The Exiled Queen (21 page)

RAISED FROM

THE DEAD

Raisa was waiting for Amon in the common room of the dormitory when he returned from his late recitation. Maps of the Seven Realms lay scattered across the table in front of her. She was supposed to be writing an essay on how geography had shaped the great battles of the past, but she was having trouble concentrating. In fact, all she’d managed so far was a title. “How Geography Has Shaped the Great Battles of the Past.”

It was still pouring rain, and Amon looked weary and worn down as he stripped off his wet cloak. Five days a week he had patrol duty at 6:30 a.m., and his late recitation on Modern Weaponry ran until ten p.m.

“Blood of Hanalea,” he grumbled, hanging up his cloak. “It takes a special talent to make weaponry boring.” He yawned hugely. “Do you think you remember what you hear in your sleep?” He sloshed the teapot to check the water level, then put it on to boil.

“He’s alive,” Raisa said, practically bursting with the news. “I saw him. Cuffs Alister.”

“What?” Amon flopped down in a chair and tugged off his boots. He inspected his feet, wrinkled his nose, and began peeling off his socks.

“Cuffs Alister,” Raisa repeated. “He’s here.” Amon stopped peeling and looked up, frowning. “What are you talking about?”

“I was walking across the courtyard near the stables and he nearly rode into me.”

The socks dropped to the floor. “What would Alister be doing in Oden’s Ford? That doesn’t make sense.” Amon leaned forward, hands on his knees, his face hard and intent. “Did you speak with him? Did he recognize you?”

Raisa shook her head. “Well, no. As soon as I recognized him, I ran away.”

“You ran away?” Amon lifted an eyebrow. “You didn’t think that might raise his suspicions?”

“Well, yes,” Raisa said, feeling irritated. “I didn’t know what to do. I never expected to see him here. You told me he was dead.”

“He’s supposed to be dead,” Amon said, as if Cuffs had pulled a nasty trick by being alive. He paused, chewing on his lower lip. “You sure it was him?”

She scowled at him. “I know it was him.”

The teapot shrilled. Amon pried himself out of his chair and crossed barefoot to the hearth. “Want some tea?” he asked, spooning leaves into a cup and pouring for himself.

“It was Cuffs Alister,” Raisa repeated stubbornly, ignoring Amon’s question. He poured a cup for her anyway and set it on the table in front of her.

He looked slightly less agitated, and Raisa knew he was convincing himself she’d been mistaken. “It’s been raining all day,” he said, sitting back down. “So I’m guessing he was cloaked and hooded up.”

Well, yes, Raisa thought, unwilling to say it aloud. But I know what I saw. His fair hair had badly needed cutting, and his blue eyes were as brilliant as she remembered in his appallingly handsome face.

The last time she’d seen him, he’d been covered in cuts and bruises, his arm splinted, courtesy of the Queen’s Guard. Now his face was marked by a different kind of injury—pain and loss and betrayal—and layered with a new wariness.

“Sometimes it’s hard to tell one person from another when they’re wrapped up like that,” Amon persisted.

Raisa rubbed her forehead, trying to recall every detail. Now that she thought about it, the boy she’d seen in the stable yard was riding a clan pony. He’d been dressed in expensive trader garb—a boiled-wool cloak and fine clan leatherwork boots.

That didn’t make sense. Alister was a slum dweller—where would he learn to ride a horse? Where would he get one? And why would he be dressed as a trader?

Raisa’s certainty began to crumble. Did she want Alister to be alive so much that she’d conjured a ghost? Had a stranger’s resemblance to Cuffs brought him to mind?

“Even if he were alive, what would he be doing here?” Amon said, his voice a constant drip-drip-drip against her hopes.

“I don’t know,” Raisa said, too stubborn to concede. “Maybe he’s going to school, too. Or maybe he’s just hiding out here until things settle down in the Fells. Like me.”

“He’s not like you, Rai,” Amon said. “He’s a thief and a killer, and you’re—”

“You’re right, of course. There’s nobody like me,” Raisa said, wrapping her arms around her knees and feeling sorry for herself.

Amon raked his fingers through his wet hair so it stuck up in all directions. “Why do I get the impression you hope it was him?”

“Well,” Raisa conceded, “I hope he’s not dead.” Ever since she’d heard that Alister had been murdered, she’d felt hollowed out and guilty. She’d failed him, like the queen had failed all the desperate residents of Ragmarket and Southbridge.

“If you’re going to hope, then hope that he’s alive and happy someplace far from here,” Amon said. “Eventually you’re going to be recognized, but I’d like to put it off as long as possible.” He pulled a sheaf of papers from his carry bag and wedged them onto a free corner of the table.

“Alister doesn’t know who I really am,” Raisa said. She blew on her tea to cool it, and took a cautious sip. “So he can’t give me away.”

Amon rolled his pen between his fingers. “I’ll look into it,” he conceded. “I’ll see if anyone by that name is enrolled at Wien House or Isenwerk. If he came here for school, it seems most likely he’d be going as a soldier or engineer.” He bent his head over his work and began scratching notes. “Unless you think he’s going into orders. Speaker Jemson seemed impressed with him.”

Amon Byrne was actually making a joke.

Raisa watched him for a long moment, then slumped in her chair. “You’re right. I was probably mistaken.”

Amon kept working, so Raisa turned back to her own task, squeezing sentences out with great effort and little enthusiasm, like paint from an empty tube.

She tried to ignore the dull ache beneath her ribs that might have been disappointment.

CHARMCASTING

FOR BEGINNERS

Han scrubbed at his eyes with both hands and set the book of simple charms aside. He was a decent reader—he’d been the best in his class at the school at Southbridge Temple—but this vocabulary was totally foreign to him. It didn’t help that he’d risen before the sun, after a sleepless night, driven by worry. It was only his first day of classes, and he was already drunk with fatigue.

Taking hold of his flashpiece, he walked the perimeter of his room, stumbling over words as he tried to reproduce the spoken charm.

When he’d circled the room twice, he stopped in the center and looked around.

Nothing happened. No gush of flame charred the walls (a good thing). No shimmering net of protection settled over the doors and windows (maybe a bad thing). The book had described it as a charm of protection against those who meant him harm. How would he know it worked if there was no enemy to try it out on?

An enemy lived two floors below. And he still hadn’t decided what to do about it.

He’d already sat through a lecture from Dancer on the topic, the night before, when Micah left the tavern and Han wanted to follow.

“Leave him be,” Dancer had said, getting in his way. “You don’t know how well armed he is, or what he knows. Don’t start a fight unless you know you can win.”

“The fight’s already started,” Han said. “It started on Hanalea.” But the war began with Mam and Mari, he added silently.

“He has an amulet, and he probably knows how to use it,” Dancer said. “Unlike us.”

“You heard what he said,” Han argued. “He’s coming after me. Better if I hush him first.” It was what he knew, the law of the streets, kill or be killed. “He’ll be dead before he can squeak out a charm.”

Dancer put his hand on Han’s arm. “And if you do that, who do you think the provosts will suspect? If you wanted to kill him you shouldn’t have faced off with him in public.”

Han scowled, but didn’t argue the point. He knew Dancer was right.

“If you go after him, I’ll have to back you. We’ll both be expelled,” Dancer said.

Han shook his head. “No. I never asked you to—”

“Right now he knows less about you than you do about him,” Dancer interrupted, knowing he was gaining ground. “You surprised him. He’s off balance. He’ll wait until he has more information before making his move. You can use that time, Hunts Alone.”

But Micah won’t be sitting idle, either, Han thought. Could he stand to walk around with that constant prickle between his shoulder blades?

He’d rather have a chat with Micah in a back alley and ease his own mind.

Dancer’s voice cut into Han’s thoughts. “I’m back from breakfast,” he called from the doorway. “I brought something for you.”

Han looked up in time to catch the napkin-wrapped bundle Dancer tossed at him. Pulling back a corner, he saw that it contained a biscuit with cheese and ham tucked inside. “Thank you,” Han said, taking a big bite.

“I saw Cat in the dining hall,” Dancer said.

“How was she?” Han asked, hoping a night’s sleep had improved her mood.

“Well,” Dancer said, “she still looked kind of witch-fixed. That Annamaya from last night was there. She’ll take her to her classes and help her get her books together.”

After they’d left the tavern the night before, they’d walked Cat back to the Temple School. By then she seemed to have run out of arguments. It worried Han, since he’d never known it to happen before. They left her standing at the door, arms wrapped around herself as if she hoped she could fold up and disappear.

Han hated to leave her there, but he’d already done enough walking around to know that there was no way to make a living on the down low within the walls of the academy. The provost guards were everywhere, the common spaces were brightly lit, and there’d be no cheap places to throw down for the night. It would be like trying to run a canting crew out of the castle close.

She had to make it work.

The bells in Mystwerk Tower sounded once. It was time to be on their way.

Han slid his book into his carry bag and rooted through it one more time. It contained the books of charms Elena had given him, a thick book of charms by someone named Kinley he’d got from Blevins, a sheaf of clean paper, and his writing box. At Southbridge Temple he’d never brought any books to class, because he didn’t own any. Nor paper, pencils, or ink, save those supplied by Jemson once he got there.

At Southbridge, none but Jemson cared if he showed up or not.

He’d had no problem holding his own. The other students came from the streets too. They talked like he did—using the flash patter street slang they’d all grown up with.

This was different. His classmates would have been raised in families of blueblood charmcasters. They’d been exposed to spellwork since they were lytlings. They would have had training before they were even allowed to have amulets, and access to whole libraries of charmcraft.

“We’re going to be late!” Dancer broke into Han’s fog of worry. Dancer had put on his school robes and slung his carry bag over one shoulder.

“Coming.” Han pulled his red robe over his head, poking his arms through the sleeves and pulling it down so it covered his clothing. He liked having the robe on—it made him feel more like he belonged.

They descended the stairs, Han hiking up the hem of his robe to keep from getting his feet tangled in it. It would take some getting used to.

It was a fresh, clean morning, still peculiarly warm, but with less humidity than before. Sunlight slanted across the lawns, sparkling on the dew-spangled grass. Students crowded the walkways in their multicolored robes, still yawning and blinking away sleep. Han finished his biscuit as they walked.

The classroom was on the second floor of Mystwerk Hall, overlooking the Tamron River. Stone risers were arranged in a semicircle around a raised central podium. When Han and Dancer arrived, students were settling into their seats, fishing books and papers out of their carry bags. There were fifteen students in all, arranged like candies in a box, all in the same red wrappers.

Han paused in the doorway, scanning the room. He spotted Bayar and the Mander brothers in the back row, left side, bunched together like sour grapes.

Micah was sprawled in his seat, hands braced against the table in front of him, head tilted back, black eyes fixed on Han, his falcon amulet prominently displayed on the outside of his robe.

Well, Han thought, at least they were all here instead of tossing his room for the jinxpiece he’d taken from them.

If they looked, there’d be nothing to find. Han had a thief’s chariness about leaving money in his room, so he carried his purse on his person. The jinxpiece hung around his neck, and his books were in his carry bag.

Han smiled, nodded, and waved at Micah, all but blowing him a kiss. He found himself a seat to the right, in the second row, where he could keep an eye on Micah. Dancer settled into the empty seat beside him.

In the academy overall, the majority of students were flatlanders. From what Han could tell without the clue of clothing, most in this class were northerners. There were three olive-skinned charmcasters, likely mixed-bloods from Bruinswallow or the Southern Islands. Two were very pale, their hair almost white—they might be from the Northern Islands, where wizards had originated. Some had hair streaked with wizard red.

None from Arden, of course. And none but Dancer carried clan blood.

Han touched his own pale hair, perhaps a gift from Alger Waterlow.

Like Micah, the other students wore their amulets on the outside of their robes—like a gang mark display. It was their one chance for making show. The jinxpieces varied widely. Some were huge and ornate, like jewel-encrusted incense burners from the temple—worth a fortune in materials alone. Others were small and plain—silver and gold in simple shapes, often images from the natural world. Some mimicked animals and plants, and looked almost alive—glowing with elegant clan craftsmanship. Many were probably heirlooms, handed down through families of charmcasters, recharged by clan artists for this new generation.

When he’d worked the streets, Han had dealt in bagged flash, the street name for magical pieces like these. He’d pinch them from careless shop owners or lift them from houses. Fortunately, he’d never tried to take one directly off a wizard. He now realized that it would have been easier to yank out a tooth and slide away unnoticed.

The magical element of a jinxpiece was called flash. At first Han had assumed that the fancier the amulet, the more flash it had—the more powerful it was. In his dealings with fences he’d found out that wasn’t always true. The materials they were made of had more to do with the wealth of the wizard than the power of the piece.

Han pulled his serpent amulet free and let it rest on the front of his robe. It was more than a thousand years old, and only middling showy, but it was likely the most powerful piece of flash in the room.

Dancer exposed his amulet also, the Lone Hunter he’d borrowed from Han. Han wondered if the amulet Elena had made for him was permanent or temporary. That would be worrisome—the knowledge that his amulet would eventually lose power. He was beginning to understand why wizards were unhappy with the clans’ power over them.

Han looked over at Micah whispering with his cousins. It made him twitchy. Han wasn’t used to sharing territory with an enemy. You drove him out, or he drove you out. You hushed him, or he hushed you, and life went on. For one of you.

The side door opened, and a wizard in a wheeled chair rolled into the room. Though the sleeves of his robe were decorated with master’s bars, he looked to be only three or four years older than the newling students. He had cinnamon hair, pale skin, and a bitter expression, as if he expected to be disappointed.

When he reached the base of the podium he swung forward two arm canes and levered himself out of the chair.

The foam of voices gradually settled into an awkward silence as the master struggled up the steps to the lectern and spread a sheaf of papers and a battered-looking book atop it. His amulet glittered in the sunlight cascading through the windows, a large quartz crystal shaped into a castle keep.

He didn’t call the roll, but his gaze whispered over the assembled students, resting on Han and Dancer for a long moment.

“You are—ah—Dancer and Alister, I presume,” he said, looking down and sorting through his papers. “I am Master Gryphon. I have the perilous and unfulfilling task of teaching spellcasting to newlings. How fortunate we are that this year’s newling class is so — exceptionally diverse. I feel quite — in context.”

Han stared at the master, unsure whether they’d just been insulted or if he was poking fun at himself.

Gryphon raised his eyes from his papers. They were a startling blue-green color, and when Han met his gaze, cold trickled down his spine. Despite the master’s unhealthy pallor, it was a handsome face, a poor match for the graceless body.

“Proficient Hadron tells me that the two of you traveled through Arden to come here. Arden is a dangerous place for anyone these days, but especially for charmcasters. Which raises the question: are you two stupid, unschooled, or merely foolhardy?”

Well. That was an insult for sure. Han couldn’t help looking at Micah, who gazed up at the ceiling, a faint smile curving his mouth.

Han kept his street face on. “I’ve had better ideas,” he said, shrugging.

Surprise flickered across the master’s face as some of the other students snickered. Then Gryphon’s gaze dropped to Han’s amulet, and his eyes widened. He looked up into Han’s face, studying him with a fierce intensity.

“Interesting that you would choose such a dangerous road, Alister,” he said finally. “It seems that you are not afraid of the dark.”

Han suspected he was not talking about the road through Arden at all.

“Well,” Han said, meeting that blue-green gaze, “sometimes there’s no choice.”

“There is always a choice,” Gryphon said. Flipping open a thick book, he said, “Speaking of journeys, I asked you to read from Kinley, the twelfth chapter, where he discusses the challenges of traveling in Aediion. Kinley instructs us that —”

The door to the classroom opened, and two more students filed in. Han stared, along with everyone else. It was Fiona Bayar and lovelorn Wil, who’d chased him and Dancer across the border into Delphi.

They looked travel-battered and cranky, so Han assumed they’d come directly to class after ditching their baggage at their dormitories. Wil’s face was bronzed by the sun, but Fiona was pale as ever, as if the sun wouldn’t presume to penetrate her icy skin. She’d taken her hair out of the braid, and it billowed in long waves past her shoulders.

She wore traveling clothes: a roughspun sweater, corded jacket, and canvas breeches that showed off her long legs. No student robes.

Fiona ran her chilly gaze over the room. When her eyes settled on Master Gryphon, they widened in surprise. “Adam!” she cried, as if the entire class weren’t looking on. Turning to Wil, she said, “Look, Wil, it’s Adam Gryphon, of all people.”

Blood of the demon, Han thought. My spellcasting teacher is pals with the Bayars. It’s no wonder my feet are in the flame.

Striding forward, Fiona extended her hand toward Master Gryphon as if she expected him to kiss it. “Father told me you’d entered orders, but I had no idea...”

Master Gryphon had turned a deep raspberry red color, an amazing transformation. He made no move to take her hand, but seized the podium in a white-knuckled grip. “It’s Master Gryphon, Newling Bayar,” he said. “And though I am on faculty at Mystwerk House, do note that I’ve not taken vows, nor do I intend to.”

Fiona pulled back her hand, realizing that there was no kiss in the offing. “Really? I must have heard wrong. It did seem like a good option for someone in your — situation.”

“A good outcome for a cripple, you mean?” Master Gryphon said softly. “Perhaps so. How fortunate that you and Newling Mathis made it here safely. Next time, please wear appropriate attire to class. Now, take your seats so that we can proceed with our lesson. This constant influx of students has put us behind.”