North continues to pet Darjin, his eyes locked on something beyond our feet.
“I’m the proof,” I say. “The peace treaty. Before we left, I was injected with clean magic—”
“Injected? There was no transferent?”
I pause at his surprise. “No. It was done by the king’s executioner.”
North leans forward with a flash of eager interest. “And it worked?”
“Yes. Can’t you feel it?”
“I’m not an intuit,” he says. “At least, not the way Tobek is. The infection’s diluted my ability to separate the magic in my blood from the magic in someone else. I’d have to touch you to know, and you made your stance on that option quite clear.”
“But if you didn’t know about the magic,” I say slowly, “why did you come after me instead of Bryn that night in the woods?”
The change in his expression is subtle, the difference between an hour before noon and an hour after. “Because I couldn’t save you,” he says at last. “And you didn’t need me to.”
My heart slams against my ribs. A man who’s spent four years searching for a missing king wouldn’t waste time bartering for names from a girl who had any magic to offer instead. It wasn’t that he was playing the coy and mercenary magician that night. It was that he didn’t know, that Tobek hadn’t warned him what I carried hidden beneath my skin.
He came after me, not the magic.
North pushes Darjin out of the way and inches even closer. “Miss Locke—”
“I want to make you an offer,” I say.
North closes his mouth and sits back. Waiting.
“I made a mistake four months ago and Cadence suffered for it. She became the king’s property. A slave. Bryn promised me her freedom for coming with her.”
No reply.
Blood aching, I wet my lips and lean forward; our knees collide but neither one of us shifts out of the way. “Take the magic I’m carrying,” I say, offering my hand. “And when we get to New Prevast, I’ll speak to Prince Corbin before Bryn does. Perrote stores his magic in the mountains like a touchstone; there’s nothing to stop anyone from stealing it. We can convince Corbin that we can siphon the magic out of the kingdom without ever starting a war. And then we’ll use that magic to find his father and save Avinea.”
“We?” No mockery, only question.
I flush, hand falling to my lap. “I don’t want any of it, North. All I want is my sister back and this spell”—I touch my wrist—“removed.” I bite the inside of my cheek and remember the way he looked at me after I killed that golem. The way it felt to be brave again. “But I would help you,” I say. “If you wanted me to.”
“I already have an apprentice.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“I know.” North stares at me with a strange expression. “You would sacrifice your own king for mine?”
“I will sacrifice a tyrant. A murderer.”
“Be careful, Miss Locke.” His voice drops, turns husky. “Magic leaves a mark and love is a magic all its own. As is hate or greed or lust—any feeling that requires any effort. And when left to fester, every single one of those feelings can go sour and destroy you.” He examines his opened hands, rubbing at the swollen joints. “Merlock loved his brother and it made him weak. It made him waver. After he killed Corthen, Merlock’s guilt and regret infected everything he touched until he finally cut himself loose of Prevast and vanished.”
“Loving my sister does not make me weak.”
“You’ve already killed one man to save her.”
“And you will kill your king to save your country. To serve your prince—”
“I will kill one man to save thousands,” says North. “That’s not love, Miss Locke. That’s duty. Obligation. Love is a weakness, and a weak heart breaks, a broken heart bleeds, and blood can be poisoned.” Sighing, he slides his hands across his knees. “I’m not asking you to be heartless; I’m asking you to be cautious. Your strength could be your greatest weakness if you don’t consider the choices you’re willing to make and the consequences they bring.”
“That’s my offer,” I say, extending my hand again. It wavers between us. “All the magic you can carry, and in return, you remove this spell and get my sister out of Brindaigel.”
North stares at my hand, his fingers tightening across his knees. Remorse colors his voice when he says, “I can’t.”
“It’s three to one,” I say in the awkward pause that follows, forcing a smile to combat the sudden weight in my chest. “Tobek and I can hold Bryn down and you unlace the spell.”
“I can’t.” He stands, raking a hand through his hair as he paces away from me. “It’s not that simple, Miss Locke. It would take time. More time than we have, and it would take more effort than I can risk with Baedan watching my back.”
I sit frozen, staring beyond the half-broken wall around us. “So then when we reach New Prevast, when we have more time—”
He doesn’t answer.
“North,” I say.
He presses a hand to the wall, his back to me. “I can’t make that agreement. If Miss Dossel has access to magic—if she has potential resources she’s willing to commit to Avinea, it would be a mistake not to listen.”
“I’m offering you the exact same thing,” I say. “Only magic without war—”
“No.” He turns to face me, expression haunted. “Magic is transferred through the bloodline, Miss Locke. By killing her father, Miss Dossel would inherit. And an ally like that . . .” He trails off, guilty.
He can’t sacrifice the whole to save the few.
I stare numbly into nothing before, with a blast of nerves, I stand, moving for the stairs. My skin itches, pulled too taut, and the walls close in, too tight to breathe.
“Miss Locke,” he says.
“Nothing has changed,” I say sharply. “We go to New Prevast as planned.”
“I’ll have the spell removed as a stipulation of any agreement—”
“She’s using my sister as collateral,” I snap. I brandish the bracelet of smoke at him. “I took this oath and I killed that man and you need to know that. You need to know I will do anything—anything—to save Cadence. Bryn is not my priority. Avinea is not my priority. Not until Cadence is safe. And if that makes us enemies—”
North reaches out, skimming the sleeve of my coat, timid as a monk, before his fingers skate past my wrist, cradling the back of my hand. Swollen knuckles and sandpaper skin awaken an insatiable greed inside me. It’s more than a touch, it’s a confirmation: My heart was not buried with Thaelan four months ago and it aches as it comes alive again.
“I am not your enemy,” North says softly.
Neither one of us moves. “You have no resources for war,” I say at last, pleading with him. “Corbin will need an entire army to invade. Perrote’s men all have loyalty spells inked above their hearts, and they will fight—”