Page 11 of Zenith Tower

The Council had called my formal a celebration. By the end of it, they had put me in my mother’s gown and tried to bind me to one man before the entire Hall.

The stewards arrived before the last note of the bell had faded. Hale got Kieran to his feet, one arm around his chest and Kieran’s left hand braced on his shoulder. The fever draught had steadied his breathing, but it had also left him pale and slow. Its bitter smell clung to his skin.

Caspian walked on Kieran’s other side. I stayed close behind them, watching the green-gold line on my wrist for any change.

Two stewards led us away from the rooms. The corridor was colder here, its pale ceiling light reflected in damp patches along the floor. Unmarked doors passed on either side. None had handles.

No one spoke. Kieran needed his breath for walking.

The review chamber had no windows and no reading basin. A long table divided the room. Four chairs waited onour side; on the other sat the woman who had met us at the bridge and three readers I recognized from intake. The reader who had given Kieran the draught had placed her narrow leather case beneath her chair.

Marrow stood behind them.

Paper covered the table in careful stacks. One page lay apart from the others, marked at the top with all four of our names.

Caspian saw it too.

“Is that the record of our request for treatment?” he asked before anyone invited us to sit.

The woman from the bridge put one hand on the page. “It is part of the review record.”

“Does it state that the cord was pulled before his breathing seized?”

She looked down. “It states the time of the summons, the respiratory event, and the draught administered.”

“And the request for a healer?” I asked.

Her eyes lifted to me. “Recorded.”

Only then did Caspian pull out Kieran’s chair.

We sat with Kieran between Hale and me. Caspian took the chair at the end. They had placed us close enough that our sleeves touched when any of us moved.

Kieran leaned back carefully. The cloth at his neck had been removed, but damp green marked the collar of his shirt. Hale kept one hand near the edge of Kieran’s chair without resting it there.

The woman from the bridge folded her hands over the page.

“Astra Verita. Your Mark carries three active lines. State their origins.”

My pulse quickened. I kept both hands flat on my thighs.

“Green-gold from Kieran Marsh. Rain-dark from Jonah Hale. Silver from Caspian Ashford.”

One of the readers made a note. The scratch of her pen seemed loud in the bare room.

“The silver line is the completed bond?”

“Yes.”

“And how do you account for the presence of three?”

“I don’t. They appeared during readings conducted by the Hall. You have those records.”

“We have measurements,” she said. “We are asking what you believe they mean.”

I looked at the four people across from us. None had offered a name. They had our histories in front of them and still wanted me to explain myself as if I had drawn the lines there deliberately.

“They mean my Mark answered three people.”