Page 69 of The Thief and the Traitor Bride

“A resurrection of virility?” Caspian asked. Nore elbowed him under the table.

“Let us say life, then,” Nore said, before Caspian could come up with any other ideas. “Life, in the purest form of resurrection.”

“How is one to ensure that what they are seeking to claw back from the beyond has been unchanged? There is no way to get exactly what one once had when it is lost.”

“I don’t know,” Nore admitted.

Terlo only shrugged. “If it is a full resurrection of life, even with changes, it would take a lot of power for such an artifact to function,” they said, running their fingers over the edge of the book, clearly thinking.

“So a powerful mage would be needed?” Nore asked.

“No,” Terlo said. “A powerful well, more like. A mage can be effective, but with a weak well, they are still nothing.”

Nore nodded. In Lindan, a weakness in the magician relied only on a lack of study, a failing in training. “And Idistran magic is inherent.”

“Yes,” Terlo said. “Your artifact, if it exists, would need to have been forged in a power-rich place, to be created. And if it was more than just conjecture, it would have to be old—probably older than our system.”

“We have reason to believe the artifact is on Locke,” Caspian said. “But could it have been moved? Just because it required power to make, doesn’t mean it requires power to keep.”

“I haven’t heard of it,” Terlo said slowly, as if thinking through it. “But for it to still function, a removal from that power… If it did move, before the war, it would be greatly reduced in efficacy.”

“Why?” Nore asked.

“Because unless carefully transferred, magical artifacts are only powerful in context,” Caspian said. He’d taken a coin from somewhere on his person and was now flipping it over his fingers. Nore clenched her teeth when she realized the coin he was flipping was the queen’s coin he’d gotten from Celestine. “And that requires a specialist. Usually,” he said, lifting his gaze to meet her eye, “an amalgamate, to transfer the artifact.”

“That’s between systems,” Nore said. “What about between nations, here?”

Caspian shrugged. “I’ve never heard of a constructive object in an inherent system. I don’t know enough to say.”

“But if it was real and has been moved, I would know about it,” Terlo said. “If there’s still any trace at all, I would’ve heard of it—but Locke keeps its own secrets, and there hasn’t been the ability to study its lore or ways in two decades. Even now, it’s a challenge.”

But they had passed the bay on the way here—if the mist had only lifted or burned away, they would’ve physically been within sight of the Isle of Locke. “Okay then,” she said, leaning back in her chair, her fingers working against one another under the table. “So, we go to Locke and do some research. Surely there has to be some sort of… I don’t know. Scholarly exchange? Or some other excuse we can use, to get inside whatever libraries or archives they have…?”

She realized that Caspian and Terlo were both looking at her as if she was missing something very obvious. Over by the window, Gail only sighed.

“If we’ve secured permission,” Caspian said, “it’s an easy enough trip.”

Nore bit her lip. She and Gail hadn’t spoken of permission, but surely… “Gail? We have permission, right?”

“Well,” he said. “It’s all a bit awkward, you see.”

You will make a misstep.

Terlo recovered first. “If you have gotten permission, I would love to accompany you. I know we have only just become acquainted, but an opportunity like this doesn’t arise often.”

Nore turned her frown on Caspian, who had every reason to look at her with a smug expression on his face. I told you, she expected it to say. I know things you don’t, and you will never have all the information you need to complete this mission. But Caspian’s brow was furrowed, and he glanced at Gail before laying a hand on Nore’s thigh under the table in some odd, uncanny, frustratingly effective form of comfort.

“You can’t just go to Locke, darling,” Caspian said. “Visitors are limited all the time—too many assassination attempts of late—and the Peacetide plus the months on either side of it are strictly invitation only.”

“The… what?”

“Peacetide,” Caspian repeated—then once more, to translate it from the Idistran word she didn’t know into the Lindle approximation for her to comprehend. “The festival,” he amended, and she cursed her own stupidity for not even thinking there would be a reason it was closed.

“It marks the anniversary of the end of the war,” Terlo said, like Nore’s ignorance was fine and not something that could prove to be fatal. Caspian squeezed her thigh once, and she focused on hiding her frustration, lest her expression betray her. “We all celebrate it—that’s why my students are off—but Locke marks it with a two-week festival. It starts…” They glanced at the wall, where an odd, ancient object, some sort of collection of beads on string, acted as some approximation of a calendar. Nore would never understand academics. “In ten days.”

“It’s definitely too late to get an invitation,” Caspian said, easily reading Nore’s first thought.

“Gail,” Nore said, her voice a little too high-pitched. “Is this something you thought to… oh, I don’t know. Get ahead of?”