Page 123 of The Ragpicker King
She raised her chin. “Princesses do not often apologize.”
“Nor Princes,” said Kel, “in my experience.”
“And yet. I have no regrets about shouting at Conor, but I should not have done it in front of you. I should have insisted that Conor let you excuse yourself. You are a Sword Catcher. Your duty is to protect Conor from weapons, not angry words.”
“I’ve done both.”
She smiled a little at that. “Still, I should not have put you in that position. You’re not just anyone. You have been a good friend to me in a place that I did not expect to find friends.”
“It is early days yet, Princess. You will find friends here, ones closer to your station.”
“I am not overly concerned about my station.” She looked him over thoughtfully. “I will not ask you again to lie to the Prince on my behalf.”
“Are you going to tell him about Laurent?”
“I will. I think I might write it down in a letter. It will go better that way.” She looked at him solemnly. “I will not forget that you have been good to me.”
“I did what I thought was best,” said Kel. “Anjelica—I do think you can be happy here. I think Conor will do all he can do to make sure you are.”
“You care for the Prince very much,” she said. “He is lucky, for you would do your duty whether you loved him or hated him.”
“I think perhaps,” Kel said slowly, “it is your own duty you are thinking of.”
“Perhaps,” she said, smiling, and departed.
He wondered if she would ever speak to him again, now that she had no further need of him. She had used him in her plan to rid herself of Laurent; that was over. He wondered if that was how it would be with his friends in the Black Mansion, once they had solved their mystery. Jerrod was already gone; Andreyen, Ji-An, Merren—would they disappear from his life in an eyeblink? It would leave a hole, he knew, one that would be hard to fill, and made harder so by the fact that he would never be able to speak to anyone about it.
Lin
Lin dreams. And in her dream, she sees again the charred land where everything had burned. The earth is black, shot through with blazing rivulets, threads of red and bronze fire that glitter like the gold embroidery thread in one of Mariam’s dresses.
Through the haze of smoke, Lin sees a figure, dressed in black and red, wearing a coronet of gold. As he comes closer to her, she recognizes King Markus. He looks younger than she has ever seen him, as if he has just claimed the throne, just begun his reign. There is intelligence in his eyes, and a clear awareness.
He stops before her. They are separated by a river of fire that splits the ground between them. Glassy black rocks float in the red-orange blaze.
“You have opened the way,” he says.
Lin shakes her head. She knows it is a dream, and yet it feels real. She can taste the bitter air, feel the burn of it deep in her lungs. “What way? What do you mean?”
“You think that I have seen little,” says the King, “but I have seen much. I know of the test you will face soon. I know that your stone thirsts for power. You struggle to fill your stone with power,but without the Word, it cannot be done by any means you might find in a book.”
“So it’s impossible.” Lin feels the words like a blow. “I can never do real magic.”
“Not so. The power in my blood contains the Word. The power I gained at the Court of Malgasi, the fire in my veins that they so dearly wish to have back.” His gray eyes seem to glitter. Conor’s eyes, inherited from his father. “You have done much for me. I wish to give you a gift in return.”
A gift. Lin does not trust gifts. “I only treated you as I would any patient. I require nothing in return.”
It is the King’s turn to shake his head. Sparks fly from his crown as if it, like the land, is burning. “Come to me in my tower,” he rasps. “Take of my blood to fill your stone.”
He reaches across the burning river, reaches as if to take her hand, and though she would have thought it was impossible, his fingers close around her wrist. Pain flares in her hand, shooting up her arm as if it were lightning traveling along the path of her bones.
Lin sits up with a scream, quickly muffled as she claps a hand over her mouth. A moment later, she is scrambling out of bed. Her arm aches and burns; she hurries to the window, pushing up the sleeve of her nightgown so she can examine her skin in the bright-blue moonlight.
She is unmarked. Lin turns her arm over, stares at her forearm, her wrist and palm, still stinging. Nothing; only gooseflesh from the chill night air.
The silver brooch is on her nightstand. Swinging her heavy braid over her shoulder, she goes to retrieve it, and finds that when her hand closes around it, the pain begins to fade.
She turns it over on her palm. There it is, deep in the heart of the stone, a burning spark.
