“Often when our magic is used, we leave a mark... a stamp of sorts. It’s like a signature of who conjured it. The Court of River—stemming from Queen Azari—has such a signature, though everyone’s is a little different.”
“The jasmine,” she breathed, beginning to understand.
“Yes.”
“And it stays every time you use magic?”
“It isn’t always visible, or even there, depending on the strength of the magic. But strong magic, or magic conjured with fierce emotion such as anger or pain, leaves a stamp.”
She was quiet for a minute. Then—“The Viceroy’s signature is a scorpion.”
I nodded, meeting her eyes. “Yes.”
She sucked in a breath, her eyes roving over my torso. Not all the marks were visible, but I knew what she was seeing. My chest and stomach were a massacre of scar tissue, overlaying scorpions, their stingers and tails and segmented bodies lapping like burns across my skin, like a spiderweb of punishment.
“I’m sorry.” Her voice was soft and heavy against the gentle flow of the river.
My throat grew thick.
When had anyone ever said those words to me?
But allowing emotion wasn’t part of the plan.
And the sorrow and compassion I saw shining in her eyes right now were misplaced.
The moment I let myself feel was when I gave Reza more power over me than what he already had.
“You shouldn’t be sorry. I chose this. I don’t need pity or sympathy, the marks he gave me are a reminder.”
I knew my words were harsh, but she needed to understand.
Ineeded to understand.
“A reminder of what?”
“Of what I fight for. Of what I fight against.”
She pursed her lips. “How long have you worked for him?”
I remembered that first day, when Reza had hauled me into the dungeons for beating his soldiers in the pit. After he’d put his first mark on me, he offered me the job. He’d wanted someone who knew the Court, someone he could control. He had no idea who I really was.
“Since I was sixteen. I was making a name for myself in the fighting rings of the city. And I had beaten most of his own soldiers. So he hired me.”
“And tortured you.”
“No more than the marks I’d get in the ring.” I tilted my head, fascinated by the emotions flitting across her face—sorrow, anger, determination.
“Can you fight back against the Viceroy, as you can in the ring?” she shot back, rage coloring her words.
I gave her a slow smile this time. “You’re beginning to understand the Viceroy.”
I swam to the edge of the water, planting my hands on the side of the riverbank, then paused. “If you don’t want another show, I would consider turning around.”
She gave a small squeak and hid her face in her book. I laughed out loud at that and hauled myself out of the water, dressing quickly, not bothering with my shirt.
“You shouldn’t be out here much longer, it isn’t completely safe—the rebels are a real threat, you know.”
“So you keep saying.” She swallowed, then begun to pack the books back in her satchel. “But it sounds more like we are making camp with the real threat.”
