She means Tycho. He’s no more my magesmith than I am his scraver.
When I say nothing, Igaa adds,—He is your friend, Nakiis. He would help you.
I hiss.—No. He isn’t. And he wouldn’t.
I made sure of that weeks ago, when I refused to help Tycho protect that foolish king. I knew Xovaar would attack with impossible fury and kill anyone in his path. He nearly killed Tycho— and I did my best towarn him away. But he didn’t listen. He ran to the king’s side, and the two of them nearly perished.
Theywould haveperished, if I hadn’t lent my magic to theirs.
But offering them my magic left me depleted, unable to defend myself when Xovaar retreated from that battle . . . and found me instead.
Igaa must have stolen a waterskin from somewhere, because she pours a bit across my lips.
— You need a magesmith,she insists.
— A magesmith cannot heal these wounds, Igaa. Enough.
— A magesmith could heal the infection.
This has become a common argument. She’s right that a magesmithcouldheal the infection. The deeper wounds, both caused by a spear of Iishellasan steel, will only heal with time.
It’s the infection that’s going to kill me.
Her clawed hand settles against my cheek, and she swears out loud in our language, the word sounding like a clash of ice in the confines of the cave. “You are hot enough to melt the Frozen River yourself.”
“Take me there,” I say roughly, my spoken voice revealing my weakness. “Let’s see.”
She’s quiet for a moment, and her fingers drift through my hair and down my neck, until her hand comes to a stop on my injured shoulder. The slight touch sends a wave of pain through my body, and I let out a breath.
“I would if I could, Nakiis,” she says quietly.
I know she would— but Xovaar would find us long before we could reach the river separating Syhl Shallow from Iishellasa.
“This is hopeless,” I say, the rough words barely more than a whisper. “Even if Tycho would help me, he has returned to Ironrose Castle. That is too far for you to travel alone. Not while Xovaar seeks us both.”
Her fingers trail through my hair again, and my eyes fall closed. Sleep pulls at me again, the deep, dreamless sleep of illness. But her voice speaks to my mind just before I drift away.
— Tycho is not the only magesmith we know.
CHAPTER 2
CALLYN
I shouldn’t be here.
The thought has been plaguing me for days, and I can’t quite seem to shove it out of my head, no matter how hard I try. Lord Alek threatened to reveal my hidden magic if I didn’t leave the Crystal Palace, and anyone with any common sense would’ve left that very night. It’s no secret that magic doesn’t belong in the palace. Not now. Not after everything that’s happened.
But I can’t seem to make myself leave.
King Grey has been gone for two weeks, and most people believe he took every scrap of magic with him.I hear the relief among the palace staff. They’re glad he’s gone from Syhl Shallow, thinking the absence of his magic means there won’t be any further threats to the palace.
But they don’t see the darker effects of his leaving, like the sorrow that began to overtake the entire palace the morning after he left. I’m not sure how many people truly misshim, but the change in Queen Lia Mara is profound. Morning tea is a somber affair, with the queenabsently drizzling honey over her bread, while little Princess Sinna stares forlornly out at the training fields, where she used to watch her father run drills. The queen used to be occupied with advisers and courtiers all day, but of late she has begun to retire to her room after the midday meal, only to emerge hours later with red- rimmed eyes and a rough voice. By nightfall, the queen has often found the bottom of her third or fourth glass of wine, and it has not gone unnoticed among the staff. Little Sinna hasn’t realized it yet, but my sister Nora has.
“Is the queen unwell?” she whispered to me yesterday, after Queen Lia Mara stumbled across the threshold into her bedroom. “She’s not going to turn out like Jax’s father, is she?”
The question was jolting, because I hadn’t realized how much Nora noticed about my best friend’s father— and how much his penchant for whiskey and ale affected his temperament. I bit my lip and stared after the queen. “No, Nora,” I whispered in response. “She’s just heartbroken.”
The queen’s sister, Verin, has no sympathy— or patience— for Lia Mara’s emotion. I’ve heard her snapping more than once. “You have a country to rule and a daughter to raise. You are well rid of that man and his magic. You should’ve let me put a sword through his chest before he left.”
