Llewis turned back to the forge with a grunt of affirmation, and Kel offered a perky farewell to Cedric as he left. Cedric barely heard either. Something prickled at his mind with the mention of Lord Church.
Why was the lord overseeing the deliveries of mana to the magicsmith himself? Moreover, when did he find the time to do so? Withendless council meetings and fabricated ceremonies taking place each day, Cedric’s own schedule barely gave him time enough to eat, shower, and sleep. Although...
Upon further reflection, Cedric supposed that the lord had indeed only been present at perhaps half of the events Cedric attended. Still, it hardly seemed worth the time and effort of the king’s most esteemed advisor to oversee the logistics of mana deliveries.
Perhaps Kel had simply misspoken. Perhaps he was embellishing. Or...perhaps Lord Church’s personal interest in the mana being mined from the Midlands was far greater than Cedric realized. He just wasn’t sure why.
What he was suddenly sure of, with a clarity that made him feel like somewhat of an idiot for not realizing it sooner, was that it made a great deal of sense why both King Callum and Lord Church were stalling the Arcanian efforts to hunt down Varyth Malchior. Why they did not seem nearly concerned enough that he was after the Crown of Concord.
Granted, Lord Church certainly did seem invested in Cedric’s progress in figuring out the whereabouts of the lost princess and the other half of the crown. After Cedric had updated the lord with his revelation regarding the princess’ sylvan nanny—conveniently leaving Elyria’s name out of it—he’d sent an emergency missive to Magister Yvan bidding the requisite tomes be rushed to Kingshelm.
But regardless of whether he possessed half a crown or both pieces together, the fact remained that Malchior did not pose the same kind of threat to humans as he did the Arcanians. The Cult of Malakar’s goal had never been to usurp power from the throne of Kingshelm, but to take down the Arcanians whose magic they resented, whose power they coveted.
To be sure, there had been the occasional flare up with cultists acting out in Havensreach, skirmishes arising and damage done within their own borders. Issues that Cedric himself had often been commanded to deal with. But they were treated as little more than a nuisance. Collateral damage. Easy enough to snuff out and clean up.
Cedric hadn’t thought much about it before. He hadn’t thought about a lot of things before he took on the Crucible.
If Malchior succeeded, if he reunited and claimed the Crown ofConcord, it would be the Arcanians—the fae—who suffered. Not Havensreach. And if Elyria succeeded instead, if she tracked him down, if she got to the crown first, what incentive would King Lachlandris have to adhere to the accords? To continue granting Havensreach access to the mana of the Midlands?
Cedric did not believe the fae king would renege on his promises, but there was no way to be certain. And if even Cedric was uncertain, King Callum and Lord Church would surely be doubly, triply suspicious. So why would they risk ushering Elyria and the Arcanians closer to the very thing that could jeopardize the very good deal they had going for them?
They already had what they wanted.
Which meant all of this—putting Cedric and Elyria on display, the boasts of peace, of needing to wait and be prudent and be purposeful—truly was simply for show.
A spectacle.
They didn’t want Elyria to find Malchior. Because if she did, if she recovered the crown, what would become of the power they held? Finding out wasn’t a risk King Callum was willing to take, clearly.
Cedric’s fists tightened, fingers coiling so hard his nails bit into his palms as he thudded toward the Walk. All this newly acquired mana, the magic of the Midlands now within the kingdom’s reach, and yet it was still being used to power noblemen’s tokens and polish the already pristine accoutrements of the palace, rather than helping those who needed it most.
He saw it everywhere now. How deep the imbalance in the city went. How broken it was. In the bright, gleaming heart of Kingshelm, magic was everywhere. Lighting the many lamps that lined the grand avenues. Shining the windows of shops and powering the runes carved into doorways. Heating homes and keeping children fed and happy.
But here, on the Walk, with pathways made of crumbling stone and lit only by spluttering oil lamps, there was none of that. Children with hollow cheeks and wide eyes wove between the legs of vendors that lined street after street. Doors and shutters hung at crooked angles, repaired not by small magics but with nails and grit and perseverance.
And it was only getting worse.
Despite the flare of heat he could feel building in his chest, Cedric shivered as he stepped onto the Walk’s main street. He pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders, drawing his hood over his face. The familiar streets brought a sense of calm, of belonging, despite the dilapidated state of them. He’d spent more time down here than any knight of Kingshelm ever had, he was sure of it. Well, outside those who found their pleasure in the moreaffordablebrothels dotted sparingly throughout, he supposed. While he certainly didn’t judge or begrudge either the patrons or the workers within, they had never held much appeal for him.
Rather, Cedric felt himself drawn to the Walk for other reasons. Less a sense of duty than a curiosity, a hunger for understanding that had always driven him to want to explore the world outside the shiniest parts of the city.
Perhaps it was that he felt a kinship with the children here. He, too, had been orphaned. He, too, experienced loss of the most acute and unfairest kind, at an age all too young.
Cedric passed a group of ragged children playing with a wooden hoop, laughter and excitement palpable in the air. Farther on, he saw an elderly man huddled by a firepit, the flames pale and weak—no doubt coaxed to life through painstaking effort, given the unlikelihood of even a flicker of magic to sustain it.
If King Lachlandris did rescind his bargain, would more of Kingshelm end up like this? Would the Arcanians drive the humans out of the Midlands by force, as they had before?
But no.
A flicker of memory danced in Cedric’s mind. Elyria’s voice, fierce, uncompromising, echoing through the darkness of the Sanctum.
“With the crown, bolstered with that kind of power...I think I could fill the Chasms and bridge the realms.”
He knew without a single doubt she had spoken true. That, if given the opportunity, she would heal the rifts that had been torn through the earth and give Havensreach and Nyrundelle a chance at true unity.
Without the physical separation of the Chasms, without the limitations that came with them, expansion into the Midlands was a real possibility for the humans. Not just for the sake of mining mana, but for lessening the burden on these crowded streets. For remedying theissues of overpopulation and lack of resources that plagued Havensreach from Silverbrook to Dawnspire, mana be damned.
Another voice, layered with ancient power, cut through Cedric’s thoughts.
