by Kaylin Lee
“So be sure to study the timeline and the events we’ve covered so far.”
I struggled to my feet when Professor Kristof dismissed the class and forced myself to begin straightening the room, but every move made my side stab with pain. I pressed my lips together and tried not to groan.
“You.” Chloe had paused on her way out of the library and was examining me suspiciously. “Something’s been wrong with you.”
I glanced at Professor Kristof from the corner of my eye. I hadn’t told him what had happened. I was fine. Fine enough, at least. And if I dwelled on the experience for too long, I inevitably started shaking again. I didn’t have time for such weakness. “I’m fine. I just had a bad fall.”
Chloe cast a quick glance around the room before she reached out and brushed her hand along my ribs. A puff of gold sparkles appeared and evaporated. Warm heat rushed into my side, and suddenly, the pain in my ribs was gone. “I have a bit of experience with falls myself,” she murmured as she shrugged into an elegant, fur wrap. “A nasty business.”
My mouth dropped open. She’d healed my ribs with the slightest brush. And I couldn’t be sure, but it seemed like some of the fragile shakiness that had plagued me for the past three days was gone, too. How powerful was she? “You’re a healer, too?” I matched her low, quiet tone.
“I dabble.” She smirked. “Not everyone is as obsessed with classifications as you Asylians are.”
When Chloe was gone and the room was tidy, Professor Kristof and I made another pot of coffee and settled into our new post-class routine—organizing his old research on Kireth history. My head was still spinning from Chloe’s revelation, so when I began flipping through a stack of notes he’d passed me, I couldn’t focus on the words. “Can mages be more than one type?”
Professor Kristof nodded without looking up. “Well, they can’t be both expellant and absorbent. Just one or the other. But the classifications we use today are mainly just ways to put magic to practical use. An expellant mage who specializes in healing, for example, learns the details of anatomy and medicine, and fine-tunes their control so they can replicate the body’s innate healing processes with magic. That same mage could have been a creator or a grower, given different training.”
I rubbed my head. “I see.” How much had Asylian classifications blinded me? I read the first page of notes and the second. “This stack looks like it’s from your mythology collection,” I said, handing him the papers.
“Oral Kireth myths,” he read aloud, his face brightening. “Yes! I’d thought this stack was lost in the riots years ago.” He tapped the stack of notes. “Priceless knowledge right here, Kata. Priceless. After the Fenra revolution, most Kireth documents and cultural artifacts were destroyed. But their stories were passed down orally, generation to generation. Did you know that for many centuries, Kireth descendants believed the original inventor of the True Name was a mage they called Death’s Master?”
I rubbed a hand on my side out of habit, still surprised not to feel any pain. “Death’s Master.” Something about the words made me shiver. “What kind of mage was he?”
“Absorbent, they said. Very absorbent.”
“Like a mage with the Touch?”
“Exactly. The legend goes that in the chaotic years after the Kireth invaded Theros, he became obsessed with unifying the continent. He studied the ancient ways of alchemy, like we’ve been discussing in class, and discovered that every mage has a True Name that can be used to control their will.”
“So this … Death’s Master … what did he do? According to the legend, I mean.”
“He wasn’t content with enslaving the native Fenra people. He enslaved other mages, too, controlling them with their True Names until he had half the continent under his rule. Then the Fenra rebelled, used the True Names to force the Kireth into walled cities as Fenra slaves, and …” He waved a hand toward the library windows. “The rest is history, as they say.”
I was silent for a moment, staring at the next stack of notes without really seeing them. “So … you believe it’s a myth. That Death’s Master never really existed.”
Professor Kristof began to clean his glasses. “I believe the Kireth slaves needed a reason for their plight. And a fictional villain who’d brought it all down on them with his greed was probably a comforting sort of escape.”
A niggling bit of discomfort poked at the back of my mind, like Professor Kristof had misspoken, but I wasn’t sure how. “But how can you be sure it’s a myth?”
He slid his glasses back on, looking surprised at my persistence. “Well, it was seven-hundred years ago, so no one really knows for sure. But the story defies logic, defies possibility. How could one man hold the True Names of thousands—No, hundreds of thousands—of people?”
“He could have had deputies,” I said stubbornly. “Delegated the holding of True Names down the ranks of his servants, the way the Asylian government does.”
“Very good, Kata. Of course, he could.” He paused to fold his handkerchief and put it back in his pocket. “But the legend holds that the Fenra rebellion succeeded because they took out the mage at the top. If he’d had deputies holding the True Names of others under his control in a sort of pyramid structure, they could have simply mobilized the rest of the base against the Fenra rebellion once he was dead. The Fenra would have been defeated easily, and the Kireth would have remained rulers of the continent.”
“But instead, the Kireth were all enslaved.” I rubbed my temples. “I understand. It’s just … strange.”
Professor Kristof finished the last of his coffee in one, long gulp. “I forgot! I picked up your post and mine from the courier’s office this morning. Hope you don’t mind. The attendant was a bit preoccupied, and I didn’t want your letters to get lost in the mess over there.”
Preoccupied. Right.
“Thank you.”
The professor lifted a letter he’d already opened and waved it triumphantly. “My cousin in Asylia says he has begun implementing a new method for treating aurists in the River Quarter. I read it before class this morning.”
I frowned. “He has? How?”
“He says he treats it like the plague. So he brings in a purifier friend of his from the nearest gate to remove every last trace of aurae from the aurist’s body, the way they used to remove traces of the plague from infected imports when the gates first opened. Once that is done, he uses his power to heal the patient. In the past, healers have simply directed their magic to help the body recover from aurae’s toll. But since aurae’s draw is so strong …”
“They fight a losing battle,” I finished his sentence. “The healed aurist returns to aurae as soon as he is well.” I’d interviewed countless healers over the years. They, more than anyone else, had faced the pain of aurae’s impact on the city firsthand. If this method really worked, lives would be saved. “Has he informed his superiors?”
The professor’s excitement dampened slightly. “Well, yes. He wrote to me to complain, it seems. Apparently, they didn’t believe him, and he got in trouble for going around the normal hierarchy to bring a purifier in. He says things are hard for mages in Asylia right now. Trust is in short supply, and mages that go out of bounds are dealt with harshly.”
So Prince Estevan’s new mage regulations hadn’t passed yet. When we’d last spoken, the prince had known it was a possibility the Court of Lords would block him, but I’d thought for sure he’d find a way to get the regulations through by now. “I’m sorry. That’s awful.” I shuffled the notes in front of me. “Um …” I tried to sound casual. “What is your cousin’s name? And where does he work?”
Professor Kristof didn’t seem to find the question odd. He rattled off a name and an intersection in the River Quarter. I scrambled to come up with a reason why I’d want to know, but before I managed to blurt something out, the professor had already moved onto a new subject—ancient poetry from the Kireth homeland.
I wrote the healer’s name and location
on a small piece of paper and stuffed it in my pocket. Then I remembered the stack of mail Professor Kristof had picked up for me. Dukas not going to do it, Ruby. He’s not going to help you. Stop getting your hopes up.
It turned out, after six days of waiting, that Dukas’s reply was the first envelope in the package Sebastian had sent to the courier’s office.
Ruby, it said on the front of the envelope, written in the slanted, bold letters I recognized as Dukas’s unmistakable handwriting. My hands shook as I opened the envelope and removed a single, crumpled scrap of paper. It was nearly blank, with just two words scrawled in the center of the paper with a heavy, hurried hand.
Badlander’s Pride.
I didn’t need to go home and consult the list in my journal. I practically had it memorized by now. And thirteen years ago, Badlander’s Pride had been a brand of spirits manufactured and exported by the Wolf clan.
I had them.
~
Sebastian—
Please find my article enclosed.
I trust you will edit the article in with the most recent local information as appropriate. I’ve also included a contact in the River Quarter who has developed a new way to heal aurists. PLEASE interview him as soon as possible.
The Wolf clan has been the primary source of aurae, as we suspected, but they are not working alone. More investigation is needed.
—Ruby
Chapter 30
Five days passed. I survived two more mid-lecture brawls between the Wolf and Hawk clan members in Professor Kristof’s class, as well as five nightmares, countless cups of hot coffee, and another thick layer of snow over the city.
Then Lucien finally returned.
He found me at the market. The fountain and outdoor seating area were covered in thick snow, but I’d taken to eating dinner with Astrid at Emil’s warm, cozy café before trudging through the thick, unshoveled snow back to the boarding house each night.
A black fomecoach with the Wolf clan insignia on the side pulled into the market square, sliding over the snow with magical ease, and stopped perfectly in front of the café’s door.
Lucien stepped out of the fomecoach and approached the café, and my heart began to pound. He wore a thick, black jacket, and his square jaw had a few days of stubble on it, like perhaps he’d come quickly, having just returned to the city.
Why did the thought make me feel so warm?
Why—why—did he have to look so perfect?
He met my eyes through the café window and raised one eyebrow, as though issuing a challenge.
“Ugh, it’s that Wolf again.” Astrid dropped her spoon in her soup. “I know it’s my policy to run, but I don’t feel like leaving my soup. Can you just go outside and talk to him by yourself?”
“Done.” I stood on wobbly legs. “You can even eat the rest of my dinner, lucky girl.” I hadn’t seen Lucien in nearly three weeks. Nothing could tear me away from this reunion, not that I’d admit as much to him.
I threw on my red sweater and the jacket I’d purchased when snow began to fall the previous week. Stepping outside, I met Lucien three steps from the door.
“Walk with me,” he said gruffly. He held out his arm.
I didn’t even pretend to hesitate. I wrapped my arm around his and let him pull me close enough to his body that his warmth seeped through my jacket and warmed my shoulder.
We walked in silence for several minutes before he finally spoke. “You did it.” He squeezed my arm.
I glanced at his face and realized he was smiling slightly. The approval in his gaze made my breath hitch. “Did what?”
“Your article. They caught our Asylian partner and kicked Demetrius right out of the city.”
“They did?” I released a breath. “That’s amazing. I wasn’t sure I had enough information.”
Lucien drew me down a side street, toward the Wasp territory. “They did. Your article gave the prince the evidence he needed to connect our local partner to aurae.”
I thought of the list of companies in my journal, a thrill of satisfaction running through me. “Your local partner?”
Lucien’s lips turned up, like he knew how I felt. “Lord Argentarius was the man who brought aurae in from the beginning. He was arrested the day they kicked us out of the city.”
I rubbed a hand over my eyes as his words sank in. “He was at the top of Asylian government,” I said numbly. “Second only to the prince. How could he …”
“Some people will do anything for power. No matter what city they’re from.” Lucien’s expression was grim, but he squeezed my arm gently as we walk. “You should be happy, Ruby. The Asylian government has cut off aurae smuggling completely. Your city is free. You did it. Now you can go home.”
I shook my head, unable to speak as we strolled down a snowy alley. Home? Why did that word feel so unfulfilling?
“I’ll tell Demetrius I want to do another hunt,” he continued. “Winter hunts are more prestigious among the Wolves. He’ll understand. And I’ll get you back to Asylia as soon as he gives me permission to go into the Badlands.”
I frowned. “I can’t leave yet.”
Lucien stilled. “What are you talking about? The whole reason you came—”
“Was to stop aurae.” I gestured to the nearest window on the small lane where we’d stopped, which had an unmistakable silver glow. “I obviously haven’t done that.”
“In Asylia,” Lucien ground out. “You stopped aurae in Asylia.”
“Draicia is still completely overrun. And what will happen to the many aurists who already exist in Asylia? I may have cut off their new supply, but I haven’t saved them.” I paused, watching Lucien closely. “I know there’s someone else involved,” I said quietly. “And I know you brought me here as the final piece of your plan. I’m not going home until we’re done.”
“Well, I was wrong.” Lucien’s expression was stony. “My plan was wrong. I’ve changed my mind.” He scowled. “Those who’ve used aurae are already lost. There’s no point in trying to save them. The best thing you can do for your city is limit its spread, and that’s what you did.”
His words sent a rush of fear through me, but I squelched it, tilting up my face to glare at him instead. “No. I won’t accept that.”
Lucien released a breath. “Don’t worry, Ruby. Draicia won’t be completely lost. Demetrius helped the professor re-open the university, didn’t he? He wouldn’t have done that if he didn’t think some of the city would survive, and things will get better, eventually, as long as we cooperate. That’s the plan, at least.”
“Some of the city?” I swallowed. “And what do you mean, the plan?”
“It’s out of Demetrius’s hands.” Lucien’s tone was bleak. “I thought if you exposed the whole story, the other Wolves would turn on him, and I could stop the plan from moving forward before it was too late. But now, with this new formulation …” He waved to the glowing, silver window. “It’s everywhere. There’s no point. The best thing I can do now is get you out of here and back to your own city, where you’ll be safer from what’s coming.”
“No. Lucien, no! I’m not giving up, and neither should you.” I grabbed his coat collar and yanked him toward me, wishing I could pull him out of this defeat with the same movement. “I just need you to get me back onto your compound. Please. I’ll figure something out. We’ve made it this far, haven’t we?”
Lucien met my gaze, his face only inches away from mine. “The Praetor sent Andrei to Asylia to look for Zel. He wants revenge for what she did thirteen years ago. How long before he realizes he’d have better luck searching for the journalist who interviewed her?”
I shivered and drew closer to Lucien instinctively.
His hands moved to my waist, and the intent look in his eyes told me the movement had been deliberate, not instinctive. “Let’s compromise,” he said slowly.
“What do you mean?”
“In three weeks, we’re hosting the annual winter feast. Be my guest for
the dinner and dancing, and we’ll leave for Asylia the next day. You’ll get onto the Wolf compound, and I’ll get you to safety.” He studied me, but I wasn’t sure what he was looking for on my face. “We both win.”
The warm pressure of his hands on my waist was making it difficult to think coherently. “Um … Will you help me investigate Demetrius then?”
A smile tugged at his lips, and he bent slightly closer. “Definitely not,” he murmured. “You’ll be too busy dancing with me to endanger yourself again. I told you. It’s a compromise.”
It was hard to be annoyed when he was so close, but I managed it. “That is not what I—”
“Kata.” Astrid’s quiet wail startled me out of my distracted daze. I pulled away from Lucien’s warmth and turned to see Astrid standing in the lane behind us, tears streaming down her grimy face.
“What’s wrong?” I approached her slowly. Her shoulders were so hunched and tense, I thought she might snap if I startled her. “What do you need, Astrid?”
“My mama.” The words were almost too quiet to hear. “Something’s wrong. Will you come with me?”
I turned back to Lucien, but she grabbed my arm. “No clans.” Her wary eyes flicked to Lucien. “I don’t want anyone from the clans.”
I shrugged helplessly as I met Lucien’s eyes. “I’ll go with her,” I told him. “She doesn’t have anyone else. I’ll see you later?”
Lucien nodded, his expression troubled. “Be careful.”
~
Astrid’s home turned out to be a small shack a few blocks away from the university. The lane was narrow, with three stories of crooked, wooden shacks teetering up either side of the tiny street. Nearly every shack glowed silver between cracks in the wood.
When Astrid tugged me through a short door halfway down the lane, I had to stoop to enter.
Snow covered the floor inside the shack. The dwelling was frigid—it was nearly as cold inside as it was in the wintry street. “Why is—”
“She’s there.” Astrid’s voice shook as she gestured toward a bundle of brightly-glowing blankets on the dwelling’s only bed. “She’s cold. Really cold.”