I am not always a brave man. I know this. I do not always stand for the things I believe are right. But the more I study the history of magic, the more I come to see we have made a mistake. Magic should not belong solely to those who made themselves powerful at the expense of others. I believe we now know enough about magic to establish protections against the deaths that plagued ancient magicians. Anyone with talent should have access to magic—and to proper training. Imagine what we might learn if all those with talent and inclination could practice magic!
I find I am not so alone as I once imagined. Lady Berri has, surprisingly, indicated she shares my belief. I took the liberty of showing her your letter, and she was most intrigued. It occurs to us that you might be of use in breaking that spell at Sárvár. Lady Berri is preparing to come to you as I write, as such spell-breaking should not be attempted alone. I send this letter in the hopes it will give you some warning of what is to come. But do not fear—I am confident Lady Berri will keep you safe. She and I have spoken a great deal about the schools we shall build when—if—the Binding can be broken.
In any case, the castle bears an interesting history and is said to be worth the journey.
Your loving Papa
I stared at the letter. Pressing my finger again to the charm elicited no response, so I set the letter down and fell backward upon my bed, my thoughts reeling. Papa’s letter only confirmed what William had already claimed: nobles were not Luminate because of some inherent gift but because the Binding made them so, taking power from non-Luminates to augment a reservoir of magic reserved only for those already powerful. Seen this way, members of the Circle were not so much preservers of an ancient spell but gatekeepers arbitrarily determining human worth. This one was wealthy, let him be a magician. This one was not, let him be a serf. My stomach turned.
My thoughts shifted to Lady Berri. Papa had sent me away in part to keep me safe from the Circle, yet now he was sending one of them direct to me—and asking her to test my so-called ability? Papa seemed to think that she was also a heretic, that they shared the same goals, hence everything was all right.
But I was not so sanguine. I was not one of Gábor’s fish, a specimen for experimentation, regardless of whether everyone around me seemed to see me as such: William, Lady Berri, even Papa. I could not bear the thought of going to Sárvár under Lady Berri’s pig-eyed scrutiny. But if she showed up with Papa’s blessing, Grandmama would send me with her.
I pushed off my bed and began rummaging in my wardrobe.
Very well, then. I would go to Sárvár. But I would go on my own terms. Instead of running from my abilities, I would see what I was capable of. I had located Sárvár on one of János’s maps when William first mentioned it. If I left at night, I could be back before Grandmama noticed me missing.
Gábor’s words came back to me. Don’t go to Sárvár. If your friend is right and you can break that spell—if you can break the Binding—you could destroy us all.
My hand froze on the sleeve of a yellow cotton day dress. Gábor’s grandmother had interrupted him before he could tell me how I might destroy us. What did he know that I did not?
I shook myself. Papa was confident the spell might be broken without ill side effects, or he would not send me to do it. Perhaps Gábor’s fear was mere superstition.
In any case, he was no longer here. He was not entitled to an opinion on my choices.
That evening, when heavy silence fell over the palace, I climbed out of bed and donned my most sensible gown, a plain navy broadcloth with only two bands of ribbons around the sleeves. Then I crept down the stairs, through the echoing hallways, the sheep-filled Sala Terrena, and the overgrown gardens to the stable.
A snuffling noise outside the stable doors stopped my heart for a moment with improbable fancies: an escaped lidérc, a rusalka. But it was only one of the sheep that had wandered from its sleeping brothers.
The loss of Starfire hit me anew with the strong smell of horse and leather. Ignoring my aching heart, I found a bridle and sidesaddle and carried them to the stall where Mátyás kept his horse, Holdas. The sidesaddle proved a bit troublesome, as the pale horse had an unusually broad girth. At last I managed by boring another hole in the leather with an awl I found among the stable tools. I led the horse to the mounting block.
The horse rolled an eye back at me. For a brief moment, red seemed to flicker in the eyes, like a still-burning ember. I dismissed the idea, and hauled myself up into the saddle. The horse bounced a little beneath me, as if testing my weight. I tapped his flank lightly with my heel, and we shuffled toward the stable doors.
Only to find the door blocked by Mátyás.
In the moonlight, his gaze took in the full saddlebags on his horse and my light cloak. His eyes widened. “What are you doing? Holdas will kill you.” He swayed a little, and my lip curled.
“You’re drunk.”
“Am not. Only happy. Now get down.”
“I need to borrow your horse.” I considered trying to ride past Mátyás, but I didn’t trust my drunk, feckless, foolish cousin to move out of my way.
“Why?”
“My actions are none of your business.”
“They are. It’s my horse. And my ancestral home.” He swung one arm out, waxing energetic, and nearly stumbled.
“It’s not your house. And I’m only borrowing your horse because the one you gave me was reclaimed for lack of payment.” I burned inwardly.
Mátyás closed one eye and peered at me through the other. “Where are you going?”
I didn’t answer.
“Get off my horse.”
I thrust my chin out and stared down at him.
“A fene egye meg!” Mátyás stalked toward me. My fingers tightened on the reins.
“I refuse to ride that slug of a horse.” Mátyás nodded toward Cukor, placidly chewing hay in a corner stall. “You ride him. I’m riding Holdas.”
I dropped the reins. “What—?”
“Daft girl. Haven’t you been listening?” Mátyás sighed. “I am trying to ensure my willful cousin does not kill herself on a stupid midnight ride.”
I blinked at him.
“I’m coming with you.”
It was not quite dawn when our road wound down into the Rába River valley, descending through gently rolling hills before arriving at the heart of Sárvár. Mátyás had worn off the worst of his intoxication (the singing stage had been impressive), and was now merely a little talkative.
“I admire your fearlessness,” Mátyás said.
“I’m not fearless.” My heart had kept up an uneven thumping all night, and I was beginning to think the line between bravery and stupidity was determined by whether or not one survived.
“Oh? What are you afraid of?”
The summer air was warm, even at the tail end of evening. A night for the safekeeping of secrets—and for sharing them. So I gave Mátyás the truth. “That I will live and I will die and none of it will matter. That I won’t matter.” Because this truth came too close to laying me bare, I covered it over with poetry, from Tennyson’s “Ulysses”: “How dull it is to pause, to make an end, To rust unburnish’d, not to shine in use! As tho’ to breathe were life.”