As they melted away, ushering Kel into the prison tower, he had to hide a smile. It had been so easy. And it felt good, it always did, to put on power like a cloak of invulnerability from a Story-Spinner’s tale. The trick was to fight against enjoying it.
It was a calculated risk, he thought, as he began to climb the tower steps, coming here as Conor. There was always the danger the guards would gossip about his visit, and another Palace denizen would point out that Conor had been in some sort of diplomatic meeting. But he was betting that the gossip about Sarthe and the new Princess was juicy enough to distract them from anything else.
Kel had been in the Trick recently enough, but only during the day. The narrow spiral staircase he climbed now looked deeply shadowed, illuminated only by the occasional hanging carcel lamp, casting spidery shadows against the stone walls.
When he reached the top, he found it equally dark. There was only one lamp. Thankfully, there were windows set high in the walls through which pale-blue moonlight poured, making the Sunderglass bars of the cells glow as if they had been carved from opals.
He walked the narrow aisle until he found Fausten’s cell. It was the only one with the door closed, though for a moment Kel thought it was empty. Then he realized that what he had taken for a heap of rags in the corner was the King’s old adviser, crouched against the wall.
He was in the same clothes he’d worn when the guards had dragged him out of the Shining Gallery, only they were filthy now, the constellations sewn onto his cloak now a scatter of bright beads across the floor of his cell. The stink of piss and old sweat was rank. There was something else under it, too, a metallic smell like old blood.
Kel approached the cell reluctantly. He was no longer thinking about fighting the enjoyment of power. He was asking himself why he had thought he could do this.
Fausten looked up, his face a pale smudge in the dimness. He blinked into the shadows. “My—my lord,” he stammered. “My King—”
Kel flinched. “No. Not the father, but the son.”
A faint look of cunning flashed across Fausten’s face. “Conor,” he breathed. “I have always been fond of you, Conor.”
A faint nausea twisted in the pit of Kel’s stomach. “Fond enough to sell me to the Malgasi without a word to me of whatever bargain you had made?”
Fausten’s eyes glittered, ratlike, in the half dark. “I did not sell you. There is no profit for me in any of this. Your father made this bargain, long ago.”
“But why?” said Kel, and when Fausten did not answer, he said, “My father spoke to me some time ago of a danger. A terrible danger he believed was coming to Castellane, and to me. But he would not say what it was.”
“Why ask me?” said Fausten. “I am but an old man, thrust unjustly into prison. All I have ever wanted to do was protect your father. You know I do not belong here.”
“I’d know it better if you answered my questions,” said Kel. “Was the danger my father spoke of some machination of the Malgasi Court?”
“The Malgasi Court,” Fausten echoed scornfully. “All you think of is politics. There are greater forces at work than any worldly powers.”
“Please, spare me your talk of the stars,” said Kel. “I have seen how helpful that was to my father.”
“Your father,” said Fausten, in a hollow voice. He wobbled to his feet. He came closer to the bars, taking small delicate steps, as if he were picking his way among flowers. Though there were certainly no flowers here. “I have always been loyal to your father,” he said, catching at the Sunderglass bars. “The Court of Malgasi is a cold, cold place. When your father was there, he was only a boy, a fosterling, a third son and ignored. He was open to any voice that whispered to him. And whisper it did.”
“Who whispered to him?”
Fausten’s rhuemy eyes wandered. “Atma az dóta,” he muttered. “It was not his fault. He did only what he was persuaded to do.”
Atma az dóta. Fire and shadow. “What did my father do?”
Fausten shook his head. “I promised. Not to tell.”
“It was something bad,” Kel said, dropping his voice. Low and confiding, as if he were speaking to a child. “Wasn’t it?”
Fausten made an inarticulate noise.
“What I don’t understand,” said Kel mildly, “is why, if my father committed some terrible malfeasance in Malgasi, was Ambassador Sarany so determined that I marry Elsabet?”
“Iren’s daughter,” said Fausten. His eyes had begun to roll from side to side. “She was so beautiful, Iren. But then the fire left her, her light all dimmed, and she was only fury. Why does she want you to marry Elsabet? For the same reason Iren let your father live. Because she prizes your blood. Your Aurelian blood.”
Well, of course. Every noble family prized royal lineage. Kel felt like grinding his teeth together with frustration. “Fausten. If you do not tell me what the danger is that my father spoke of, then I cannot intervene with him for your sake. If you do help me—well, then, perhaps I can convince my father you were acting in his interests. That you were not merely a puppet of the Malgasi, manipulating him at their whim.”
Fausten made a gasping noise. “It is not so simple,” he said. “Nothing is so simple.” He turned his rat’s eyes on Kel. “The danger is not the Malgasi Court. It is far closer than that.”
“In the city?” Kel said.
“On the Hill,” said Fausten. “There are those who would see House Aurelian destroyed. I thought a union with the Malgasi Court might prevent that. They are strong, ruthless. Perhaps I pushed the King too hard toward it. Perhaps—”
“Perhaps you should have told me,” said Kel. “You expected me to have no will of my own. That was your mistake.”
“Many are my mistakes,” said Fausten.
“Amend them now,” said Kel. “Tell me who is the danger on the Hill.”
“Look to those close to you,” said Fausten. “Look to your Council. To the nobles. Look to your Sword Catcher.”
Kel went cold down to his bones. “What?”
There was a crafty light in Fausten’s eyes, as if to say, I have caught your attention now, have I not, Crown Prince? “Just as I say. Your Királar will betray you. I have seen it in the stars.”
“My Sword Catcher is loyal to me,” Kel said. He was conscious of the awful irony of the situation, but he bit back on it; he could not waver in front of Fausten. It would only make the situation worse.
“He is loyal to you now. One day there will be something of yours he wants badly enough to betray you for it. And you will hate him then. Hate him enough to wish him dead.”
“But what—”
“Envy. Envy is the great poisoner. I would have told you before, had I thought you would listen—”
“Enough.” Kel’s temper snapped like a twig. “It is easy enough to see you are trying to manipulate me. To drive a wedge between me and my Sword Catcher, so I will put my trust in you instead, as my father did. Do you think I could possibly believe you now about what you say you see in the stars? Are you that much of a fool?”
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