“No,” says North. “Corthen had no magical abilities of his own.”
I sink back, disappointed. Even if Corthen had enough magic to hide our kingdom, that doesn’t explain how it disappeared from atlases printed before the war. Were we hidden by magic even then? If so, how did Corthen find us when no one else can?
“North,” I start.
“Miss Locke, I am more than happy to discuss history or politics, but not while you’re perched on the roof like a gargoyle!”
All at once, the anger from earlier returns, needle sharp and venomous. “Then come up here,” I say, hoping he’ll say yes, that he’ll make that first move so I don’t have to.
“Humans are meant for the earth, not for the sky.”
“Farodeen the First says you’re wrong,” I say.
North finally looks at me, expression unreadable, and my stomach somersaults before tightening in a cramp. All day, I’ve retraced our argument, trying to find fault in his anger, to justify my own. But each iteration yields the same result: I was wrong.
I roll my apology across my tongue, softening the sharp edges. Small steps, little words. “North—”
“Don’t fall,” he says, cutting me off. “We’re already half a day behind schedule.”
My apology melts back down my throat. “And you’re still waiting to get paid.”
North’s jaw tightens. Giving me one last dark look, he slams his way into the wagon. A moment later, a chair scrapes across the floor and his voice rises, a muted growl in response to Bryn’s softer tones.
I scowl at the sky but even the single star is gone, swallowed by storm clouds and smoke. I press at one of the discolored bruises on my arm, forcing my vision to clear and my thoughts to focus. In two days, either Bryn will have a treaty or I’ll have my sister. And while Bryn’s a master of manipulation and can play the games needed at court, I grew up in the Brim, where the one who wins is the one still standing at the end.
And I intend to win.
Below, North stalks out of the wagon with his crossbow in hand, Darjin at his heels, disappearing into the watchtower. Tobek takes a step after them before faltering. After a moment, he turns for the wagon and Bryn. I wait a beat to ensure she doesn’t chase him out before jumping off the roof and following North.
It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dim light pouring in from the missing roof overhead. A spiral staircase hugs the wall, and heavy beams crisscross where a second and third floor would have been. I see North, silhouetted against the crenellated wall at the top of the tower, framed through the torch brackets that once held the fires that would be lit to warn Revnik of approaching danger.
Taking a deep breath, I kick through the thick cover of bracken and debris that litters the floor and make my way upstairs.
North doesn’t look at me when I reach the top, although Darjin pads over to sniff my hand. His silence is unnerving and I hang back, second-guessing my decision. “Anything out there?” I ask at last.
He glances over before nodding beyond the wall. A campfire burns in the distance, no bigger than a star. I hug myself, chilled by the icy wind that blows off the lake. “Baedan?”
Another nod. “She’ll be relying on her slaves for blood, until she can reach the Burn and refill her veins with poison.” He shifts. “We’ll leave the wagon in Revnik and take horses through the pass and on to New Prevast.”
“You’ll abandon the wagon?”
He digs the butt of his tiller into the crumbling cement of the wall, raking chips loose. “If Miss Dossel delivers as promised, I won’t need it anymore.”
I watch him, wishing I knew what to say to smooth the lines in his face and soften the hard edges of his jaw. “I’m sorry.”
He digs even deeper into the cement. “For what?”
“For this afternoon. For everything.”
He pauses before glancing toward me. “I shouldn’t have lost my temper,” he says at last. “It’s a weakness I’m working to conquer.”
“You had every right to be angry with me. Tobek tried to turn them away but I insisted they come in. I wasn’t thinking. It was selfish of me to risk your life like that, and I’m sorry.”
Exhaling softly, North gestures to a clutch of broken columns nearby. I dutifully take a seat and he sits across from me, our knees almost touching.
“I used to think saving the world meant saving the people in it,” he says, setting his crossbow at his feet. “An effect of my education, no doubt, where I was taught to emulate saints and virtues. Like Farodeen: He saw hope when others saw nothing, and an entire world was created. But even virtue turns to sin when taken to extreme. My ambition became greed and my pride became arrogance. I stupidly thought by some . . . divine right, I would be the exception to the rule. But I failed, like everyone before me.”
“What rule?”
“That living or dead, for good or for evil, magic is still a parasite. It was never meant for mortals to wield. That was Merlock’s mistake; he offered magic to the people and the people became addicted to easy solutions; guaranteed crops, healthy cattle, everlasting love. Pay the right price and a provost could cast any spell you wanted.” His expression darkens, turns sour. “When Corbin is king, magic will be viewed as the weapon it is, not as a household commodity. Industry will run this kingdom again.”
I search his hands, reddened skin and swollen knuckles, before my eyes stray back to his face. “Do you ever regret the life you chose?”
“Some days yes. Most days no. And every now and then, I wish—” He breaks off, shaking his head with a rueful smile as he remembers: I don’t believe in wishes. “There are days when I resent my mother for making the choice for me,” he says, expression guarded as he studies my face. “Days when sacrifice starts to feels selfish.”
I know how he feels. My mother changed my path irrevocably ten years ago, and I’ve been stumbling along blindly, resenting her for it ever since.
“But Prince Corbin needs his magic seamstress,” I say softly.
“I’d like to think he’s not the only one,” North says, just as quietly, still watching me. Then he looks away, pulling Darjin to his leg and scrubbing his flank.
I duck my head, hands balled into the pockets of my coat to avoid the temptation of touching him, of offering what comfort I can, proof that he’s not alone. I know what it’s like, that need to fight until there’s nothing left, no matter how stacked the odds may seem.
A rush of adrenaline crashes through me, rubbing every nerve raw. If I’m wrong, North will steal this magic and I’ll be worthless to Bryn, to the prince, to my sister, to myself.
But if I’m right . . .
“Prince Corbin’s not the only one who needs you,” I say.
North looks up, eyebrows drawn.
“Bryn is going to offer an alliance to Prince Corbin,” I say. “Our kingdom has clean magic, enough that she plans to trade Corbin what he needs to find his father, if he agrees to help her overthrow her own. She intends to be queen, but that won’t come without war.”