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“That doesn’t mean they’ll sit back and allow it. You said so yourself, not everyone in Mordain values prophecy.” I shake my head. “I’m sorry, Gesine, but it’s too risky. Protecting this secret is what has kept me alive for this long.” Even Zander would have killed me had he found out in those early days.
Her brow pinches with discomfort. “I suppose I should tell you, then, that it is too late. The wheels are already in motion.”
My stomach clenches. “What do you mean, it’s too late? What wheels?”
“The scribes will have heard the truth about you by now.”
“How? Who told them?” My panicked voice echoes through the cavernous library.
She peers up at me with unremorseful eyes. “I did.”
CHAPTER THREE
AGATHA
“Master Scribe, look what I can do!” Paityn holds up her index finger to reveal a tiny flame dancing at its tip, her giddiness radiating.
“Good for you. Show me again when it’s three times the size. And practice in a clearing outside so you don’t burn down the entire guild.” I force a smile as I pass my pupil in the hall, but I don’t slow, the scroll gripped tightly within my grasp. I should hide this letter I received—Fates, I should burn it—before someone discovers it in my possession, but Allegra will need it. Besides, if I know Allegra at all, she’ll demand to see Gesine’s words before she believes them.
I can hardly believe them.
A key caster from another realm in Islor, by Malachi’s scheming? In my almost eight decades of life, I have never heard of such a thing. The archives did not hint of it, and I would know. I’ve spent my life immersed within the recollections of seers and scribes alike, their considerable knowledge at my fingertips.
Yet here we are, and I must now decide how to proceed.
I wish I had no need to involve Allegra. The guild’s Second is too young and ambitious, her seamless skill with wearing various masks unsettling. She could rival Queen Neilina with all her cunning, and sometimes I fear I will find myself caught in a web of her making. It’s no secret that Allegra pines to one day climb to the role of Guild Prime. The lengths to which she’ll go to get there, though … those worries keep me staring at my ceiling into the late hours.
But of all the guild leaders within Mordain, Allegra is the only one who values the role of the scribes. The others mostly disregard us, both for our mediocre connections to our affinity and for the importance we place on our seers. We are the castaways, the ones with too little power to be of any real use beyond collecting knowledge and training the youngest casters on beginner skills.
Besides, I have no other option than to involve Allegra anymore. I lack the affinity needed to send a return letter to Gesine, and no one among the scribes is strong enough to ensure it reaches its recipi-ent. We must keep these lines of communication open if we hope to gain more vital information about this key caster and what she means for the fate of all.
I cross the parapet toward the guild tower. Beyond is an expanse of rock and blue waters and, in the very far distance, across the channel, the jewels of Argon’s castle sparkle in the sunlight. To the north of Nyos, the Isle of Mordain is a breathtaking view of mountains and lush green forests. As a child, I relished the days my teachers would allow us time within the meadows, collecting plants and fungi for the horticulturists and chemists.
Over the decades, I’ve held on to that small joy, taking my young pupils out in nature to test their budding skills before they move on to greater lessons. But the rough terrain has become treacherous for these old bones of mine as of late. I’ve been forced to abandon the outings to those fresher and more suited, relegating myself to the dank, dark tunnels where the scribes toil away thanklessly.
The city of Nyos itself is vast, a sight to behold, with the towering guild at the center perched high above, its pointy pinnacles a bold statement for both casters and children waiting to find their spark. The guild is the first thing anyone sees as they sail across the waters from Ybaris, a magnificent monument designed by the skilled stone casters, artists by trade. But it is the city below that most returning to Mordain long for—the thriving streets of shops and cafés and cottage-like dwellings, of like-minded people living in a world that has committed them to servitude of the queen and her subjects.
Subjects who readily outcast them the moment they are born and tested and found to be something other than simple mortals.
The general council is already in session when I reach the heavy wooden doors. The two guards at the door eye me with unyielding gazes, their hands gripping the pommels of their swords. I’ve always found it needless to station sentries outside a chamber of skilled casters, the room already warded against a multitude of evils. Almost as silly as dressing these elite warriors in head-to-toe armor and equipping them with blades when their affinities are their most deadly weapons. But I suppose if the point is to make them appear menacing and the act of interrupting a council in session daunting, it is effective.
