Train #2
“I see.” She leaned lightly against him, and Math tried not to react.
Her presence was too vivid, too familiar—like a song he’d memorized by accident.
She couldn’t control what he felt, and he couldn’t stop her from knowing.
And she did know—he could feel her amusement.
“Let me assure you of one thing, my fair knight: that is utter and complete rubbish.”
“Excuse you. I haven’t called your magic rubbish.”
“No. Just evil.”
Math had no response to that.
“You’re wild mages,” Kaiataris whispered.
“The flavors of your magic have nothing to do with the qualities of your soul—it’s about your belief.
You’ve all convinced yourselves that you know the rules, when for you, there are no rules.
It’s just willpower.” She gave a quiet scoff.
“That’s likely the entire point: imposing order on something inherently chaotic.
It works because you believe it must. And I imagine a great deal of effort goes into ensuring you never think otherwise—because letting you question it would be dangerous. ”
Math thought of all the restrictions—never allowed to drink, lose his temper, grow too excited. Above all, never allowed to lose control. He thought of children raised like dangerous weapons.
Math thought of what he’d done—what all the knights had done—under the influence of those spores, and he shuddered.
“Your turn,” Kaiataris said.
“My turn,” he repeated before he realized she’d meant it was his turn to ask a question. “What about your magic?”
“What of it? Unlike yours, mine has rules.”
“No,” he replied, fighting to keep from losing his temper. “Mine has rules you don’t understand. Does yours always have to be written?”
She’d called herself a “graven wizard” when she first woke, and though his mind had been elsewhere, he knew enough to recognize that “grave” was an archaic form of “engrave”—an unfortunate homonym for a group historically linked to necromancy.
“Yes,” she said. “Always—though not always permanently. I once graved a spell into snow. But yes, the writing shapes the magic stored in the object.” She paused.
“That’s how we accomplish extraordinary things—we can spend days, weeks, even years storing magic, then release it precisely when we choose. ”
“But nothing spontaneous?”
“No, nothing spontaneous. And it works best with items that change little—stone and metal being ideal.”
His gaze drifted to her jewelry, to the intricate patterns he’d first mistaken for decorative design. Then he looked at the bracelet on his own wrist—the one she’d given him for his disguise, which he still hadn’t returned.
He stood, reached up onto the overhead luggage rack, and pulled down the Kaliri long arm.
The engravings weren’t identical, but they were similar. To his untrained eye, similar enough to have similar origins. He held out the weapon by the haft. “What about this?”
She took the weapon, rested it across her lap, and examined it carefully. By the time she handed it back, both her expression and emotions had shifted to clear irritation. “It’s sloppy work,” she muttered.
Math put the weapon back up on the rack and sat back down again. “But is it graved?”
“Oh yes. Someone’s keeping the craft alive, at least.” She leaned toward him.
“If you’re wondering about the purpose of those gravings, they appear—at a glance—to enhance accuracy and range.
The device would be far more precise over longer distances than its construction suggests.
But nothing in this graving would propel a bullet forward. ”
He slumped back against the bench. “No, that’s the black powder’s job.”
He wasn’t sure why the idea surprised him—that the Kaliri, long accused by the Idalliks of grim lord worship, had kept practicing the same magic as their necromancer overlords. In hindsight, it would’ve been stranger if they hadn’t.
“Wait. You said your magic is weakening.”
“It is,” she said through clenched teeth.
“That”—she waved toward the rack where the weapon rested—“is a simple modification. The ball’s already being fired, the weapon already aimed.
The spell just tells it ‘travel farther’ and ‘strike true.’ Even so, once its magic is spent, I would expect it to take some time to grave a new enchantment.
” She arched a brow. “And do not think I have missed you slipping in at least three questions on your turn.”
Math huffed. “Fine. Ask.”
“What were inside the packages?”
He frowned. “Packages? What packages?”
“The ones you took from Captain Qin. The little paper packages.”
“Oh! The letters—I nearly forgot about those.” He reached into his coat and pulled out two small, neatly folded pieces of paper. From the outside, they looked almost identical, both written on Isofal Cenobium’s linen stationery and folded into precise rectangles.
Math pursed his lips as he examined the letters. This was a complication.
“Those are letters?”
“Sure. It’s … look.” He turned to face her on the bench and held out one of the notes.
“You write the letter, fold it, then thread a thin strip of paper—still attached to the page—through the folds like a needle. The ends are sealed with wax. The result…” He turned the small paper packet between his fingers.
“You can’t open it without tearing the paper and revealing it’s been read. ”
“It’s impossible to open without magic, you mean,” Kaiataris corrected.
“You could’ve said you’d heard this joke before.
” He grinned. “Even with magic, it’s tricky.
You can’t just fix the paper—you also have to restore the marbling, the doodles, or any writing that spilled past the margins.
I’m good at that. With time and a sharp knife, I could open both, read them, and reseal everything without anyone noticing.
But we have neither, which means…” He sighed, dug his thumbnail into the wax seal of the first letter, and pulled until it tore free—ripping the paper with it.
He unfolded the letter and read the whole thing. He read it a second time, but the message didn’t change.
“This … this is all wrong.”
Kaiataris raised an eyebrow. “Do you wish to explain that, or shall I guess?”
Math scoffed and handed it over. “Commander Talu doesn’t grasp the real threat.
He thinks—” Math paused. “It’s an account of what happened, but everything’s skewed to make it look like the Kaliri are plotting something.
He claims they’ve got a new grim witch who can control plants and trees.
He doesn’t even mention the Queens—not even the possibility they exist.”
“In his defense, it does seem the Kaliri are ‘up to something.’”
“Yeah, but not this. They aren’t responsible for attacking Isofal.” Math chewed on his lip. “He doesn’t mention you, either.”
“Respectfully, I cannot find it within myself to be much upset at such a revelation.”
“Yeah, I don’t blame you, but you’d think the resurrection of a…” He shrugged apologetically. “You know.”
She was unimpressed. “Yes, I know.”
“Given that stopping grim lords is the entire reason our order exists—”
“The Order doesn’t still protect the archives, then?”
Math froze. He closed his eyes and sat still for a moment, listening to the murmur of conversation around him, the clatter of iron wheels on iron tracks, the creak of shifting wood.
He felt Kai’s chagrin and then concern.
“Math, I did not mean—”
“No, it’s fine. Of course the graven wizards built the archives. You were trying to preserve life. Why not make sure knowledge survived, too?” He scoffed. “The Illuminated. That’s what we call the people who built the archives. You’re one of the Illuminated.”
“That is a far more flattering name than ‘grim lord.’”
Math shook his head. “I finally know who the Illuminated were, and no one will ever believe me.” Still turning that over, he broke the seal on the second letter and read it, too.
“Gravespit.” Math lowered the paper in disbelief.
“Worse?”
“Worse.” Math handed her the page.
It was an order for his execution.