“And where do you find those people, besides Mordain?”
She bites her bottom lip, and I know without her answer, that is exactly what she’s aiming for. Zander warned me Gesine would make this request, and when she does, it is to be a resounding no. After how badly Wendeline betrayed him, I can’t fault him for not welcoming more casters with open arms.
I can almost see the gears working in Gesine’s mind, searching for a way to convince me.
“That would mean telling them about Ulysede and how we opened the gate, which would mean explaining what I am.” A key caster. My very existence is an offense to them, punishable by death, as has been the case for two thousand years.
“I share your worries,” she begins slowly. “But I do not mean the entire guild—”
“Can you really control that, though?”
“The scribes have managed to thus far, with knowledge of Ianca’s summoning. For years.”
“That you know of. You haven’t been in contact with them in how long? Since before you escaped Argon? That was months ago. Everything has changed. So much is out in the open now.”
She bites her lip. “I trust the Master Scribe to involve only those who are necessary.”
“Well, I don’t.” And Zander won’t entertain this conversation. “The last thing we need is for Queen Neilina to find out I’m not her daughter and to tell those two hundred Ybarisans who are on their way here.” Hopefully. “She’ll order them to kill me. They can’t know I’m not Princess Romeria. We need them for when Telor’s army shows up. And what happens if your Master Scribe decides prophecy isn’t worth allowing a key caster to roam loose, let alone play the role of queen of Ulysede?” Play being the operative word. My voice escalates with my words as wariness swells.
“Prophecy has already foretold of the nymphs walking the earth again in the age of casters, and that means a key caster must survive culling. They are aware, even if they are not yet aware.”
“That doesn’t mean they’ll sit back and allow it. You said so yourself, not everyone in Mordain values prophecy.” I shake my head. “I’m sorry, Gesine, but it’s too risky. Protecting this secret is what has kept me alive for this long.” Even Zander would have killed me had he found out in those early days.
Her brow pinches with discomfort. “I suppose I should tell you, then, that it is too late. The wheels are already in motion.”
My stomach clenches. “What do you mean, it’s too late? What wheels?”
“The scribes will have heard the truth about you by now.”
“How? Who told them?” My panicked voice echoes through the cavernous library.
She peers up at me with unremorseful eyes. “I did.”
CHAPTER THREE
AGATHA
“Master Scribe, look what I can do!” Paityn holds up her index finger to reveal a tiny flame dancing at its tip, her giddiness radiating.
“Good for you. Show me again when it’s three times the size. And practice in a clearing outside so you don’t burn down the entire guild.” I force a smile as I pass my pupil in the hall, but I don’t slow, the scroll gripped tightly within my grasp. I should hide this letter I received—Fates, I should burn it—before someone discovers it in my possession, but Allegra will need it. Besides, if I know Allegra at all, she’ll demand to see Gesine’s words before she believes them.
I can hardly believe them.
A key caster from another realm in Islor, by Malachi’s scheming? In my almost eight decades of life, I have never heard of such a thing. The archives did not hint of it, and I would know. I’ve spent my life immersed within the recollections of seers and scribes alike, their considerable knowledge at my fingertips.
Yet here we are, and I must now decide how to proceed.
I wish I had no need to involve Allegra. The guild’s Second is too young and ambitious, her seamless skill with wearing various masks unsettling. She could rival Queen Neilina with all her cunning, and sometimes I fear I will find myself caught in a web of her making. It’s no secret that Allegra pines to one day climb to the role of Guild Prime. The lengths to which she’ll go to get there, though … those worries keep me staring at my ceiling into the late hours.
But of all the guild leaders within Mordain, Allegra is the only one who values the role of the scribes. The others mostly disregard us, both for our mediocre connections to our affinity and for the importance we place on our seers. We are the castaways, the ones with too little power to be of any real use beyond collecting knowledge and training the youngest casters on beginner skills.
Besides, I have no other option than to involve Allegra anymore. I lack the affinity needed to send a return letter to Gesine, and no one among the scribes is strong enough to ensure it reaches its recipi-ent. We must keep these lines of communication open if we hope to gain more vital information about this key caster and what she means for the fate of all.
I cross the parapet toward the guild tower. Beyond is an expanse of rock and blue waters and, in the very far distance, across the channel, the jewels of Argon’s castle sparkle in the sunlight. To the north of Nyos, the Isle of Mordain is a breathtaking view of mountains and lush green forests. As a child, I relished the days my teachers would allow us time within the meadows, collecting plants and fungi for the horticulturists and chemists.
Over the decades, I’ve held on to that small joy, taking my young pupils out in nature to test their budding skills before they move on to greater lessons. But the rough terrain has become treacherous for these old bones of mine as of late. I’ve been forced to abandon the outings to those fresher and more suited, relegating myself to the dank, dark tunnels where the scribes toil away thanklessly.
The city of Nyos itself is vast, a sight to behold, with the towering guild at the center perched high above, its pointy pinnacles a bold statement for both casters and children waiting to find their spark. The guild is the first thing anyone sees as they sail across the waters from Ybaris, a magnificent monument designed by the skilled stone casters, artists by trade. But it is the city below that most returning to Mordain long for—the thriving streets of shops and cafés and cottage-like dwellings, of like-minded people living in a world that has committed them to servitude of the queen and her subjects.
Subjects who readily outcast them the moment they are born and tested and found to be something other than simple mortals.
The general council is already in session when I reach the heavy wooden doors. The two guards at the door eye me with unyielding gazes, their hands gripping the pommels of their swords. I’ve always found it needless to station sentries outside a chamber of skilled casters, the room already warded against a multitude of evils. Almost as silly as dressing these elite warriors in head-to-toe armor and equipping them with blades when their affinities are their most deadly weapons. But I suppose if the point is to make them appear menacing and the act of interrupting a council in session daunting, it is effective.
“Hello, Darius, Fatima.” I nod, as if my only crime against the guild today is arriving late to a meeting.
Darius’s crystal blue eyes flare with surprise. Of course they would assume that the old crow who trained them three decades ago would not recognize them behind those intimidating masks.