“All of it,” she said. “Kel was just a child—”
His face changed, as if a screen had been drawn back, and now she could see what lay behind it. A real anger—cut away from pretense, from disguise. It was a clean anger, burning white-hot. “As was I,” he hissed. “I was a child, too. What do you imagine I could have done about it?”
“You could release him. Let him live his own life.”
“He does not serve me. He serves House Aurelian, as do I. I could no more free Kel than I can free myself.”
“You are playing games with words,” said Lin. “You have the power—”
“Let me tell you something about power,” said the Prince of Castellane. “There is always someone who has more of it than you. I have power; the King has more. House Aurelian has more. The Council of Twelve has more.” He raked a hand through his hair. He was not wearing a crown; it changed him, subtly. Made him look younger, different. More like Kel. “Have you even,” he said, “asked Kel? Whether he wishes to be other than he is? Wishes Jolivet had never found him?”
“No,” Lin admitted. “But surely, given the choice—”
He barked a disbelieving laugh. “Enough, then,” he said. He looked away; when he looked again at her, the screen was back in place. His anger was gone, replaced by only a faint incredulity, as if he could not believe he was here, having this conversation, with Lin of all people. She felt his scorn, as tangible as the touch of a hand. “Enough of this profitless conversation. I do not answer to you. Leave, and know that when I say leave, it means leave and stay away, not leave and return when you feel so inclined. Do you understand me?”
Lin gave the smallest of nods. Barely a movement at all, but it seemed to satisfy him. He spun on his heel and stalked back into the Castel Mitat, his green coat whipping around him like the flag of Marakand.
She was halfway to the North Gate, still fuming, when a carriage drew up alongside her. Lacquered red, with a gold lion blazoned on the door, it was clearly a royal carriage; a Castelguard with a scarred face held the reins of a matched pair of bay horses. “Lin Caster?” he said, looking down at her from his perch on the driver’s seat. “Prince Conor sent me. I am meant to take you into the city, wherever it is you wish to go.”
Somehow, Lin was sure, this was a pointed gesture. She set her jaw. “That’s not necessary.”
“It is, actually,” said the guard. “The Prince says I must make absolutely sure you leave the grounds of Marivent.” He sounded apologetic. “Please, Domna. If you refuse, I could lose my post.”
Name of the Goddess, Lin thought. What an absolute brat the Prince was; clearly he hadn’t changed at all since his childhood.
“Very well,” she said. “But do be sure to tell him that I wasn’t the least bit grateful.”
The guard nodded as Lin clambered angrily into the velvet-lined carriage. He looked more than a little alarmed but said nothing. Clearly he had decided that, whatever was going on, he wanted no part of it.
In the guise of a raven, Judah Makabi flew through the nights and days to the land of Darat, where he hid himself in Suleman’s garden. He saw how, in the palace, all was peace and beauty, while outside its walls the flames of war scored the ground with Sunderglass.
Exhausted, his wings heavy with dust, Makabi the raven listened as the Sorcerer-Kings and Sorcerer-Queens of Dannemore gathered beneath the branches of a sycamore tree and spoke together of their avarice and greed for power. They told one another that they would band together to attack Aram, for its Queen was young and untutored, and could not stand against their combined forces.
“I thought you had intended to seduce her to bring her under your sway,” said one of the Sorcerer-Queens to Suleman.
“I find I grow tired of waiting,” Suleman replied, and the Source-Stone at his belt flashed like an eye. “Perhaps, if she learns obedience, she will be Queen of Darat one day. But it seems unlikely.”
Makabi flew back to Aram with a heavy heart.
—Tales of the Sorcerer-Kings, Laocantus Aurus Iovit III
CHAPTER TWELVE
The day after Lin’s visit to Marivent, Kel duly presented himself at the Black Mansion, note in hand. Unusually, Conor had asked where he was taking himself off to and, scrambling, Kel had invented a new fighting style that was being taught at the Arena. “Something a Sword Catcher should know about,” he’d said, and Conor had agreed. Kel was left to hope that Conor would not demand a demonstration of the technique later.
Kel had often looked down on the Black Mansion from the West Tower; it stood out among the other buildings of the Warren like a dollop of jet-black paint splashed onto an ochre canvas. No one knew who had built the place; it had existed as long as there had been a Ragpicker King to occupy it, which was longer than anyone alive could recall.
He mounted the black stairs to find the famous scarlet door guarded by a mustachioed man so heavily muscled he seemed top-heavy, like an inverted pyramid. He wore an elaborate uniform of red and black, with braiding on the shoulders as if he were a member of the Arrow Squadron.
“Morettus,” Kel said, feeling a bit silly, as if he were in a Story-Spinner tale involving spies and passwords.
“Fine,” said the guard. He didn’t move.
“。 . . Now?” said Kel, after a long pause.
“Fine.” The guard nodded.
“Right,” Kel said. “I’m going to open the door now. And go in.”
“Fine,” the guard said.
Kel gave up. He had his hand on the door latch when it swung open from inside. Ji-An stood on the threshold, a slight smirk on her face. She wore her foxglove-purple coat, her hair pinned up with jade clips. “That was agonizing to watch,” she said, gesturing for him to enter the mansion. “You’re going to need to learn to be more assertive.”
“Does he say anything but fine?” Kel asked as soon as the door had shut behind them.
“Not really.” They were walking down a wood-paneled corridor that seemed to snake through the interior of the Black Mansion like a vein of gold in a mine. Paintings of scenes from around Castellane hung on the walls between closed doors. “But he once dispatched an assassin with a spool of thread and a butter knife, so Andreyen keeps him around. One never knows.”
“What about you?” Kel said.
Ji-An looked straight ahead. “What about me?”
“You saved my life,” Kel said. “Why? I didn’t get the impression you were fond of me.”
“Please don’t fuss about it. I was nearby because Andreyen asked me to follow you and report back.”
“Did he,” Kel muttered under his breath.
“Don’t bother being offended. It was very dull, following you. You barely leave Marivent. Then when you finally did, you went to Merren’s, of all places. At which point I realized that I wasn’t the only one following you.”
“The Crawlers,” Kel said, and Ji-An nodded. “You could have let me bleed out on the street, though.”
“Andreyen wouldn’t have liked that,” Ji-An said as the corridor opened out into a sort of great room, the kind nobles tended to maintain in their country retreats. Half a dozen armchairs and low sofas were scattered in a haphazard circle beneath a ceiling like an inverted bowl. The furniture was mismatched—a black lacquer cabinet here, a tiled Valdish table there. Merren was sprawled in one of the chairs, reading. Despite the heat of the day outside, a fire burned in the enormous grate that dominated one wall. “Is there some specific reason you’ve come to talk to Andreyen? I might as well know before I go fetch him, in case it’s something he couldn’t possibly find interesting.”