Chapter 1
Evie
Cold prickled along my skin, the hairs on my neck rising as something unseen pressed against the edges of the room, heavy in the shadows. A sensation I knew too well. It came when I was anxious, when emotions swelled too large, like worry, anger, or fear.
The gray stone walls seemed to lean closer, ready to swallow me whole if I lost control. I had to stay calm, keep my heartbeat steady, or an echo or two might strike.
The lovely curse of being aseerling.
Fate could have made me a seer. An augur, a precognizant mage. But no, I had to be the feeble one.
Proper clairvoyants were like oracles in temples on mountains. They saw the future and advised kings. Seerlings, on the other hand, were just pretend-seers, cursed with echoes of the past that filled their minds with ghosts. Unsolicited, uncontrollable, and painfully intrusive. We saw things no one wanted witnessed. And the worst part was, there was no way to stop it.
And so, people either mocked us or cast us aside so we would not be a bother.
I sat alone in the dark. No windows, only arrow slits carving narrow stripes of light across the chamber. The chandelier above could have banished the shadows, but I hadn’t lit it when I’d arrived. Now my nerves kept me pinned in place. The dark was comfortable enough.
The stone table loomed in front of me, massive enough to take up more space than the breath in my chest. The weight pressing on me wasn’t fear of ghosts. It was fear of the living. Of those who would walk through that door at any moment. I’d arrived twenty minutes early, dragged here by nerves, and the silence punished me for it.
Silly. They were the ones who were late. And somehow that made me more nervous. I didn’t want an echo, not now, not in front of them. Some in the Court already mocked me for talking to goats. If they learned I was a seerling, and probably the worst one from the mere handful on Terra, my post at the Council of Farming would vanish like smoke.
Magisters didn’t lose control. Magisters were powerful wizards who willed the arcane into perfect shape. I was one of them now. I should know. But my true powers, the ones I shoved down a box of blackiron whenever they stirred, were unruly. Insolent. And whatever echoes prowled the room tonight seemed to laugh at me.
The heavy door groaned open at last, a sound that filled the chamber like a warning bell.
Jorren Pellam entered first. Rings polished to mirrors, blood red tunic embroidered with golden roses. He stood for the Council of Trade. He blinked when he saw me, then gave a smile that did not touch his brown eyes. Fake, like everything about him. He didn’t like me. He didn’t like anyone. On the day we’d met, he’d told me I’d be bored here soon, as though boredom were a fate worse than death. He slid into his seat with a flourish.
Isolde Karreman followed, brisk as a whip, black robes slicing the air. Her hair was bound in a flawless knot, not a strand astray, her face pale as chalk. Shadows beneath her eyes betrayed sleepless nights. She lit the chandelier with a flick of her fingers, andher frown cut toward me, as if wondering why Jorren and I had chosen to sit in the dark. She’d given me the tour of the halls my first day, but she’d never felt like an ally. The Council of Justice left little room for warmth. She settled on my left.
“You look tired, Isolde,” Jorren purred, voice like poisoned honey. “Still buried under the Crown’s new edicts?”
“Someone has to be, Jorren,” she said, clipped.
“I half expected you to breeze in late again.”
Her eyes flickered as if she could stab him with a glance. “Unlike your trousers, my work does not fall open at the first distraction. Mind your own business, will you?”
Jorren simply laughed, her words being no more than background chatter.
Have I just suddenly vanished?Their chatter was spilling on as if I weren’t there. These two clearly had history. Or maybe it was simply magisters being magisters, brilliant, too proud to bend, their brilliance always walking the edge of cruelty.
Their bickering was cut short when Thalen Mierske entered. The battlemage. Council of War. Long silver hair streaked with stubborn black, a scar carved deep across his cheek, and the scent of steel and smoke clinging to him as if he’d carried the battlefield inside. He nodded once in my direction, curt, dismissive. Lo, my only friend here, had warned me he was scary.
Scary was too soft a word.
That man looked lethal. He sat on my right, and a shiver ran down my spine.
No one spoke. For a heartbeat, it felt like we were all testing each other’s silence. Then Thalen’s booming voice filled the chamber.
The monthly assembly of magisters, my first since joining the Court, was about to begin.
“Restoring trade routes still causing trouble, Pellam? Last time you said Lutessian port masters were being…” his lips curled, “dickheads. You look like you had a rough month.”
Jorren chuckled wryly. “Must mean I had agoodmonth, then.And no, I’ve better matters to manage than the tantrums of port masters. For one,” he pointed a jeweled finger at Thalen, “your soldiers are making certain Bretannian nervous.”
Thalen scoffed. “How would you know about matters of the people? You’re a trader, Pellam. Not Chancellor of the Commons.”
“And you are a battlemage,” Jorren drawled, twisting a ring, “But, in case you’re interested, Selena told me.”
