Chapter Nineteen #2
The crowds tighten around the pavilions, rows of nobles all drinking and laughing in the stands, and no one except the Leonese pay any more attention to me—to us.
Talon glances around us carefully. “Not the way we think of the word,” they say. “Magic doesn’t work there the way it’s been used here. It’s not just mages who learn to wield it.”
“Anyone can?”
The concept feels too huge to wrap my head around.
Any time I’ve thought about what it would be like to have magic back on Eireann, it’s always been through mages.
A system for buying it from those who’ve studied for years—decades—to become experts in its uses.
That’s how it’s always been here, in every story I’ve ever heard.
I never even thought to imagine another way.
A way where people like me might use magic without needing a mage to sell it to us.
“They run schools. Teach every citizen simple sums, and spelling. Basic magic too. No battle magic, but little things. Healing. Stretching out a cup of beans, or easing a fever.”
My heart stammers, exhilaration racing in my blood. “How?”
“They’re a monarchy, yes, but the power lies with the people.
Elected councils make all the important decisions, so they make sure all the people are capable of rising if they choose that path.
The monarch’s power is mostly ceremonial—unless they need to overrule a council that tries to do something against the country’s constitution.
A last resort to check anyone who would abuse their power on the elected councils. ”
Old Ones, it almost sounds impossible. That any rulers would willingly share power—that magic might not need to be controlled only by mages, either.
Could that ever work here?
Two gardai move to stand at my back. Talon’s eyes sharpen, but they let the guards lead me toward the center of the yard, where a long wooden table stretches out facing the pavilions and the crowds.
Talon’s lips twitch, like they want to say something but think better of it.
There’s not really anything left to say at this point anyway.
Try not to die wouldn’t exactly be revelatory.
Gold flashes at the edge of the yard, and my eye follows it up the rows of the pavilion stands, where the High Queen reclines on a chaise.
The prince towers just behind his father’s empty throne, standing stiffly, shifting on his feet like he can’t settle long enough to sit. His fingers drum on the edge of the throne; the eyes I know are sapphire look almost black from here. They catch on mine and linger.
Compared to the noble daughters, I don’t glitter.
There are no gleaming gems around my wrists or neck, or fine lengths of velvet to keep away the chill.
The air is unnaturally cold, and I can feel it bring a flush to my cheeks; a brisk breeze loosens the hairs from my braid.
The length hangs down my shoulder, and the linen tunic beneath my simple black cloak is thin enough for the bite of the wind to make me shiver.
Nothing about me should be a distraction for a prince, no matter who I remind him of.
And Old Ones, the last thing I can do is let him distract me.
I tear my gaze away from his and dig both hands into the edge of the wood table. None of the noble daughters bother to glance at me, except Saraid, who watches me like she’s more than just a little curious from a few feet down the table.
Like she’s heard of me and wants to size me up.
My heart beats faster. I look away and, like a magnet, my eyes dart back to the prince.
He watches me as if he never looked away, fingers moving to tap lightly on the edge of a tall, clear glass. A small mound of ice sparkles in a crystal bowl on the table in front of him. If it wasn’t for this damn chill, and the mist clinging in haunting wisps, that ice would melt.
My mouth waters at the sight. We would never be able to afford ice unless we scraped the winter icicles off the side of our shack—and this is the middle of summer.
His eyes darken and flit to the ice. A single, quick furrow of his brow—so fast I must be imagining it.
Bodhran drums pound out a gathering rhythm, building and pulsing until the tension in the air feels taut enough to snap. The High Queen is the one who breaks it, rising from her chaise and going to stand at the edge of the royal pavilion.
The Leonese offer polite applause, their eyes wary and tight as they scan the crowd, and I hear the faint rustle of whispers.
Where is the king?
“Welcome to the Test of Wisdom,” the High Queen calls out in her lilting voice.
Her kohl-rimmed pale eyes sweep over the six of us—five noble daughters and me—standing behind the long wooden table, where servants lay out rows of chalices and cups before us. Gardai bring over standing screens and open them between us.
As if none of us are supposed to see what the others do, even as the crowds must see us.
Excitement rises in hungry waves from the spectators.
But on the pavilion, the prince’s shoulders tighten. He shifts his stance, weight even between his long legs, and sets his glass down on the table beside the bowl of ice.
My fists curl.
That’s a fighting stance.
A hush falls over the nobles then, and the High Queen nods approvingly before flicking her wrist and the gardai away from the yard.
Talon goes with them, casting a final, heavy glance back at me.
The servants go too. Anyone who isn’t a noble clears out and begins to make their way back down the path to the castle.
“The Assay is our chance to cleave the weak links from the shining chains of noble blood,” the High Queen calls out.
She doesn’t acknowledge the empty throne.
“It is our forge. Our crucible for a future queen. And never have the stakes been so high.” She pauses, letting the significance of her words settle.
“Your families are our front lines. Every raid, every battle on your lands, is a battle for the heart of this isle—against the spread of the Martyr’s dangerous promises, against those who want to see this land returned to the dark days of rule by mage.
” The High Queen spits the word. “By fire, and legends—and magic.”
Fear fills my lungs, wafting from the deafening shouts and cheers from the hundreds of nobles all around us.
None of them, I would bet my life, have ever felt the pangs of hunger or the bitter bite of loss that we live with every day beneath the glare of the Black Quay.
Still, they cheer for a ban on magic that keeps us down.
Keeps them safe from any of us ever being strong enough to rise up and demand better.
Wind pulls at the tangle of the High Queen’s elaborate braids, woven with bits of pearls and diamonds and blue gems. “The mages would tear our isle apart. We’ve seen it before.
” Her eyes narrow slightly on the Leonese envoys, but the only sign of any tension is the ripple of inked skin where the envoys’ jaws tighten.
“They would rip up everything you have earned, everything your families have built through centuries of sacrifice.”
Rage boils my blood, scorching away the lingering fear.
Earned, my ass.
“Each Well that we will seal brings us closer to the day we no longer have to fear their return,” she shouts to the crowd.
“Every ounce we will drain is poison leeched from the wounds the mages left us. Protection from those who yearn for rule by the will of the many, and not by those who know best. Those of us who are wisest.” She pauses, a wicked smile curving her lips.
“And a queen should be wise enough to spot the poison waiting for her, should she not?”
The crowd of nobles explodes, roaring in approval. But my hands go numb and my blood turns to ice. The whole world blurs around the edges. The High Queen’s lips keep moving, but I hear nothing above the din of horrifying understanding crashing over me.
The keen burn of Wolf’s eyes in the temple sears across my memories.
Would you fight? If there was even a drop of magic left?
That’s what he had asked me.
I don’t know how this could be possible. It goes against everything I’ve ever been taught, everything I thought I knew.
But the High Queen’s words leave no room for doubt.
Each Well that we will seal.
Every ounce we will drain.
The world lurches around me, then snaps into place with a sickening jolt.
There’s still magic left in the Seven Wells.
And the Whisperers fucking know it.