“No,” he says. “The king is the only true magesmith. My rings are Iishellasan steel. They allow me to borrow his magic.”
His hands are still lifted, and I can see the rings, dark steel that encircles three of his fingers.
I don’t know what to do with this information. I remember our books carrying stories of magical artifacts from Iishellasa, but I never realized that meant anyone could wield magic. I had no idea such a thing was possible. “So you just do whatever you want with them?”
“Of course not.” He pauses. “Put the knife down.” Another pause. “Please.”
Thepleasestartles me. It’s a bare courtesy that seems to be at odds with the magic he just performed—a courtesy that makes my world seem to tilt on its axis a bit, because he sounds so calm and reasonable, while I’m standing here with a weapon and … and a skillet.
I swallow and slide the knife back into the block, but I can’t seem to convince my hand to let go of the baking pan.
“He healed Jax,” Nora protests, and there’s a note of hope in her voice. “He healed him, Cally-cal. He’s not like the king.”
Lord Tycho’s eyebrows flicker into a frown. “The king would have done the same.”
“The king doesn’t care about Briarlock,” Jax growls. He keeps hold of the pastry table to lever himself a hopping step closer. “You should have warned us.”
“I tried.”
Jax lets go of the table and shoves him right in the chest.
Lord Tycho falls back a step in surprise. His gaze darkens. His hands aren’t up now.
“Jax!” I drop the pan and grab my friend’s arm before he can do anything worse. “He is the King’s Courier,” I hiss. “You’re going to end up swinging from arope.” I think of those rings, of what happened to my father. My heart thumps. “Orworse.”
But Lord Tycho surprises me. “Not by my order,” he says evenly. “Say what you mean to say.”
“I don’t need your pity,” Jax snaps. His arm is tense under my hand, almost straining against my hold.
“It’s notpity. You wouldn’t have been able to work for months. Maybe notever.”
Jax flexes his hand, which bears no mark from the burn that existed there a few minutes ago. Even I can’t help the thread of wonder that winds through all my fear. I saw the blisters, the broken skin.
“Fine,” Jax says darkly. “It wasn’t pity. It was a rich lord riding through a small town, throwing some generosity to the poor folk of Briarlock. Maybe our taxes pay for a life of ease in the Crystal City, where you can borrow the king’s magic to solve all your problems, but here, all you’ve done is remind us of what we’ve suffered. Of what welack.” His voice has grown sharp with disdain. “So forgive me, my lord. You have mythanks.”
Lord Tycho looks like Jax has slapped him. Even Nora is silent.
After a moment, the lord takes a step back. He nods to me and to my sister. “Callyn. Nora. I will have to take you up on the meat pies another time. I need to cross the mountain pass before nightfall.”
I’m frozen in place. Too much has happened. But after a moment of hesitation, Nora grabs hold of her skirt and glances at me before offering him a brief curtsy. “Goodbye, my lord.”
Jax’s arm is still tight under my grip, his eyes locked on Lord Tycho. His hands have curled into fists. He says nothing.
For one long, tense moment, I worry that he’s going to break free of my hold. That he’s going to pick a fight he won’t win.
But finally, Lord Tycho gives him a nod as well. “You’re welcome,” he says. “Be well, Jax.”
Then he turns on his heel and he’s through the door.
CHAPTER 10
TYCHO
When it comes to political maneuvering, Prince Rhen always has a lot of ideas.
When I arrived this morning, he read the queen’s letter about a Royal Challenge, and now he’s got books and maps and papers spread across a table in his strategy room, and he’s been making a list of suggestions for the king and queen to review. Ironrose Castle is large, with wood-paneled walls, marble floors, and elegant tapestries, but the rooms always seem much more stuffy than what I’m used to in the Crystal Palace. In the days I’ve been gone, more letters have been found among shipments in Silvermoon and Blind Hollow, but when I riffle through them, they’re all the same: nothing more than tracked movements written in simple code. Mama and Papa. Mother and Father. Nyssa. No threats, no warnings—at least none that I can discern. There aren’t enough to make a pattern anyway.
Rhen doesn’t reallyneedme right now, which isn’t uncommon, especially when he’s got a task to occupy his thoughts. Normally I’d bide my time with his Royal Guards, or I’d ride out to Silvermoon tostroll through the marketplace. Sometimes Princess Harper would join me, and I like her company, because she reminds me of her brother, Jacob.
