Chapter 3
Isca
Once the guardsmen and the body were gone, the butcher’s wife across the walkway sent me a death glare, clutching her basket like she might need to run if I as much as blinked the wrong way. I couldn’t blame her, even if she was mistaken about me.
I understood, perhaps better than most, that our greatest fears stemmed from past traumas. Everyone in Caervorn had seen people burned, buried, or impaled by mages because power was the law of the land and they had it by virtue of birth. The rest of us learned early to keep our heads down.
My first lesson in fear had come when a boy my age, around seven, tried to run from a grand magus. I never saw his face, just the cloud of acrid smoke rising above the crowd and the smell of burning flesh.
People watched. Some even cheered. No one stopped it.
His scream didn’t end until long after the fire did.
I was twenty-four now, and the lessons in fear hadn’t ceased.
So I ignored the butcher’s wife and tried to go on with my day.
I knew better than to explain that my outburst had been an accident.
People in the outer ring tolerated my magic—just as they tolerated the taxes and the closed fortress gates and the crumbling mural—but tolerance was not trust. That I might never get from them.
They shunned me for my magic, just like the mages shunned me for having the wrong type of father.
Still reeling from the execution, I sat at my stall, numb, as the sun slowly fell in the sky.
The only good thing was that I didn’t feel the pangs of hunger anymore.
How could I after that? Still, the coins only a foot away mocked me, promising full bellies for my family.
But they were covered in blood and heavy with dark memories. I couldn’t stare at the pouch anymore.
Though my heart was still racing from the encounter, from how close I’d been to death in a red cloak, I began to work.
Sorting through the least bruised meadowsweet stems, I tried to redo my display.
I didn’t look up or join in the chatter surrounding me.
Bursts of gossip about the executioner filled the air.
“Came through the east gate just last night…”
“…riding some foreign beast, big as a cart…”
“…cloak the color of blood, heard he was the worst of the lot…”
I kept my face blank as I listened.
It was best to stay away from any powerful mage, but this one had brought his destruction to my feet. I’d lived long enough between the mage and mundane worlds to know that the Mage Assembly’s actions always came at someone else’s expense.
Today, that expense was mine to bear, since, unsurprisingly, no one seemed to want to visit a stall that still had streaks of drying blood upon it.
Though I yearned to scream about their perverted sense of justice, speaking my mind would be a death sentence.
I had to swallow my rage, just as I swallowed everyone else’s cares like stale ale.
I was just about to pack up my things and head home early when the mood in the market shifted abruptly. Even the hum of gossip halted mid-breath. I didn’t need to look up to know what it meant. That kind of silence only followed a death, or men wearing deep purple cloaks.
Two Assembly enforcers strode into the market from the southern arch, their boots too new, too clean for the outer ring. Neither spoke as they walked. One was tall and rail-thin. The other was broader, younger, and wore his hair cropped in the Assembly’s sharp military style.
So they’d sent muscle and magic. Great.
Like a river disrupted by a falling boulder, the crowd parted around them, murmuring quietly and shifting nervously as they passed.
Panic settled in my gut. I couldn’t be certain if the magic I’d accidentally released was the reason they were here—so far, they hadn’t as much as looked in my direction—but I felt it in my bones.
Something in the air changed, and the magic buzzing under my skin seemed to shrink away from their encroaching power.
A merchant pointed my way, mouthing “mage” like it was a dirty word when applied to me.
The butcher’s wife was the first to speak. “That one,” she said, loud enough to carry, while she pointed at me. Her voice was high, thin, like it might snap in the wind. “That one is always causing trouble.”
The younger enforcer turned toward my stall.
I didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe more than I had to.
“You,” he said. Not my name, just you, because people down here didn’t deserve names.
“Ser, I’m registered with the Assembly to sell my craft,” I replied calmly, gesturing to the remaining vials and dried herbs as if they might shield me.
The older one, the one brimming with magic, stepped forward. I caught a flash of the insignia—a silver flame carved into a small disc hanging at his neck. Licensed evocation mage. Extremely dangerous.
“We detected a powerful surge of magic in this area,” he stated. “Our guards reported that you were the source.”
I shrugged, careful to keep my hands visible. “I…apologize. I reacted poorly to the surprising administration of justice.”
That wasn’t a lie.
The older man smirked. Then his gaze narrowed in the telltale way that told me he was magically analyzing me. “Step out from behind the table.”
My pulse thudded in my ears. But I steeled my face. My movements were deliberate, unhurried, and designed to project an air of openness and obedience even as I railed against the Assembly and all that they stood for inside my head.
The younger one stepped closer, eyes flicking to the trembling herbs on the table behind me.
I prayed it was the wind and not my emotions bubbling over to manifest as telekinesis.
While it hadn’t occurred in years, it wasn’t impossible.
Every mage possessed a primary gift, like my empathy, along with at least one more secondary ability like my telekinesis—the most common one.
The most powerful of us had multiple abilities.
“Jumpy twittering bird,” the butcher’s wife muttered. “She’s not normal, that’s for sure.”
The younger enforcer showed less composure than the mage, rolling his eyes at her accusation.
I didn’t deny it. I didn’t speak at all.
Anything I said could twist too easily into proof that I was unable to control the flare of my magic.
They wanted to make an example of someone, to bring a facade of balance to the market, to show that they would punish one of their own as equally as an outsider.
“This once, we will forgive your forbidden use of magic on a crowd. If you had cast a different sentiment, Mage Isca, we would’ve been forced to act.”
My breath caught in my throat. They knew exactly who I was. I nodded, eyes lowering to the stained cobblestones under my feet. I could send out another wave of calm, make them change their minds about me, but the evocation magus would feel my magic and burn me to a pillar of ashes where I stood.
When I looked back up, the two enforcers exchanged a glance. I locked my knees and clenched my fists, bracing for the impact of magic or sword.
Like the blow I knew was coming, the evocation mage’s words hit me: “We’ll be watching.”
The moment they turned their backs, the tightness in my chest broke. I sucked in a breath that tasted too much like bile and not enough like relief. I’d have to keep my magic tightly controlled for a few weeks until the Assembly grew bored with me.
To avoid attracting attention to my house, I remained at my stall despite not having any customers.
The two enforcers moved on, but their presence didn’t.
Different groups of fortress guards drifted past my stall as the day wore on.
They usually never came that far into the market, not unless someone sent them.
Things changed again later that afternoon.
I felt the weight of someone watching me.
It wasn’t the usual stares from those who disapproved of a woman peddling magic-infused tinctures, but something far more intense.
Colder. Like sharpened steel held just out of sight, waiting for the right moment to strike. Another enforcer, maybe?
The moment the market crowds thinned, I shoved what could be salvaged of my unsold goods into my pack, leaving the empty crate behind. I needed to make a purchase and get to my mother before any gossip reached her ears.
She spent most of her day at home taking care of my father, but she dropped off completed mending work to her clients each afternoon. I could’ve used a moment to steady myself, but she saw me before I saw her.
“Isca!” Mama’s voice cut through the alley, sharp as a blade. Her gaze locked onto the flecks of blood staining my dress, and her lips pressed into a thin line. “That horrible butcher’s wife again?”
I flinched. Of course she’d noticed.
“No, Mama… It’s… It’s a long story.” We weaved our way through the well-heeled part of town, dropping off one piece of clothing after another.
“Then what’s in the bag?” she pressed.
I opened it and showed her the treasures I’d purchased for my baby brother. “Cloth for trousers to keep up with Tegil’s growing and new shoes.”
Disbelief clear in her wide eyes, she challenged, “How?”
We turned the corner into the narrow side alley between two houses. Before I could answer, she went pale at the same instant I felt the blood drain from my face. I wasn’t the only empathic mage in the family.
We’d both sensed ill intent—directed at us.
It moved through the air like a snake searching for its next victim. Wrapped itself around my ribs until I could hardly breathe.
My mother’s hand tightened on mine. Her mouth moved to whisper a warning, but I shook my head. It gave us more time to prepare if they didn’t know we knew they were coming.