“Indeed,” said Kell carefully. “And what else has my brother told you?”
She sobered. “I am the king’s priest, and his counsel. His burdens become mine, if and when he shares them. But I do not hand them off to others.”
It was not, he noted, an answer. She held his gaze, as if daring him to ask again. Kell did not like the way she looked at him, eyes flicking between his, from the black to the blue and back again, a constant reminder of their difference.
Some priests worshipped the Antari, saw them as an incarnation of Magic itself. But others saw them as a warning, a reminder of what happened when power existed in extremes. The opposite of balance.
Kell wondered which he was in Ezril’s eyes. He didn’t ask, instead turned his attention back to the tree—and the last traces of Tieren’s magic.
“Thank you for waiting,” he said. “I know it is just a tree. And yet…”
“Of course it is just a tree,” said Ezril. “This is just a building. The Isle is just water.”
He studied her. “Spoken like a true priest.”
“What gave me away?” she asked wryly, smoothing her white robe. “You think me an odd choice, for Aven Essen,” she went on. It wasn’t a question, so he wasn’t forced to answer. She looked past him, to Tieren’s tree. “Sometimes change is easier to stomach. Have you ever had a beautiful meal? You try to repeat it, you make the dish the same way over and over and it is never as good. Better to try something new.” She smiled, and shook her head. “Apologies, I must be hungry. You did not come to talk of meals, or trees.”
He had not. Indeed, he’d asked the priests at the door to send for Ezril when he first arrived.
“The Hand,” he said. “Do you have news?”
Ezril’s good humor faltered. “I told you, Master Kell, the Sanctuary is not the crown’s crows. The priests witness. We serve. We do not spy.”
“And yet,” said Kell, “you do not confine yourselves to the Sanctuary. You walk among the people. You know the city’s power, its pulse.”
“Priests answer to the balance of magic. Not to the thrones of kings.”
“You are the Aven Essen,” he persisted. “You serve the king, you are his counsel and his priest. If you know something—anything—if you have any love for Rhy—”
“Enough,” said Ezril, with the simple force of fingers snapping.
She looked past him, past the trees, and the walls of the courtyard. For several moments, she said nothing. Then, “They keep their voices low, but we have heard whispers.” Her tea-stained eyes flicked back to him. “Whispers of a device that can bend space. Cut through wards.”
Kell’s heart sank. The persalis. So it was here.
“What is their plan?” he demanded. “Do you know?”
Ezril only shook her head. “No, but it is a complicated piece of magic. It had to come from somewhere. Or someone.” Her voice dipped lower. “I have wondered if the queen—”
“No,” cut in Kell. “Nadiya Loreni did not make it.”
Ezril frowned. “You are sure?”
“It was stolen from a ship, and smuggled into the city.”
One brow lifted. “Then you know as much as I do.”
“I know nothing of any use,” hissed Kell. “Only that it must be found before the Hand use it against the royal family. Have you learned nothing of the Hand itself? Who is behind them?”
Ezril’s head swept side to side, and Kell felt his chest tighten in exasperation.
“Someone must know something,” he snapped, head spinning. He was no closer to finding the persalis, to stopping the plot, to uncovering the power behind the Hand. His fingers curled into fists, magic rising with his temper. A wind kicked up, whipping through the courtyard, and on its heels, the wave of pain rolled beneath his skin. He let go, quickly, but not quick enough.
The air settled, but he was left fighting for breath.
Ezril was staring at him, but her expression held no surprise. “It must be frightening,” she said, “to be at war with your own magic.”
Kell stiffened. He had never told her about the rift. “My brother should learn to hold his tongue,” he said, forcing the air back into his lungs. He straightened, steadied. He needed to find Lila. “If you have nothing else to tell me—”
But as he moved to pass her, the Aven Essen caught his arm.
“It’s not the pain that frightens you. It’s what you are. And what you’re not. A priest removes their robes, and they are still a priest. But what is an Antari without their magic?”