I stop, touching my wrist. Bryn stole this spell from the king’s provost. It’s the same spell given to every soldier in the Guard: forced loyalty to ensure their unquestioned obedience if Perrote ever demanded it. Yet it wasn’t loyalty that Bryn wanted from me. Instead I’m bound to bear her wounds, to be a fail-safe against all threats. Including death.
“How do you become a king?” I ask.
“Magic,” he says darkly.
“I’m being serious.”
“It’s a bloodspell,” he says. “Corbin will bind his blood to his father’s heart and inherit the magic that runs through it.”
“But you have to kill the king to inherit the magic?”
“You have to remove his heart, yes. Why?” He pulls back, eyes clearing. “Miss Locke, what’s wrong?”
“Perrote can’t be killed,” I say numbly. Any attempt to hurt him will be transposed over a thousand men; a fatal wound will diffuse, turn harmless. If we return with an army, the entire kingdom will be called to defend its king and everyone but Perrote will die.
Including Cadence.
How will his son Rowan ever inherit the throne? How will Bryn?
The skill is in cheating.
The ground sways beneath me. My legs buckle and I fall to my knees with a crack of pain I feel all the way to my shoulders.
It’s like reading Thaelan’s secret codes. Turn left, then right, then straight to the answer—a kingdom no one’s heard of, a king who fears death and discovery, not just from those beyond our borders, but from anyone who exhibits a magical ability within the city. Like a transferent who could dismantle his golems and steal his magic, or maybe an intuit, who could trace the spells back to their original source. Perrote isn’t looking for his daughter; he’s looking for me, and not because he’s afraid everyone will learn that Avinea exists.
Because he doesn’t want anyone to know that Brindaigel does.
North crouches in front of me, concern etched across his face. “Miss Locke?”
All these signs, waiting to be acknowledged.
Pay attention, Faris.
“Do you know how we got to Avinea?” I ask, looking up at him. “We walked beneath a mountain.”
He frowns. “I don’t understand.”
“She’s not a princess,” I say. “And he’s not a king. Which is why Brindaigel isn’t on any map and why Perrote hasn’t sent any men. He can’t risk anyone seeing an army and tracing it back to him.” I grab his hand, threading my fingers through his. “You said if you touched me, you could read the magic inside me. Whose magic is this?”
“I can’t read the spell through you. It’s like I said—”
“Then read the clean magic.”
“Miss Locke.”
“Please.” I tighten my fingers through his.
He swallows hard, staring at our intertwined fingers. Drawing a deep breath, he settles his weight more comfortably, cradling my hand in both of his. A soft, gentle heat bleeds out of his skin, warming mine, but after a moment, his frown deepens.
“What’s wrong?”
He shakes his head, bemused. “There’s magic there,” he says, “but I can’t . . .” Shifting, he touches the side of my neck, as if searching for a pulse, before drawing back. “I can’t feel anything specific, it’s like . . . smoke. Shadow.”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know. Maybe the binding spell is too strong, or maybe . . . Are you sure it worked? The injection, I mean?”
I open my mouth to say yes, only to realize that Alistair injected me while I was drugged. I have no proof he did anything at all except tell me a story so I would have no choice but to accept Bryn’s offer.
Ice slides down my spine. Was this all a lie to chain me to the princess to ensure her safety until she reached New Prevast and started a war? But what offer could she make Prince Corbin if not proof of magic?
Bryn doesn’t know.
“Miss Locke.” North’s hand softens in my own.
“I have to warn her,” I say, but I don’t get the chance.
Shadow crows arrive.
Twenty
THE CROWS STRIKE WITHOUT AIM, hurling themselves against the walls, the stones, our shoulders. North curves his body over mine as sparks rake across the ground, igniting the dried leaves at our feet.
I clutch his arms, terrified. “Perrote,” I say, all miserable apology.
Darjin mewls in pain, and North bundles the tiger into his coat as I grab his crossbow, swinging it high. The tiller cuts through a line of crows, useless against the smoke; one of them hits me on the chest and heat blisters through my coat.
North takes my arm and we race downstairs, stumbling, nearly falling. More birds pour into the watchtower, chasing us down until the sky disappears behind a cloud of smoke and feathers and the shrill pitch of a thousand golems with one objective:
Guaranteed victory.
We burst out of the watchtower, to Bryn and Tobek standing in the courtyard outside, gaping at the sky.
“Don’t just stand there,” North snaps, setting Darjin down. “Get the horses secured!”
Tobek moves to obey but Bryn throws her head back, hands balled into fists. She stands unguarded, unflinching, unafraid.
“How appropriate,” she snarls. “He sends magic spells instead of soldiers!”
It’s a false bravery as I realize with a sickening lurch: She doesn’t know the crows are soldiers. She doesn’t know they can hurt her, and by extension, me.
I call her name in warning as a crow dives, followed fast by the others.
Ignoring me, she throws her arms out wide in challenge. “Do you hear that, Daddy!? Little birds can’t bring me home!”
North reaches Bryn before I do, shielding her body as crows slam into his back, shredding his coat before breaking apart. Inky feathers scatter as they wing back to the sky; embers rake across the cobblestones. A few crows fly too close to the campfire and implode, slamming into the walls of the wagon. The faded paint ignites and flames begin to spread.
Tobek notices, pausing in his struggle to lash one of the horses to a column of stone. The horse pulls back, eyes wild as crows nip its flank, leaving shallow scratches through the glossy pelt. It bucks, knocking Tobek flat on his back. He rolls out of the way half a second before the horse lands, narrowly missing his head.
“Take Miss Dossel and get in the wagon!” North orders, loading a bolt in his crossbow.
I pretend I don’t hear him, breaking for the campfire where I kick out a stick burning on one end and fall back, keeping close to Bryn. Months of fighting in the ring taught me patience, but fear edges out all my training and I swing too early, the flame of my torch grazing only a few birds. They burst with pops of light before others batter me in quick succession, forcing me to cower, covering my head. Beside me, Bryn shrieks in pain as a thin scratch appears, running from her chin to her scalp. A moment later, it dissolves and I feel it burning down my face. She stares at me, hand pressed to her cheek, expression incredulous as she finally makes the connection: Her father didn’t send spies, he sent monsters.
And they’re not here to bring her home.