But, Kate knew, he had the mind to be part of the Rising. With a single touch of her magic, she sensed the resolve in him.
At the sound of snickering, Kate’s gaze slid off Jonas and onto David, the boy standing next to him. By contrast, David’s technique already bordered on perfection, and he was making sure that everyone knew it. Especially Jonas, to whom he was muttering snide remarks. Annoyed, Kate touched David with her magic, finding at once that her suspicions were correct. There was cowardice in David’s heart and frailty in his mind. At the first sign of true conflict—the blood and screams and stench of death—he would tuck tail and run.
For a moment Kate considered using her magic to put David in his place, but then she passed over the idea for a better one. Descending the ladder, she stepped out onto the training field. At her appearance, the drillmaster called for a halt, and the cadets lowered their swords to stand at attention.
Kate walked down the line of them until she reached Jonas and David, eyeing them both in turn. The latter stared back at her defiantly, while the former kept his gaze on the ground, a slight tremble in his hands. Kate reached over her shoulder to grasp the hilt of the sword strapped across her back. She used to wear it belted at her waist in the Rimish fashion, but Tira’s influence had taught her better. With a quick, easy movement she pulled the sword free, the sharp-edged blade winking in the late afternoon sun.
“Cadet Jonas,” Kate said, holding the sword straight before her, “step forward and prepare.”
With an audible clack of his teeth, Jonas did as she commanded. The moment he held up his blade, Kate attacked, but as she did, she called out the name of one of the forms they’d just been practicing, the best response to her attack. It was a common enough training method, but usually one reserved for cadets a little less green. By all rights, Jonas should’ve failed this test. And yet almost at once, he raised his sword in the exact form she’d called for, his blade catching hers with a screech of steel.
A surprised look crossed Jonas’s face, as if even he couldn’t believe what he’d done. Kate didn’t give him a chance to enjoy it—or to suspect that she’d in fact reached into his mind and willed the correct action with her magic. She twisted the blade in her hands, freeing herself from his block, and the next moment she struck again. As before, Jonas responded to her called form, catching her strike with his own front guard. Startled gasps swept through the assembled cadets, and Kate sensed its effect on Jonas, the way it bolstered his nerve—just as she’d hoped it would. She called for the next form and the next, slowly easing back her influence until finally he responded to the last command perfectly, and completely on his own.
“Nicely done, cadet,” Kate said, lowering her sword at last.
He beamed at her, a boyish grin alighting his features. Kate pressed her lips together to keep from returning the smile. Best not to overdo it.
Sweeping her gaze over the rest of the recruits, she said, “In battle it does not matter how perfect your form was in drill. Technique is more than mimicry. What matters is execution—your ability to wield your sword against a living, breathing, thinking opponent, and not mere air.” At this, she shot a quick glance at David, making sure he’d been listening. Pleased to see the incredulity on his face, the seed of self-doubt planted in his mind, she turned to the drillmaster. “As you were.”
The drillmaster bowed to her, then shouted at the cadets to get back in formation. Tira, who’d come down to watch the demonstration, shook her head at Kate in dismay, but she waited until the two of them had walked away from the cadets before speaking.
“It’s only false confidence you gave that boy just now.”
Kate shrugged. “Maybe, but he doesn’t know that. Besides, isn’t that how most of us start? With false confidence? Until time and experience turn it true?” That was how it had been for her when she was just a girl, certain at every swing she took with her practice sword that nothing could hurt her, nothing could best her. How wrong she’d been. She didn’t mention that shaking David’s confidence had also been her purpose. It was best for the boy to accept on his own that he wasn’t cut out for this rather than learn the truth at the tip of an enemy sword.
Tira opened her mouth to argue, but broke off at the sight of a page running toward them.
“Madam Councilor,” the page called to Kate. “Chancellor Raith requests your presence at the gate. The caravan has arrived.”
“I’ll be there shortly.”
With a quick farewell to Tira, Kate headed for the stable yard to fetch and saddle her horse. There were several other horses already saddled she could’ve taken, but she never passed on an opportunity to ride Nightbringer, no matter how short the trip. Besides, he would make the biggest impression on the new arrivals. The black warhorse nickered at her as she approached his stall. She stroked his nose, touching his mind with her magic while a flood of memories rushed through her. Although the horse didn’t remember his previous rider, she did. Just as she remembered Firedancer, her mount before Night. The red chestnut mare had died in a skirmish on the road between Farhold and Marared, taken down by a pistol shot to the chest. All that remained of the horse was one of the flame tattoos on Kate’s arm.
A few minutes later, she rode out of the stable yard onto the streets of Farhold. People stepped out of her way as she passed, some of them bowing, some staring at her with a mix of surprise and awe. Saint Kate, she thought, an unpleasant shiver sliding down her spine. Nothing could be further from the truth. She held all gods in contempt. As she saw it, they were either cruel schemers meddling in the affairs of mortals, or uncaring, impassive observers. Those were the only explanations for the evil and injustices she’d witnessed, tragedies that any such being could’ve prevented.
Unless they do not exist at all.
Whatever the truth, they were of no use to her.
The Farhold city gates were already opened when she arrived, but a squad of foot soldiers blocked the way. As with the people in the street, they stepped aside at the sight of her, allowing her to pass through their ranks out onto the open road where Chancellor Raith waited astride his own horse. Two clerks stood beside him on foot, one bearing parchment and pen, the other a leather satchel.
In the distance, a caravan was slowly drawing near the city. A dozen or more wagons rode nose to end, each flanked by soldiers on horseback. White flags flew on the left-hand side of the drivers. On the right waved the blue and white of House Tormane, the ruling family of Rime. High King Edwin’s banner. The sight of it brought a lump to Kate’s throat, and once again she had to resist the urge to touch the topmost tattoo on her shoulder.
Raith reined his mount over to hers. “Hello, Kate. So glad you decided to shirk only part of your duties this day.” A cordial smile crossed his face, the wine-colored birthmark spread over his cheeks and nose contorting at the gesture.
“Don’t start, Raith,” she said, not bothering to use his title, even though he was the head of Farhold—or the Wilder City, as it was now sometimes called in these parts. “I’ve told you a hundred times I’ve no interest in governing. It doesn’t matter how many council meetings you summon me to. Nothing will change that.”
Raith smiled again, less cordially this time. “You’re mistaken, Kate. It’s not me who wants you there. Our people elected you to the position.”
Kate shot him a glare, not bothering to hide her anger, always so close to the surface when discussing the subject. “I didn’t ask to be elected, and you know as well as I do that my skills are best put to use training the cadets and for moments like this.” She gestured to the approaching caravan.
“Yes, so you’ve claimed many times before.” Raith gave a dry cough. “Although you’ll understand why it bothers me that you’re so content to be a glorified statue rather than a real player in the game.”
Kate gritted her teeth to hold in a retort. This was an old argument between them, and it was a day for new beginnings. She forced her jaw to relax. “Did the caravan send
the list of names ahead, and a summary of their patents?”
Raith nodded. “The Relay rider arrived late yesterday. The council reviewed it this morning. All the new citizens check out.”
“On paper at least,” Kate said, ignoring his implied rebuke. Yes, if she’d gone to the stupid meeting she could’ve reviewed it as well, but it would’ve made little difference. A name written down on paper would tell her nothing about the person themselves—or their intentions in coming here.
She returned her gaze to the caravan still inching its way closer. Those wagons carried human cargo, either wilders or wilder sympathizers. As part of the armistice, High King Edwin had agreed to allow any wilder found living in one of the other eleven cities of Rime still under his dominion safe passage to Farhold. In exchange, the Rising agreed not to lay siege to any of them. Live and let live was the current political attitude. Kate wasn’t ready to embrace it as truth yet, though. This was only the second such caravan to arrive, far too few for her to trust that Edwin would keep to his word and not attempt some treachery beneath the veil of peace.
Though, she thought, he should know better by now.
When the front of the caravan finally drew close, Raith and Kate rode out to meet it, the clerks trailing behind them at a slower pace. Two of the riders at the front of the caravan also came forward, a soldier wearing the blue and white of the royal city of Norgard along with a captain’s insignia, and a magist wearing a gray robe trimmed in white—the full, bone-white mask on his face marking him a master.
At the sight of them, Kate automatically reached out with her magic and probed their minds for any hint of treachery. She found none, although she sensed plenty of animosity, especially on the part of the magist whenever he looked at Raith. Kate didn’t let it alarm her though. Before becoming one of the key leaders of the Rising, Raith had been a magist, like this one a master in the Mage League, a group determined to eradicate wilders and wild magic from Rime. Raith had seen the evil and hypocrisy of it, though, and dedicated his life to freeing wilders instead. The irony, of course, was that wilder and magist magic was the same at its heart, both subject to the rise and set of the sun and both tied to the elements. But magist magic could be used only to imbue objects with spells, making it easier to control and less dangerous than the more unruly wilder magic.
Kate could sense this magist’s resentment went deeper, however—that Raith’s perceived treachery was personal somehow. It’s all your fault, the man was thinking. Kate didn’t understand it at first, seeing nothing in the man’s memory that connected him to Raith.
Then she realized that it wasn’t the political strife for which he was blaming Raith. It was his gray robe.
Withdrawing from his mind, Kate took in the sullen color of his garb. Before the war no magist would have ever worn such a color. A magist’s robes used to identify the order of the Mage League to which they belonged, one of six: blue, green, red, brown, white, and gold. Now, Grand Master Storr, head of the League, had disbanded the orders—or rather, unified them under the gray in an attempt to undo the damage caused by the gold order’s treachery. That order had been secretly sending wilders to Seva in order to create an army. Given the animosity Kate sensed here in the ranks, she assumed the single-order strategy wasn’t working. At least, not as Storr hoped.
“Greetings,” Raith said, smiling at the captain and the gray robe in turn. “I am Chancellor Raith, and this is Councilor Brighton. We will be overseeing the transfer of the hopefuls.”
The captain’s lips tightened at the use of the word “hopeful,” as if he couldn’t imagine why anyone would hope to be granted admission to a city full of wilders. Disgusted by his attitude, Kate tuned out his thoughts.
“Very well,” the gray robe replied. “We already verified that each of them has their patents as agreed. Will you collect them now or later?”
“Now.” Raith gestured to the clerk carrying the leather satchel. “Mr. Jennings here will accept them.”
The gray robe frowned as he glanced at the sun already making its descent toward the horizon. “Will you be reviewing them all here?”
“That won’t be necessary,” said Raith.
Now the gray robe raised a questioning eyebrow. He’d expected more of a fuss, Kate knew. That was good. It meant that he didn’t realize her true purpose in being here—to probe each of the hopefuls with her magic. If any of them intended to do harm, she would know long before they were allowed to set foot inside the city. The patents they carried—documentation of their place of birth and any significant family history—were a mere formality.
The captain and magist returned to the caravan to oversee the unloading of passengers. Kate waited patiently, clearing her mind of all distractions. As the hopefuls came forward one by one to give their names and patents to the clerks, she carefully slipped into their thoughts, gently gleaning their intentions and memories. Although she had never come across another wilder with the gift of sway, she was always on the lookout for one, the gift rarest but most dangerous of all.
First was Mary Pierce, a widower from Eetmark, accompanied by her two young daughters, both of them wilders. Her husband had been a wilder too, although Mary didn’t know that until her daughters were born and old enough to start showing signs of their abilities. Even now she harbored an underlying resentment for the man—both for deceiving her and also for foolishly dying in an ill-advised attack on a magist order at the start of the war and leaving her to raise them alone. But beneath that, Kate sensed the woman’s love for her children, one that transcended her fear of what they could do, what they were.
Next came Austin Thatcher, an orphan from Kilbarrow. He too was a wilder, a pyrist with control over fire. He wouldn’t be sixteen for another year, but once he was settled in Farhold he planned to lie about his age in order to join the Rising army, get some revenge he sorely desired. It wouldn’t work—Kate vetted the recruits same as she was doing with these hopefuls—but there was no reason to dash his hopes just now.
There was Declan and Sara March, two siblings from Andreas. Neither of them were wilders, but they came from a poor family and hoped for a better life here, behind the more tolerant walls of Farhold. They had no fear of wilders or ulterior motives beneath their naive hopes.
On and on it went, so many people with so many thoughts and memories that after a while they all started to blur together. Kate felt her magic draining and longed for it to end. She would need a large meal and a lengthy nap after this.
As the line dwindled, a young man from Norgard stepped forward, giving his name as Colin Davies—a lie. Kate sensed the deception immediately, and at once a surge of adrenaline went through her, sharpening her sluggish thoughts. If he was lying about his identity, he could be trying to hide intentions more sinister.
She entered his mind searching for the truth, only to find his thoughts murky. At first he seemed glad to finally be here, but behind that she sensed anger and resentment. Disconnected images flashed through his mind. She saw a Norgard soldier lying dead on the battlefield—this young man’s father. Killed in one of the many battles during the Wilder War. So why come here? she wondered, but hard as she tried, she couldn’t find a clear answer. It was possible he meant no harm . . . but the opposite was equally possible, and Kate wasn’t here to take chances.
“Not this one,” she said inclining her chin toward the young man.
Raith turned a questioning look on her, but she only nodded, certain in her conviction. Raith let out a sigh, then said, “This one is denied entry.”
At Raith’s words, the man’s face clouded first with fear—then with rage. “You can’t do that. I want to be here. I’ve nowhere else to go, no one else . . . !”
His shouts of protests continued as the soldiers dragged him back to the wagons. Kate did her best not to listen, even as the doubt niggled inside her. He’d been lying about his name, but his desperation in being denied entry was real enough. It is not my concern, she reminded herself. She wa
s charged with protecting this city and its people. There was no room for leniency or doubt.
The vetting process resumed until the last of the hopefuls finally approached them. The old man walked stooped over, his back curved like a shepherd’s crook. His bald head shone brightly in the fading sun, and he wore a tattered green robe.
A magist’s robe.
No sooner had the realization struck Kate then she heard Raith draw a sharp breath. She turned to see the shock alight across his face, disbelief and wonder surging through him.
“Master Janus?” Suddenly beside himself, Raith leaped from the saddle and rushed toward the green robe.
Kate watched with her mouth open, stunned by Raith’s behavior, like a giddy child on a festival morning. In all the years she’d known the man, through all the hell they’d been through together, she’d never seen him like this. So . . . vulnerable.
The old man looked up, his pale eyes squinted. “Who’s that?” He reached for the spectacles hanging from a cord around his neck.
“It’s Raith, Master Janus.” Raith took the magist by the hand.
Janus’s lips parted into a smile, one made ghastly by the number of gaping holes in his mouth where there should’ve been teeth. “Raith, Raith. So good to see you.”
They embraced. The gesture—and the emotion bolstering it—was so intimate that Kate had to look away, reining in her magic lest she start feeling the same affection. She didn’t need an introduction to know this must be the magist who saved Raith’s life when he was just a baby. Afraid of the ill omen of their child’s birthmark, Raith’s ignorant, superstitious parents had left him to die in the snow. But Master Janus found him just in time, using his healing magic to keep him alive before bringing him to an orphanage. After that, the magist had made it his personal duty to ensure Raith grew into manhood, eventually becoming a magist himself. And now they were both here, Janus evidently choosing to join Raith in living among wilders.
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