“No.” Lorel frowns. “He was assaulted before he had the chance. With an affinity powerful enough to send him flying back in a split second. Yesenia could not pin the source, though.”
Could not explain, or would not? The elemental caster was a dear friend of Ianca and Gesine’s and, if I had to guess who helped facilitate their escape, I would bet on Yesenia’s involvement. “And where is the taillok now?”
Lorel’s expression turns dark. “That is part of the issue. The connection was severed earlier today, and there is only one way that could happen.”
“A powerful caster has claimed it for their use.”
She nods. “I believe Caster Gesine and Caster Ianca have found their way to the princess. That would explain this, as well as what happened to that warrior.”
“It certainly would.” I feign ignorance. “For what purpose, though? Are you saying they ran from the queen, only to join forces with her daughter, who shares her mother’s ambitions?”
Her lips twist. “Yes, it does not make much sense, I agree. But more and more, I am sensing a growing plot within our caster ranks.”
“Here, in Mordain?” I keep my voice light. So, she isn’t as oblivious as I thought. “To what end?”
She shoots me a patronizing look. “For the coveted position of Prime, naturally.”
Stupid, stupid caster. She would believe that is the only possible motivation. Lorel always was power hungry, though, even as a child.
“Master Scribe, I have those—” Cahill stops in my doorway abruptly when he sees I have company, his arms laden with books.
My inhale is sharp—too sharp, for a simple interruption. Of all the times for him to barge into my office!
Lorel sizes up the boy, stalling on his face a few beats. Cahill is growing into a strapping and handsome young man. I’ve noted more than one young caster in Nyos spying on him. Thankfully he is too shy to engage in conversations and any other sort of mischief.
Cahill doesn’t have the first clue what lingers beneath his skin, waiting to manifest, but all it would take is an assessment by a tester to find it. That or a glimpse of the dull silver medallion hanging from a chain around his neck to stir suspicion. I never told anyone of the token an elderly journeyman handed me on my trip to Shadowhelm so many years ago. He said it suppressed caster abilities, and that he had no use for it in Skatrana, but perhaps a caster from Mordain might find a use one day.
Years later, I did. Caster Elica came to me in the middle of the night with a baby boy elemental tucked within her arms, unable to deliver the death sentence required. I couldn’t bring myself to either. So we branded him a weak caster and assigned him to scribe duty, where we have hidden him his entire life, molding him to live a life in servitude to prophecy.
Finally, Lorel dismisses Cahill.
And I let out a soft sigh. Ignoring Cahill—it’s best everyone does—I smile at the Prime. “I will begin my search of the tomes that we believe tie to Islor.”
“That would be helpful, Master Scribe.”
“I must warn you, there are far too many to count. It will take weeks, months even.”
“Hopefully, Neilina’s war will shift her attention elsewhere soon enough.”
Her war, with Mordain as her soldiers. “Yes. Hopefully.”
I count to ten after Lorel departs before I open my desk drawer, running my fingertips over the tome that speaks to this token for the people of Islor.
Ulysede is a city.
A great nymph city.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
GRACEN
“Are your hands soaked in something?”
I stall. “Pardon me? I don’t understand.”
“You won’t stop wringing them. All day, since you got back from fetching that troublemaker”—Corrin aims her peeling knife toward Mika, who sits on the floor in a corner playing checkers with himself—“you’ve been wringing and pacing. You know who else paced like that? Princess Romeria. And fates knows the trouble she got up to.” She steals a glance at the two guards stationed at the door—a new addition since the latest attempt on the king’s life—as if wary of being caught even saying that name.
“I do not know what leaves me so restless.” I shoot Mika a warning look. I told him they’d send us back to Freywich if anyone discovered what he’d found in the library and who he saw put it there. That seemed even worse than telling him the truth—that the only place we’d be going is the execution square. “Perhaps I’m overwhelmed by the work left ahead of the wedding.” Hudem is in less than a week!