Sword Catcher (Sword Catcher, #1)

Lin stared stonily at the wall as Chana Dorin helped lace her into her Festival dress. Her eyes burned from sleeplessness, but she had not cried. Not even after Mayesh had left the night before and she had been alone in her house. Not even when she looked at the few dusty bits of old paper that were all that remained of Qasmuna’s book. Not even through the long hours of the night when she blamed herself. How stupid had she been, imagining the Prince’s visit would go unremarked? That the Maharam would not investigate? That Oren would not have spied on her?

She had tried again to create a spark within the stone, using her own visualization and energy. It had not worked. The stone had flickered only dully, and she had exhausted herself badly enough that she had fallen asleep with her head on the kitchen table.

While she slept, she dreamed. The dream was vivid, as had been all her dreams since the stone came into her possession, but for a change she did not dream about the tower and the desert, the last battle of Aram. Instead she dreamed of the harbor of Castellane and the sky over it painted with white fire. And in her mind, she heard Ciprian Cabrol’s words, though not spoken in his voice:

I need them to see my vengeance written in fire across the sky. The harbor will shine as though the lights of the Gods have returned. As though their magic still burns across the waters.

When she woke at dawn, her eyes felt as if sand had been poured into them. As she went to splash water on her face, she thought of Mariam, of the Maharam, and of her dream. The beginning of an idea had taken root inside her mind. Perhaps there might be a way to get Qasmuna’s book back after all.

“Stop it,” Chana said now, her hands moving efficiently in Lin’s hair. “I can hear you scheming.”

“As can I,” agreed Mariam. She was sitting on her bed in her shift, her dress thrown over the footboard. When Chana was done with Lin, she would begin on Mariam: lacing her dress, braiding her hair into an elaborate, flowery coil. These were the things Lin and Mariam’s mothers would have done for them before the Goddess Festival, if they had had mothers. Chana had stepped in to fill that gap years before, as she had filled so many. “It is not your fault, Lin. I’d like to tell the Maharam exactly what I think of him, taking your books like that. But tonight is the Festival, and we cannot let him ruin our fun.”

She broke into a cough and Lin whirled anxiously. She had arrived at the Etse Kebeth at first light to see Mariam, who, to her relief, had slept through the night and was feeling much better. “Good days and bad days,” Chana had muttered as she let Lin into the house. “This is one of the good ones, praise the Name.”

Mariam waved off her anxiety. “I’m all right,” she protested, and indeed, she did look better than she had in some time. Lin knew why—and only prayed the effect of the small magic she had done would last Mariam at least through the night and into tomorrow. “Just angry. The Maharam would never have done this to one of the male physicians.”

Lin had only told Chana and Mariam what she had to, that the Maharam had confiscated a number of her medical books that came from foreign lands. By the direct word of the Law, it was forbidden to study non-Ashkari magic, but Mariam was right in saying that it was a Law that was largely disregarded. Would the Maharam have taken all the rest of her volumes had he not been so angry about Qasmuna’s book? She could not say, but her anger sat inside her belly, cold and hard. Anger . . . and a resolve that was growing every moment. The Maharam had insisted she attend the Tevath, after all. And attend she would, in the full spirit of the occasion.

“There.” Chana patted her hair. “You look nice.”

Lin glanced at herself in the mirror—the same reflection she had seen yearly since she had turned sixteen: a girl in a blue dress, her red hair coiled into a long thick braid, apple blossoms artfully woven in among the plaits so that they appeared to grow there naturally. She would draw those flowers from her hair, one by one, during the Goddess Dance, and fling them to the ground until she and every other girl present danced on a carpet of petals.

“My turn.” Mariam got out of bed, smiling. As she took Lin’s place in front of the mirror, there was a knock on the door. It was Arelle Dorin, younger sister of Rahel. She was already in her blue Festival dress, her hair half braided, her cheeks flushed with excitement.

“Mez says there’s a patient of yours at the gates,” she said to Lin. “Seems like it’s important. Here, don’t forget to take one of these with you,” she added, handing over a sachet of herbs on a slim blue ribbon. “You made them, after all!”

Promising Chana and Mariam she’d be back shortly, Lin set out for the Sault gates. The day was bright and warm, the wind blowing toward the sea. It carried with it the scent of flowers. They were everywhere in the Sault: roses in baskets hanging from tree branches and windows, lilies woven into wreaths pinned to doors. The Kathot would be even more spectacular with blossoms, but Lin avoided it: Maidens were not meant to enter the square on Festival day until the sun had set.

There were more flowers at the gates. Lilies and roses, as was customary (for the Goddess had said, I am the rose, and the lily of the valleys), as well as flowers that grew naturally in Castellane: bright lantana and dull-purple lavender. Mez wore a wreath of fig leaves in his hair and grinned at Lin as she approached.

“Don’t know who it is,” he said, pointing. “They won’t get out of their carriage.”

It was a plain gray barouche, the kind of conveyance one could hire if one had a little money to spend, but not enough to purchase a carriage of one’s own. The driver was a bored-looking old man who didn’t raise an eyebrow as Lin, in all her finery, strode up to knock on the carriage door.

It opened just a little, only enough for Lin to see who was waiting for her. A moment later, she had flung herself into the carriage, slamming the door shut behind her.

“You,” she whispered. “What are you doing here? Haven’t you got a banquet to go to?”

Conor Aurelian raised his eyebrows. “Not until tonight,” he said. “Do you only own that one dress?”

“Did you only have one copy of that book you gave me?” Lin snapped back.