It became hot, so hot it burned. Dizzy with relief, Azalea pulled her hand back. The mark glowed for a moment, and faded back into the stone. She swallowed, gripped the sword, and strode from the fireplace, leaving a trail of soot.
After discovering the kitchen empty, Azalea arrived at the library, panting. She didn’t bother to knock, late as it was, but instead shoved the door open. The darkness surprised her; she turned up the nearest lamp, and discovered the King lying on the sofa near the piano, underneath an old blanket. He stirred as Azalea drew near.
“Sir! Sir, you—Do you sleep here every night?” Azalea frowned at the stiff, hard furniture. “That can’t be comfortable.”
The King brought his arm over his eyes as Azalea turned up both the stained-glass lamps on his desk.
“Azalea, really!”
“This is important,” said Azalea. Sword still in hand, she swept to him. The black sheet over the piano swayed with her breeze. “Sir, this sword. Can it be mended?”
The King roused, not in good humor at seeing Azalea with the sword.
“Great…waistcoats, Azalea,” he said. “That is governmental property! Take it back to the gallery, at once.”
“Sir, please,” said Azalea, on the verge of tears. “Can it be mended? Can you fix the magic in it? How is it even magic? Sir, please!”
Something in the King softened. Perhaps it was Azalea’s desperate eyes. He sighed, rubbed his face, and stood.
“Come along,” he said. “It is time you knew.”
CHAPTER 20
The gallery was so cold that Azalea could see her breath, even in the dark. She shivered and pulled her shawl tighter around herself; the King stirred up the hearth beneath the wall of portraits and added coal to it.
“Well,” he said. He set the sword on the red velvet of the pedestal and lifted the glass case back over it. He looked worn and tired but had enough firmness in him that his shoulders remained straight and solid. He was made of starch, Azalea thought. Starch and steel. “It is something that only the royal family, or the prime ministers have known,” he said. “It is not generally spoken of.”
“It’s magic, though?”
“No,” said the King. “And yes.”
Azalea took a bite of her bread and cheese, not tasting it. They had taken a detour to the kitchen, where the King took a bit of bread and cheese wrapped in a cloth and gave it to Azalea. Now he sat next to her, on one of the fine sofas by the mantel. The spindly legs creaked.
“Azalea, you know about Swearing on Silver. Do you not?”
A slight tingle rose in Azalea’s chest, and she thought of Mother’s handkerchief.
“I don’t think I do,” she said slowly. “Not fully. If…you make a promise with silver, it…helps you keep your oath? Just like if you…swear on blood…” Azalea stopped, shuddering. The King considered her.
“Yes,” he said. “It is like the blood oath the High King made, before he was overthrown. But it is the full opposite. Just as strong, but with silver as the mediator.”
“And it makes the silver…a sort of magic?”
“Just so,” said the King. “But a much stronger magic than the common sort. Stronger than the magic of the passage or the tea set, because it is sealed with your word. The people under the High King D’Eathe had very little, but what silver they had they kept close. Wedding bands, family heirlooms, and such. They believed silver the purest sort of metal. It was with those things they made the sword and swore to protect their families and their country. We swear on it now, in parliament.”
Swearing on Silver. A stronger magic. Everything connected in Azalea’s mind, a magic sealed with silver. She set the bread and cheese on her lap and pulled Mother’s handkerchief from her pocket, turning it over in her hands, remembering how Mother had pressed it into her palms.
“It doesn’t make sense, though,” said Azalea. “If this were true, then Mother’s handkerchief would be magic. But it’s never unmagicked anything. Or—” Azalea thought of the sword, and how it didn’t unmagic the passage at her hands. “Perhaps there is something wrong with me.”
The King stood and tended the fire with a poker, for it had started to die.
“There is nothing wrong with you,” he said. The firelight illuminated his face, deepening the wrinkles by his eyes. “The sword has been sworn on for many years, by kings and ministers. As such, the magic in it runs deep. For those who have sworn on it. To our visitors and guests, and even you, it is only a sword. Even so, your handkerchief is magic—for you and you sisters, weak as it is. You cannot expect one promise—”
“Two,” said Azalea quickly. “Mother had me swear on it. Before…before she…died. It…well.” She turned her eyes to the bread in her lap, feeling silly. But she couldn’t discount the first promise she’d made—it had felt so strong.
The King was quiet for a while. He looked at the handkerchief she turned in her hands, the silver shimmering softly in the lamplight.
“I gave that handkerchief to your mother,” he said. “As a wedding gift.”