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  “What in the name of the Holy Empyrea made you think it was a good idea to sneak up on me and scare me half to death?”

  “‘But blood magic doesn’t require incantations.’ Your words. Or rather, the words of the great third-century blood mage Wilstine.” He reached into the altar and retrieved another book, a leather volume I’d tied with a ribbon to keep the yellowing pages from escaping the decaying binding. “When I was in training, my teachers made me memorize it. They, too, believed that the use of incantations was more of a distraction than a control. It was an unpopular theory among many of the older mages, however—​they did so like their arcane chants. Made their demonstrations to the public more impressive, I think. Swirling robes, long white beards, bulging eyes, invocations in an indecipherable language . . . very memorable and awe-inspiring.”

  Tentatively, I said, “But you used incantations today.”

  “I did. I do. Partly to keep the memory of my teachers alive.” His hand went to a chain around his neck, but I couldn’t see the attached pendant, tucked as it was behind his golden sash. “And partly because I find that the words help me focus. Blood magic is rooted in emotion: the faster your heart beats, the faster your blood pumps. Pain, pleasure, fear, passion—​anything that heightens your emotion can be used to increase the strength of your spell. But therein also lies the trouble. It’s easy to lose your grip, let the magic overtake you. Concentrating on the correct pronunciation of archaic phrases helps to orient me, to keep me grounded. Over time, and with practice, it gets less necessary to rely on such things. Magic becomes more instinctual and easily accessible. More hazardous, too; it’s like a dam on a river—​you can take it down slowly and carefully and choose what direction it flows, but if you aren’t careful, you can bring the whole dam down on top of yourself.” He shook his head. “Needless to say, it is very dangerous to use blood magic without training, no matter how well read you are in Wilstine.”

  Embarrassed, I tucked my hair behind my ear. “I do read a lot, but I don’t . . . I mean, I have tried a few things, but never anything . . .”

  He pursed his lips and turned my fidgeting hand over. I’d left my gloves in my mother’s chamber. In the window light, it was easy to make out the dozens of thin scars on my uncovered skin.

  “Tell me,” he said, “how did your soybean crop turn out?”

  I grimaced. “In all honesty, I never had an occasion to try that one.”

  He laughed. “It wouldn’t have worked, but it would have been fun to see you try. No, blood magic won’t grow soybeans. That’s better suited to another type of magic entirely.”

  “Feral magic?” I guessed.

  “Indeed. I see Vitesio’s Compendium de Magia there in your collection. It’s an excellent overview of all three magic disciplines. Good to know you’ve read that, at least.”

  “I have, cover to cover. The problem is, there isn’t much left between the covers.”

  He picked it up and thumbed through the sparse pages. “Disgraceful,” he said. “Someone has amputated eighty percent of the book! This is practically incoherent.”

  “Most of my books are like that. The Tribunal’s regular purges of witch-friendly reading material are thorough. I’m lucky that any of these books made it at all. Most of what I know, I’ve gleaned over years, from snippets.”

  In frustration, he slammed the book shut. “Lesson one: Magic is that thing that makes trees and animals and plants and us different from rocks and dirt and water . . . it is the spark. Spirit. Life. Whatever you want to call it, it is power. That said, there are three prevailing methods of accessing this power. The first is called sancti magicae, high magic. Practitioners access it through meditation, prayer, spiritual communion with the Empyrea. It gives them visions of the future, the ability to move objects with their mind, sometimes the power to heal. Renalt’s famous queen, Aren, was an anchorite of the highest order before leaving it to marry into the Renaltan monarchy. The second is called fera magicae, or feral magic. It is mostly herbology, divination, transfiguration . . . it’s the magic of nature. Of growth. Of cyclical order and balance. Our namesake king, Aren’s brother Achlev, was a mage of this order. And the last is sanguinem magicae. Blood magic. Magic of passion and sacrifice. Probably the most powerful and destructive of them all. Before he swore off spells and became Founder of the Tribunal, the third sibling, Cael, was a blood mage, and one of great power. The three of them together were very powerful, in their day. Triumviri, they were called by the Assembly at that time. The best in their fields.”

  I listened in silence as I used his simplistic explanations to fit disjointed pieces of my scavenged knowledge together. “I never knew that about them.”

  “How could you?” Simon said, casting a dour glance at my piecemeal library.

  “Wait,” I said, “did you say lesson one?” I asked hopefully, “Does that mean there might be a lesson two?”

  Simon gave a low whistle. “Your mother, when she wrote to me and asked me to come, said that you were ‘dangerously unconcerned with the precariousness’ of your position. I begin to see that that was not an exaggeration.”

  “She’s wrong,” I said. “I know exactly how precarious my position is.”

  “And you collect magic books and practice blood spells anyway?”

  I shrugged, frustrated. “The Tribunal terrorizes this country—​my country. If they view witchcraft as a weapon, I must learn to wield it against them”—​I swallowed hard—​“before they can use it against me.” Or others, like Mabel and Hilda. I pushed all thoughts of their deaths down deep, twisting my guilt and sorrow into the taut coil at my center.

  Simon was making a face. “Lesson two: witchcraft is a coarse term. The Assembly, fallen though it is now, never allowed its usage. The word witch refers to untrained, undisciplined practitioners—​especially those who willfully ignore the Assembly’s statutes, which were established for the safety of all, mages and the magicless alike.”

  The Assembly of Mages—​it had waned in power for many years before it finally fell. I was too young to recall it myself, but I grew up hearing stories about the grand, glorious festivity in Renalt that had accompanied the news of its demise. It was an occasion often remembered and remarked upon with nostalgia, a source of fond anecdotes to exchange in good company. Where were you when you heard the news? Remember the fireworks? The dancing all night in the streets?

  It wasn’t until I was much older that I realized that what everyone was celebrating was death. Death to people with magic, like me.

  “What happened to the Assembly?” I asked. “What really happened?”

  A shadow crossed Simon’s expression. “A lesson for another day, I think.”

  “So you’ll really teach me?”

  “When you stepped into the triangle during our spell, the luneocite stones flashed. An indication that you’re already somewhat attuned to the power. But magic—​blood magic, especially, can be grueling to learn and painful to practice. With the Assembly gone, I’ve long wanted to pass my knowledge on to another generation, but the last time I tried to take on a novice, I am afraid it did not end well. What you experienced within the triangle today was just a breath of what’s in store. I must ask you honestly: Are you sure you’re up to the task?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Absolutely, yes.”

  “All right, then. I’ll teach you—​just on a trial basis, mind you, and only after we’re back in Achleva, after the wedding. Until then, I think it would be wise if you abstain from magic completely. That way we can start fresh. And you won’t be dead.”

  “Both good things, I suppose.” I paused. “Are you not going to lecture me about revenge? Tell me that after becoming Achleva’s queen, I should just let my grudge against the Tribunal go?”

  “Dear me, no,” Simon said. “The Tribunal is an abomination. I can think of no greater legacy for a queen of two nations than to rid the world of that organization for good.”

  I sat back, speechless.
For the first time in my life, I was looking forward to my wedding. “I’ve never thought of it that way.”

  “It won’t be easy, mind you. And Achleva may not have the Tribunal to worry about, but we have our own troubles.” The corners of his mouth sagged, and I began to see those troubles etched in the creases framing his lips and eyes, easily mistaken for laugh lines. “I’m hoping that, while I’m here this week, I can look into some things that have been disconcerting me back home in Achleva.”

  “What do you think you can discover in Renalt? Renaltans can’t even cross Achlev’s Wall without . . .” Trying to be delicate, I waved my fingers up and down. When his eyebrow shot up, I said, “You know. Burning to death?” Our histories were full of horrific illustrations of Renaltan armies dying in large swaths trying to breach Achlev’s Wall. Prompted by the writings of the Tribunal’s Founder, Cael, Renalt tried for three hundred years without success, until the marriage treaty allayed the aggression between our countries, if not the underlying enmity.

  “Renaltans don’t have to cross our wall to influence what goes on behind it,” Simon said. “I want to figure out the reason for the sudden abundance of Renaltan coin in circulation with ours, merchants forging new trade deals with coastal Renaltan ports that would never have received them before . . . Hallet Graves, de Lena . . .”

  I stiffened. “De Lena?”

  “Do you know Toris de Lena?”

  “He’s a Tribunal magistrate. I can hardly picture him welcoming Achlevan ships to his port unless it somehow furthered his ambitions.”

  “Perhaps his ambitions include gaining influence in Achleva.”

  A dreadful thought. I catalogued the information: Toris de Lena, magistrate, bearer of the Founder’s blood . . . making secret trade deals with Achleva? “Well, if you find out anything, let me know,” I said. Toris’s voice was ringing in my ears. Mabel Lawrence Doyle, you have been tried and found guilty by fair Tribunal for the distribution of illicit texts and have been condemned to die . . .

  Maybe adding a bit of tarnish to Toris’s sterling reputation would be my parting gift to Renalt. If the truth was bad enough, it could cost him a place at the magistrates’ table. Or, even better—​it could gain him one in a cell. Or on the gallows stand.

  Maybe this time Toris had put the rope around his own neck.

   4

  When I got back to my room following my time “in worship,” my maid, Emilie, was already there, sweeping up what looked like bits of broken glass. She had a round, rosy face and was probably a year or two younger than me, though she was just as tall. She’d been working for me for several weeks now, which was quite a long while, considering that I went through waiting maids like the dancing princesses of my childhood storybooks went through shoes: they rarely lasted more than a day. Occasionally I’d come across my former maids elsewhere on the grounds, mucking out horse stalls or emptying chamber pots or removing entrails from chickens in the kitchen yard. I’d march past them, head always high until I was out of sight. Sometimes I’d cry, knowing they preferred chamber pots and entrails to me, but only if no one was around to see.

  “Begging your pardon, m’lady,” she said, hurrying to finish sweeping glass bits off the floor. “I’d hoped to have this done before you returned.”

  “Let me see,” I said.

  Reluctantly, she held out her dustpan. Amongst the pieces of glass was a large rock painted with ward symbols. It bore a single word: Malefica. An old word, most often interpreted nowadays to mean witch. I’d seen it a couple of times in the torn remnants of spell-book pages, or scribbled in archaic notes in the margins. In all those sparse mentions, however, it never felt like a description. It always seemed more like a name.

  Apparently, someone thought the moniker suited me.

  “I’ve already arranged to have the window replaced, m’lady,” Emilie said. “I’d hoped to at least have this cleaned up before you got back in, so you wouldn’t have to . . .”

  “So I wouldn’t have to see it?” I frowned. “Have there been other things you’ve fixed up before I got to see them?”

  She looked at me shyly from under her lashes.

  “There have been?”

  “I didn’t want to frighten you, m’lady. Just the work of pranksters and superstitious villagers. Nothing to be worried about, I’m sure.”

  Emilie scurried to put the stone and shattered pieces of glass out of sight while I situated myself by the broken pane. My private inner room had a good view of the barracks and the stables, so I spotted Kellan easily. He was leading Falada, an exquisite white mare, across the yard to the round pen. I observed them wistfully. The Greythorne family and their horses were renowned, and Falada was a rare Empyrean, perfectly tempered and trained. Kellan had raised her himself from the time she was a foal. Watching them together, I found it easy to believe that the divine Empyrea would have taken such a form when she came to earth, as we’d been taught. There could be no nobler, more beautiful creature in existence.

  I should have been glad that Kellan had a moment to get out and ride her before returning to duty for the banquet that evening, but I was jealous instead. As if sensing the brush of my thoughts against him, Kellan turned his head up to my open window, and, seeing me, he gave a salute. Then he mounted Falada and reined her away.

  “What would you like to wear to the banquet, m’lady?” Emilie opened the wardrobe wide to let me inspect my options.

  “You choose,” I told her, as I always told my waiting maids. The girl surveyed the dresses with enthusiasm, sweeping a gown of green satin from its hook after less than a minute of looking. I was surprised, seeing her holding it out for my approval, that it wasn’t black. The other waiting maids never chose anything but black.

  “You don’t like it?”

  “No, no, I do . . . just . . . what made you pick that one?”

  “Emerald was my mother’s favorite stone,” she said, lifting my day dress over my head before helping me step into the gown. “She had an emerald ring that looked just this same color of green. She always told me that it’s a stone of wisdom and foresight.”

  “Does your mother know very much about stones?”

  The girl was threading the laces of the bodice. “She did, yes, m’lady, before she died. She liked those twisty knot braids, too. She taught me a few fancy ones.” She lifted a section of my hair. “I think it would look nice. Would you like me to try?”

  I shrugged. “Why not? Your mother . . . she must have been young. Was it the fever epidemic last winter?”

  “Not fever, no. She was burned for a witch four years ago.”

  I felt the coil at my center tighten. Emilie couldn’t be more than fifteen or sixteen—​which meant she was only eleven or twelve at the time of the execution. Motherless and alone at that bewildering brink between girlhood and womanhood . . . I couldn’t imagine what it must have been like for her. And Emilie’s mother was just another of the countless number of men and women killed for the practice of witchcraft. Innocent or guilty of the charges, it didn’t matter; I raged at the unfairness, the vicious pointlessness of the loss. “I’m sorry,” I murmured, my voice tinny. I didn’t know what else to say.

  “As am I.” She stepped away to give me a look-over. “She was a good person,” she said, quieter. “What they call witches—​most of them are just regular people, nice people. The evil ones are those that hunt and hurt others, witch or no.”

  I snagged her hand and held it. “Thank you,” I said. It was a brave thing to say aloud, even to someone like me.

  * * *

  Most days I took my meals alone in my rooms. Not because I had any particular aversion to eating with my brother and mother and the rest of the court but because of the dead man at the bottom of the staircase that led to the banquet hall.

  The stairs were steep, and his fall down them must have been terrible, because his neck was bent at such a deeply unsettling angle. Shades like him were often pinned in place by the memory of their
traumatic death, burdened with a compulsive need to share it, even reexperience it . . . And if he touched me, I’d be forced to watch it happen again. Often the spirits’ memories were so vivid that I could not distinguish them from reality. I relived them as if they were happening to me in real time. And right now I could not afford to collapse, blind and screaming, in such a public place; I’d be dragged away to the gallows before I ever hit the floor.

  On days like this I was forced to pass the ghost on the stairs or use the only other route to the banquet hall. As I took my first step inside the kitchen doors and the buzzing energy of the staff stuttered to a halt, I wondered if I might have been better off risking the stairs.

  I lifted my chin and made my way past the plates of steaming meat pies and platters of roasted duck that were waiting for their florid entrance. I didn’t flinch even as the servants stared. They could think me strange, but I’d never let them think I was apologetic about it.

  When I came into the hall, the dinner guests were all steeped in conversation and so did not seem to notice my entrance from the service door. Kellan was nearby, though, waiting without comment. He never asked me about my peculiar habits anymore. He’d decided long ago that I was the product of my circumstances, that if it weren’t for my betrothal to the prince of Achleva, no one would have thought twice about my strange habits and weird eyes and I’d have never developed these evasive routines. If I told him about the broken-necked man on the banquet hall stairs—​or the purple-faced girl beneath the surface of the lily pond, or the bleak-eyed woman who paced the west wing parapet—​he’d probably think me mad.

  Kellan guided me to my place at the head table. He looked polished and powerful in his gold-and-ivory uniform and cobalt-colored cloak, the ceremonial costume of the ranking guard. I chewed on the inside of my cheek and made an effort not to notice how one of his corkscrew curls had escaped the rest and was now dangling fetchingly against his brow.