His voice was gruff and clinical, but Evander could feel the concern dripping off him while he checked his pulse. Evander lifted his left arm, blinking until his vision cleared. The skin was red but not burned. The only evidence that remained was a raised silver scar. When the Blacksmith released him, he slid off the table. His legs held him upright, barely.
“You need to stay here until the second phase is over,” said the Blacksmith.
Evander shook his head and took a few stumbling steps.
“Home,” he croaked. His throat felt like it had been shredded with knives.
The Blacksmith kept talking, trying to convince him, but he didn’t move to stop him. Evander grabbed his shirt and kept walking. Some part of him knew he should thank the Blacksmith. Another part of him begged to stay, to be safe. Evander had the capacity to listen only to the part of himself that pushed toward home.
It was dawn. The sky was streaked pink and purple and blue as he trudged back to the city. The gates had just opened for the day, and the Merchants’ Bridge was crowded with noise and bodies and odors. Evander was shoved and jostled, but he forced himself forward. He was so parched that he was afraid he would pass out again. When he entered the city, his feet wanted to take him north, to the fourth ward, where his real home had been. With conscious effort he turned west, through the muck and mire to the hovel that was their only refuge. His hands had gone numb, and he couldn’t get the door open. Just when he thought he might collapse right there on the stoop, it swung open, and he collapsed into Alys’s arms instead.
She dragged him to a pallet in a corner. The one-room tenement was small enough that he could see Alys was the only one there. He found some small relief in that. He didn’t want his parents to know what he had done, at least not until he could prove that it was worth it. Alys forced him to drink some water, even though he felt like his throat was closing up. She kept murmuring things, but he couldn’t make out what she was saying. When the second wave of pain the Blacksmith had promised hit him, he forgot his name again, forgot where he was, forgot why he’d gone to the Blacksmith in the first place. He lost everything but the searing agony that kept him tethered to his body.
He didn’t know how long it lasted. When he came out of it, there was a cool, damp cloth on his forehead and Alys was still beside him, crying softly. And he hated himself just a little bit more.
TWENTY-TWO
VESPER
Only a few hours after she’d siphoned all her uncle’s memories of his past dealings with Solan Tavish and their current plans to rid the city of him, Vesper found herself in the custody of two citadel guards. She’d taken refuge in one of the workrooms set aside for clerks and was copying some notes from old council meetings for her uncle when the men arrived. They offered no explanation as they led her to an interrogation room and locked her inside.
She called through the door after them, but no one replied. Her nerves were fraying, and an itching voice in the back of her head whispered that something was very wrong. She had no choice but to sit and wait it out. It had to be some mistake. Or maybe it was a bizarre attempt by her uncle to ensure some privacy, away from prying ears and eyes.
When the door opened and Crispin Cavar walked in, she lost the sliver of hope she’d been clinging to. He worked for the council, and he always had. He had no loyalty to the chancellor.
“Hello, Vesper,” he said, taking the other seat and clasping his hands on the table.
“Hello, Crispin,” she said, trying to match his pleasant tone.
“I hope you’ve been comfortable,” he said. He had an effortless geniality about him. She wondered if that helped when he was reading people’s faces, if they didn’t notice the intrusion as quickly. He was only a few years older than her, young for a council-employed sentient but very talented. What he lacked in wizened solemnity, he made up for with his easy smile and liquid brown eyes. Vesper had known clerks of all genders to swoon after him, though she didn’t understand the appeal. He was nice to look at, but she didn’t think she could ever be with someone while knowing that everything she’d done and said and sometimes even what she was thinking was written across her face for him to read. How could you ever trust someone that deeply?
“I’ll be more comfortable when you tell me why I’m here,” she said.
“It’s just a precaution, really,” he said. “There have been some . . . rumors that worry the council members. They’ve decided to launch an investigation into anyone who may be involved. With your uncle’s blessing, of course.”
He said the last with a small flick of his hand and a twinkle in his eye, and Vesper knew very well that her uncle had no idea she was being questioned like this. He’d be furious when he found out, but by then it could very well be too late. The council had their own diviners, and it was only a matter of time before they started catching glimpses of the machinations her uncle had set into motion. The council needed Solan Tavish and his prophecies more than they needed the chancellor. He was technically in charge, but he was outnumbered. If they suspected he was trying to undermine the power they had worked so hard to achieve, they wouldn’t hesitate to destroy him.
“You look nervous,” Crispin said.
“I’m being treated like a criminal,” Vesper said. “Wouldn’t you?”
He flashed her an indulgent, somewhat condescending smile.
“You’re not a criminal until we prove you committed a crime.”
The subtle implication in his choice of words wasn’t lost on Vesper. They were expecting to find some proof before she left this room. His eyes were narrowed slightly now, roving over her face as if to memorize it. He was reading her right now. She didn’t have long before he knew everything.
She wondered, a little desperately, if there was a way to feed him memories she wanted him to see and keep him from the ones he was looking for. She took a deep breath and tried to envision how her memories—and her uncle’s that she still kept—must look inside her. The fantastic tangle of iridescent thread, pulsing with life and feeding one into another. She imagined she was teasing out the thread of one of the many uneventful chapel services she’d attended in her life, not the memorials for the Slain God but the regular services where the citizens sat drowsily in the pews while a priest droned on and on about the responsibilities left to them by the elder seers. Vesper felt sleepy just thinking about it. She shut her eyes and focused on that thread, pretended it was the only one that existed. A single shimmering strand alone in the dark.
Crispin shifted in his chair. Vesper opened her eyes to find him glaring at her.
“Something wrong?” she asked with feigned innocence that he wouldn’t believe for a second.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Well, I thought I was being interrogated,” she said. “Have you found what you’re looking for?”
His eyes narrowed again, and this time Vesper could have sworn she felt something. A slight prodding. As if the threads inside of her were being sifted through. The sensation gave her a moment of panic, and she lost her focus. She thought she could feel his eyes on her memories. It was the worst kind of vulnerability. She shut her eyes again and this time envisioned the threads in a whirl of chaos and color. A vibrant, unpredictable storm.
Crispin pushed his chair back a couple of feet. Vesper’s eyes sprang open at the sound, and she was a little surprised to find him clutching his head with one hand and gripping the tabletop with the other as if he were dizzy.
It took every bit of willpower she had not to smile.
“You look ill,” she said. “Maybe we should take a break.”
“They know you’re hiding something,” he snapped, a crack in his affable demeanor that was oddly satisfying to see.
“I think a sentient of all people would know that everyone is hiding something.” Vesper clasped her hands on the table, mirroring his posture from before. Now she let herself smile at him, even though her heart was drumming so violently in her chest, she was afr
aid he could hear it.
Her uncle was the only person in the citadel who knew she was a rook. She’d never been officially confirmed. She had been twelve when her gift began to manifest—older than most. Her mother and father were at a loss for how to handle it. Her mother had two cousins who were sentients, but Vesper’s great-great-grandfather had been the last rook in the family. It had been Uncle Ansel, a councilor then, who’d suggested that they delay her confirmation and keep her gift a secret for a few years at least. He’d spun some story about her needing to hone her abilities before making them public, but Vesper knew now that he’d been worried about her. There was great wealth and comfort to be had by rooks loyal to the council, but any who balked at the council’s less honorable demands risked ruination, swift and sure. Back then, her uncle hadn’t been ready to stand against his fellow councilors, but that didn’t mean he was willing to sacrifice his niece to their agenda.
It was around that time that she met Cassa and started working with the rebellion. After that, she had no desire to receive an official confirmation from the council. If there was one thing the past few years had taught her, it was the value of secrets. Some people, like Crispin, might suspect she was a rook, but he couldn’t prove it.
“I’m not interested in everyone’s secrets,” Crispin said. “Just the treasonous ones.”
“I’ll be sure to let you know if I come across any.” On a hunch, she stood up. “I don’t think you have any right to keep me here unless the council announces formal charges against me.”
Cassa had told her once that if you did something with confidence, you almost always got away with it. Vesper mustered up every shred of confidence she had and walked to the door. It wasn’t locked. Crispin didn’t try to stop her.
“I hope you recover soon,” she said over her shoulder. “I hear peppermint is good for dizzy spells.”
She left the room and walked with what she hoped resembled purpose rather than panic. The guards who had escorted her to the interrogation were posted in the hallway. They eyed her as she passed but didn’t move. Her hunch was right. The council was using scare tactics, but they hadn’t yet resorted to drastic measures.
That time would come though, if they didn’t find the answers they were looking for. Did they suspect her uncle at all? Or did they think she was working with someone else? Did they even know what it was they were looking for?
She left the Central Keep and kept her pace brisk as she turned onto the main road. It was a chilly afternoon, though the air held the first scents of spring. Normally a walk through the citadel would soothe her, but she only felt more on edge with every step she took. She couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was following her. She wasn’t even sure where she was going. What she really wanted to do was find her uncle and give him back his memories. She wanted to ask him what they were supposed to do next, but he’d given her strict instructions not to return the memories until Solan was dead. Any time before that and the council might learn what he was planning. He was vulnerable against every sentient and rook in the citadel loyal to the council. That was most of them.
Vesper knew the council wasn’t through with her yet, but at least she had a line of defense. She wouldn’t be able to hold out against Crispin forever, but her thoughts and memories were relatively safe for now. That still didn’t help her decide what to do next. Ansel expected her friends to succeed. He couldn’t trust any diviners enough to read the outcome, but he’d put all his faith in them—mostly at Vesper’s behest. He didn’t have a contingency plan. He was like Cassa in that regard.
Her only allies outside the citadel hated her. Her only ally within the citadel didn’t even remember what they were trying to accomplish.
Vesper was on her own.
TWENTY-THREE
CASSA
Cassa didn’t like being alone with Newt. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust him or that he made her nervous. It was that some subconscious part of her still felt she was supposed to hate him. She knew it wasn’t fair to hold his father’s cowardice against him. She knew the relationship between Newt and his father was strained, to say the least, that Newt hadn’t even been home in months—though he was reticent about the reasons why. She knew that he was as loyal and dedicated as any of them.
But still there was that part of her. The knee-jerk reaction that just kept reacting. His father had cut ties with the rebellion and run to the council with everything he knew—which wasn’t much but was still enough to put several lives in danger, including her parents’. She remembered the day they found out about his betrayal, the way her father’s laugh lines had twisted with a frown, the way her mother folded up the missive neatly and then flung it into the fireplace. She remembered the way they had both looked at her, and for the first time in her life she had realized that it was possible for her parents to be afraid, for her sake and for all the firebrands.
And for the first time in her life, she was afraid for them.
“Are we going to hide?” she asked.
“You are,” her father said, reaching out a hand to her. Cassa took it, amazed at how steady and strong it was, when her own had begun to tremble. “We have to make sure everyone else is safe first, then we’ll join you.”
“Why can’t someone else go?” she asked. At eleven, she knew she was too old, but she crawled into her father’s lap anyway. He pressed a warm kiss to the top of her head.
“Because it’s our job,” her mother had said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. Their job to lead, their job to protect, their job to keep her safe.
Their job to die.
Her parents were heroes of the rebellion, but it was her mother and father she missed. Warm kisses and the complicated made simple. She couldn’t help but think that she would have preferred them to have been cowards if it meant they could be alive, living in a cozy house in the third ward like Newt’s father did. Instead, the Valeras were nothing but legends now, and her mother and father were dead.
She didn’t hold it against Newt, but sometimes she wanted to.
They’d left the apothecary shop behind and headed west across the lower ward. Now that winter was edging into spring and the mountain passes had begun to clear, traders from the south had started pouring into the city with their wares, congesting the main thoroughfares. There were a few guards scattered across the ward, but mostly they were bored patrols, paying attention to nothing but the most blatant troublemakers.
Cassa and Newt took full advantage of the crowds whenever it was necessary to travel along the streets while sticking mostly to the alleys and back ways. They both knew the city well enough that their progress required no conversation. The last time either of them had spoken was back at the shop, trading last-minute cautions and advice with Alys and Evander, who were leaving the city to convince the Blacksmith to help. She and Newt were tasked with finding the mirasma that Solan needed for the bloodbond. They only needed a small amount, but even a thimbleful of mirasma could sell for nearly one hundred silvers. There weren’t many places in the city to get it.
Later they would all meet in Aurelia Valley, at the cave mouth where they had emerged just last night. Then it was only a matter of getting Solan out of the cave and to the Blacksmith. An elegantly simple plan, provided none of them was followed and everyone was successful in their task. And that none of the chancellor’s diviners caught on.
“Do we know where we’re going?” Newt’s voice startled her a little in the relative silence of the alley they were passing through.
“To steal some mirasma,” Cassa said, “in what will hopefully be remembered as one of the cleverest and most perfectly executed heists in history.”
“And where are we supposed to find it?”
“I happen to know a lowlife degenerate who has some to spare.”
Cassa led the way through the rougher side of the lower ward to the Dream Merchant. Gaz Ritter claimed he didn’t make much money on his little enterprise, and he kept his shop ramshack
le enough for that to be believable. It was the same as it had always been, with a weather-beaten sign dangling by one corner over the door and a square hole cut roughly into the front wall to serve as a window. By all appearances, Gaz lived a humble life.
Cassa knew for a fact he kept a proper house several wards higher, with real windows and a rose garden out front.
“There’s a smaller window cut into the back of the shop, behind his desk,” Cassa told Newt, when they had stopped at the street corner a hundred yards away. “You should be able to fit through.”
“Should?” Newt echoed, but he was already massaging his wrists and rotating his shoulders. It was a strange ritual Cassa had noticed before.
“Why do you do that?” she asked, even though she knew it wasn’t the time or the place.
Newt glanced at her in surprise, then ducked his head and rubbed the back of his neck.
“I’m just curious,” Cassa said.
“My joints get sore sometimes.” He hesitated, still not looking at her. “A lot, actually. And they can pop out of place if I’m not careful.”
That must be why he wore the bandages all the time. Cassa had always assumed it was just a precaution. She’d seen him bend his body in fantastic, sometimes unsettling, ways. He could fit in the smallest spaces and maneuver out of the tightest spots. He’d always seemed unbreakable. She’d never considered there might be more to it than that.
“It’s not a big deal,” Newt said in response to her silence. He was eyeing her now, his expression guarded.
“Okay,” Cassa said. “I just didn’t know.”
Newt had always been tight-lipped about himself in general. She doubted anyone knew—except maybe Evander. But Cassa had a feeling that Evander kept several of Newt’s secrets close to the vest. He had been the first to befriend Newt and the first to accept him into their group. He was the one Newt trusted the most. Lately she had begun to guess that there was more than that growing between them. She didn’t want to think about it, but it was another knee-jerk reaction. Evander was her first romance, her first kiss, her first everything. Evander was hers.
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