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I unwind my new, slinky shawl from my neck and let it drape overmy shoulder. Noting the loose, flowing locks that most women—and a few men—sport, I undo my braid and let my hair hang freely. I half expect my hair to puff up and stick to my face, but the air’s less humid here. I don’t think Izamal’s swagger will look quite so good on me, but the rest I can learn.
The Ven rises over the tops of smaller buildings. It’s a gleaming sandstone fortress in the shape of a crown, the great jewel being the watchtower that juts toward the sky. I follow close behind Izamal as he strides toward a grand arch that’s ornately carved with depictions of the Wardana’s most valiant deeds: Wardana in flight, one single-handedly fighting hordes of beasts while others wield ikons of light that hold back the darkness. Nothing to indicate they spend their free time marching into old women’s homes and burning them down.
My burnt palm smarts, and I dig my nails into it until calm falls over me.
The carvings continue into the archway. It’s deep, dark, and narrow, so much so that when we come out into a large courtyard, the riot of color and sound startles me. People in red leather run through the colonnade surrounding the courtyard, disappearing into hallways; others spar against each other, and a group of three Wardana take on a massive mock stormbeast. Its wooden body has the head of a falcon and legs of a goat. Every inch of it is engraved with ikons—I’ve never seen such a complex working of ikonomancy.
An ikonomancer operates the beast from a seat mounted to its back, laughing as she twists a dial and the beast spits a tongue of fire at the trainees. It’s incredible—I wonder how it works, what all the other dials do. Is this really all ikonomancy? Izamal gently guides me past it.
Off to one side is a white domed building, a single ikon-marked door its only ornamentation. “What’s that?”
“The way to the ikonomancers’ library and most secret research rooms. Only full mancers have seen the inside.” Izamal gives it a wide berth. Most of the Wardana are like Izamal and Dalca, fighters who use ikons or ikon-engraved weapons and tools. But the rest are like Pa, researchers and scholars who invent new ikons or discover new applications for ikons.
“You might make it in, one day, if you survive being Casvian’s trainee. But I’d wager it’s not nearly as mysterious and fascinating as he makes it sound. Probably a disgusting mess inside. You should see the foul muck that mancers come up with when they’re up for advancement. Last year, Cas was working on some ikon that vaporized whatever it was written on. We had to rope off a dozen rooms, or else people kept breathing it in and passing out. Smelled like rotten cabbage, on top of it all.” There’s an undercurrent of easy familiarity under the exasperation that gives me pause. How close is he to them, really?
My feet itch to walk over and peek inside the ikonomancers’ quarters. Pa must know what secrets that building holds. I imagine him at my age, walking through those doors for the first time, in awe of the magic inside. That was a place he belonged, once. I imagine what it would be like if he and Ma had made different choices, if I could follow in his footsteps.
“Prepare yourself.” Izamal glances at me as we reach the far side of the courtyard and step into the shade under the colonnade. “Just around the corner now.”
I suck in a breath and hold it till my lungs burn. I draw in another, and another. I follow Iz into a hallway studded with wooden doors,leaving the sounds of the courtyard behind. The walls are all striated sandstone, layers of sienna and umber flowing like water.
Iz stops at a wooden door, no different from the dozen we’ve passed. He gives me a quick nod and raps twice with his knuckles. A voice calls from within, “Come in.”
I straighten my back, comb my hair flat with my fingers, and paste a smile on my lips as I step inside. Meeting two pairs of eyes, my smile freezes.
Dalca Zabulon Illusora—the Regia-to-be, the man I’d most like to strangle, abductor of my father, arsonist, and murderer—sits cross-legged on the floor. His dark hair is a wild bird’s nest, and his white shirt is torn and gaping at the neck, as if he can’t be bothered about his appearance. The benefit of being the Regia’s only child: if he were wearing a canvas sack or nothing at all, no one would dare stand in his way.
He blinks up at me, uncomprehending, until he catches sight of Izamal over my shoulder. His face breaks into a shockingly genuine grin.
A flare of fury rises in my gut. He looks innocent. He looks like he’s just a boy.
“Iz!” He bounds to his feet. “What have you brought us today?”
Casvian Haveli’s head is bent over a scroll he’s weighed down with a dagger and an inkstand. His expression is hidden by his curtain of pale hair, now faintly gold as it reflects the warm lamplight.
“I’ve found Casvian a new apprentice,” Iz says as Dalca holds out a hand to me.
“No.” Casvian doesn’t look up. I glance at Izamal, who looks like he’s trying to murder Cas with his eyes alone.
“Well.” Dalca gives me a quick, almost imperceptible once-over.When his gaze reaches mine, he startles, and the smile drops off his lips. “I’m Dalca.”
I swallow down the panic that rises in me. I have to trust Carver did her job. “Vesper.” I twist my mouth into something that I hope looks like a smile and take his outstretched hand. Dalca blinks, his expression smoothing. His hand is rough and warm, and I pull my hand free a second too soon to be polite.
Izamal puts a hand on my shoulder. “Cas, you haven’t met her. Would it kill you to even look at her? She’s clever.”
Cas takes me in from head to toe, his gaze lingering on my face, but he gives no indication that he recognizes me. I exhale.
“I’m not interested in your ideas of clever, Izamal.” Cas turns away. “Sorry, but I only take second-ringers who have a background in ikonomancy.”
“You have no idea how good anyone might be at ikonomancy unless you give them a chance,Casvian.” Izamal drags out his name as if it’s a curse word. “You don’t even know if she’s a second-ringer.”
Cas raises an eyebrow at me. “Are you?”
“Third,” I say.
Cas shrugs, as if to say,Well, what can I do?
“Iz,” Dalca murmurs, pressing a hand to Izamal’s chest as he takes a step toward Cas.
