“Darzin claims he married Lyrilyn. He has even produced documents to that effect—and witnesses. You are not Ogenra. You are legally Darzin D’Mon’s firstborn son, second in line to the D’Mon seat.”
He stared at her while all the blood drained from his face. “He—what?” The information refused to sink in. He didn’t understand. He’d always dreamed of being Ogenra, as had every orphan in the Lower Circle, but that was as far as the dream had ever gone. He never dared imagine he might be an actual member of royalty. And here he was, being told he was a prince? In line to one day become High Lord himself?
The whole world tilted on its axis.
Miya didn’t notice his shock. “Truthfully, it would not have mattered. I know it is common perception that Ogenra are illegitimate House bastards, but the reality is more complicated. Any child, even a bastard, can be part of a House if they are formally recognized—as you have been.”
“He really is my father?” He spoke in a whisper.
She looked away. “I can’t say.* Regardless, it is his claim. And High Lord Therin was quick to publicly substantiate those claims—he’s been less than pleased that Darzin’s son Galen might one day inherit.”
“Gods, why?”
“Ruling a Royal House requires a certain ruthlessness of character. Galen is a sweet boy. I do not think High Lord Therin believes the house fortunes will prosper under the care of a ‘sweet boy.’”
“But I’m street trash. A throw away from Velvet Town!”
She set down the mortar and pestle and turned to Kihrin, staring at him with angry blue eyes. “You are never to refer to yourself that way again. I will not stand for it. You are Kihrin D’Mon, Royal Prince and second-ranked heir to House D’Mon. You are descended from a hundred generations of magi, including three Emperors. You are royalty, and you are born to rule.* You are not, and you will NEVER be, street trash.”
“But I just—can’t be. This is some kind of game. He’s evil.”
“Truth and evil are not opposed concepts. Let me demonstrate: this will sting.” He felt wetness on his back that flared into vivid red pain he recognized as alcohol on an open wound.
Kihrin gasped. “OW! Thaena’s teats.”
“Watch your tongue.”
“The whipping didn’t hurt this bad.”
“Oh? Darzin must be losing his touch. But better a little pain now than an infection later.” She smoothed the mash of herbs over the whip marks. The herbs were soothing and cold and, after the astringent, rather nice.
He felt her fingertips on his back, and heard her say something he couldn’t understand in a light, rolling tongue. A pleasant warmth spread out over his skin.
“Couldn’t you have just used magic to heal all of it?”
“I could,” she admitted, “but it runs the risk of complications.” She walked in front of Kihrin, pulled out a chair, and sat down. “What do you know of magic? Can you see past the First Veil yet?”
He nodded. “As long as I can remember. How did you know I could?”
“I didn’t. That’s why I asked. But you are a D’Mon: it seemed a safe assumption. What of talismans? Have you learned what they are? How to construct them?”
He swallowed and shook his head. “Mages use them. I know how to check if someone’s wearing them—mostly to stay away from that person.”
“I’m sure that was wise when you lived in Velvet Town, but now you’re going to have to learn to make them yourself.” She began putting away the herbs. “So consider this your first lesson. Do you understand the material requirements for magic?”
“Yes.” He nodded. “No object can be affected by magic, unless the wizard casting the spell understands the true nature of the materials that make up the object.”
“Very good. You’ve had formal training?” She seemed surprised.
“I was learning from someone but, uh … she died.”
“I feel sorrow for your loss.”
“Thanks.” He didn’t really know what else to say.
After a moment’s pause, she asked: “And what else?”
Kihrin blinked at her. “What else?”
“Yes, what else can you tell me about material requirements and magic?”
“I—” He frowned. “Uh, if you do understand the true nature of an object, you can affect it?”
“Rewording your original response does not make it a different answer.”
“Uh…” He fought the urge to throw up his arms in frustration. “I don’t know. Different objects have different auras. So do different people. If you put two people right next to each other, their auras won’t look the same. Iron has a different aura than copper, which is different than a wooden coin that’s just painted copper.”
“So taking that observation into consideration, what is a talisman?”
Kihrin floundered as he tried to come up with a suitable response. How would he have any idea what that made a talisman? All he really knew about talismans was that they echoed the aura of the person who wore them, so it was like seeing a stamp slapped down multiple times, each time a shade off from its correct position. Then he blinked.
“Wait, a talisman has to have an aura that’s different than its intrinsic nature, doesn’t it? If it’s a coin or a piece of jewelry or whatever it is, the aura isn’t metal or whatever it should normally be—the aura is the same as the person wearing it. How is that even possible?”
“One may change the aura of an object into something it should not be,” Miya explained. Her tone was gentle and proud. Her smile suggested she was pleased at his response. “And if one does it just a little, the object might still look like a coin or a piece of jewelry, the way a mirror can show your image but not be you.”
He stared at her and then narrowed his eyes. “Why? Why would someone want that?”
“Because if I presented myself and attempted to change your aura in order to harm you, and you wore four talismans, then in effect I have to change your aura five times rather than once. So it is a protection, you see, from other wizards.” Miya held up a finger then. “But there’s always a price. For every talisman you wear, your own magic and ability to affect the auras of others is weakened. A witchhunter is nothing more than a wizard who wears as many talismans as they can maintain. In doing so, they make themselves almost completely immune to magic—but they may never cast a single spell.”
“So, it’s a balancing act?”
She nodded. “Exactly so. And the talisman rule applies to healing as much as harm—if you cannot change someone’s aura, that also means you cannot cure them.”
“I wouldn’t mind,” he said, with a somewhat wistful expression. “Learning how to heal people, I mean. That seems like it would be a fine thing to know.”
She studied his face for a moment, then nodded. “All right.” She crossed to the far side of the table, returning a moment later with a large book. She handed it to the young man.
He opened the book. It contained page after page of neat, perfectly drawn pictures of the human body, in separate pieces and the whole together.* “You want me to read this?”
“I want you to memorize it.”