Chapter no 19

Sword Catcher

Flames licked up the sides of the stone tower. All around was burning. She could see the remains of the great city, thousands of feet below.

All blackened stone now, and wood petrified by fire.

Above, the stars. Glimmering, untouched, they burned but could not be burned. She yearned to reach out to them, within them, and take hold of it. That which she knew hovered in the emptiness. The Word.

But he was almost here. He was climbing the tower’s side, clinging like a shadow to the uneven stone. She had to wait. Until he was here, his glimmering Stone set in the cross guard of his sword.

She saw it then. A movement at the lip of the tower, where stone met sky. Two pale hands, flexing and grasping. Lifting his big body up, until he had hauled himself over the edge, was on his knees with all of it behind him: the sky rising above, the city fallen below. She heard him hiss her name as he

rose to his feet, hand on the pommel of his sword, his long black hair falling to hide his face, but still she could see his eyes. Still, she knew him. Would

always know him—

“Lin?”

Lin jolted awake, a sharp pain darting through her hand. She blinked at Merren Asper, sitting across from her at his worktable in the Black Mansion, his pale eyebrows uplifted.

“Did you just fall asleep?” he said.

Lin looked down at her hand; she’d been clutching her brooch, the edged setting digging into her skin, leaving faint red lines. She slipped it into her pocket and tried to smile at Merren, who was stirring a thick black concoction with a glass pipette. The images from her dream still clung to

the perimeter of her vision: shadow and fire.

“I haven’t been sleeping much lately,” she said, half apologetically. It was true enough. When she did sleep, she was troubled by wild dreams.

Often she stood atop the tower of Balal and looked out upon the burning plains: Over and over she watched dream-Suleman approach her, and felt herself racked by a desire that left her body aching when she woke.

Sometimes she dreamed that she flew among mountains in the shape of a raven, and watched an old man hurl books into the sea. She had not dreamed again the dream she’d had at the Palace, where she had crawled into a cave halfway up a mountain and seen a blinding, fiery light. She’d asked Mariam the meaning of the words hi nas visik, and been surprised when Mariam had told her they meant: You are real.

“It is a sort of expression of incredulity,” Mariam had said. “As if you cannot believe what you are seeing.”

And Lin was troubled. How had she known Malgasi words in her dreams that she did not know in her waking life? But she could not think too much on it. Ever since the night she had healed the Crown Prince—so thoroughly, it seemed, that it was as if he had never been whipped at all—her whole mind had been focused on the way she had seemed to be able to use Petrov’s stone (no, she should not call it that; it was her stone now) to accomplish something beyond anything she had ever accomplished before. Beyond anything she had heard of gematry accomplishing before.

She could still recall the image that had appeared before her mind’s eye

as she stood by Prince Conor’s bedside: the swirl of smoke inside the stone, the appearance of that single word: heal. She could feel the pulse of the

stone in her hand.

And she could still feel the stone go cold in her hand. Ever since that night, it had lost all its color and life. It had gone a milky, flat gray color,

like a dull pearl. No matter how she angled it, she could no longer see depth in the stone, nor the suggestion of words.

She had tried again, with Mariam, regardless of the change in the stone— asking Mariam to lie down as the Prince had done, and concentrating on the healing talismans Mariam wore at her neck and wrists. But nothing had happened. It was driving her mad. Why had it worked on the Crown Prince, but not Mariam? And it had worked on Kel, too, she knew now, speeding

his healing, though not as impressively as it had done with Prince Conor.

She still remembered the feeling that the stone wanted her to use it, the burn it had left on her skin after she had treated Kel. Yet it had done nothing like

that again with any other patient, though she always wore it when she did her rounds.

She did not understand it. And she was still without the one thing that might help her understand it: Qasmuna’s book.

In the past fortnight Lin had been all over Castellane in search of it. She had met with several unsavory charlatans who had promised they had the book, or something like it, but they had never had the real thing—only silly, pasted-together “spell books,” filled with chants and rhymes meant to “bestir love” and “enhance beauty” and no mention at all of any way to actually access magic, to draw it up out of oneself and save it, so that it could be used without killing the practitioner.

This morning, she had taken time away from her search out of necessity: The Etse Kebeth was full of girls and women preparing for the Tevath, and it had been impossible to use the kitchen there to mix up her cures and remedies. So she had come to the Black Mansion, where Merren had seemed only too pleased to have company in his workroom. He looked up as the noise of a dull cheer came from outside, wrinkling up his nose in momentary puzzlement. “Something’s happening now, isn’t it?” he asked. “Is the Prince getting married?”

“Not married,” Lin said, gently. She had come to regard Merren as something of an innocent savant. He loved his potions and poisons, yet seemed to regard the rest of the world through a gauzy, fond bemusement. “The Princess from Sarthe, whom he’s meant to marry, is arriving today.

They’re welcoming her in Valerian Square.”

“Oh,” Merren said brightly, and went back to stirring his black-brown concoction.

Lin had passed through the crowds on her way to the Black Mansion that afternoon; they thickened like cream at the top as she neared the center of

the city and Valerian Square, where the Crown Prince would today be welcoming his Sarthian bride.

It ought to have been a festive day. Lin still recalled her mother telling her about the arrival of the young Princess Lilibet in the city, thirty years ago. Crowds had lined the Ruta Magna, cheering as an open chariot carried her into the city. Now that she had met Queen Lilibet, Lin could more easily picture her as her mother had described her: black hair flying, her lips painted red as lacquer, a green silk cloak fastened at her bare shoulders with

emeralds, green fire blazing in their hearts. More emeralds burning in her crown; the citizens of Castellane had thrown red pomegranate flowers and dark-purple tulips, the flowers of Marakand, in her path and shouted, “Mei bèra, the most beautiful!”

They had been proud then, of the woman who was to be their new queen, of the beauty and fire she would bring to their city. But there was none of that pride now. A few balconies bore sprigs of white lily, the flower of Sarthe, but the general mood seemed—well, bemused seemed the best word for it.

The news of the betrothal had broken over the city like a storm. Lin heard little about it in the Sault, where the activities of the Aurelian family were only considered interesting if they affected the Ashkar. Prince Conor was not their prince; he was merely an important personage in Castellane. Their prince was Amon Benjudah, the Exilarch, currently traveling the Gold

Roads with the Sanhedrin.

Lin, however, had gotten an earful from her patients, especially Zofia, who seemed to have a personal dislike of Sarthe. “Such a disappointment,” she had grumbled, waving an old cutlass in the air. “What a waste. Such an attractive Prince, and such a dull person to marry.”

“You don’t know that,” Lin had said. “She might be interesting, the Princess.”

“She’s from Sarthe. They’re all dull, or dishonest, or both,” Zofia had said firmly, and her opinion seemed shared by the general populace. Some of Lin’s patients had complained that the marriage would give Sarthe too firm a toehold in Castellane; that they would take advantage of access to the harbor, that they would insist everyone take up their fashions and wear

uncomfortable hats.

Lin had listened, and nodded absently, and thought of the Prince. You should not feel sorry for me, you know. Feel sorry for the one who has to marry me.

And she did feel sorry, a little, for Princess Aimada d’Eon. But she felt more sorry for Conor Aurelian, which was uncomfortable, to say the least. She had always thought she would not feel sorry for him if he fell down a well and got stuck there, and now, here she was, feeling a regretful twinge every time she thought of him, which was too often.

She had heard not a word from the Palace since the morning when Kel had woken her and they had both seen Prince Conor whole and unscarred. Kel had sent a note a few days later thanking her, and a book about Sunderglass that she was reading now. He had told her that Queen Lilibet had been pleased with her handiwork and that Prince Conor was healing as might be expected.

This, she knew, was a bit of code. Lin had waited anxiously to see if either Mayesh or Andreyen would mention Conor’s miraculous healing to her. When neither did, she had been forced to admit that it seemed their plan had worked: The few who knew the Prince had been whipped at all did not know he had recovered from the effects overnight. And as the days went by since that strangest of events, she began to feel more and more as if that night had been cut out of the unbroken line of the rest of her days. It lay

somehow beside or athwart them, as if they were memories from someone else’s life that she was somehow able to examine.

It seemed almost impossible to her that she now shared a secret with the Crown Prince and his Sword Catcher that no one but the three of them

knew. Mari was aware Lin had been summoned to the Palace, of course, as was Chana, but Lin had said that it was only to treat a servant’s burned hand, and if Mariam did not believe her, she did not show it. She had not told a soul of the whipping, of the strangeness of that whole night. Listening to the Prince talk, telling him secrets of her own, even touching him—as a healer, of course, but still, with gestures of startling intimacy—that she had brushed her thumb across his mouth . . .

She caught her breath at the memory, just as Merren looked up: The Ragpicker King had come into the room. He really did move with a catlike silence, as if the soles of his shoes were padded. Lin had begun to get used to him gliding about the Black Mansion, often coming in and out of the workroom to see what she and Merren were doing. He never badgered them about it—he seemed more interested in simply satisfying his curiosity than seeking results of any particular sort.

He looked rather haggard today, however, his face white and strained between his black curtain of hair and the starker blackness of his jacket. (As always, the same: black frock coat, narrow black trousers, gleaming onyx boots.) He was followed by Ji-An, who was tugging on a pale flower petal

that had become snagged in her hair. She hopped up on the stool beside Lin’s. “I saw our mutual friend in the square today.”

Merren glanced up. “Kel?”

Ji-An twisted around to look at him. “Yes, and half the Charter Families, and of course, the Aurelians. All there to welcome the Sarthian Princess who will be Castellane’s next queen.”

Ji-An was grinning like someone who knew a secret. Lin said, “Ji-An, did something happen?”

“Another loveless marriage between heartless monarchists consolidating power,” said Merren cheerfully. “Was she pretty, at least? The populace will respond better to this whole mess if they’re assured of a glamorous queen.”

Lin braced herself. There was some part of her that did not want to hear how beautiful Aimada d’Eon was, how alluring, how elegant—

“She’s a child,” said Ji-An, with glee.

Merren looked puzzled. “The Prince agreed to marry a child?”

“He agreed to marry a Princess of Sarthe,” said Andreyen. “Who was, it seemed all agreed, to be Aimada. But—”

“But it wasn’t her,” interrupted Ji-An. “They sent her younger sister instead. All of eleven or twelve years old. The looks on their faces—the noble families, the Aurelians—was priceless.”

Lin reached into her pocket, wrapping her fingers around the stone in its setting. She had found that holding the cool, heavy weight in her hand was soothing. “The Prince,” she said. “What did he do?”

“The only thing he could,” said Ji-An. “Went along with it. But he stood there stiff as a plank for ages first. Kel had to shake him out of it. Then he behaved himself well enough.”

“Clever Kel,” Andreyen murmured. “That was, indeed, the only thing that could be done. An interesting move from Sarthe. Whether they will do more to signal their fury remains to be seen.”

“Rather hard on the Prince.” Merren frowned. “That heartless monarchial bastard,” he added.

“My grandfather,” Lin said, slowly. “He was there, wasn’t he?”

“The Counselor?” said Ji-An. “Yes, indeed. Didn’t look too pleased, either. I imagine the Palace has quite a day of diplomatic antics ahead of it.”

“They’ll manage something. They always do,” Merren said, lifting his pipette out of the dark liquid. He eyed it a moment before licking it

thoughtfully.

“Merren,” shrieked Ji-An. “What are you doing?”

He looked up, blue eyes wide. “What? It’s chocolate,” he said. “I was hungry.” He held the pipette out. “Would you like to try it?”

“Certainly not,” said Andreyen. “It smells of wet weeds.” He frowned. “Lin. Walk with me. I wish to speak to you.”

Both Merren and Ji-An watched curiously as Lin, trying to hide her

surprise at being summoned—because it was a summons, however politely phrased—rose to confer with the Ragpicker King.

He waited for them to be out of earshot of the workroom before he spoke. Lin listened to the hushed thump of his cane on the Marakandi rugs as they walked. She found it soothing.

“There are murmurs that someone else in Castellane is searching for the Qasmuna book,” he said. “With great dedication, I hear.”

“Just now?” Lin said. “Since I’ve started looking for it?” He nodded. “Rumor has it they’re offering a pretty penny.”

“I’m sorry,” Lin said. “If I’ve been looking for it too clumsily, if I’ve stirred up interest that shouldn’t have been stirred up—”

“Not at all.” Andreyen dismissed her concerns with a gesture. “In my experience, it is often useful to stir things up. Perhaps whoever is looking for the book currently has been made nervous by hearing about your search.

Perhaps these nerves will lead them to reveal themselves or what they know.”

The smile he fashioned filled Lin with relief that she was not on the Ragpicker King’s bad side, or standing between him and what he wanted.

“The junk dealer I spoke to in the Maze told me it had been purchased by a ‘discerning individual,’” said Lin. “Perhaps this individual has put it about that they have this item to sell, and thus we are seeing evidence of interest in buying the book beginning to make itself known . . .”

“Perhaps,” said Andreyen. “I admit I have not fully educated myself as regards the dark underground of antique book dealing. Vicious folk, I’ve heard.” He pushed open the door to what she now knew was called the Great Room, with its massive stone fireplace and comfortable furniture. It was clearly an often-used room; someone had left a book facedown on the arm of a chair, and a plate of half-eaten biscuits balanced on a tabletop. “Usually, though, I get word of it when someone in Castellane has

something interesting or illegal to sell. This time, I heard only of the person looking to buy.”

“But no word who they are?”

The Ragpicker King shook his head.

“I could ask for permission to seek the book in the Shulamat again, but the Maharam made his position fairly clear,” Lin said.

The Ragpicker King picked up the silver incantation bowl on the shelf near the fireplace. Lin felt a sort of itch when he touched it, a desire to tell him to put it down, that it was a precious thing to her people. But she would only be a hypocrite if she did; it was not as if her current connection to the Ragpicker King, with everything he stood for, would not have horrified the Maharam and the Sanhedrin far more. She wondered if he had ever employed someone Ashkari before. He seemed as if he knew more about what went on inside the walls of the Sault than most. But then it was in his interest to know things, and any one of her people who worked with him in secret risked their place in the community. As she was doing.

“There are certain men,” said Andreyen, gazing into the bowl, “who, when in positions of power, err on the side of inflexibility.”

“You are in a position of power,” said Lin.

The Ragpicker King set the bowl down and grinned. “But I am very flexible. Mostly morally.”

Before Lin could reply, there was a stir outside the room. She heard Ji-An protest, and then the doors burst open and a familiar-looking man stalked in, glowering. Dark-red hair, black eyes, dressed like a merchant’s son. Lin remembered him now: the man who had been here the first time she came to the mansion. He had wanted—

“My black powder,” the man snarled. “It was supposed to arrive two days ago. I’ve been patient—”

“Bursting into my home, pushing past my guard?” Andreyen said, green eyes narrowing. “You call that patience?”

“My apologies,” said Ji-An, who had followed the young man into the room and stood at alert, her hand halfway inside her jacket. “I couldn’t stop him without killing him, and I wasn’t sure that was what you wanted.”

“Unnecessary, Ji-An,” said Andreyen. “He is rude but overall harmless.

Ciprian Cabrol, if you want to talk with me, I suggest you make an appointment.”

“I haven’t got the time,” Ciprian protested. “Ascension Day is in four days.”

“Astonishing news,” said the Ragpicker King. “I’ve always said I should keep better track of major holidays.” He crossed his arms. “I’ve a meeting going on, in case you can’t tell.”

Ciprian Cabrol shot a single glance at Lin. “Irrelevant. She’s Ashkar, who will she tell? My powder—”

Andreyen rolled his eyes. “Ciprian, this is Shenzan black powder we’re discussing. Surely you understand the importance of transporting it

carefully. Besides. The Roverge ships will be in the harbor for another two weeks.”

Roverge ships? Lin felt her eyes widen. The Roverges were a Charter Family, dangerous to be at odds with.

“But it needs to happen soon—on Ascension Day,” Cabrol insisted. “At the stroke of midnight. All the nobles will be gathered for that banquet.

Roverge and his rotten son will be there. I need them to see my vengeance written in fire across the sky. The harbor will shine as though the lights of the Gods have returned. As though their magic still burns across the

waters.”

“That was surprisingly poetic,” murmured Ji-An.

“You are being very theatrical about all of this,” said Andreyen disapprovingly.

“Says the man who goes about in a black carriage with wheels painted

the color of blood,” said Ciprian. “Theatricality has its purpose. After what they did to us—driving a family from their home for daring to own a small business selling ink—”

“It wasn’t that small a business,” said Andreyen. “Honestly, I’m surprised, after what’s happened, that you and your family are still in Castellane. The Vigilants—”

“My family is in Valderan for now,” said Ciprian. “Only I am here. And I’m safe enough.” He glowered. “I expect that powder tomorrow morning,” he said, and stalked out of the room. After a moment, Ji-An followed him, no doubt to make sure he made directly for the exit.

“This business with Cabrol and the Roverge fleet,” said the Ragpicker King. He looked down at Lin, eyes unreadable. “It is not information you can share. Do you understand? Not with anyone in the Sault. Not with

Mayesh Bensimon. Cabrol is rude and careless, but he is a customer. And I have a certain interest in him getting his way.”

“One question,” said Lin. “Will there be people aboard those ships? The ones Cabrol wants to blow up?”

“No,” Andreyen said. “Everyone will be in the city, celebrating Ascension Day. And they’re moored halfway out to Tyndaris. Besides, that night is your Tevath, isn’t it—your Goddess Festival? You and yours will be safe in the Sault.”

“I am a healer,” said Lin. “I would have difficulty keeping a secret that I knew would lead to injury or death, whether the victims were Ashkar or not. But the fleets of the Castellani nobility are not my concern. Besides,” she added, thinking aloud. “If I were to tell anyone, how would I explain

how I had come by the information without revealing things I do not want to reveal?”

“Like your association with me.”

“You must know a great number of people who do not wish to reveal their association with you,” said Lin.

“Indeed, and I find we all get along handily. In the meantime . . .” “I know,” Lin said. “Keep looking for the book.”

Later, after she had left the mansion and was on her way back to the Sault, she glanced over at the harbor, a strip of blue in the distance. How odd it would be if Ciprian Cabrol succeeded in his mad plan, and sometime during the Goddess Festival the gold light of his explosions illuminated the sky over the harbor.

But that was what it was to be Ashkar. Whatever happened inside the Sault, they would always be surrounded by malbushim, by their

machinations and their madness. If Cabrol managed to enact his plan—and Lin had her doubts—it would be the most exciting thing that had happened at a Tevath in some two hundred years.

Kel had returned to Marivent to find that Conor and Lilibet, Bensimon and Jolivet, were locked away in the Shining Gallery with the delegates from Sarthe. He could hear shouting from behind the doors. He tried to get close but was shooed away by Benaset. “Not your place, Anjuman,” he said.

“Jolivet told me expressly to make sure you stayed away. Go amuse yourself elsewhere.”

Kel was furious, but he restrained himself. He headed back to the Castel Mitat to collect his thoughts; besides, he could at least change out of the wretched velvet coat he’d been roasting in all day. (Lilibet’s desire for him to represent Marakand in velvet and brocade was rarely practical where the realities of Castellani weather were concerned, and it had been a depressingly beautiful day, the sky arching overhead like a dancer in pale- blue satin, the sea a sheet of unbroken teal-green glass.)

He expected to find the courtyard of the Castel Mitat empty, but it was not. The small Princess, Luisa, was there, playing along the edge of the tiled fountain. Kel and Conor had done the same when they were children; on hot days, it was a good way to cool down. The memory sent a piercing

sadness through Kel: for his old self, for Luisa now.

With her was the bodyguard, Vienne d’Este. She did not seem at all bothered by the heat. She was walking alongside Luisa as the girl bounced a ball against the statue of Cerra in the fountain’s center, catching it as it rebounded and giggling when it splashed into the water.

They both turned to look at him: Vienne with a cool suspicion, her eyes flicking down (So there’s a blade in your boots, he thought, I know your tricks, bodyguard, though you will not guess why I do), while Luisa glanced at him, smiled, then frowned and said in rapid Sarthian, “Mì pensave che xéra el Prìnçipe, el ghe soméja tanto.”

“She thought you were the Prince,” said Vienne. “She says you look very like him.”

Kel turned to Luisa. “Cosin.”

Luisa smiled her gap-toothed smile. “Dove xéło el Prìnçipe? Xeło drìo a rivar a zogar con mì?”

Vienne retrieved the ball from the fountain where Luisa had dropped it. “The Prince can’t come now, darling, he has business. I am sure he’d rather be playing.”

That’s probably true, Kel thought drily, though not in the way you mean.

“I’m Kel Anjuman,” he said. “I’m at your service, and, of course, the service of the Princess.”

He swept a bow, which seemed to delight Luisa. Vienne, holding the red ball in her hands, seemed less charmed. “Well,” she said. “If you wish to

help, truly—”

Kel raised an eyebrow.

“The quarters we have been given were decorated for someone much older than Luisa,” she said, rather stiffly. “If you could find some old toys, perhaps, or a few pretty things she might like—that would be helpful.”

It was clear on her face not only that she was the Princess’s bodyguard, but that she loved the girl like a little sister. She had handed off the ball to Luisa, who was dancing along the fountain’s edge. The hem of her pinafore was draggled by water and mud.

Kel wanted to say, I know what it is like to love someone and be sworn to protect them, someone who has so much more power than you do, but whom you cannot save from the consequences of that power.

But Vienne would simply have thought he was mad. At least Luisa seemed entirely unaware that there was a political firestorm raging around her—one that had wholly to do with the fact that her arrival was a disappointment. That she was unwanted.

Kel promised to see what he could do, and trudged upstairs to his rooms, a great weariness weighing him down.

The moon that night was blue. An unusual moon, said to augur the approach of confusing events. Kel, up in the West Tower, watched as it rose, turning the sky to a deeper indigo, the sea to moving lapis. Even the sails of the ships in the harbor appeared tinted with blue, as if seen through the lenses of Montfaucon’s blue spectacles.

The long and terrible meeting in the Gallery dragged on; Conor had not yet returned. Lilibet seemed pleased that Conor had been pulled into her world of Palace negotiations and foreign interests, tellingly happy to have him at her side. Kel could picture what was going on: Bensimon and

Anessa shouting at each other about what happened, about contractual

points and details. Jolivet and Senex Domizio ready for talk of war. But he was, of course, just guessing. What he did know was that the King was not in attendance. Light glowed in the window of the Star Tower, and occasional smoke rose from the chimney.

He was not sure if he ought to be surprised, or angry at himself for being surprised. What else had he expected, when the King had not even gone to

Valerian Square to meet the new Princess? For so many years, the Palace had put about the story: The King was a philosopher, an astronomer, a genius. His study of the stars would result in discoveries that would be passed down through generations, adding to Castellane’s glory. They had put it about so thoroughly that Kel had believed it himself, because it was easier to believe it than question it.

He guessed now that Conor had never believed it, but had never discussed it, either. He had allowed the Palace to play a game in which the King was sensible but eccentric. But Fausten’s presence in the Trick—a

spike of dark-blue steel now; Kel could see it rising against the night— belied all that. He could not help hearing Andreyen’s voice in his mind: Perhaps it is Fausten you should speak to.

But Fausten was in the Trick, and no one was allowed in the Trick, save the Arrow Squadron guards and the royal family themselves.

In the end, Kel supposed, he did it because he was tired of feeling useless, tired of imagining what was going on in a room he was barred from. Among people who, save one, would not want him there. And

because he no longer trusted the King. He had already put Fausten in the Trick, and had his own son whipped. If it were not for Lin, Conor would be bedridden still, and scarred forever. What else might Markus do, and why, and when?

He was supposed to protect Conor at all costs. And if that meant protecting him from his own father, then that was the situation he found himself in. I am the Prince’s shield. I am his unbreakable armor. I suffer that he might never suffer.

As if in a dream, Kel went down the spiral steps and to the wardrobe in their room. Not to his wardrobe, but Conor’s.

He dressed in black. Linen trousers, silk tunic, fitted waistcoat.

Vambraces beneath his sleeves. Low black boots and, of course, his talisman around his throat. Lastly, he lifted a simple coronet from its black velvet box. Placing it on his own head felt like a crime, something impermissible, though he had done it dozens of times before.

But not without Conor knowing. Never without Conor knowing.

He slipped out of the Castel Mitat, finding the courtyard empty, though Luisa’s red ball was floating in the fountain like a water-swollen pomegranate.

The blue moon cast a ghostly air over the Palace grounds as Kel made his way through gardens and gates, past the closed doors of the Shining Gallery, past the Little Palace, the Castel Pichon, where Luisa’s apartments had been prepared. The wind had kicked up, carrying the scent of

eucalyptus and a freight of dried leaves and headless flower stems.

Long ago, he and Conor would sneak out of the Castel Mitat on nights like this. They would raid Dom Valon’s kitchen for tarts and pastries; they

would swim in the reflecting pool in the Queen’s Garden. Huddle in one of the cliffside follies with a bottle of brandewine swiped from the cellars and pretend to like the taste of it. Pretend to be drunk, giggling, until they really were drunk, and had to guide each other back to their rooms before dawn, each too drunk to hold the other one up, but they tried regardless.

He remembered Merren saying, “I thought it was half a joke, this Sword Catcher thing, when I heard it. Who’d do that?” By Law, Kel knew, his loyalty was owed to House Aurelian, but in reality it was given to Conor.

Conor, the only person who had ever really known what Kel’s life was like, what made up his days—and in exchange, he knew Conor the same way. In fact, no one knew that Conor but him: the boy Prince who could only have a little brandewine before it made him sick, who cried when his horse (a bay stallion who hated him) broke its leg and had to have its throat cut by Jolivet. Who fretted that the world was so big, he could never see all of it, though he had never been farther than Valderan.

The Trick rose up before Kel’s eyes then—a blue-black needle of marble, threading the sky. He slid the talisman down the chain around his neck so it lay just above the open collar of his shirt. He approached the front doors of the Trick, two wooden half-moons banded with iron. Outside them were stationed a group of three Castelguards; they sat at a folding wooden table, playing yezi ge, a Shenzan card game.

They shot to their feet at Kel’s approach, their faces paling. “Monseigneur,” said one, apparently the bravest. “We were—everything has been quiet, no sound from the prisoner—”

What were they afraid of? Kel wondered. That he—that Conor—was checking to make sure they had shown alacrity in the performance of their duties? They were guarding one weak old man in a prison no one had ever escaped from.

Kel tried to imagine a Conor who would interrupt his own evening to

come down to the Trick and shout at a group of guards for lazing about on duty. He failed.

“Gentlemen.” He fought the urge to incline his head politely; Princes did not bow to soldiers. “I’ve come to see the prisoner. No”—he held a hand up

—“there is no need to accompany me. I prefer to go alone.”

As they melted away, ushering Kel into the prison tower, he had to hide a smile. It had been so easy. And it felt good, it always did, to put on power

like a cloak of invulnerability from a Story-Spinner’s tale. The trick was to fight against enjoying it.

It was a calculated risk, he thought, as he began to climb the tower steps, coming here as Conor. There was always the danger the guards would gossip about his visit, and another Palace denizen would point out that Conor had been in some sort of diplomatic meeting. But he was betting that the gossip about Sarthe and the new Princess was juicy enough to distract them from anything else.

Kel had been in the Trick recently enough, but only during the day. The narrow spiral staircase he climbed now looked deeply shadowed, illuminated only by the occasional hanging carcel lamp, casting spidery

shadows against the stone walls.

When he reached the top, he found it equally dark. There was only one lamp. Thankfully, there were windows set high in the walls through which pale-blue moonlight poured, making the Sunderglass bars of the cells glow as if they had been carved from opals.

He walked the narrow aisle until he found Fausten’s cell. It was the only one with the door closed, though for a moment Kel thought it was empty. Then he realized that what he had taken for a heap of rags in the corner was the King’s old adviser, crouched against the wall.

He was in the same clothes he’d worn when the guards had dragged him out of the Shining Gallery, only they were filthy now, the constellations sewn onto his cloak now a scatter of bright beads across the floor of his cell. The stink of piss and old sweat was rank. There was something else under it, too, a metallic smell like old blood.

Kel approached the cell reluctantly. He was no longer thinking about fighting the enjoyment of power. He was asking himself why he had thought he could do this.

Fausten looked up, his face a pale smudge in the dimness. He blinked into the shadows. “My—my lord,” he stammered. “My King—”

Kel flinched. “No. Not the father, but the son.”

A faint look of cunning flashed across Fausten’s face. “Conor,” he breathed. “I have always been fond of you, Conor.”

A faint nausea twisted in the pit of Kel’s stomach. “Fond enough to sell me to the Malgasi without a word to me of whatever bargain you had

made?”

Fausten’s eyes glittered, ratlike, in the half dark. “I did not sell you.

There is no profit for me in any of this. Your father made this bargain, long ago.”

“But why?” said Kel, and when Fausten did not answer, he said, “My father spoke to me some time ago of a danger. A terrible danger he believed was coming to Castellane, and to me. But he would not say what it was.”

“Why ask me?” said Fausten. “I am but an old man, thrust unjustly into prison. All I have ever wanted to do was protect your father. You know I do not belong here.”

“I’d know it better if you answered my questions,” said Kel. “Was the danger my father spoke of some machination of the Malgasi Court?”

“The Malgasi Court,” Fausten echoed scornfully. “All you think of is politics. There are greater forces at work than any worldly powers.”

“Please, spare me your talk of the stars,” said Kel. “I have seen how helpful that was to my father.”

“Your father,” said Fausten, in a hollow voice. He wobbled to his feet. He came closer to the bars, taking small delicate steps, as if he were picking his way among flowers. Though there were certainly no flowers here. “I have

always been loyal to your father,” he said, catching at the Sunderglass bars. “The Court of Malgasi is a cold, cold place. When your father was there, he was only a boy, a fosterling, a third son and ignored. He was open to any

voice that whispered to him. And whisper it did.” “Who whispered to him?”

Fausten’s rhuemy eyes wandered. “Atma az dóta,” he muttered. “It was not his fault. He did only what he was persuaded to do.”

Atma az dóta. Fire and shadow. “What did my father do?” Fausten shook his head. “I promised. Not to tell.”

“It was something bad,” Kel said, dropping his voice. Low and confiding, as if he were speaking to a child. “Wasn’t it?”

Fausten made an inarticulate noise.

“What I don’t understand,” said Kel mildly, “is why, if my father committed some terrible malfeasance in Malgasi, was Ambassador Sarany so determined that I marry Elsabet?”

“Iren’s daughter,” said Fausten. His eyes had begun to roll from side to side. “She was so beautiful, Iren. But then the fire left her, her light all dimmed, and she was only fury. Why does she want you to marry Elsabet? For the same reason Iren let your father live. Because she prizes your blood. Your Aurelian blood.”

Well, of course. Every noble family prized royal lineage. Kel felt like grinding his teeth together with frustration. “Fausten. If you do not tell me what the danger is that my father spoke of, then I cannot intervene with him for your sake. If you do help me—well, then, perhaps I can convince my father you were acting in his interests. That you were not merely a puppet of the Malgasi, manipulating him at their whim.”

Fausten made a gasping noise. “It is not so simple,” he said. “Nothing is so simple.” He turned his rat’s eyes on Kel. “The danger is not the Malgasi Court. It is far closer than that.”

“In the city?” Kel said.

“On the Hill,” said Fausten. “There are those who would see House Aurelian destroyed. I thought a union with the Malgasi Court might prevent that. They are strong, ruthless. Perhaps I pushed the King too hard toward it. Perhaps—”

“Perhaps you should have told me,” said Kel. “You expected me to have no will of my own. That was your mistake.”

“Many are my mistakes,” said Fausten.

“Amend them now,” said Kel. “Tell me who is the danger on the Hill.” “Look to those close to you,” said Fausten. “Look to your Council. To

the nobles. Look to your Sword Catcher.” Kel went cold down to his bones. “What?”

There was a crafty light in Fausten’s eyes, as if to say, I have caught your attention now, have I not, Crown Prince? “Just as I say. Your Királar will betray you. I have seen it in the stars.”

“My Sword Catcher is loyal to me,” Kel said. He was conscious of the awful irony of the situation, but he bit back on it; he could not waver in front of Fausten. It would only make the situation worse.

“He is loyal to you now. One day there will be something of yours he wants badly enough to betray you for it. And you will hate him then. Hate him enough to wish him dead.”

“But what—”

“Envy. Envy is the great poisoner. I would have told you before, had I thought you would listen—”

“Enough.” Kel’s temper snapped like a twig. “It is easy enough to see you are trying to manipulate me. To drive a wedge between me and my Sword Catcher, so I will put my trust in you instead, as my father did. Do you think I could possibly believe you now about what you say you see in the stars? Are you that much of a fool?”

It was too much; he had pressed too hard. The little man gave a cry and curled up on the filthy ground, hugging his knees to his chest, rolling among the broken beads. Nothing Kel did or said could budge him.

And to be fair, Kel was only too eager to get away. Away from the stink of the Trick, away from the words buzzing in his brain. Your Sword Catcher will betray you. And you will hate him then. Hate him enough to wish him dead.

And thus did the time of the Sorcerer-Kings come to an end. Though the people of Dannemore were glad to be freed from the tyranny of those Kings and Queens, that freedom had been bought at great cost. Great devastation had been wrought upon the land, and after the Sundering came a time of darkness, during which

the people, with righteous rage, fell upon and destroyed every artifact of magic they could find. The only magic that continued to exist in Dannemore was the gematry of the Ashkar, for it did not require the Name.

But there was not always to be darkness over the world. Before the Sundering, the people had turned away from the Gods, preferring to worship magic and those who practiced it. But now Lotan, Father of the Gods, set Marcus Carus, the first Emperor, upon the Imperial throne, and he brought beneath his rule all the warring kingdoms and united them, and he created the Gold Roads that spanned all the lands of the Empire and even beyond them, east into Shenzhou and Hind. And now the benevolence of the Emperor shines through the land, and justice has replaced tyranny, and trade has replaced war. All praise the Emperor, and the lands over which he presides, which shall never be divided!

—Tales of the Sorcerer-Kings, Laocantus Aurus Iovit III