Sword Catcher (Sword Catcher, #1)

In the center of the garden was a reflecting pool, tiled with emerald tesserae, like a green eye regarding the sky. Conor stood beside it, staring bleakly at the water. As Kel approached he said, without looking up, “I should not have done that.”

“Done what? Thrown the glass?” Kel asked, coming to stand by Conor’s side. He could see them both reflected in the waters of the pool. Faint ripples caused by the wind made them indistinct, two slim, dark-haired figures, essentially identical. “You woke up Gremont, which is no bad thing.”

“I fear,” Conor said, “it will not be interpreted as my retaining control over the Council, will it?”

“I cannot predict what the Queen will think. I daresay no one can.”

“Perhaps the stars can,” Conor said darkly. “As, apparently, they know everything, and care about nothing.”

A pause, then, “He is mad,” Conor said, without looking away from the pool. “My father is mad, and if what the surgeons say about madness is true, I will be mad one day myself.”

Kel did not move. He had heard Conor say this before; the first time had been after the Fire on the Sea. What was meant to be a celebration—the King setting out in the boat covered in flowers to enact the ceremonial marriage between Castellane and the ocean that sustained it—had ended in fire: the boat in flames, the charcoal-black smoke thickening, hiding the figure of the King.

Only those standing on the Royal Docks had been close enough to see that the King had made no move to save himself. Jolivet and the Arrow Squadron, diving into the water, had pulled their sovereign from the flaming wreckage. It had been played off as an accident—some in Castellane believed it to be an assassination attempt—but Kel had heard the King shouting at his guards. You should have let me burn, he’d cried out, kneeling on the Royal Docks as water poured from his thick velvet robes. As Gasquet raced forward to wrap his charred hands, though, the King did not seem to feel the pain. You should have let the fire take me.

Conor, his wrists and brow wreathed in flowers, had watched, ashen-faced and silent. Since that day, he had said almost nothing of the incident, save in the dead of night, only when he woke screaming from dreams he would not describe. I have lost him, he has gone mad, and one day I will go mad, too, and also be lost.

He was not alone: No one on the Hill spoke of it, though the torches in the Star Tower had been replaced with chemical lamps, and the King had worn black gloves ever since, to conceal the burns on his hands.

“The surgeons are often wrong,” Kel said. “I would not put too much stock in what they believe.”

Conor was silent. He did not need to say: It is not just what they say, but what everyone believes. Madness is inherited through tainted blood. The child of mad parents will also be mad, and pass that poison down through the generations. If it becomes well known that my father is mad, not simply distracted and dreamy, House Aurelian could be in peril.

“Besides,” Kel added. “I would prefer you not go mad, because then I would also have to learn to imitate all the mad things you’d do.”

At that, Conor laughed—a real laugh, not the false one he employed with Montfaucon and the others. His wary stance had relaxed a little—and just in time, Kel thought, for Mayesh had appeared at the garden gate like a watchful gray crow. Of course, after every Dial Chamber meeting, Lilibet would meet with Jolivet and Bensimon in the Shining Gallery to discuss the proceedings.

Conor rolled his eyes. “I expect he will scold me on the way to the gallery,” he said. “There’s no need for you to come—it will be murderously boring. I believe there’s a gathering at Falconet’s tonight,” he added, turning to follow Mayesh. “Go get drunk. One of us might as well enjoy their evening.”





Once the Sorcerer-Kings had harnessed the power of the Arkhe stones, their abilities grew ever greater. With their new strength, they were able to tame the great creatures of magic, born of the Word: the manticores, the dragons, the phoenixes, were forced to do their bidding. While the people cowered, the Kings and Queens battled, and rivers turned to fire as mountains were hurled across the earth. Still their ambitions grew, and the Sorcerer-Kings stole the magic of their own magicians—along with their very lives—to absorb their power into the hungry stones. The suffering of the people was enormous, save in one kingdom: the kingdom of Aram.

—Tales of the Sorcerer-Kings, Laocantus Aurus Iovit III





CHAPTER SEVEN


Lin made her way through the dusty streets of the Fountain Quarter, her hood pulled up to shield her face from the late-afternoon sunlight. It was one of those days when the hot winds had come boiling over the Arradin mountains to the south, pressing the city beneath it like a butterfly under glass. Pedestrians moved sluggishly, their heads down; women clustered together under broad parasols. Even the ships in the harbor seemed to bob up and down more slowly, as if mired in boiled honey.

Reaching Petrov’s house, she ducked into the welcome cool of the stairwell, and took the steps two at a time to the second floor. She knocked loudly and waited; they did not have a scheduled appointment. She had merely hoped to catch him at home, since he rarely went out. “Dom Petrov?”

No response.

She crouched, trying to peer through the keyhole, but could see nothing but darkness. “Dom Petrov—it’s Lin. Lin Caster. I need to see you.”

She had been leaning against the door. It shifted now, under her weight, swinging open a crack. Lin rose to her feet in surprise. It was certainly not at all like Petrov to leave his door unlocked.

She bit her thumbnail worriedly. What if he was ill? What if he had collapsed, weak from his blood disorder, and could not rise to come to the door? The image decided her. She pushed down on the latch and the door swung open.

She caught her breath as she stepped inside. The small flat was utterly empty, every bit of furniture vanished. Lin turned in a slow circle. Gone were the books, the bronze samovar, even the plants on the windowsill. And on the floor—the plush rug was gone. In its place, a spatter of dark-brown stains.

Dried blood.

Horror made Lin’s blood fizz like wine. She was suddenly terribly aware of the stone in her pocket, weighing it down. The floorboard that had concealed Petrov’s treasures had been wrenched up, showing an empty black space beneath.

“What are you doing here?”

Lin bolted to her feet. Domna Albertine, Petrov’s landlady, loomed in the open door. She was glowering, her dark-gray curls escaping from beneath an incongruously frilly pink velvet cap. Her dress was stained, the material worn and yellowed beneath her arms.

“Well?” she demanded, brandishing her trusty broom, the terror of geese everywhere. She squinted. “Wait, you’re that physician, that Ashkari girl.”

Lin stood her ground. “Where is he? Where’s Petrov?”

“Does it matter? Some friends of his came looking for him the other day. At least they said they were his friends.” Domna Albertine spat sideways. “I heard some noise, but I like to leave my tenants to their business.”