But of all the guild leaders within Mordain, Allegra is the only one who values the role of the scribes. The others mostly disregard us, both for our mediocre connections to our affinity and for the importance we place on our seers. We are the castaways, the ones with too little power to be of any real use beyond collecting knowledge and training the youngest casters on beginner skills.
Besides, I have no other option than to involve Allegra anymore. I lack the affinity needed to send a return letter to Gesine, and no one among the scribes is strong enough to ensure it reaches its recipi-ent. We must keep these lines of communication open if we hope to gain more vital information about this key caster and what she means for the fate of all.
I cross the parapet toward the guild tower. Beyond is an expanse of rock and blue waters and, in the very far distance, across the channel, the jewels of Argon’s castle sparkle in the sunlight. To the north of Nyos, the Isle of Mordain is a breathtaking view of mountains and lush green forests. As a child, I relished the days my teachers would allow us time within the meadows, collecting plants and fungi for the horticulturists and chemists.
Over the decades, I’ve held on to that small joy, taking my young pupils out in nature to test their budding skills before they move on to greater lessons. But the rough terrain has become treacherous for these old bones of mine as of late. I’ve been forced to abandon the outings to those fresher and more suited, relegating myself to the dank, dark tunnels where the scribes toil away thanklessly.
The city of Nyos itself is vast, a sight to behold, with the towering guild at the center perched high above, its pointy pinnacles a bold statement for both casters and children waiting to find their spark. The guild is the first thing anyone sees as they sail across the waters from Ybaris, a magnificent monument designed by the skilled stone casters, artists by trade. But it is the city below that most returning to Mordain long for—the thriving streets of shops and cafés and cottage-like dwellings, of like-minded people living in a world that has committed them to servitude of the queen and her subjects.
Subjects who readily outcast them the moment they are born and tested and found to be something other than simple mortals.
The general council is already in session when I reach the heavy wooden doors. The two guards at the door eye me with unyielding gazes, their hands gripping the pommels of their swords. I’ve always found it needless to station sentries outside a chamber of skilled casters, the room already warded against a multitude of evils. Almost as silly as dressing these elite warriors in head-to-toe armor and equipping them with blades when their affinities are their most deadly weapons. But I suppose if the point is to make them appear menacing and the act of interrupting a council in session daunting, it is effective.
“Hello, Darius, Fatima.” I nod, as if my only crime against the guild today is arriving late to a meeting.
Darius’s crystal blue eyes flare with surprise. Of course they would assume that the old crow who trained them three decades ago would not recognize them behind those intimidating masks.
I lift my chin. “I hope you are both still practicing your flame progression.” A trivial beginner skill, considering what they’ve learned since they were recruited to the Shadow squad.
Delight flashes in Fatima’s eyes, and I imagine that wide-toothed grin from her childhood hiding behind the metal. “Of course, Master Scribe.”
“Very well, then.” I nod curtly toward the door, bolstering my nerve.
She yanks the handle. It opens with a noisy creak that earns a few glances as I duck into my seat.
“… Her Highness is beside herself with worry. She has not heard from either of her children in a full moon’s cycle, but the latest messages arriving from Cirilea are ominous. They speak of Prince Tyree’s capture and a bounty placed on Princess Romeria’s head,” Lorel says from her seat at the council table, ignoring my tardy entrance. The Prime is dressed in her formal crimson and silver attire, her hair pulled into a chignon—an indication that she has just returned from visiting Argon and is relaying words directly from the queen’s mouth. “Furthermore, she has vowed revenge against Islor for the assassination of King Barris.”
“And did she show you the body of this supposed Islorian assassin responsible for the king’s death?” Solange asks, her husky voice almost a purr, the unspoken accusation hanging out like linen on a clothesline for all to see.
Lorel’s lips purse, the lines of age crinkling the skin around them. She came up in Mordain two decades after me, but her time as Prime has aged her prematurely. “She did not reveal it, and it is not my place to make such a request.”