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It’s a strange talent he has; every time I learn something new about Casvian, I like him even less. “I don’t think threatening me will solve any of our problems.”
“Perhaps not.” He bites back whatever else he was going to say and stares at the parchment in front of him, unseeing. Dalca’s words about Ragno Haveli’s wife come back to me.
He’s shown better restraint than I would’ve, if our positions were switched.“I’m sorry,” I say to my hands. “For what my father did to yours. For your mother—”
Casvian stands abruptly, two spots of color staining his cheeks. “If you’re so sorry, figure it out. I’m going for a walk.” He kicks Dalca’s ankle on the way out. Dalca startles awake as the door thuds shut.
He scrubs a hand over his face. “What’ve I missed?”
“Nothing,” I say, ignoring his bedhead for the seriousness in his eyes. “Dalca... Could you pardon my father? If this works?”
He sits up straight. “I don’t have that power. But if everyone learns that Alcanar Vale saved them, I’m sure the Regia could be convinced. You have my word that I’ll do everything I can.”
I hold his gaze until I begin to believe him.
“Have you found anything?” Dalca asks. I trace the watermarks, following dips and wrinkles in the paper with a finger. I believe what I told Iz, that helping Dalca helps us all. Izamal won’t need a revolution if Dalca and I fix things.
My gaze lands on a line in Pa’s notes.The Regia was once two. What was lost when they became one?
“Vesper?”
I trace the looping line of the watermark to the edge of the page. Beside it is a little notation. The next page’s watermark has another.
I loosen the journal’s bindings and carefully pull out the pages with watermarks. Each is marked with a faint notation along an edge.
Dalca’s chair creaks as he jumps to his feet. His hand rests on the back of my chair as he bends forward, watching over my shoulder. I ignore the way my skin tingles with his closeness.
It takes time to line them all up. Dalca helps, his warmth pressing into my back as he reaches past me. The air trembles with promise.
I hold my breath as I place the last sheet. The watermarks make a beautiful, intricate design, roughly in the shape of a person.
The Regia’s mark.
A soft exhale brushes my ear. “That’s it.”
Dalca traces it, captivated. But then his brow furrows, his elation dimming. “But this is... this is no different from the one my mother wears.”
“Wait.” I clasp his wrist. “There’s something here.”
One last page, one without watermarks. Its notations place it in the same space as another page, where the center of the Regia’s chest would be.
The Storm grows and wanes with the city. When the Great King’s soul is balanced and at ease, so shall be the Storm. The Regia’s mark is the Regia’s mark. But the current Regia is missing something. I believe the key lies with the Storm, that the Storm is more than just the imbalance of the city made physical. There is something within the Storm that must be joined with the mark. A new Regia, the true Regia, cannot be made with only the mark; the other half of the equation lies within the Storm.
I’ve told her so. She’s prepared to do what must be done to discover the last piece of the mark. If she is to be Regia, a true Regia, we must go into the Storm. We will bring back a whole mark, and she will be Regia.
I reread one line over and over.We must go into the Storm.
Into the Storm. Into the depths of grotesque writhing things, dark and formless. Into a shadowland of devouring beasts trapped between streaks of violet lightning.
Dalca’s pries my hand off his wrist and holds it. “What is it? What does it say?”
I tell him.
I watch as the joy of discovery is chased off his face by dark determination. Dalca draws forth all his strength and resolve, seeming to grow taller, broader. “Then that’s what we must do.”
“Dalca—” I start, not knowing how I’ll finish. “You’ll be cursed.”
He looks at me with the distant eyes of a king. “I said I would do anything. I should have remembered the Great King listens when we make such promises.”
