Page 98 of The Ragpicker King
She knelt down in front of him. Opening her satchel, she retrieved her lancet, a cannula of hollow reed, and a small glass bottle. It was her own invention, this method of collecting blood.
The chirurgeons of Castellane saw no use in taking blood from patients, save with the use of leeches for bleeding. There was no point inlookingat blood, surely; what could it tell you? Chirurgeons were fools, Lin thought as she arranged the cannula and the bottle. Blood was a tablet, a book. You could read secrets in it if you knew how.
Lin placed the tip of the lancet against the King’s wrist, above the black leather of his glove. She felt him jerk as the cold metal touched his skin; when she looked up, he was staringather—not past her or through her, but directly into her eyes.
“I do not think there is any chance, Fausten,” he said hoarsely. “They will never allow us to escape.”
Lin stayed very still. She had known he was not incapable of speech—he had spoken in her presence once before—but this was the calmest she’d heard him. Even if he didn’t know who she was. “I am not Fausten. I am Lin, Lin Caster. Your son brought me to you before—”
The King shook his head. “I took their greatest treasure. That which made them what they are. Butthey stole it.It was never theirs to begin with.” His voice rose. “The House of Belmany was built on darkness, and to darkness it will return.”
House Belmany.Lin thought of what the others had told her about Tyndaris. About Malgasi. Fire burning on the sea. She whispered, “What did you take from them?”
His gaze roamed fretfully around the room. “All night I heard itcrying out. It was caged. It begged for freedom, but all I could give it was death. They would never have freed it. It was the source of all their power.”
“What isit? Was it... a Source-Stone?” Setting the lancet on the arm of the chair, she folded up the sleeve of her dress, showing the silver brooch pinned inside, the Source-Stone black and lightless—
“Atma!” The King roared. His head went back, his eyes flaring, his teeth bared. “Atma, sur az koval!”
Before Lin could move to stop him, the King seized up the lancet from the arm of the chair and plunged the blade of it into the palm of his left hand.
Lin cried out. The King’s grip relaxed as suddenly as he’d lunged for the blade; the lancet clattered to the ground. Lin caught at the King’s wounded hand—blood ran from the cuff of his glove, soaking his sleeve, spattering onto Lin. She felt the hot sting of it, and then a sharp pain at her wrist.
She looked down. The Source-Stone in its brooch was glowing brightly through her sleeve. It was hot. So hot it was searing her skin.
Fire rose up all around her. The room was burning, the papers suddenly alight, the King’s chair a flaming funeral pyre. She tried to scramble to her knees, but the smoke was too thick to breathe. Her chest aching, she tried to crawl toward the door, but the smoke burned her throat, choked the air from her lungs. She curled in on herself, gasping as darkness rushed in, smothering her breath.
Lin opened her eyes with the sudden shock that accompanies waking in an unfamiliar place. She was lying on something soft; above her arched a low stone ceiling. A dim light came from somewhere nearby. Her lungs felt emptied of air; she sucked in a breath, struggling into a sitting position.
Memories flooded her mind immediately—memories of fire and falling. A descent into a dark place, the blade of a knife and thebars of a cage. But that had not been real, she told herself. She had been unconscious, dreaming—but the tower roomhadbeen burning. Of that much she was certain. And she had fallen into unconsciousness, unable to breathe, to think. How had she gotten out?
She was still in the Palace. The room was small, stone-walled, with a single high window. The walls were covered with maps, of Dannemore and the Gold Roads, of Malgasi and Sarthe, dotted with constellations of silver pins. There were maps of the stars, too, and a number of paper constructions with rotating parts: wheels and numbered dials. Volvelles, they were called: spinning die-cut charts that measured everything from distance over land to the orbit of the moon.
She glanced quickly at her hands, her arms, to see if they were burned, but her skin was unmarked. She threw back her thin blanket and sat up. The room seemed immediately to swing around her. She reached for something to anchor her, but her vision had blurred. She dug her fingers into the mattress—
“You’re all right.” A familiar voice, presence. Her hands were enfolded in a steadying grasp. “Lin. Breathe.Breathe.”
She sucked in her breath. She was not alone, she told herself. Nor was she dreaming. Conor was with her. She felt the warmth of him, his presence. His hand brushed back hair from her face. “Look at me, sweetheart,” he said. “Can you do that?”
She blinked. He was a blur—a blur of silver silk and gray velvet, of black hair, and of the gleam of his circlet, like the shimmer of water. Gripping his hand, she looked around the room. It was full of heavy, old-fashioned furniture. There were a number of desks, and a wardrobe whose drawers had been pulled out, their contents scattered—everything from gloves to scissors to ceramic hot water bottles. A fine-bound leather book lay on the floor, its cover stamped in gold:OREL VALARATI.
“Where am I?” she whispered.
“This is Fausten’s room, or used to be.” Conor was no longer a blur. She could see him clearly now. He still wore the same fine grayvelvet he had worn in the square, its embroidery gleaming like dull fire in the faint light. His eyes were the same silver, and they seemed to be burning, watchful lights in a face whose skin was too tight on its bones. She had never seen him look like that before. Not—afraid.
When he spoke, it was with immense control. “I found you on the floor of the tower. You were unconscious. I carried you in here. Lin—what happened?”
“Your father,” she choked. “The fire—the room was burning. Is he all right?”
She tried to get to her feet, but the dizziness was bad. She sank back against the mattress, her head pounding.
“Lin. Stop.” Her hair had come out of its braids; he pushed it back again. The feeling was unutterably soothing. “There was no fire. When I came in, my father was sitting in his chair. Everything was as it always is, except you—” He broke off. “I need to know, Lin. Did he hurt you?”
“No,” Lin said. When she shook her head, her hair tumbled against her neck, her shoulders, and she thought how strange it was to appear before the Prince with unbound hair. “Nothing like that. The fire may not have existed, but even if it was an illusion, it was of the King’s making.”
“He is not a magician, Lin. Not a Sorcerer-King of old.” Conor’s tone was gentle.
“And yet, there is magic here. This is no ordinary aliment, as I said. I know it—”Because my Source-Stone burned.But she could not say that.Because the Malgasi wield true sorcery.But she could not say that, either. She bit her lip in frustration. “Do you know what happened to your father when he was young? At the Malgasi Court? He left—”
