Chapter 25
Orla Lavery had never been the type to track down trouble.
She was fortunate enough to have a steady job with a blacksmith in one of the better parts of Fallowmoor, her days spent forming horseshoes and helping with repairs.
The old man who ran the forge had hired her specifically for her metalwielding skills.
He kept his distance for the same reason.
Rent prices had risen significantly, and all eight of Orla’s siblings combined barely made enough to keep a roof over their heads, let alone put food on the table.
Her parents were getting up in years and suffered from aches and pains that made it hard for them to work steady jobs, so it was up to the kids.
Not that Orla was a kid. She was going on nineteen now. The oldest of her siblings. The one they depended on the most.
She knew trouble wouldn’t find her so long as she stayed quiet and did her job. Her magic was a legal one, but the Watch were always on the lookout for reasons to lock wielders away. So she kept her head down and her mouth shut and she worked her hours.
She’d made it for so long that way. Then one stupid mistake, one slip of willpower. A single roll snatched from a baker’s night market stall. A lifetime of abiding laws ruined by a wave of unbearable hunger pains. She’d messed up, and it had landed her in Fallowmoor prison.
Orla reckoned for a crime like that, she’d spend a good five years in that place, but two weeks later, a City Watch officer released her from her cell.
She’d nearly lost her mind when the carriage brought her through the lush gardens of the castle, stopping at the massive carved front doors.
Two royal guards were waiting.
Orla didn’t know what to make of it. The royals despised wielders. Why bring one here?
She hunched her shoulders as she followed them inside, wishing she could make herself invisible.
The castle was intimidating, its sky-high ceilings looming overhead and guards with weapons in every corner.
A wide staircase swept up beneath a massive, glittering crystal chandelier before splitting in two directions.
The air was cold, carrying the scents of polish and wood smoke and something rich cooking in the kitchens, the smell of it tightening Orla’s hollow stomach.
She followed silently, gaze sliding over the plush seating and beautiful statues.
The guard led her into a small room dominated by a fireplace taller than two of her, its white marble carved with delicate, dancing figures.
A grand window stretched from floor to ceiling, occupying most of the rear wall.
Heavy, opulent cobalt curtains were drawn back to reveal the castle gardens beyond, bursting with flowers so vivid that Orla swore she could sense their sweetness in the air.
No, it wasn’t the flowers. It was perfume. Gentle, powdery violet with a layer of something silky and warm beneath.
Her eyes went to the round wooden table, surrounded by five chairs. Three of which were occupied.
When she found Aesran Erynda, her body responded with a violent jolt, gaze dropping immediately. She was in the same room as the aesran, breathing the same air as royalty.
Don’t just stand there like an idiot, she chided herself.
Grabbing her ratty skirt—which in the current company felt more like rags than clothing—she gave the aesran a deep curtsy.
“Mo Aesran.” The words came out small and insubstantial.
Two men sat on either side of the table.
One with dark, greying hair studied her, his eyes intense.
His suit was a garish display of textures, with gold trim and a sharp collar.
The other man was City Watch. A higher-up, she guessed from the three gold lines on his chest. He was older, his white hair like cobwebs spread over his round head.
The buttons of his black uniform strained as though locked in battle against the swell of his plump gut.
Black uniform. Not grey.
Oh, no.
He was ministry.
Orla’s heart hammered in her chest, a bird beating against its cage.
The ministry were the scary stories told to wielder children to keep them in line. And here was one of them, sitting right in front of her.
Was stealing a roll honestly worth all this? Did they plan to watch her executed in person? It seemed too messy a business for a fancy place like this.
She glanced back at the window, at the gardens beyond. Did it open? Could she make it out?
“Welcome, Miss Lavery,” the gaudy one said. “My name is Ciaran Ashcroft, and this is Lord Fenholt, High Commander of the Ministry of Arcane Compliance. Please, sit.”
Orla obeyed, though it took a great deal of effort to make her feet move. She dropped into the seat straight across from the aesran. The commander of the ministry? Why? Metalwielding wasn’t outlawed. She’d never used it dangerously.
“Are the pleasantries really necessary?” the commander asked, voice dripping with impatience. “You’re wasting our time.”
Ciaran ignored him. “Your charges are being dropped. Cooperate, and you’ll be free to go once we’re finished here.”
Free to go.
The words made everything inside Orla bristle. She didn’t trust them.
“What do I have to do?”
The aesran’s presence had been a kind of blinding light, and Orla had been avoiding looking at her. It felt dangerous, like staring directly at the sun. But now she looked up, meeting the woman’s eyes.
Aesran Erynda was every bit as beautiful in person as she was in her portraits. Her eyes were two vivid emeralds, and her face, devoid of any tells of emotion, was younger than Orla had expected, her cheekbones carved from marble with a heavy hand.
“A little test,” Ciaran said. “Quick and painless.”
Orla frowned. “A test?” She glanced over her shoulder to find a royal guard by the door. A boy around her age, as fair-skinned as the aesran. She turned back, wringing her hands nervously in her lap. “What kinda test?”
The aesran placed a ring gently on the table, her expression still unreadable.
Orla drew back in her seat, her body reacting on its own to the object, distancing itself. Goosebumps lifted on her arms. The ring was black—unnaturally so—and it felt strange. Wrong.
“You will wear that one,” Ciaran explained, “and the aesran will wear hers.”
Aesran Erynda tugged at the fingers of her gloves, sliding one off and then the other before setting them on the table beside her.
Strange black smudges ringed her arm. Finger marks, angry bruises.
Too small for an adult’s grip. No, not bruises.
Not burns either. Something else. The marks shone with a dull, waxy sheen. She’d never seen anything like it.
She watched as the woman slipped a different ring on her own thin finger, this one a dull, aged silver.
Ciaran plucked the black ring from the table, lifting it to study the side a moment before standing and crossing to Orla. He held out his empty hand expectantly.
She hesitated.
Orla knew she didn’t actually have a choice. She was also clever enough to know that there was no way the aesran was going to pardon the crimes of a wielder. Orla would do as they said, and they would send her right back to her cell to wait out her sentence.
“Can I get it in writing?” she asked, struggling to keep her voice steady. “My freedom, I mean. Can you assure me you’ll let me go?”
The aesran’s blank expression turned bitter in the blink of an eye, but she said nothing—she didn’t need to.
Orla swallowed hard and placed her hand in Ciaran’s. He pushed the ring onto her finger.
It was cold. How was it so cold? The icy chill burned against her skin, dropping her entire body’s temperature a few degrees in an instant. She shivered.
Then, a strange sensation crept in, like the faint scraping of nails against her mind.
“What is this?” she asked.
The aesran turned her attention to Ciaran and raised her perfectly groomed eyebrows. Again, she didn’t have to say a word to get her point across.
“Right, then,” Ciaran said. He cleared his throat with a low cough, and when he spoke, it was to the aesran.
“So, the connection was already there, incredibly strong. Two rings from opposite sides bound to each other. Now, getting them to do what you wanted and preventing the ring’s removal—that’s where my glyphs come in.
I won’t bore you with the specifics.” He waved a hand as if he were shooing away a fly.
“All you need to know is that when you call on the rings, they’ll respond.
It may take some practice, but the wielder’s innate knowledge of their powers should do all the heavy lifting for you. ”
Orla ran a finger over the ring, feeling at the shapes engraved on the side. She gave it a quick tug, just to test. It was a comfortable fit, not too tight, but it refused to budge.
“Close your eyes, Mo Aesran,” Ciaran went on, hovering behind Orla. “Focus on the rings, on the girl’s mind, malleable beneath the glyphs’ powers. She’s yours to puppet.” He placed his hands firmly on Orla’s shoulders.
The aesran went still as her eyes closed.
Orla tugged at the ring again. Trapped. When she spoke, her voice trembled. “What do you need me to—”
A quiet force slammed down on top of her with the weight of an anvil, crushing her consciousness into something thin and flimsy. She tried to scream, tried to stand, tried to run, but her body wasn’t hers anymore.
Let me go! she couldn’t say. Get this off! she tried to force out.
Orla’s hand drifted toward Ciaran, palm up. But it wasn’t her own mind controlling her movements.
“Something metal.” Her lips had moved, she realized. Had she said that? She hadn’t meant to say anything. But that was her voice.
Ciaran grabbed an iron fire poker from the opposite side of the room and set it gently in Orla’s hand.
Her magic flared inside her, tingling beneath her skin.
No, she couldn’t use magic around the aesran.
Stop!
Why wasn’t her body obeying?
Her hands moved—still on their own—shaping the fire poker, first pressing it into a ball, and then stretching it into a dagger, the edges thin and sharp. To her horror, she lifted the blade, pressing the edges against her own throat, feeling the cold metal against her soft skin.
Stop! Please!
“Mo Aesran,” Ciaran said warily. “The resistance is an ever-growing threat. The ministry will need all the elixirs they can get. Let me take her.”
The dagger fell away, and Orla’s hand tossed it across the room. Suddenly, the force lifted, and Orla’s control returned.
With a gasp of terror, she threw herself from the chair and ran.
The guard swiftly moved in front of the door, blocking her exit. He was close enough that the dark blue rings in his eyes were glaringly obvious. The guard was a listener.
Nothing about any of this made any sense, and she wanted, more than she had ever wanted anything, to be back in her crowded home with her family.
She turned back to the table. “You said I’m free to go.”
“My ring,” the aesran said, not to Orla, but to Ciaran. It was the first time she’d spoken, and her voice caressed the air like silk.
Orla pulled at the ring, the tips of her fingers aching from the icy chill of it. Why wouldn’t it come off?
“I can’t. I’m sorry. Please, Mo Aesran. I never hurt nobody. Don’t send me back to prison. I swear I’ll never steal again.”
“Let me,” Ciaran said calmly, offering Orla his hand. He led her back to the table, and when he pressed her hand flat against the wooden surface, she frowned, confused.
She tried to tug free, but he held her hand firmly in place.
Orla looked up at the aesran, tears welling in her eyes. “Please, let me go!”
Ciaran drew a blade.
The bird inside her chest was frantic now, pounding painfully against her ribs. She squeezed her eyes shut.
White hot pain seared through her hand, and the scream that tore from her chest was unrecognizable.
She yanked free, staring in shock as crimson blood flowed freely down her wrist in a warm, sticky stream.
The ring was gone, but so was her finger.
“Take her,” the aesran said with a dismissive wave. “Sebastian, get someone to clean this mess.”
Orla’s vision blurred as stars flickered in her vision. Strong hands clasped tightly on her arms, dragging her from the room.
Behind her, the aesran added, “And send a guard to retrieve my son. It’s time we had a long overdue conversation.”