Page 133 of The Ragpicker King
“Lin,” the Maharam said in a terrible dark voice. It was the first time he had spoken since she had come into the Shulamat. “What have you done?”
He was staring down at her hands. She followed his gaze, and what she saw was horrifying. She could see clear through the skin and muscle, to the bones beneath, which burned with a bright-red fire.
She thrust her hands out before her. She could still feel magicpulsing through her body, overwhelming, pressing against the borders of her conscious self as if it wanted more than anything else to break free.
She could no longer see the Shulamat or hear the voices around her. She saw instead a massive dark hall, half lost in shadow. Around her loomed grinning statues with skull-like faces. And before her stood a woman—all in black, thin as a whip—who turned to look at Lin, her cold face unforgiving. Lin had never seen her before but knew immediately who she was.
Elsabet Belmany.
She saw Elsabet’s eyes widen as if in recognition. Her lips shaped the word,You.And then Elsabet was striding toward her and Lin saw the Source-Stone at her throat, embedded under the skin there, pulsing like a second heart. A sneer crossed her pale face.Of course. You would be a filthy Ashkar.
Lin thought of the King, of his last words to her. Of the Wolfguard and the bloody gallows and the terror sowed by the Belmany royals, and she raised her hands, palms out.Fear me,she thought, and the fire that had seemed trapped under her skin broke free. It poured from her like water from a broken dam until everything around her was brightness and heat. She heard the crackle of the flames and the shattering of stone, and the power was fading, it was going away, and darkness came like blindness, covering her vision.
Elsabet
Elsabet Belmany, Princess of Malgasi, heir to the Phoenix Throne, sits and gazes into the dark corners of the templecella.It is quiet, the only noise from the Maze outside, and the sound of Janos’s and Bagomer’s boots as they pace the floor upstairs.
If there is one thing she despises—and in truth, she despises more things than she can count—it is waiting. And the pain of the waiting only grows stronger as the goal approaches.
Soon they will lay hands on the Sword Catcher. Not even his Prince will be able to help him after tonight. The pleasure of that thought buoys her up, as does the blaze of the fire in the brazier. She shivers a little, looking at it from her seat across the room. How warm it would be in the heart of that fire. How glorious...
Then she sits up straight as an awful sense of wrongness washes over her. She presses her hands against her stomach, gripped by sudden nausea.What is wrong?
All her life she has been alone in her power, her Source-Stone a single burning star in the darkness. But the darkness is beginning to flood with a terrible light, and Elsabet is—afraid.So this is whatfear feels like.This gnawing, cold dread, like a dying snake thrashing in her belly.
She staggers to her feet, then nearly falls down the steps of the altar. As she weaves drunkenly through thecella,her shoulder hits the edge of the brazier, tumbling it to the ground. Hot coals roll across the floor, sparking with fire that spreads quickly to the wooden rows of seats facing the altar. Dimly, Elsabet hears the crackle of flame, but it is lost against the pulse of her own blood in her ears.
It would never occur to Elsabet to warn her guards, even if she were thinking clearly. She is thrashing toward the door to the temple as a diver might thrash upward toward air and light. As she explodes out into the night, the noise and smell of the Maze hit her like a blow.Yells and cries, the raucous shouts of whores and moneylenders, the stench of liquor and sweat. And above, the sky turned orange by flame.
Elsabet spins around, trying to locate the source of the blaze. The temple of Anibal is burning, she knows, but no flames are yet visible from the outside. And this fire—this is no ordinary burning. This is magic. And it is coming from the other side of the great wall that rises behind the temple. From inside the Sault.
Elsabet is no longer looking at the Maze. She is in a dark room, and opposite her is a young woman with bright-red hair and a determined expression. Elsabet recognizes her immediately: the girl who had been with the Aurelian Prince in the Palace library. Around her neck glitters a pendant, the hollow circle of themagal. Of course,Elsabet thinks,you would be a filthy Ashkar.
The young woman’s face changes, her eyes hardening. The Source-Stone she wears on a silver pin fastened to her dress seems to blaze up with light, wiping away Elsabet’s vision. She is back in the Maze now, and the wall of the Sault is dissolving, great stones crumbling away as an unearthly fire chars them to rocks and dust.And through the gap they make pours a raging fire that surrounds the temple of Anibal.
Elsabet is sure she can hear Janos and Bagomer screaming, their cries dissolving into the sound of the fire, the avalanche of stones. She turns to run, but the fire is at her heels in seconds, like a hungry animal leaping for the kill.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Kel paced the length of the room he shared with Conor, wearing a track (he was sure) into the center of the expensive Hindish carpet on the floor.
It was dark; the sun had gone down. Some time earlier, Kel had seen smoke in the sky and heard the ringing of the city alarms that signaled a fire that needed to be put out (a not uncommon occurrence, but it did nothing for Kel’s already jangled nerves).
Though Marivent was alive with torchlight, Kel could see that the North Tower was dark. Lin would have made her way back to the Sault for her test. The Dial Chamber was invisible from the windows, but every once in a while, servants would hurry by along the paths outside, carrying wine and food in the direction of the meeting. It was entirely possible it could take the whole night.
Kel prayed silently, to no God in particular, that it would end soon—mainly because his nerves were being slowly shredded. Over and over he pictured his confession to Conor.Should I begin with: Well, there is a King in the City and a King on the Hill and they communicate. They have Castellane in common, you see.Or:On the night of the Shining Gallery massacre, Jolivet approached me.
Thinking of Jolivet brought him up short. Jolivet had insistedthat Kel keep his activities secret; if Kel revealed the truth to Conor, would Jolivet admit to his part in it? Would he deny all, and let Kel take the blame? Or would revealing the truth to Conor cause the Legate to take drastic steps that could put them all in danger?
Reaching the room’s northern end, he spun around and began to pace back the other way. He thought of Antonetta and felt a surge of sharp pain go through him. He wanted her with him desperately, despite his anger, wanted her voice and her advice. He changed course, heading to his wardrobe and throwing the heavy door open. He riffled through the clothes, looking for the plain brown cloak he wore when he wanted to go unremarked outside Marivent. It wasn’t as if he did not know where to find her—
He hesitated, his hand still outstretched. He might know where she was, he reminded himself, but he could not trust her. The thought had a bitter taste; to love someone you could not trust felt like standing unprotected in the freezing cold. He thought of Lin, saying,I do not want to love him. It frightens me more than anything has ever frightened me.
He lowered his hand, frowning. It was ridiculous to think of leaving the Palace, in any event; he had promised Conor he would wait here. There was something odd about his wardrobe, though. His brown cloak was missing, and the shelves were also a mess, as if he or Conor had riffled through them in a hurry, looking for something—
Shh.A whisper of sound. Kel turned to see that something white had been pushed beneath the door of the room. He darted swiftly to fling the door open and peer out into the corridor, but he saw no one there.
The paper fluttered at his feet like a bird’s wing. He bent to pick it up and saw a message that made his blood go cold.
