Page 58 of The Court of Venus

What makes a magician change? Is it time of year? Is it age? Is it some other natural phenomenon?

“Fall equinox…” I gestured to the page. “Presumably, he wrote this only months before he was killed.”

“Yes. Must have been. When he died, it was snowing. There was snow, burying his body. Snow on his grave.” With a groan, Roland ran a slow hand down his face. I reached for him, to touch him, to comfort him somehow, but instead, my fingers folded into a fist.

“No king should rule too long,” I said quietly. “No king should rule forever.”

“Careful, Mouse. That’s nearly treason.” He eyed my hand, as if he could see the ghost of what I intended.

We had arrived at the last translation, the last message exchanged between Prospero and Eleanor before their deaths.

When a planet moves into its sign of exaltation, a position of great strength, so too should a magician’s magic bound forth, uninhibited. Yet it doesn’t. I am struck by Faustus, the magician who developed magic beyond his prior capabilities later in life. Think of it this way: If magicians live in a storm, exaltation is the lightning that might strike us. If it does, we are forever changed, out-of-bodied, and more remarkable than we could ever dream of becoming. For this Saturn could suddenly create boundaries between time itself, yet never understood what sparked in his blood.

Roland tapped the parchment. “If Prospero was right, if the Lionesse king really is over one hundred years old—” he began.

“If we can do what Prospero couldn’t, if we can discover what causes exaltation, King Richard may never die,” I finished for him. “It makes perfect sense. If exaltation is an expansion of our natural abilities, then a Venus—you—would be able to prolong life. You already make the king look younger, more beautiful. Every week, you revitalize him.”

“And an immortal king requires no son, Bianca. No heir. No more scheming Guildfords. No Fulke Roet. The king would be loyal to no one but me. He would depend on me utterly. And so I would rule him.”

The knowledge rolled through me.

Did I want such a king to live forever, or for the crown to pass over to Fulke Roet, to Fulke’s son and the son after that, each more twisted than the last? To those who murdered Hal? Or did I want to sit on this weakened king’s council—and perhaps, in small infinitesimal movements, wield my influence? Fight for what Hal would have wanted, had he lived? For what I wanted for myself, if I dared to admit it?

Because there was a part of me that wondered about exaltation for myself. What might I be capable of, if I were the one struck by lightning?

Now, instead of Prospero’s, I imagined Hal’s eyes on me, the intent gray embrace of them. You know what to do, he would have said. I felt the firm grip of his hand. The solid, steadying comfort of it. This is how you avenge me. Let no one take the throne they killed me for. Save Roland’s life.

“So, we’ll depart for Lionesse immediately.” Roland rose to his feet. “Question Marguerite. Find out how she’s done it.” Quieter, he said, almost to himself, “She’ll tell me. She must.”

“There’s something I must do first.”

When I lifted my face, his own fell. “No.”

“Please.”

He softened at that. Sighing, looking almost pained. “I said no, Mouse.”

“I say yes. Where would you be without me?” I thrust out a hand in emphasis. “I found Eleanor’s book—”

He rolled his eyes. “Which nearly killed me.”

“You promised to help me. This is for Hal—”

His hands flew to his hair in disbelief. “Hal? Hal would want me to keep his father on the throne and forget this madness.”

“The Guildfords let Kitty’s name slip for a reason.”

“You always have to scurry about, and around Kitty Seton of all people—”

“Oh, I’m not going as myself. She won’t tell me a thing. I’m going as you.”

Fourteen

Alvion law states that any royal court of inquiry must have a Sunborn or Mercuryborn magician present, to determine the legitimacy of what is said under oath. For a Sunborn can discern truth from lies, and a Mercuryborn can determine if there is something unspoken or withheld.

—THOMAS FEYDON, A HISTORY OF MAGIC IN ALVION

Roland’s mouth dropped open. “You cannot be me.”