“And his clothes are ridiculous,” Lin said. “The Prince’s, I mean.” She hoped this would distract Mariam, who loved fashion more than anything. Lin and Mariam had been schooled together as children, but Mariam had been deemed too fragile in constitution to continue her education. Without much reluctance, Mariam had stepped away from intensive studies, turning her considerable skill with needles into her trade.
In a short time, she had learned all there was to know about sewing and fabrics, about the differences between altabasso and soprariccio, between raw silk and mockado. She set up a stall in the market square, and soon enough rich women （and men） all over the city were cooing over her chemises with fine blackwork embroidery at the necklines and cuffs; over bodices of velvet and silk damask, and silk kirtles as fine and sheer as fishing nets. She made visits to the Hill to dress Demoselle Antonetta Alleyne, whose frothy, lace-covered dresses took weeks to complete. Her loom and needle were rarely still, and she often mourned that Lin was usually in her physician’s uniform and had little use for fine gowns.
Mariam eyed the Prince thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t say ridiculous,” she said. “They are of a certain style. It is called sontoso in Sarthian. It means an intensity of richness.”
Richness, indeed. The Prince’s fingers gleamed with a dozen jeweled rings, sparking light when he moved. His boots and jerkin were of rich incised leather, his shirt of crimson silk, bright as blood. The royal sword, Firefly, was buckled at his waist with a strap of gold and ivory brocade.
“It means . . .” Mariam took a deep breath and shook her head, as if to clear a fog. “It means that everything must be of the finest work. Look at his jacket. It is pomegranate velvet from Sarthe, woven with real gold thread so thin and fine it makes all the fabric shimmer like metal. The work is so delicate that a Law was passed forbidding the making of it, for it often made the workers mad or blind.”
“If it’s illegal, how does he have a whole jacket of it?” Lin demanded.
Mariam smiled faintly. “He is the Prince,” she said, just as Conor Aurelian stretched out his hands to the crowd and began to speak.
“I greet you, my people, in the name of the Gods,” he said, and though Lin knew better, though she hated him, it seemed that when he spoke the sun shone out slightly brighter. His voice was rich and deep and soft as the pomegranate velvet he wore.
The crowd began to surge forward, pressing Lin and Mariam tightly toward the steps of the Convocat. Adoration shone on their faces.
That is power, Lin thought. The love of the people. He holds them in his hands, and they love him for it. It was almost strange, though she had grown up in the shadow of Marivent and House Aurelian. But there was nothing close to a king or queen in the Sault. Power in the Sault was split between Mayesh himself—who acted as a bridge between the Ashkar and the outside world, protecting those inside the walls from the forces outside them—and Davit Benezar, the Maharam. Half priest, half lawmaker, the Maharam ruled over the community of the Sault, presiding over every birth and death, every wedding, and every punishment.
Neither position was inherited: The Maharam was appointed by the Exilarch, the closest thing the Ashkar had to royalty. The Exilarch, who traveled the Gold Roads from Sault to Sault, traced his lineage in a direct line from Judah Makabi. Makabi had been chosen by the Goddess herself to lead her people: The Book of Makabi was one of their holiest texts.
Mayesh’s power was far more secular. It was tradition for the Court to have an Ashkari Counselor, who was chosen by the Palace, and had been so since the time of the Empire.
Prince Conor was still speaking, his words rising and falling, strumming the chords of independence, of freedom, of Castellane. The crowd surged like a wave intent on crashing at the Convocat steps; some gazed at the Prince with tears in their eyes. He could change the Law with a word, Lin thought. He has the power to decide what is and is not forbidden. And somewhere, in the shadows of the Convocat, my grandfather is standing. If he were another man, he could take up my cause with the Palace.
Mariam cried out softly, stumbling as the crowd shoved them. “Lin! There is something wrong—”
Lin swung toward her friend in alarm. Mariam had her hand pressed to her throat, her eyes wide and frightened. Her cheeks were flaming red, and the blood at the corner of her mouth was as red as the Prince’s silk.
“Mariam,” Lin breathed; leaping forward, she was just in time to catch her friend around the waist. “Hold on to me,” she said as Mariam slumped against her. “Hold on to me, Mari—”
But Mariam had become deadweight; she bore Lin to the ground with her, and Lin crouched over her, terrified, as the crowd around them murmured and backed away.
Lin tore the scarf from her hair and folded it, sliding it under Mariam’s head. Mari was breathing hard, her lips tinged faintly with blue. Lin’s chest tightened with panic; she did not have her physician’s satchel with her, or any of the tools of her doctor’s trade. She was surrounded by malbushim—some were staring, but most were ignoring her and Mari. They would believe it was not imperative upon them to help Ashkar. The Ashkar were meant to help themselves, but Lin had no idea how she could get Mari back to the Sault like this—
The crowd parted. Lin heard shouts and the scrape of carriage wheels on stone. She looked up and saw, ringed in a haze of bright sunlight, a carriage the color of flames, red and gold. The blazon of Castellane, the golden lion, snarled from its painted place on the door.
A Palace carriage.
She blinked up at it, dazed. Felt Mari’s hand on her wrist, heard her murmur a question, and then the driver clambered down from his seat perched at the front of the carriage. He had gray hair and wore the livery of the Arrow Squadron; he bent down to lift Mari, who cried out weakly.
Lin sprang to her feet. “You’re hurting her—”
“Mayesh Bensimon’s orders,” the man said crisply. “To take you both back to the Sault. Or would you rather I left you to walk?”
Mayesh. Lin knew she ought not be surprised—who else would have sent a Palace carriage for her? She said nothing as the man brought Mari into the carriage, laying her down across a velvet-upholstered seat.
She glanced up toward the top of the Grieving Stairs. She half expected to see Mayesh there, lurking in the shadows behind the Prince, but there was nothing: only Conor Aurelian, his hands outstretched to the crowd. She thought he glanced at her for a moment as she climbed into the carriage after Mariam, but there was too much of a distance between them. Surely she was imagining things.
The man slammed the door after her as Lin sat down and drew Mari’s head into her lap. Mari’s eyes were closed, blood crusted at the corners of her mouth. Lin stroked her hair as the carriage began to move, and only then realized she had forgotten something in the square.
Glancing out the window, she saw her bloodstained scarf, fluttering like a broken bird’s wing on the pavement. Something about the sight of it seemed unlucky. She shuddered and looked away.
Many ask now whether there was a time when everyone performed magic, but the answer is that there was no such time. It is true that there was once no body that controlled magic, no great authority that ruled how people could use it. But that does not mean everyone is born with the talent for it.