Lin
dreams. And in her dream, she sees again the charred land where everything had burned. The earth is black, shot through with blazing rivulets, threads of red and bronze fire that glitter like the gold embroidery thread in one of Mariam’s dresses.
Through the haze of smoke, sees a figure, dressed in black and red, wearing a coronet of gold. As he comes closer to her, she recognizes King Markus. He looks younger than she has ever seen him, as if he has just claimed the throne, just begun his reign. There is intelligence in his eyes, and a clear awareness.
He stops before her. They are separated by a river of fire that splits the ground between them. Glassy black rocks float in the red-orange blaze.
“You have opened the way,” he says.
shakes her head. She knows it is a dream, and yet it feels real. She can taste the bitter air, feel the burn of it deep in her lungs. “What way? What do you mean?”
“You think that I have seen little,” says the King, “but I have seen much. I know of the test you will face soon. I know that your stone thirsts for power. You struggle to fill your stone with power, but without the Word, it cannot be done by any means you might find in a book.”
“So it’s impossible.” feels the words like a blow. “I can never do real magic.”
“Not so. The power in my blood contains the Word. The power I gained at the Court of Malgasi, the fire in my veins that they so dearly wish to have back.” His gray eyes seem to glitter. Conor’s eyes, inherited from his father. “You have done much for me. I wish to give you a gift in return.”
A gift. does not trust gifts. “I only treated you as I would any patient. I require nothing in return.”
It is the King’s turn to shake his head. Sparks fly from his crown as if it, like the land, is burning. “Come to me in my tower,” he rasps. “Take of my blood to fill your stone.”
He reaches across the burning river, reaches as if to take her hand, and though she would have thought it was impossible, his fingers close around her wrist. Pain flares in her hand, shooting up her arm as if it were lightning traveling along the path of her bones.
sits up with a scream, quickly muffled as she claps a hand over her mouth. A moment later, she is scrambling out of bed. Her arm aches and burns; she hurries to the window, pushing up the sleeve of her nightgown so she can examine her skin in the bright-blue moonlight.
She is unmarked. turns her arm over, stares at her forearm, her wrist and palm, still stinging. Nothing; only gooseflesh from the chill night air.
The silver brooch is on her nightstand. Swinging her heavy braid over her shoulder, she goes to retrieve it, and finds that when her hand closes around it, the pain begins to fade.
She turns it over on her palm. There it is, deep in the heart of the stone, a burning spark.
Her own heart begins to beat in double time. As if she is still in a dream, she pads barefoot into her kitchen. It is cool in here, too, the fire in the grate put out long ago. She gazes at it—at the blackened logs surrounded by gray ash—and says, her hand clasped tight around her brooch, “Burn.”
There is a soft rending sound, like tearing cloth. A dozen gold sparks fly up from the half-burned wood, like golden beads flying from a broken necklace. For a moment fears that this will be all there is, all the tiny flicker in her brooch has power for, but a moment later sheets of red and orange join the gold, flames leaping jagged in the hearth like dragon’s teeth. can feel the heat flood over her skin, sending her heart soaring.
She glances down at the stone in her hand. The flicker is gone, the stone cool and lifeless again. She closes her hand around it.