Trusting, he holds out his right hand.
I wipe my slippery palm on my leather pants, which does nothing, and then take his hand in mine. His is sticky with berry ice juice, and our hot skin fuses.
Palm reading is an ancient ritual, one that holds no bearing on anything whatsoever. You can’t read a damn thing from the lines on someone’s hand, but if the boy has even a tiny, glacial shard of the Ice Plains inside him, I’ll feel it. His power will want to come to me the same way mortals reach for the Gods.
There’s nothing. He’s warm, sticky, and smells like kalaberries. His hand holds no power, although that doesn’t mean magic is forever out of his reach. I hesitate before sending him on a dangerous path. “Why do you want magic?”
His cheeks color. “I’ll never be as smart and strong as the tribal warlords. If I don’t have magic, I won’t have anything.”
That’s not true. He has a brain. He seems healthy. He can do anything he wants. The boy believes what he’s saying, though, or else my magic would react to the lie.
“Are you brave?” I ask.
He looks surprised. “I-I try to be.”
“Do you love your mother?”
He nods, his brow creasing at my question.
“Say it out loud,” I insist.
“I love my mother.”
“Is your family good to you?”
He starts to nod, and I raise a warning finger with my free hand. I have to hear it. There’s magic in spoken language. It’s binding. There’s a reason people ask for someone else’s word. Every sentence a person utters can be a promise—or a betrayal.
“They’re good to me,” he answers.
A loving family. How novel.
“If you saw a child being beaten, would you walk away or would you intervene?”
His eyes widen. “But what could I do?”
“That doesn’t answer the question.” A hard edge creeps into my voice, and he pales.
Note to self: Don’t scare children.
His shoulders straighten. “I would intervene.”
I brace for a ripping in my soul. Surprisingly, none comes. He’s told me the truth, which makes him worthy of my advice. He’s also courageous and has a family that will support him, which means he might actually survive it.
“The Gods favor kindness and selflessness.” Some do at least, and despicable people like Cousin Aarken get chomped. Ha! “Under the right circumstances, goodness and honesty can be rewarded.”
The boy looks confused. “I have to be good and ask the Gods for magic?”
I sit back, releasing his hand. “Yes, but you can’t just go to the temples, pray, and say, ‘please, please.’ It doesn’t work that way. You have to prove yourself. When you’re older, wiser, and much stronger, choose either the Ice Plains or the Lake Oracles.”
“You mean go north.” His freckled nose wrinkles in distaste.
“That’s where the magic is. Here, we’re so far from Olympus that it’s weak and diluted in the people who possess any at all. Even Magoi have trouble this far south. It’s harder for most of us to wield our power.”
“Most?”
I wink conspiratorially. “Most.”
The boy chews on his berry-stained lip with teeth that are white and straight. “Which should I choose?”
He’s so earnest that something in my chest tightens. I’m pointing him toward vicious magical creatures or Oracle fish the size of Dragons. What if I’m sending him to his death?
“You have to be very strong to survive the Ice Plains. The Oracles are capricious but usually the safer bet.”
He nods, storing the information away. I should charge two coppers for this kind of thing, especially in southern Sinta. There’s more ignorance of magic and history here than anywhere else in Thalyria.
“Which lake?” he asks.
Make that three coppers. Maybe even four…
“That’s your choice, and it depends on which God you want protecting you.” I pitch forward and then say in a low voice, “But if you’re anywhere near Fisa and you see Poseidon’s three-tentacled trout, tell it Catalia says hello.”
I draw back, alarmed. What in the Underworld? I don’t blurt things out. I don’t just hand over information about myself that I’ve never told my friends, including my full name.
The boy’s eyes go as round as clay pots. “You’ve been to an Oracle?” he says far too loudly.
My stomach lurches while I wonder when I stopped being in control of my own mouth.