“Let me go.” Kel tried to yank himself free of Jerrod’s grip, but the other man was stronger than he looked. He could sweep Jerrod’s feet, he thought, topple him and kick in his ribs, but that would only bring the rest of his crew down on Kel like a wave. “I’m not who you thought I was, so let me go.”
“Can’t do that,” said the man with the pockmarked face. He had drawn a long razor from his pocket. All through the group weapons began to flash, like stars coming out. It was an oddly beautiful effect for something so dangerous.
“Kaspar’s right,” said Lola. “We can’t let him go. Even if he’s just an anonymous mouse, a mouse can still squeak.”
She started toward Kel, Kaspar and the others following. Kel flexed his hands at his sides, preparing to fight. Jerrod, to his surprise, hadn’t moved. He was still holding on to the front of Kel’s jacket.
“Back off, Lola,” he said. “And the rest of you. Listen to me—”
Kel heard the sound of a high whine, like an insect buzzing past his ear.
Lola screamed.
Jerrod’s head whipped to the side, though he was still holding Kel against the wall. Lola, the blond Crawler, was sprawled in the alley, an arrow protruding from her chest. Blood was already pooling under her, running among the dirty cobblestones.
Kel stared, utterly stunned. Where had that come from? Jerrod pushed Kel back harder against the wall, his eyes narrowed behind his mask. “What the fuck?” he snapped. “There was no one following you—we would have seen—”
“Jerrod!” Another Crawler, a young man with gold earrings, reeled back, an arrow through his throat. He clutched at it, sinking to his knees, a red foam on his lips.
Jerrod’s mouth worked silently; no words came out. This time Kel took advantage. He lunged, slamming his head into Jerrod’s. The edge of the metal mask cut his forehead, but the pain was blunted by adrenaline. Jerrod staggered and Kel twisted away, breaking his hold.
Kel ran for the mouth of the alley. Only a fool picked a fight while outnumbered, and besides, he had no reason to believe the anonymous archer was on his side.
Kaspar, snarling, blocked his way. Without slowing down, Kel hit him, a clean uppercut that sent him spinning back into a stack of wooden boxes. An arrow flew past and struck one of the boxes, sending the stack tumbling.
The Crawlers had begun to panic, swarming up the walls like fleeing ants. Kaspar shoved past Kel, striking him two hard blows to the torso. Kel reeled back, the breath knocked out of him, as Kaspar flung himself at the wall and started to scramble up. Jerrod was kneeling over Lola’s body, his shoulders hunched.
Kel began to back toward the mouth of the alley, but something was wrong. His legs weren’t obeying him properly. There was a hot, needling pain in his chest. He put his hand to it. It came away red.
Kaspar hadn’t just struck him as he’d gone by, at least not with an empty hand. He’d stabbed him. Kel pressed his hand against the wound, trying to keep the blood in. If he could just make it to the Key, he thought, but the alley seemed to be elongating, stretching out before him to the horizon. He could never walk such a distance, and soon enough it did not matter. His legs had given out under him.
He sank to the ground. It was filthy and hard, and stank of fish and garbage. He would have liked very much not to be lying where he was, but his body was not cooperating.
He pressed his hand against his chest. His shirt was as wet as if he’d spilled water on it. The pain was a screw, turning and tightening, pinning him to the earth. He could hear his own breath, rough and hoarse. Brick walls rose above him, between them a thin strip of stars.
And then, blotting out the stars for a moment, the shimmer of a metal mask. Jerrod was crouched over him.
“You might not be the Prince,” Jerrod said, his voice strained. “But you’re wearing his cloak. I wasn’t wrong about that. Who are you?”
Kel shook his head, or tried to. I can’t tell you, he thought, but it is my job to die for Conor, and now I suppose it is happening. I just didn’t think it would be in quite such a stupid way.
“My apologies,” Jerrod said. And he sounded as if he meant it. “It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.”
Kel almost laughed. It was too ridiculous. But it would have hurt too much to laugh, and his vision was starting to blur. The shadows bled together, and Jerrod was gone. The stars were all Kel could see. He imagined himself on his boat again, far out past the harbor, where the sea and sky were the same color. He could smell salt and hear the lash of the waves. If this was death, perhaps it would not be so bad.
He thought of Jolivet then, shaking his head. He thought of Antonetta, pale with grief—surely she would grieve if he died?—comforting Conor perhaps, her hand on his. And lastly, he thought of Conor, wearing his crown of wings, of what he would say when he found out Kel was dead. Something clever and cutting, no doubt. He thought of Mayesh, saying, We will do our best to keep you alive, and he saw a blur of violet, the color of foxgloves. Something flashed, bright, at the corner of his vision. Then he seemed to sink below the surface of the air as if it were water, until darkness was all he could see.
Aram was a kingdom ruled by a young Sorcerer-Queen, Adassa. Her father, King Avihal, had been a clever diplomat, negotiating peace with the other sorcerous Kings and Queens that his land might be spared the ravages of battle. When King Avihal died, he gave his daughter the Source-Stone that had been his, but she was a gentle soul and not a seeker of power. Even her own people feared she might not have the strength for queenship. Her one great ally was the captain of her guard, the loyal Judah Makabi. He stood by her side, advising and counseling, as she struggled to learn the ways of the throne. She will be a great Queen, Makabi assured the people. Only wait. She will bring us to greatness.
There was one other who saw the ascension of the young Queen as an opportunity—the Sorcerer-King Suleman.
—Tales of the Sorcerer-Kings, Laocantus Aurus Iovit III
CHAPTER EIGHT
Sitting at her kitchen table, Lin turned Petrov’s stone over in her hands. Books and papers were scattered all about, as always—from heavy bound tomes to thin sheets of vellum covered in delicate illustrations of anatomy from the Book of Remedies. When Josit was here, he made her put them away as he said they gave him nightmares, full of peeled-back skin and lidless eyes. （Lin knew this was partially her fault. As a child, she had enjoyed terrifying him with tales of skinless shedim who carried off troublesome little boys.）
With the shutters closed against the dark night, and the fire lit, the house became a cozy little cave. It was Lin’s favorite time for studying, but tonight she could not keep her mind on her books. She could not forget what Chana had said to her in the garden, that she was treating Mariam as a patient, not a friend. That Mariam needed something to look forward to other than a life of dutifully swallowing the tisanes and powders Lin mixed up for her.
The words had made Lin cold inside. She had treated enough dying people to know they often held on to life through sheer force of will, just long enough to see one last beloved face, or realize one last wish. It was good for Mariam to have something to look forward to, but what if, once the Festival was over, she let go? Stopped holding on? Would she hold on for Lin, or was that unfair to ask? Would she wait for Josit, to see him again? But who knew when Josit would return? All sorts of things could delay a caravan: bad weather, shortages of goods, or problems at the caravansary, the way stations along the Roads.