Chapter 8
Eight
Ivy
Tinom raps his sinewy hand against the wooden dining table. His face has gone ruddy beneath the thin fringe of his gray-and-white hair. “Whatever else we put in place, we need that blood-sworn letter.”
His voice rings through the sparsely decorated room with so much force I have to restrain a wince. My gaze darts to the narrow window overlooking the city street outside, where another evening is descending into night.
We shouldn’t have to worry. Tinom owns this tenement building in one of Florian’s wealthier middle-class neighborhoods as part of his family’s holdings, and the two apartments on the uppermost floor were vacant when the Order of the Wild swept into the capital.
The magic advisor has been hiding out here along with a couple of devouts who escaped the purge at the Temple of the Crown, using his considerable skill with illusions to ensure his former colleague and Lothar’s new comrades don’t discover his refuge.
But we’ve taken shelter in apartments we thought were safe before, only to have to run for our lives. Since the moment the king declared me and my men enemies of the kingdom, we’ve had to constantly be on the move.
The only place we had any security was the hidden sanctuary for the riven, the Haven, where the only other sane riven sorcerer I’ve met taught me the basics of controlling my power.
But that safety came with a different sort of price.
We couldn’t interact with the outside world at all—and when we decided we needed to stand up to the scourge sorcerers again, Sulla tried to turn the Haven into our prison.
I never thought I’d miss the days of sleeping on Stavros’s sofa in his professorial quarters at the royal college, but that time looks strangely peaceful through the lens of my memory.
A flash that could be a flare of magic whips past the window—but no tingle of energy crosses my skin, and no one else reacts. I yank my eyes away from the hallucination, back to what’s real around the table.
About twenty of us have squeezed into the now-cramped room. Petra, her siblings, my men, and I are clustered around one end of the table. Tinom sits at the other end, flanked by the two devouts along with several soldiers and a couple of nobles he’s sure are loyal to the Melchiorek family.
We’ve spent most of the past day gathering this group of loyalists. It felt like we were making quite a bit of progress in the moment, but seeing the end result, I can’t help thinking back to the army of hundreds Lothar was able to send to cut down the king.
Of course, my men and I left that army in disarray, the most devoted of them cut down in battle themselves. But we only managed it by tricking the Darium soldiers stationed on the other side of the channel into doing most of the work.
We’re not going to get away with using that gambit twice.
Petra leans forward where she’s sitting, setting her elbows on the table. I can’t help being impressed by the increasingly queenly demeanor that’s come over her with more supporters to command.
“The letter is the best proof we have of my identity,” she says. “But Lothar’s people could lie about the results of a test—they could destroy it. We’d need a loyal cleric to confirm its validity who the people also trust.”
The baroness next to Tinom lifts her chin at a haughty angle that immediately sets my nerves on edge.
I don’t think Julita would have liked Baroness Sibelle either.
The woman has gone to the effort of sculpting her dark hair into stylish whorls and painting her eyelids as if it matters how fashionable she is while the world is falling apart around her.
Her eyes flicker with a gleam that’s a little sly. “We don’t need to worry about confirming it yet. Simply showing the letter with its seal will be enough to convince most of the commoners. Look at how easily they’ve bought into the refuse Lothar and his ilk are selling them.”
The devout at her left nods eagerly. “Many are eager for solid ground after the news of King Konram’s and Queen Ishild’s—that is, your parents’—deaths. They’ll want to believe that the Melchiorek line can be continued.”
He blushes at his brief stumble. I can’t help wondering to what extent any of our allies believe Petra’s story without definitive proof.
Tinom might be insisting so urgently as much to convince Petra’s latest supporters as wider society. Maybe he even needs to convince himself.
“She has the testimony of her siblings as well,” Stavros points out, in a slightly ominous tone that makes me think he’s picked up on the same hints of doubt.
Petra shakes her head. “I won’t bring Klaudia and Jacos for the initial announcement. It’ll be too dangerous.”
I frown and motion toward Tinom. “You’re a master of illusions. Couldn’t we use a similar trick to what Lothar did at the temple last night—project the image of Petra into a public place so she can speak to the people without being physically under threat?”
My skin prickles as several gazes settle on me alongside his. Tinom’s is coolly assessing. He knows what I am—he almost ran off last night before Petra dashed over and flashed her family’s seal.
I suspect he’s still not all that happy to be making plans with a riven sorcerer.
The others, I don’t think he’s told, maybe because he isn’t sure what they’d think of him allowing my presence. But I haven’t put on my false noble airs like I did at the college. They probably have no idea what to make of me at all.
Tinom pauses before dipping his head in a slow nod. “Yes, of course, projecting illusions would be the obvious solution. Since we wouldn’t want to allow any direct interaction at that tentative early stage regardless.”
Petra knits her brow as if she isn’t pleased with this line of conversation. From getting to know her better over the past several days, I suspect she’d prefer to meet her subjects properly for such an important announcement.
But she can’t deny how necessary the precaution would be. “All right. Regardless, we shouldn’t set anything into motion until we have objective proof that I’m the heir to the throne. What’s the current situation in the Capital Palace?”
She looks at the standing soldiers. They’ve shed their blue uniforms so they can blend in when we venture outside, but I can see the military training in their postures.
Next to me, Rheave’s gaze darts over the assembled figures. He already confirmed that none of them were captured daimon who’d infiltrated the royal military, but I get the impression that he doesn’t totally trust them as humans all the same.
I can’t say I’d be keen to put my life in their hands either, considering how many of their colleagues have attempted to hunt me down in the past few months.
The man among them who has the highest rank—a major—glances at Stavros as if the former general will be able to answer for him before clearing his throat.
“I’m afraid the palace is entirely overrun.
The Order of the Wild encouraged total disrespect of the Melchiorek legacy.
The initial looting has waned, but many of Lothar’s followers have settled within the walls.
We couldn’t simply walk in and take what we want. ”
Alek speaks up a little hesitantly. “Are you sure the letter would even still be there? It wouldn’t have been found during the looting?”
“My father had a secure hidden cache in his bedroom,” Petra says. “It could only be found by someone who knows where it’s meant to be, which at the moment is only our family.”
She turns to me. “Ivy, I hate to ask more of you, but it appears stealth would be a much more viable option for us than strength. That’s your area of expertise. I’m sure Tinom could give you additional protection with a temporary concealment enchantment.”
The magic advisor draws his posture up straighter, his shoulders going rigid. “It would be simple enough. But are you sure— To send her alone—”
To leave the riven to her own devices, he must be thinking. As if I haven’t had plenty of opportunities to sow ruin before now if I’d wanted to.
Petra cuts a glance toward Tinom that stops whatever concern he was going to express before the rest of the words leave his lips. “There’s no one I’d trust more than Ivy with the task.” Her attention returns to me. “If you’ll take it.”
As I stare back at her face so like her mother’s, the traces of her father’s bearing showing in her calm composure, my throat constricts.
King Konram asked a lot of me before he knew what I was. But he never truly asked. It was either direct orders or commands phrased like a question that didn’t allow for an argument.
Petra is her father’s child, but also her own person. A person I find myself not particularly wanting to let down.
I wet my lips, picturing myself slipping through the halls of the grand palace I’ve only entered once before—and then in the midst of a daimon battle. Even with the help of a concealment illusion, it’ll be dangerous.
I’ve done dozens of things equally dangerous or more in the past few months, though. What’s another for the history books?
My mind is still acting up, yes, but I’ve been able to recognize the hallucinations before I react. And the longer I can go without turning to my own magic again, the more the effects should fade.
I hope.
It’s not as if we have time to waste. The longer Lothar keeps his hold over the country, the more people he’ll draw into his brand of madness.
“Of course,” I say. “Whatever I can do to see you on the throne and Lothar in his grave.”
I’d worry that my death wish for the former magic advisor might be a little too blunt, but a couple of the soldiers snort in amusement and Sibille’s lips form a sharp grin. Clearly it’s a sentiment we all share.
“Thank you,” Petra says like she means it, and pushes to her feet. “It’s been several long, hard days for all of us. I think we should get some rest and finish our planning with clear heads. We can aim to send Ivy on her mission tomorrow evening.”