This time, Ronan’s answerisa surprise. “All right.”
As they head upstairs, Karis engages most of his willpower in not rushing back towards the basement. The urge is futile—the door in the parlor disappears again when Ronan closes it—but the memory of Radiance still calls to him. He wants the crown. He needs the crown.
But he also needs answers.
When the door of Ronan’s bedroom closes behind them, Karis asks, “Can I put you under a truth spell?”
Ronan’s eyebrow quirks. He sits at the small table, leans his elbows on the surface. “Feel free.”
“Thanks.” Karis sits across from Ronan and concentrates. With the crown’s Radiance still buzzing through his soul, his magic is easier to call than ever. Releasing the spell is as simple as opening his hand, and the only trick is in limiting the scope of the spell. Purely informative, not compulsory. He doesn’t want to force the truth out of Ronan; he just wants to know if he’s lying. “How does that feel?”
“Tingly.” Ronan’s lips twitch. “Ask away.”
“I don’t know what to ask yet.” Karis lifts his chin, attempting to look down on Ronan despite the height difference. “Just start talking.”
The mirth fades from Ronan’s striking features. He looks more serious than Karis has ever seen him as he begins. “Two hundred years ago, Charaini mages imprisoned five gods. I’m following a quest from my own god to set them free.”
His voice is grim, resonant, and holds only truth. Karis knows the names even before Ronan says them.
“Ka Dravos, Maiza, Songbird, Sephine,” Ronan lists. “And your Radiant Vara. Have you ever wondered why Charain prays to Mother Sephine, while all the rest of the world calls her Cold Sephine?”
Karis shakes his head, stunned.
“Only members of the Church of Sephine can contract with her,” Ronan says. “Only the cold paladins—buteachof them. Most gods pick and choose their contracts. Their favorite children. It’s different for the bound gods. Any green-eared squire who joins the Radiant Order can contract with Vara, but no Praian hedgewitch can even pray for a contract, if he isn’t willing to leave his homeland and enlist in Charain.”
Karis thinks about the archpriests and the general, meeting in an empty room in Fort Tarhaeg. “Radiant Vara descended in Ostaris and said, these are my people, and this is my place,” he says softly. “That’s what all the books say.”
“The books were written by the captors,” Ronan counters. “Of all the gods, why would Radiant Vara bind himself like that? Does the sun choose which places and people to shine on?”
There’s no lie in his voice. But the trouble with truth spells is they can’t discern fiction if the speaker doesn’t realize it’s fiction. Maybe Ronan just believes this, but the truth is different.
Maybe everything Karis thought he knew isn’t a lie.
Vara?he asks silently, and gets no answer. In the back of his mind, he starts to piece together all of Vara’s silences.
Ronan continues. “They did it for power, of course. In some ways, I can hardly blame them. Lyrisenia was falling apart to the north, and Praia’s military has always been stronger to the west. Some of them may have thought they were doing right by their country.” He leans back in his chair. The early afternoon sunlight gleams along his high bronze cheekbones, clearing the dark pools of his eyes.
“How could humans bind gods like that?” Karis asks. Even a single hedgewitch can bind a demon, if he knows the right arrays and incantations. But he’s never heard of anything that can restrain a god, except—
“They had help,” Ronan says. “The Trickster helped them do it, for grievances of his own.”
Karis stares. “And then what? He changed his mind, two hundred years later?”
“He changed his mind.” The sentence rings true. “He found a new Voice twenty years ago, but she was already too old for this kind of quest. She found me and took me as her student, and when she thought I was ready, she passed the quest to me, as a condition of my contract. I recruited the rest of the Locksmiths—Dansa named us that—and we spent a few years preparing, before we started collecting relics in Charain.”
There’s a lot to ask about there. Ronan’s teacher and contract. Preparation and collection. But Karis’s attention fixes on a single word, one Ronan mentioned as if it was nothing special. “What do you mean, a voice?”
It’s Ronan’s turn to stare at him, before laughing in disbelief. “They really don’t teach you anything important in Charain. A god’s Voice is their prophet. They have a deeper connection to the god.” He gestures between them. “You and me, we have to put in effort to talk to our gods. I have to roll the dice, and if I’m lucky, maybe I’ll have a chance at an answer. You have to pray and hope—though, with Vara bound, I bet no paladin alive has actually heard him. The Voice of the Trickster and the Voice of Vara would just have to think casually and say hello.”
If Karis wasn’t sitting down, he would have fallen over. There’s a name for what he is, besidescrazyordangerous.
The Voice of Vara.
Just because you’ve figured something out, doesn’t mean you need to let everyone know about it. Change the subject.He hopes he sounds steady enough when he opens his mouth again. “Then what are you doing with the relics?”
Ronan rubs his throat. “I didn’t think you could keep it up this long.”
“Excuse me?” Karis asks, blanking out.
