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Chapter 19
It starts in low in the stands, a rumbling that grows into a roar. People leap down from their seats, dropping onto the Arvegna’s floor. Others follow in their wake, loud and angry.
Dalca gestures, and ikons appear in the wall around the arena. Wardana spill out and surround him and Pa in a human shield. Ragno hoists his scythe, refusing their assistance.
I follow Dalca and Pa’s progress—two dark-haired heads bobbing in a sea of blood-red—until they disappear into the depths of the Arvegna and the doors seal up behind them.
“Vesper.”
Casvian, clad in a pale, glittering swath of fabric that leaves a shoulder bare—his festive wear, I figure—appears behind me. Next to him, in his Wardana reds, is Izamal. He shoots me a speaking glance over Cas’s shoulder.Careful. Don’t give me away.
They reveal another secret passage that lets us out at the Ven. My mind’s reeling too much to pay close attention to where we go, until we come to a stop. A door shuts behind us.
A cramped little reading room, already strewn with sheafs of paper.
Casvian frowns at me. Distantly, I notice that he’s painted gold around his eyes. It looks nice.
Izamal clears his throat. “Dalca’s on his way.”
“The Regia will have summoned him.” Casvian glares, and I understand that my actions might’ve cost Dalca even more than he said. “Did you beg? Did he do this for you?”
I hold out my fist. The muscles of my arm tingle from gripping too tight, and my fingers are slow to unfold. Pa’s notebook rests in the palm of my scarred hand. “This is why he did it.”
A half dozen expressions flash across Casvian’s face. Ire fades to confusion fades to comprehension, with a few stops in between, ending in a gleaming-eyed hunger.
He reaches for it. I flinch, snapping my hand back. It takes me a second to shake the feeling that I’m betraying Pa, to let it fall into Casvian’s waiting hands.
“Astounding,” Cas murmurs, producing a nub of chalk from some fold of his glittering ensemble and neatly drawing an expanding ikon on the notebook’s cover.
This isn’t about betraying or not betraying Pa. It didn’t come down to a choice between Pa and Dalca. That wasn’t it at all. It wasn’t even about saving Pa—though I’m more than relieved that Pa’ll live at least another day. It came down to a choice between hope and fear. The slimmest shard of hope that we might be able to fight back the Storm against the teeth-clenching fear that we’re one poor choice away from condemning us all to a future even worse than the present. I’m not ready to give up hope.
“By the Great King,” Casvian murmurs to himself as Izamal peers at the book upside down.
I trace the burnt lines on my hand. It has to be the right choice. So why am I more afraid than I’ve ever been?
The door opens, and our heads swivel. Dalca walks in, his eyes locking on to mine. His fingers fall away from the cord around his wrist. “Let’s get to work.”
We settle in. My fingers itch, but Casvian hoards the book.
Izamal stretches.
The thing unsaid between Dalca and me—an electric stillness that draws us together, but only so far—has grown larger in the hour since I’ve handed over Pa’s work. Cas bends over the notebook, so close the tips of his hair brush the pages. Izamal flips through another book and stretches his legs out, nudging Cas, who retaliates by stomping on my foot.
I bite back my yelp and draw my feet up.
“In the name of the King,” Casvian mutters, “what absurd code is this?”
“Oh.” I’ve forgotten that the notebook is written in code. “I can show you.”
“I don’t need help from anapprentice,” Cas hisses, “for Storm’s sake, I’m a master ikonomancer—”
“Cas,” Dalca snaps.
I shrug, unoffended. I’m starting to understand that insulting is Cas’s default state.
“I can figure it out,” Cas mutters, but only out of habit, as he turns to me with Pa’s notes in hand.
“Get over yourself for once, for Storm’s sake,” Izamal interrupts, slamming down his book. “It won’t kill you to learn something from a fifth-ringer.”
