was a single bare-chested boy and three girls wearing dresses made of gauzy silver panes that left little to the imagination. White orchids overfilled the inside of their boat like a blanket of nebulous clouds. The bare-chested student stepped to the prow, and the magicked lanterns dangling from trees on the riverbank were extinguished in one great sweep, their light gathering to his outstretched hand. Hundreds upon thousands of little drops of light detached from the beam in his hand to hang in the air. The beads shot up in the sky and burst like great fireworks. A shower of light rained down on the river, glittering and mesmerizing, and when it touched Baz, he felt cleansed of all his worries and anxieties, the air he drew in his lungs crisp and cool and heartening. His soul lifted, light as a feather, at whatever purification magic this was.
A faint wind made orchid petals lift and scatter, dancing along the riverbank. Baz couldn’t help the smile that tugged at his lips as one of them brushed against him. There was protection in that faint caress, a feeling of safety, making all the tension he carried in his body ease. More light burst above them like fireworks, and students laughed in wonderment, giddy with this fabricated happiness raining gently down on them. The Lightkeeper unleashed the remaining light in his hand, willing it to run through the depths of the river like a ribbon of color to guide the boats down to the sea, then sent it back to the lanterns, once more illuminating the riverbank.
Everyone applauded, and Baz couldn’t tell if it was his own joy or the fabricated one still fluttering around inside him that made him smile.
The mood sharpened when the attention shifted to the Waning Moon boat. The joyful light vanished, replaced by a heaviness, a soundless sort of quiet, as if a thick blanket had been laid over the world. The breeze picked up, chilly and dark, and Baz’s eyes became heavy with sleep, his mind wiped blank with the peace of it. Arches of deep purple poppies adorned the sleek boat, beautiful blooms that seemed to be the only color in the suddenly bleak night.
Frost crept over the river, reaching for the yellowing grass and decaying leaves on its banks, the willow manes that brushed the water, the poppies on the boat. Everything it touched froze and withered, a death touch that held infinite finesse. There was beauty to it, as if the frost were cleansing the world, purging it of its old hurts to remake it anew.
Baz’s breath fogged around him, and in that breath he saw—a memory. Him and Romie as children, reading under the willow tree behind their home. The fog faded, and just as Baz wondered if he’d imagined the memory, his gaze caught on the river, where great castles of glittering ice and snow rose from the water, made of moonlight and starlight and waking dreams.
Then the shapes on the water wound backward—wisps of dreaming unraveling back to whatever realm they’d come from. The memories fogging the riverbank were undone, reversed by Unraveler magic, just as the languidness of sleep was lifted from the crowd. The Waning Moon students took a solemn bow.
Baz looked at Emory again, thinking of Romie and how much she would have loved to see this—of how she would have no doubt been on that Waning Moon boat, entrancing everyone with her own magic.
But Emory was no longer there, and neither was Keiran, and Baz couldn’t make sense of the unpleasant emotion that surged inside him. Penelope looked just as disappointed as he felt.
He startled as a hand fell on his shoulder, turning to find Jae smiling down at him.
“Sorry I’m late.” They dipped their head at Vera and cast an uncertain look at Penelope, who was gathering her things with a forlorn expression. “Should we…”
“I’ve got this.” Vera looped her arm through Penelope’s. “Let’s go grab some of that cider I saw over there.”
The girl blinked in surprise. “Oh, you don’t have to—”