Or this could be orchestrated by my father: a test to prove myself before I reenter the ice door.Doubtful, but the thought hovers, overbearing and cloudy. “I don’t think so,” I finally answer.
Kalyan shakes his head. “She seems too pretty and too powerful just to be some girl on the street. I don’t know if you saw it, but she wasglowingwith magic; had to be, to run that fast.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
“You mean takemychances. I’m not letting them know who the real raja is now.”
I pat Kalyan on the shoulder. “Thank you.”
I walk over and squat next to the boy so he and I are eye level. Equals. “Hey, so if you don’t mind coming with us, we want to ask you—”
“No.” The boy’s tone is firm, but his eyes dart sideways first, then everywhere. He’s looking for escape, no doubt.
“It’s not for me. She saved your life. You owe her.”
“She has the firelight back. Let me go.” Blood, whatever I say next will sound like a kidnapping. I guess that is what I’m doing, in a roundabout way. Maybe this is a test. You’re going to take a kid in for interrogation because one of the most beautiful girls you have ever seen wants you to?
My voice hardens and gets gruff, to unnerve the boy. “Get in the carriage.” Well…I’m going to fail this test.
“Let’s get going, Samik,” I say.
The boy slips inside the carriage and I follow, Kalyan right behind me. The coach totters into motion. While the cushions aren’t hard, the boy acts as if I’ve forced him onto live coals. One day I will be conducting and rectifying grievances. It seems fitting that as soon as I begin my journey home I have to deal with things of this nature.
I turn my attention back to the girl, who’s still bent over. She clenches her left hand. The little part of her Touch I can see on her left wrist glows a faint red. Magic must be returning to her. I watch intently, but it’s Kalyan who blurts out the question that loiters on the tip on my tongue.
“How is that possible? You were burned out three minutes ago.” He may be suspicious, but I’m fascinated.
“I’m used to it,” she murmurs, without looking Kalyan in the eye. She is obviously uncomfortable in Kalyan’s presence, but of course that’s because she thinks he is a raja. This moment perfectly encapsulates my hatred for my title. The slight dread that stiffens her spine irritates me and makes me restless.
“So, you always go around throwing yourself in front of carriages?” I ask.
She directs her gaze at me. As a guard I’m safe. “Not on adailybasis.” Her expression is deadly straight; no wrinkle to let me in on the joke, just dirt and dust. I can read the beauty of her features, that part’s easy. Reading her? This might be a long ride.
The girl twists toward the child. “Tell me why you stole the firelight.”
He squirms, looking like he wants to drift into the woodwork. “Because Mom keeps talking about them, how we could heat the stove quicker or light the porch. But they’re hard to find and too expensive. I didn’t think you would miss one when you had so many.” He pauses, wringing his hands. “Please, don’t tell onme.”
“Expensive! They’re three coppers. Could your mom not afford that?”
Three coppers is extremely cheap. A loaf of bread averages about fifty or so in this part of the world.
The boy looks at her strangely. “Three coppers? Firelight is five silvers.”
“What the blood?” The girl punches the seat cushion. I’ve never heard a witch curse so bluntly. I have to cough to conceal a laugh.
“Who sets the price?” Kalyan interrupts.
The girl stares at Kalyan, willing him to look at her. “Your fiancé,” she answers slowly.
The mere mention of Adraa charges the air. And then, suddenly, I’m watching a staring contest unfold before me. Kalyan is a master of solemn looks and quiet contemplation. If either of them would turn to look at me, though, they’d notice the sweat and the anxiety of homecoming getting the best of me. I feel for the firelight in my pocket. Adraa’s magic. Would this be news toher?
As I predicted, the girl breaks first and refocuses on the boy. “It’s five silvers in all of Belwar?” she asks.
He shrugs. “I’m not allowed to go beyond the central square,” he says like it’s obvious information and we should be ashamed of our interrogation tactics.
“Where do you live? What neighborhood?” Her tone turns desperate.
“East Village, down by the docks.”
