“That’s not a ‘maybe,’ ma’am,” Thomil said impatiently. “The sentence for killing a Tiranish citizen is life in prison. For killing a Kwen, it’s usually six months—or a cushy retirement, if you’re important enough. That’s what they gave your Highmage Tython when he dropped a bridge on my friends, is it not?”
“Fine, fine,” Sciona conceded in frustration. “I’m not going to argue with you on that”—even though Highmage Tython’s blunder had clearly been an accident rather than intentional murder. “All I’m saying is that I doubt a whole Magistry of men could go about for generations disregarding mass slaughter. And thanks to Leon’s spellwork and Faene’s rules, they don’t need to. The nature of the Otherrealm is pretty well-concealed.”
“Is it, though, ma’am? I had my suspicions before your breakthrough, and I’m a half-literate Kwen.”
“You’re more than half-literate and you know it,” Sciona protested. “You’re exceptional.”
“No, I’m not!” Thomil said with an anger Sciona didn’t understand. “I’m not smarter than other Kwen, or stronger, or more virtuous. I’ve just been luckier than most. This is what I don’t think you understand. Tiranish just like you kill Kwen just like me all the time—if not by siphoning, then by our treatment at the barrier, in the factories and construction sites—”
“Alright, but this… what you and I have seen is a far cry from unsafe work conditions. The whole point—the whole mission statement—of Tiranish magic is to make life better. Adherents to that magic system wouldn’t do these things if they knew there was such a high human cost.”
“But I’m not human, am I?” Thomil’s voice went bitter. “Carra isn’t human. We’re an unclean, parasitic race, fit only to serve.”
“Come on! Who would say something like that?”
“Your founding texts!” Thomil returned. And, after a moment of searching her memory, Sciona realized he was right. Damn it. She had always skimmed those parts like she did everything not pertaining directly to magic. “And I wonder what we’re good for if we’re not serving?”
“I think the writers of those texts—the Founding Mages—have tricked us all. Thanks to the restrictions they’ve placed on mapping spell compositions, even the archmages don’t know the truth.”
“Well, the barrier guards certainly do.”
“The barrier guards know what the carnage of Blight looks like,” Sciona said, “and yes, some of them are cruel enough to throw people to their deaths. It doesn’t mean they—or the mages—know where that carnage comes from. They can’t know…” Sciona supposed it was arrogant to think she had discovered something that had eluded all but a few mages in the last few centuries. But ego was what had kept her alive for these last few days, and the alternative was unacceptable. “I’ll prove it.”
Thomil raised an eyebrow. “Will you?”
“This will be a good thing,” she said. “Once the archmages know what I’ve discovered, they can use my Freynan Mirrors to avoid killing humans in the future.” Sure, it might not solve the other problems Thomil had raised about the crops and game, but it was a start.
This would be her legacy, she decided. Sciona Freynan, not just the first female highmage, but a mapping revolutionary who saved tens of thousands of lives through her work. She wouldn’t just pave the way for women into the High Magistry. She would be the vanguard for a new era in which magic truly was the force for good the public imagined. She would make Tiran into the inherent good the Founders had promised but not delivered.
“Things are about to get better for everyone.” She stood. “I’m headed to the university.”
“What? Now?”
“Yes.” Having made up her mind and stated her purpose to Thomil, Sciona couldn’t wait another moment. “Thank you for the tea—and for listening.”
She had just reached the door when Thomil said, “Sciona…”
Something in his tone was strained, and she turned back. She didn’t recognize what had changed his voice until she saw it in his face. It was fear.
“Thomil?”
“I…” The words seemed to take a moment to push past Thomil’s pride. “I don’t want you to do this.”
“What do you mean? People in the Kwen are dying every moment this goes unaddressed. If there’s a way to save what remains of your home, this is how it starts.”
“I know!” Thomil growled, then shoved a hand back through his hair to clutch there in uncharacteristic distress. “I just…”
“Just what?”
He shook his head, eyes cast down.
“Honesty, Thomil,” she prompted. “After everything, I don’t think we need to keep secrets or mince words with each other. Out with it.”
“I’m afraid they already know.” When he looked back at her, his winter eyes were cold with dread. “I’m afraid of what that will mean for you.”
“For me?” she said in surprise. “Thomil, the other mages wouldn’t—well, sure, some of them would hurt me”—Renthorn would almost certainly bludgeon her to death with the Stravos Collection if he thought he could get away with it—“but I’m not going to the ones who hate me. I’m going to Archmage Bringham. He’s put his hard-won career on the line for me more than once. I can guarantee you, I’m not in any danger from him.”
Thomil nodded. He had, after all, seen her interact with Archmage Bringham. He knew how close they were. But for whatever reason, he didn’t relax.
“You have a better idea?” Sciona pressed, impatient with Thomil’s lack of enthusiasm. These were his people she was trying to save.
“No,” he conceded, still disturbingly fearful. “Just promise me one thing.”
“Anything.” She supposed, for all she had put him through, she owed him one promise.
“If you bring everything you’ve told me to Archmage Bringham and he already knows—”
“He won’t.”
“Alright, but if he does, you have to play along. Pretend to buy his cover story. Whatever he wants you to believe, act like you believe it and go about your business like nothing is wrong. Don’t ask questions. Don’t antagonize.”
She gave Thomil a wry smile. “Does that sound like me?”
“Sciona!” His voice was so raw with emotion that it wiped the smile from her face. “These mages flay human beings to turn on their lights and heat their tea in the morning! If they are doing this knowingly, will they think twice about disposing of one mouthy junior member of their own order?”
Sciona chewed on his words for a tense moment. She couldn’t find fault with his logic. And yet everything in her rejected it.
“Swear to me on your god and your mother’s grave,” Thomil demanded.
“Alright,” she sighed and pulled on her best reassuring smile. “I swear by God and my mother’s grave: if Bringham and the other archmages are covering the truth, then I’ll play along with them. Happy?”