CHAPTER ELEVEN
T he lamps were turned low in the royal apartments; it was past midnight. Kel sat on his bed, his back against a fortress of pillows, and watched Conor as he worked.
Conor seemed to be poring over a series of maps, looking at each one and taking notes in his fine, crabbed hand. (Kel knew Conor’s handwriting as well as he knew his own: In most respects, it was his own. He had not been taught to write so much as he had been taught to imitate Conor’s writing.) He had been doing it for some hours since they’d returned from the Arena, pausing only to stretch or splash water on his face.
“You should eat,” Kel said, breaking the silence. “The meal Dom Valon brought won’t be good for long.”
Conor frowned at the plate near his elbow. “It’s already congealed.”
“Then ring for Delfina to bring you a new one.” Kel swung his legs over the edge of his bed. “I was surprised to see Lin at the Arena today,” he continued carefully. “And to see you laughing with her. I thought you didn’t care much for her.” At least, I know you’d like me to think that. But I know well how rare it is for someone to truly make you laugh. And how rare it is for you to look at anyone the way you look at Lin.
Conor shrugged without looking up. “She is the best physician I know. We’re both evidence of that.”
Kel let the words hang between them for some time. Then he said, “So you’ve decided...?”
Conor set down his pen. “To seek her help with my father, yes. I’ve asked her to remake the medicine Fausten was giving him.”
Your medicine, Fausten had shouted, just moments before the King had pushed him from the clifftops to his death below. Only I can make it. If you kill me, your sickness will be worse. You know what is coming, my lord.
“And you think that’s the best course of action? Fausten was hardly trustworthy,” Kel said.
“Trustworthy or not, my father was better while he was taking Fausten’s potion. He is worse now. And we are running out of time.” Abruptly, he looked up at Kel. “I don’t expect to get back the father I once had, Kel. But even a father who speaks to me and can reason would be a great improvement. And we cannot hide him away forever. It makes the Aurelians seem weak.”
The memories were coming thick and fast tonight. Kel recalled the words of the Dark Assassin, on the night of the massacre in the Gallery. You stand upon the threshold of history, Sword Catcher, for this is the beginning of the fall of House Aurelian.
“Well,” Kel said, “this is not a sword whose thrust I can block for you. But I will help in any way I can.”
Conor bit the end of his pen thoughtfully and said, “Take my place at the banquet tomorrow night.”
Kel felt obscurely disappointed; he had hoped for a more direct action. “Are you sure? The last time I took your place at a banquet, it did not go well.”
This was certainly an understatement. Conor shot him a wry look. “It seems vanishingly unlikely to happen twice in succession, don’t you think?”
Kel couldn’t help but laugh. “Do Jolivet and Bensimon know of this plan of yours? Or the Queen?”
“Jolivet knows. The others, not yet. If they ask why I’m not attending, tell them I’m drunk or in a brothel. Just don’t tell them I’m meeting with Lin Caster in the hope of helping my father.”
“I’m not sure they’ll believe me about the brothel,” Kel said. “You’ve changed your ways too much.”
“Tell them I backslid. Or I backslid and then went to seek forgiveness from the Hierophant for my sins.” Conor gestured vaguely. “You’ll come up with something.”
“And what shall I tell Anjelica? Your bride-to-be?”
“I’ll tell her I won’t be in attendance,” Conor said, to Kel’s surprise. “I can be straightforward with her. It’s what she wants, which is a relief. Though I cannot tell her about my father,” he added, tapping his pen against his teeth. “That would be going too far.”
“I’m sorry you have to keep it all a secret,” Kel said. He knew the weight that secrets carried.
At that Conor smiled—his rarely seen, plainly sincere smile. “At least I can tell you,” he said. “You’re the only one I can trust.”
Like a once famous gladiator returning to the Arena to show that he had lost none of his skill, Queen Lilibet had unleashed all her talent for entertaining upon Anjelica’s welcome banquet.
The Shining Gallery remained closed, its doors nailed shut since that terrible night, so Lilibet had decided to take advantage of the hot weather and hold this particular banquet out of doors, in the Queen’s Garden, with its walls of greenery and central pool, black-tiled so as to reflect perfectly the changing colors of the moon. Tonight it was tinged slightly blue, like Valdish wine.
Outside the garden, in the buzzing twilight, Kel—with Benaset behind him, a silent guard—was waiting for Anjelica. All the nobility had already arrived. Only Anjelica was late, though no one was surprised. As the new Princess, she would be expected to make a memorable entrance.
Though Kel’s view of the party was partially blocked by the flame trees Lilibet had imported from Kutani to add to the decorations, he could hear the raised voices of the nobles and see dancing lights through the leaves, like the eerie candle-glow that sailors reported seeing far out to sea, leaping and frolicking atop the nighttime waves.
It was a hot night, and the fire-red outfit that had been made for Conor to wear was uncomfortably heavy with touches of velvet and brocade. It bore some Kutani influence as well: gold sea-dragons sewn up and down the sleeves and the plackets of the long scarlet coat, each of their eyes a fire opal. Around his throat and wrists were collars of gold, intricate with Kutani knotwork. Kel thanked Aigon for the night breezes; he would be sweating through his clothes otherwise. Not just from the heat, but from nerves.
Many years had passed since he’d panicked every time he was required to impersonate Conor. In the first years of being a Sword Catcher, it was what he’d hated most—far more than the idea of being in danger. Every impersonation was walking a tightrope: always remembering you were playing a part while also remembering every tiny detail that made you someone else.
He was not totally sure why his nerves were playing up tonight. Perhaps because the last time he’d impersonated Conor at a banquet, the bride-to-be had ended up pinned to the wall with a crossbow bolt, and he hadn’t been able to stop the horror. Perhaps because Anjelica had so easily fooled him with her deceitful walnut trick. He grinned to himself in the dark. All right, it had been a little funny. Perhaps—
But Benaset was tapping Kel on the shoulder, muttering for him to straighten up and present himself properly. Kel turned to see Anjelica coming down the path from the Palace, making her way between the hedges with her Bloodguard brothers at her side.
Her dress was nominally in the style of Castellane, with a tight bodice and pleated skirt, beneath which sandals of dark-gold leather were visible. But the fabric was like no other material Kel had ever seen: It had the sheen of satin, seeming to pour over her body, as if her dark-brown skin had been painted with a fierce and uncompromising liquid flame. Around her throat glimmered a collar of brilliant orange citrines, and the same stones dangled from her ears. Her braids were wrapped with gold wires, and threaded along the wires were more gems: cinnamon-colored garnets and imperial topaz, yellow jade and ametrine.
Her beauty was as startling as ever. It made him think of the beauty of a sword, sharp and bright and almost stern. The kind of beauty that seemed as if it could cut.
She acknowledged him with a slight nod as she came near. Her brothers were walking close to her, their heads together in murmured conference. Their uniforms of cinnabar and gold seemed to glow against the dark night.
Kel offered her his arm, stiff with embroidery and jewels. “Greetings, Ayakemi, ” he said.
“And to you, Ufalme, ” she said, taking his arm.
“Conor sent his apologies,” Kel said as they made their way down the path to the Queen’s Grove, followed by Benaset and the Bloodguard, keeping a careful distance behind them. “That he cannot be here himself—”
“It does not matter.” Her tone was dismissive. “But does he do this to you often, then? Schedule two engagements and send you to the one he would decline?”
Kel studied her profile. Was she angry? Conor had insisted she didn’t mind, and indeed, if she was upset, she was hiding it perfectly. “I don’t know whether you will believe me, but no. I can only assure you he would not be absent now unless he was required to be. And I do not think of it as something he does to me,” he added. “This is my duty. My livelihood.”
“I thought your livelihood was to catch swords. Or daggers, or poison, or whatever might be thrown at your Prince.”
“Are you worried we are walking into danger?” Kel said. “Because of the last banquet held here? The Castelguards are well prepared—”
She shook her head, and the gems in her hair made a musical sound. “No. Only a fool repeats a surprise attack, for it is not a surprise the second time. My Bloodguard would protect me, in any case.”
Kel glanced over at Kurame, who winked at him through the dark. Isam and Kito did not look nearly as amused; Kel suspected they were annoyed at Conor over what must seem like disrespect of their sister, and probably annoyed at him by association. Kel was, as always, a conduit through which feelings about the Prince passed and were transformed, like one of Merren’s alchemical mechanisms.
At the end of the path, the Queen’s Garden opened before them. A flourish of the lior —not, thankfully, being played by Merren this time—announced their entrance. The Bloodguard melted away into the shadows, though Kel was well aware that they were still close by.
Barely had they stepped into the grove than the fountain in the center of the reflecting pool shot forth streams of water colored in red, orange, and gold. The guests yelled and clapped—Beatris Cabrol, beside her mother, screamed aloud in surprise—and Lilibet, seated upon a golden chair beneath a canopy of cinnabar brocade, smiled. She wore her usual green, with a golden collar so high it nudged the base of her chin.
Everywhere were lanterns of pale-white parchment: hanging in the branches of the white-flowered almond trees, floating atop the reflecting pool like lily pads. The orange trees bore glimmering fruit: Dark-orange crystals and candied oranges hung from the boughs. On each of the tables scattered around the grass were vases of red and yellow Shenzan porcelain, from which spilled flowers native to Kutani: orange trumpet vine and scarlet arrowroot, the greenish-yellow petals of ylang-ylang, which gave off the strong scent of perfume, clashing with the odor of the citrus trees. Glass basins held pastries and candied fruits, atop which fat yellow bees—confusing the crystalline lantern light for day—buzzed and feasted.
If Anjelica was impressed by any of this, her calm expression did not show it. She kept her back sword-straight as they moved past rows of politely clapping nobles, on their way to a marble pavilion on which had been set a single table for their repast. It looked like a stage set, Kel thought, but perhaps that was not surprising. This whole business was a performance for the benefit of the Hill.
Many of the nobles gaped openly at Anjelica as she went by. They had all heard she was beautiful, of course, but seeing her up close was different. Kel wondered if they felt as he had on the docks, that this was a kind of beauty that caused pain. But his mind was only half on the question. He could see Lady Alleyne, who had placed herself near Lilibet, with Gremont standing beside her. But he did not see Antonetta. Surely she would be here tonight?
But even if she was, he thought, as he and Anjelica made their way up the steps to the pavilion, he was Conor tonight. He would not be able to approach her as himself.
Though what could he do as himself? She’d already told him he couldn’t help her.
They reached the single table resting beneath a canopy of gold organza. Anjelica seemed to hesitate just for a moment before taking her seat beside Kel. Perhaps she, too, was uncomfortable with the performance.
Kel busied himself with formalities: the finger bowl with rose petals floating in it. A sip of scarlet wine, bitter on his tongue. Beside him, Anjelica rested her hands on the table. Around her slender wrists, bangles of coral and amber clinked like coins. Kel was terribly aware of all the eyes on them, the avid gazes of those desperate for a tidbit of gossip, a word they could spread about Castellane’s soon-to-be Princess.
Kel cleared his throat. “You know,” he said, “we have this pavilion to ourselves, whether we like it or not. The nobility of Castellane is free to stare at us, but I assure you, they cannot hear us. If you have questions, now is a good time to ask them.”
“Not questions, precisely,” Anjelica said, “but I wished to ask you for a favor.”
“To ask me, or the Prince?”
“You, koya-mitimi. Or is it too difficult to be both the Prince and yourself at the same time?”
“I am very used to playing at being Conor. Walnuts notwithstanding.”
She smiled faintly. “What about Kel Anjuman? Are you used to playing him? After all, that is not who you are, either.”
Kel felt as if someone had put a hand on his solar plexus and pushed. He said, “I am used to that, too.”
If the deliberate neutrality in his voice struck her, she did not react, only nodded. “You are right,” she said, though he was not entirely sure what he was right about. “There is no reason to waste this evening.” She set her glass down. “I need to arrange a meeting without the knowledge of the Palace, and I need you to help me.”
Unable to stop himself, Kel swung around to stare at her. She looked back defiantly. She no longer seemed quite as distant and unearthly. He could sense the nervousness under her commanding tone, and it made her seem very human. “Me?” he said. “What would make you think I am the one to ask if you wish to keep secrets from the Aurelians?”
“You know about Aden,” she said. Her voice shook slightly. “The pirate. The trouble I have had with him.”
“You are not planning to meet with Aden, of all people?”
“No. No. ” A look of indignation flashed across her face. “Someone who knows him. Someone who has promised they can make him leave me alone. Forever.”
“Then why must this be a secret?” Kel plastered a smile on his face. It could not look as if they were having an argument; that would be a scandal. “The Aurelians would surely wish to help you rid yourself of this annoyance.”
“They would,” she acknowledged, “but they would send me into the city bristling with guards in a royal carriage, and the person I am supposed to meet would flee. No one wishes for such attention from the Arrow Squadron.”
“Then why involve me at all? Why not have your brothers take you? Simply claim you wish to see something of the city you will be ruling one day.”
“They don’t know the city at all—it would make no sense for them to show it to me! I need someone who is familiar with Castellane for the tale to make sense, and I would rather it was you than Legate Jolivet.” She leaned closer to him. That would please Lilibet, who was surely staring and wondering. “The Palace guards are a gossipy lot, if they’re anything like the ones in Spice Town. I need them to believe I am on a sightseeing tour, arranged by the Prince or the Queen. Something they won’t question.”
Kel hesitated.
“I can only tell you that this is in everyone’s interest—especially the Prince’s. And you, I think, are perhaps the only one here who puts Conor’s best interests above all other things.”
“And if I refuse?”
She sat back in her chair. “Then I will endeavor to slip away from Marivent on my own and make my own way in the city.”
“You can’t do that—”
“You cannot stop me.”
Kel wanted to grind his teeth together. She was right, of course. He couldn’t prevent her, but he knew from experience that creeping in and out of Marivent undetected was a difficult thing even for someone familiar with the Palace. Kutani’s spies were good, of course, but there was always an element of chance—and for her to be caught would be disastrous for the alliance with Kutani.
And Conor needed that alliance.
“I will consider what you’ve asked me,” Kel said. The nobles were stirring, getting to their feet. Soon they would approach to introduce themselves to the Princess. He and Anjelica would not be alone much longer. “And give you an answer in the next days. Do not act before I do.”
“Then do not wait too long,” said Anjelica with a sweet smile. She had turned to look out at the garden. “Who is that girl who is staring at you?”
Kel followed her gaze. It was Antonetta. She had come into the garden without him noticing and stood in the shadow of a flame tree, looking up at the pavilion. She was all in green silk, like the stem of a flower, with green silk ribbons threaded in her hair.
She met his eyes. The look on her face was hard to read. He would have guessed it was concern, but why would she be concerned for Conor? A moment later, Gremont had joined her, along with Lady Alleyne. They were both talking to her rapidly, and Kel could guess easily enough that she was being scolded for arriving late.
Then the nobles were swarming up the steps, ready to be introduced to Anjelica, and Kel could no longer watch Antonetta. First up to the table was Cazalet, with his pleasant smile and sharp, gleaming eyes. Then dour Sardou, who presented Kel with a wedding gift he claimed was—rather surprisingly—from Malgasi, and after him Raspail, whose gift was a wooden carving of Sedai. He must have had that made up in a hurry, Kel thought, but Anjelica seemed pleased.
In fact, she seemed pleased to meet each one of them. Whether she was or not, Kel couldn’t tell, but she had been well trained in Spice Town. To each noble she said something warm and welcoming, dotted with personal asides—asking Ciprian Cabrol about a new sort of dye, and inquiring of Gasquet as to the health of his many brothers and sisters. In the few moments when she looked blank, Kel leaned in to whisper bits of noteworthy intelligence about each new arrival.
“Who is the man all in silver? He looks as if he might have Kutani blood,” Anjelica murmured.
“Lupin Montfaucon? Textiles Charter. Cotton, linen. Not that they interest him.”
“What does interest him?”
“Drink. Brothels. Gambling. He is a sybarite; his goal is pleasure.”
“How typical of this city,” Anjelica replied, but when Montfaucon came up, she was all delighted inquiry about his silver coat. With Joss Falconet, she chatted about spices; with Esteve, primed by Kel, she inquired solemnly about his obsession, the horses of Valderan.
Lady Gremont came up with Artal, who gifted Anjelica with a tea that had been created just for her, or so he claimed, and would soon be for sale in the coffee shops of Castellane.
“ Té Anjelique, ” Lady Gremont announced, looking pleased with herself.
“It seems the Princess’s royal portraits did not exaggerate. Most are too flattering, and leave out the pox scars and lumpy noses.” Gremont leered. “You must have been pleased, Conor, to arrive at the docks and find your betrothed more attractive than her likeness, and not less.”
Lady Gremont, looking horrified, pulled Artal away before either Kel or Anjelica could reply.
“What an unpleasant man,” Anjelica said.
“You’ve no idea,” said Kel.
And then it was the turn of the Alleynes. Lady Alleyne bustled up in a whirl of calla lily silk, Antonetta close beside her. Lady Alleyne remained only long enough to be polite before descending the steps to speak with Queen Lilibet. But Antonetta hovered for a moment, her hands clasped, her eyes fixed on Anjelica.
“Now I see it,” she said, the ruffles at her throat trembling. “For so long, I thought Conor and I would marry”—Kel nearly choked—“but you are so beautiful, Princess. I see that you are destined to be Queen of Castellane.”
For the first time that night, Anjelica looked taken aback. “Oh, I—”
But Lady Alleyne had called for her daughter to join her. Antonetta hurried off in a swirl of blond curls and green satin. Anjelica turned startled eyes to Kel. “Were they betrothed?” she whispered. “She and the Prince?”
“No. Never,” Kel said, too sharply. “Her mother spent her childhood filling her head with talk of Conor, that is all.”
Anjelica shot him a long, considering look. “I see. So she is free to marry now?”
“No. She is engaged to Gremont. The unpleasant one.”
“How unfortunate for her,” she murmured. “Is she someone I can trust?”
Kel looked after Antonetta, who was chatting with Joss Falconet, seemingly admiring his fox-fur cloak. “Are you looking for someone you can trust?”
“If the nobles here are anything like the ones in Kutani,” she said, “it is important to know who you can rely on.”
Kel looked out over the lamplit garden, brilliant with light and shadow. “Well,” he said, “if there are nobles in Kutani you can rely on, then they aren’t much like the nobles here.”
Anjelica looked at him curiously. “You paint a dark picture.”
“Think of it this way,” Kel said. “You will be Queen one day, so they will wish to please you, because to be close to the throne is to be close to power. And that, at least, you can rely on.”
The library at Marivent was, as Lin had imagined, magnificent, but it did not dwarf the beauty of the Shulamat. And this pleased her more than she had thought it would.
She had nearly gone to Mariam to find a dress suitable to wear to Marivent, but at the last moment had stopped herself. She was not invited to the Palace as a member of the nobility; she was there to do work, and would be there in secret, to boot. She put on a plain blue dress, worn to gray at the cuffs and hem, braided her hair, stuffed her satchel with books, and walked out the gates of the Sault to the royal carriage waiting in the street.
They had arrived at the Palace not through the North Gate, but through a side entrance she had not known existed. Dusk laid its deep-blue shade over Marivent as she hurried across the grounds after Manish, the Castelguard who had retrieved her from the city. Fireflies, tiny needle pricks of flame against shadow, darted among the shrubberies lining the white stone paths. In the distance, she could see the cliffs, falling away to the aching vastness of the sea. The horizon’s line between sea and sky was already softening; soon it would disappear altogether.
The library turned out to be located in the Castel Saberut, a rectangular pile of dark-gray stone with an endearingly round tower rising from its north side. As they approached, Lin could hear, in the distance, the sound of festivities—music and the loud chatter of voices. Through the thick trees, she could see the glow of golden lanterns hung high in the branches like translucent apples.
Manish left her at the doors to the castle, after telling her the library would be easy enough to find: It occupied the entire second floor. Lin hurried up a set of dimly lit stairs and through an archway to find herself in a vast, high-ceilinged room flooded with the light from a dozen carcel lamps. Light and books—so many books they dazzled, just as the riches of the Shulamat did. But in the Shulamat, the books were lined up neatly behind screens of golden mesh. Here, they were everywhere—piled on long tables, on the seats of chairs, and in stacks on the floor, some reaching higher than her head. The mess did not bother her. It provided a sense of abundance, like the sight of a table groaning under a mass of platters. So. Many. Books.
“The volumes are arranged by country.” Conor’s voice, the soft drawl as familiar as the sound of the ocean receding after a wave. Lin turned and saw him standing in the arch of a doorway that led, she suspected, to the round tower she’d seen from outside. “It is not the easiest way to find books. I believe it was my great-grandfather’s design. He was rather eccentric.”
He came into the room, and Lin realized he was not wearing a crown or circlet. He was as plainly dressed as she had ever seen him, all in dark red, the color of blood and Castellane. Black lace fringed his jacket at the wrists. He wore only a single ring, set with a pearlescent moonstone the size of a child’s marble.
“I don’t see how you find anything at all here,” Lin said.
“Look down,” said the Prince, and when she did, she saw that the mosaic floor—which she had thought a pattern of swirling tesserae, conveying no particular image—was, in fact, a map of Dannemore. Shelves of books had been placed atop the outlines of different countries. Valderan, Hanse, Marakand, Hind, Shenzhou—she crossed the floor and then back again, unable to prevent a smile. She had crossed all of Dannemore now, she thought, just like Josit. She wished she could tell him; he would laugh.
She reached the part of the map that had been Aram but was now uninhabited desert. There was no shelf here, no books. Aram existed only in history. That sobered her. She looked up and found Conor watching her; she could not have defined the expression on his face. There was a strange softness to the line of his mouth, but perhaps he was looking through her, at something else entirely.
He said, “Should I ask where you are supposed to be tonight, Goddess?”
“At home,” Lin said. “Studying, or with my friend Mariam, perhaps. But there is no one keeping track of my movements that closely.”
“I like the sound of that. Not to have anyone keeping track of your movements.” The yellow light of the carcel lamps reflected off his mirror-gray eyes. “Come. I’ve gathered some books for us to look at already.”
She followed him through the arched doorway into a circular room—they must indeed be inside the tower, for the roof sharpened to a conical point—whose walls were lined with books. It was much less cluttered here, though. Lin suspected it had been imagined as a reading room. Plush armchairs were placed here and there with views of the casement windows. More carcel lamps illuminated the space, creating a restful sense of warmth. In the center of the room was a round table stacked with books—and not just books. There was a bottle of wine and one of water, and plates of savory and sweet pastries: marzipan cut into the shapes of castles and stars, sugar-dusted gibassié, fried millet with rosemary and pepper, white-iced rousquille, and sliced figs and cheese.
For a moment, Lin was touched; the food was a thoughtful gesture. Then she told herself that she was being ridiculous: It was not as if he had laid out this feast himself. It had been a matter of a few words to a servant, no more effort or thought than that.
She turned to look at him. While she had been in a reverie about food, he had gone to stand before the open window. The blue of dusk had given way to darkness, though she could see lights moving outside and hear the blur of distant voices.
“There,” he said. “That is where I am supposed to be tonight.”
He was leaning on the sill of the window. There was a dormant tension in his posture, as if he were a hawk about to take flight. She could not see his face, only the curls of his dark hair. She moved a little closer until she could see that he was looking down on a garden, hung with paper lanterns that illuminated a riot of color: jessamy yellow, cinnamon red, saffron orange. Tables spilled food and flowers; there was a reflecting pool, blue as the moon above, seeming to glow from within. Dark figures, rendered anonymous by distance, moved among the flowering shrubs. The breeze was warm and carried with it the scent of eucalyptus and lavender.
“A welcome banquet for Princess Anjelica,” he said. “Jolivet is taking no chances. If you look, you can see the Castelguards stationed among the trees.”
Lin tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “And you feel you don’t need to be there?”
He made a restless gesture. The moonstone ring on his finger flashed; it was etched with a lion’s profile, head back, mane flowing. What was it the sailors said? Castellane roars, and the world trembles.
“I ought to be there. But I find myself in a situation now where I must balance multiple needs at once. Kel can manage the banquet. It is more important for me to attend to the situation with my father.”
Lin couldn’t help her next question. “And your fiancée doesn’t mind the substitution?”
“Anjelica knows I have a Sword Catcher. And Kel is difficult to dislike.”
“Do you think of yourself as easy to dislike?”
He said dryly, “Charm is a skill anyone can learn, but one must make an effort to be charming. And right now I have too much else to concentrate on.” He indicated the books on the central table. “I’ve taken the liberty of gathering up our most comprehensive volumes on florticulture, if you’d like to have a look.”
“Florticulture— Oh.” Lin glared, made an impatient noise, and flopped down in a high-backed chair near the table. She could sense Conor’s amusement from across the room.
The books were a motley collection: different sizes, different languages, different dates. For a short time, Lin lost herself in the research, turning to Conor—who had taken the seat across from hers and was watching her through narrowed eyes—only when she came across an unfamiliar language.
“Here,” he said, pushing a small book across the table toward Lin. She glared down at the tome, so old that most of the ink had faded into illegibility. “Look at this one.”
Lin picked up the book with a frown. It was a small volume, bound in cracked leather, the sort of thing you could buy in Fleshmarket Square. The title was printed in dull gold: The Flower Book of Morwenna Aurelian.
“Aurelian?” Lin looked up. “Who wrote this?”
“My great-great-grandmother,” Conor said, leaning his elbows on the table in a princely disregard for manners, “and strictly speaking, she was breaking several Laws in doing so. But royals can get away with things ordinary people can’t.”
Lin shot him a look. “I’ve heard that.”
He grinned and popped a fig into his mouth. “Queen Morwenna was fascinated by plants, especially those with certain properties. She kept a garden of them. She wished to know the history of every plant, its uses in healing and... in magic.” He sat back. “I’ve found the book useful myself in the past. It has an excellent section on hangover remedies.”
Lin rolled her eyes as she bit into a rosewater-soaked pastry, then suppressed a sound of pleasure at its deliciousness. Concentrate on the book, she told herself, though she was aware that Conor was watching her as she read.
Queen Morwenna had handwritten the text in a style long out of date and only barely legible. Lin found blackroot described near the end of the book: Sports beautiful obsidian flowers, has no scent, blossoms and leaves are toxic to animals and people. Legend has it that, before the Sundering, blackroot was used to suppress the effects of magic. Sorcerer-Kings were known to have slipped it into the cups of their enemies before a duel, in order to blunt the edge of their power.
She looked over the top of the book at Conor. “This is interesting,” she said. “Blackroot is poison, that is in no doubt, but it also works to suppress magic. Is there some possibility that Fausten was trying to undo the effect of a spell?” She frowned. “But no, that couldn’t possibly—”
“Let me see that.” Conor reached out a hand for the book. As he did, the lace fell away from his wrist, and she saw the red mark of a burn on his skin, one that had not been there when she saw him shirtless in his apartments.
She must have betrayed something with her expression, for he shook his sleeve down quickly, covering the wound. But Lin looked at him squarely. “You have a burn on your wrist.”
He shrugged. “It’s nothing. A spill of candle wax.” But he would not meet her eyes.
“Let me see it.”
He set down Morwenna’s book with a characteristic scowl. “If you insist,” he said, and held out his arm to her.
She had not quite thought ahead this far. But Lin was a physician above all other things, and she had treated Prince Conor before. She took hold of his hand and turned his arm over so she could study the inside of his forearm, where the skin was a shade lighter, nearly as pale as her own. She could see the blue veins running like a map beneath his skin, see the long delicate lines that crossed his palm, the light calluses on his thumb and fingertips. His skin was warm against hers.
He leaned in closer, looking down at the burn on his wrist just as she was. The wound was pale red, almost glossy, unusually shaped. Lin ran her finger lightly over the skin, feeling the smoothness of the burn. She heard him suck in his breath and jerked her hand back.
“Did I hurt you?” she asked, worried.
“No.” There was a strangled something in his voice that made her look up at him. He was staring at her, his eyes hot and silver, his white teeth sunk into his lower lip. His hair was a riot of dark softness around his face, and she wanted to brush it back so badly, she felt it as an ache. A hard ache deep in her belly.
She tried to breathe. The air between them was thick and hot, as if the room were filled with smoke. She was still holding his hand. For a long, long moment, neither of them moved. She could not stop looking at him. He was normally talking, laughing, gesturing, scowling. She had never seen him so still. She had never seen that he had a freckle on his left temple, or the way the colors seemed to change and shift in his eyes, as they did in the moonstone of his ring.
When he spoke at last, his voice sounded as if it had been dragged over gravel. “How serious is it, then, Goddess?”
She felt dizzy. “How serious—?”
“My burn.”
“It will heal.” She touched it again, lightly; saw the color darken around his pupils. “But... how odd for a spill of candle wax that it should be in the shape of a hand. Look, here is the palm, and here the fingers—”
Conor drew his hand away. Lin sat where she was, without moving, trying to hide her breathlessness. She wanted his hand back in hers, wanted his eyes on her again. But she could not consider that. She forced herself to think instead of her dream, of the scorch marks on the walls inside the King’s tower, and of what Mariam had said of the cursed King in the time before the Sundering.
“Your father did this, didn’t he?” she whispered. “He burned you with the touch of his hand.”
Conor yanked his sleeve down hard, hiding the burn. “Why would you say that?”
“In the Sault, I have access to books that speak of magic in the time before the Sundering.”
“How illegal.” His eyes glittered. “And there is no magic now.”
“You have cause to know better,” Lin whispered. “There is the magic of talismans, like the one Kel has, that lets him be your Sword Catcher. And there is magic in the healing I do.”
“I know.” His eyes said: You healed the whip marks on my back, made them disappear. It should have been impossible.
“We all say there is no magic when we know what exists: Old magic. Small magic. What we mean when we say magic has vanished is that no new great spell can be created.” She took a deep breath. “And yet I think that Fausten’s medicine was meant as a cure for an illness that was magical in nature. That is magical in nature. If we still have healing magic in our world, might its opposite not also exist?”
Conor rose to his feet. The room had darkened as the moon outside passed overhead, and he was a shadow against greater shadow. He will throw me in the Trick, Lin thought dizzily, for even bringing up magic. For suggesting it could be affecting the King.
In a low voice, Conor said, “In the moments before his death, Fausten cried out to my father, saying that if he died, my father’s sickness would be worse. He said: You know what is coming, my lord. ” He raked his hands through his hair. “Why would my father want to kill him, then? Why would he want to sicken, to die?”
“Perhaps he did not want to be dependent on him,” Lin said softly. “It can be hard to feel you absolutely require someone else. Especially if you do not trust them.”
His look was a flash of silver, like lightning over the ocean. He reached into his jacket then. When he drew his hand back out, Lin saw something fluttering and pale, like the wings of a bird. He threw it down on the table: not wings at all, but long strips of parchment, on which were scrawled lines of symbols. They were simple as a child’s drawings: a wheel, a compass, a rose, a coin.
“Fausten’s notes,” said Conor. “At least, I have guessed that is what they are. I found them in a lockbox in his room. They seem nonsense, but he must have valued keeping them secret. It is perhaps a code—”
“They are not nonsense, nor a code.” Lin pulled the papers toward her, her heart hammering. “Will you let me have these? I will bring them back to you in a few days, I swear it. I should have their meaning by then.”
“Really? You can read them?”
“No,” Lin said, “but I know someone who can. And I should examine your father again. I cannot test for the presence of magic, of course, but perhaps I can rule out a few other ailments.”
He hesitated. “I suppose I must trust you.”
Lin folded the papers carefully into a square and slipped them into her pocket. “Why would I lie to you?” she said. “What good would it do me?”
For a moment, he seemed almost angry, but the look was quickly gone. He passed a hand over his eyes, as if very tired. “Forgive me,” he said. “Yes. I will arrange for you to see the King again, when it is safe to do so.” His eyes were a very dark gray. “You understand—there are not many I can trust.”
He looked very young for a moment, and she wondered if she could see in him the boy he had been long ago, when Kel had met him and thought: This is someone I would give my life to protect. She wanted to stand up, to go over to him, but at that moment there was a sound like a whip crack, and the sky outside the window lit up brightly.
Fireworks. She could see the sparks of them, dark orange and red and gold, falling past the open window like a rain of flame. She thought of the people in the city, who would be standing in the streets now, admiring the light show exploding over Marivent.
She should be there, she thought. With the people of the Sault, looking up into the sky; not here in the Palace, under a royal order. She felt the weight of a strange sorrow on her shoulders—that, and the shadow of an even odder feeling, the uneasy sense of something sinister not far away...
Conor glanced toward the window. “The banquet is ending,” he said. “I ought to find Kel. See how it all went. Whether the nobles behaved themselves.” He sounded weary. “I would rather stay here.”
But Lin was already on her feet, picking up her satchel. “I must go,” she said. She paused. “Unless, of course, you require me further?”
She saw his eyes narrow. It can be hard to feel you absolutely require someone else. “No, I do not require you,” he said. “Go, then. Manish will be waiting for you below, with the carriage.”
He turned back to the window as the sky outside lit up again, this time in even more brilliant streaks of color: deep golds and blues, struck to violet by the light of the tinted moon.
Lin hurried from the library, pausing only to look back once. She could see him, outlined in front of the window. He held his injured forearm cradled in his right hand, his fingers over the place where the burn was hidden beneath his jacket. Perhaps it was hurting him still.