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“Why…” Lin began, slowly. “Why does the Maharam hate him so much?”
Chana took a swig of coldkarakand made a face. “You know of the Maharam’s son?”
“Yes. Asher.” Lin thought back. She did not remember the boy, but the stories about him persisted. “He was exiled, wasn’t he?”
Exile.The worst punishment the Sault and its council of elders could dole out. To be exiled was to be stripped of your identity. You were no longer Ashkar, forbidden to ever speak to or see your family, your friends, your spouse. Cut off from everything you had ever known, you would be driven from the gates to fend for yourself in the world of themalbushim,without family, money, or a place in the world.
“He was,” Chana said heavily. “You would have been perhaps five years old when it happened. He delved into what is forbidden.” She gazed at the fire, now sunk into saffron embers. “He believed that the magic that existed before the Sundering had not all been lost forever. That he could awaken it, access it, learn to practice it.”
Lin’s heart gave an odd little thump. “He was exiled just for trying to learn about magic? He was only a boy, wasn’t he—fifteen or sixteen? It seems like a mistake, not a crime.”
“He did more than just learn about it,” said Chana. “He tried to use it. Do you know what bone conjuring is?”
Lin shook her head.
“His mother had died a year or so before,” said Chana. “He was trying to bring her back. Even before the Sundering, such things were forbidden.” She crossed her arms over her broad chest. “Your grandfather was the only one of the elders to speak up against his exile. He told the Maharam he would regret it forever if he banished his only son, his only remaining family, from the Sault. The Maharam has never forgiven him for it.”
“Do you think he does regret it? The Maharam?”
Chana sighed. “I think he had no choice but to do what he did. He adored Asher, but the boy could have done nothing worse in his father’s eyes. In all our eyes. The world was nearly destroyed once by such dangerous magic. Mayesh should have known better than to say such things.”
Lin was silent. What, she wondered, had Asher Benezar done, precisely? Read books? Attempted spellwork? Like everyone in Dannemore, Lin knew of the Sorcerer-Kings whose battles had scorched the earth, leaving scars of Sunderglass behind—a constant reminder of the dangers and evils of magic. But she did not know how they had done it. How had magic been performed? The knowledge had been lost, she thought, along with the power.
“Lin,” said Chana. “What are you thinking?”
Lin stood up, crossing the room to the window. Outside she could see the winding cobblestoned street; over the tops of the nearest houses, the dome of the Shulamat rose, glimmering under the moonlight. And all around, of course, the walls, rising to cut off her view of Castellane. Only the Hill was visible, high and distant, and the white glow of Marivent—the Palace—like a second moon. “I am thinking,” Lin said, “that if there was a chance for me to heal Mariam using magic, I would be tempted just as Asher was.”
“We—the Ashkar alone—havemagic. We havegematry.We have talismans. They are what we are allowed to use, and they assist us greatly. Lin, you know that.”
“I do know that. I also know that in the days before the Sundering, physicians mixed magic and science to wondrous effect. They could knit broken bones instantly, heal a shattered skull, stop the growth of tumors—”
“Enough.” Chana cut her off, her tone coldly forbidding. “Keep such thoughts out of your head, Lin. The Maharam was willing to exile his own son for seeking such knowledge. Do not imagine he would be any kinder to you.”
But power cannot remain untrammeled forever. As the knowledge of the One Word spread through Dannemore, magic altered from a force anyone with the talent and will could master to a jealously guarded secret gathered in the hands of a few powerful magicians. Those magic-users quickly rose to political prominence. They named themselves kings and queens, and began to lay out the borders of their territories. Tribes became towns, towns became cities, and land became kingdoms. And thus the age of the Sorcerer-Kings began.
—Tales of the Sorcerer-Kings,Laocantus Aurus Iovit III
Most people, Kel knew, would panic with a blade at their throat. He didn’t like it much himself, but he could feel all the years of Jolivet’s training paying off: all the times Jolivet had run him through his paces over and over, teaching how he must learn to stand unmoving between Conor and an arrow, Conor and a sword, Conor and a dagger’s point. He had learned not to flinch at the touch of sharpened metal, even when it cut his skin.
He did not flinch now, only kept his eyes closed. His talisman was safely put away; surely they could not think he was Conor. Nobles were kidnapped sometimes, when traveling, for money, but that didn’t happen within Castellane. Not because the nobility was beloved, but because of the punishment—imprisonment in the Trick, the prison tower where those who had committed treason waited to be executed. Torture that lasted weeks, whatever remained afterward fed to the crocodiles in the harbor—was dreaded, and with good reason.
“I thought he’d twitch a bit more,” said an amused, female voice. “He’s been well trained.”
“Legate Jolivet’s hand, I’d wager,” said the second voice. This one was male, low and oddly musical. “Tsk, tsk.” Something slappedaway Kel’s hand as he felt for the carriage door. “It’s locked, and even if it weren’t, I would not recommend hurling yourself out. Such a fall, at this speed, could well be fatal.”
Kel sat back. The carriage seats were comfortable, at least. He could feel velvet and leather under his hands. He said, “If you wish to rob me, go ahead. I have not seen your faces. Take what you want and let me go. If you wish to harm me otherwise, be aware I have powerful friends. You will regret it.”
The man chuckled, the sound rich and dark askarak.“I took youbecauseyou have powerful friends. Now open your eyes. You are wasting my time, and I will not take kindly to it if you persist.”
The point of the knife dug deeper into the hollow of Kel’s throat, a painful kiss. He opened his eyes, and saw at first only darkness inside the carriage. Light began to glow, and Kel realized the source was a Sunderglass pendant on a chain, dangling from the carriage roof. Kel stared at it: Such objects were rare, and few could afford their like.
It gave off a soft but potent light, in which Kel finally saw his two companions clearly. The first was a young Chosean woman with long black hair, divided into two braids. She wore a silk tunic and trousers the color of foxgloves and bracelets of milky violet chalcedony on her wrists. In her right hand was a long dagger with a handle of white jade, its point resting against Kel’s throat.
Beside her was a very tall, very slender man dressed in black. Not Merren’s rusty student black; this man’s clothes were rich and expensive looking, from his velvet frock coat to the blackthorn cane upon which he rested his left hand. A gold ring bearing the sigil of a bird—a magpie, Kel thought—gleamed on his finger. His eyes were the only thing about him that was neither black nor white. They were a very dark green, and seemed to hold a strange light inside them. He said, “Do you know who I am?”
He goes round all in black, like Gentleman Death come to take your soul, and his carriage wheels are stained with blood.
“Yes,” Kel said. “You’re the Ragpicker King.” He didn’t say,Ithought you’d be older.He guessed the man in front of him was perhaps thirty.
