The Seven Realms- The Complete Series

by Cinda Williams Chima

  “Blood of the Demon! You’re burning me! Let go!” the server said, ripping her arm free from Micah’s grip. She stood, blinking back tears, staring at the blistered handprint on her upper arm.

  Micah seemed as surprised as she was. “I—I’m sorry,” he stammered. “It was an accident. I didn’t mean—”

  “Just shut it,” Han said. “She don’t want to hear it. You Bayars like to go after them that can’t defend themselves. Like barmaids and ragpickers and lytlings.”

  His words rang out loud in a sudden quiet, and the apology drained from Micah’s face. Micah’s cousins moved up on either side of him, though they stayed a step behind.

  They won’t go down on the bricks for him, Han thought. Micah Bayar wouldn’t last long as a streetlord.

  The crowd rippled as the server turned and fled, forcing her way to the door.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Micah said. His eyes strayed to the departing serving girl, then wrenched back to Han. “I didn’t mean to hurt her.”

  “Why don’t you try me instead?” Han said, waving his knife slowly back and forth in front of Micah’s face, a blademan’s trick. He kept his other hand wrapped around his flash as the patrons melted back.

  “Hunts Alone,” Dancer said behind him, his voice soft and steady so as not to startle him. “Remember why we’re here. He’s not worth it.”

  Han released his grip on the amulet, but kept the knife in play.

  “Did you follow me here?” Micah demanded. “If you did, I’m warning you—”

  “I go to school here, same as you,” Han said.

  Micah blinked at Han stupidly, the drink slowing him down. “You? Do you even know how to read and write? They can’t have lowered the standards that much.”

  “Well,” Han said, “they let you in.”

  Anger wiped the sneer off Micah’s face. “You’re a thief,” he snarled, his black eyes glittering. “A thief and a murderer. We’ve been looking for you all over the Seven Realms.” His gaze dropped to Han’s amulet. “That amulet belongs to my family, and you stole it from me. Now give it over.”

  Micah reached for Han’s amulet. Han made no move to stop him. As Micah’s hand closed on it, flame jetted from the jinxpiece, and Micah jerked his hand back, swearing and sucking his burnt fingers. Twice more he tried, and twice more the serpent amulet prevented him from taking hold of it.

  The crowd tittered nervously.

  “But…how did you…?” Micah stared at the amulet, looking betrayed.

  “Who’s the thief, Bayar?” Han said, again cradling the flashpiece in his hand. “Who does it belong to, really? How far back should we go? I’m a rank angler, next to you. You come from a whole family of thieves and murderers.”

  His knife hand rippled with flame, and Han pressed his lips together, damming up the charm that threatened to pour out, unbidden. Not knowing what it might be.

  “You’re not a wizard,” Micah said, still focused on the amulet. “How can you even touch it? What have you done to it?”

  “Are you sure?” Han whispered. “Are you sure I’m not a wizard?” He wrenched his hand away from the amulet and extended both hands toward Micah. Power collected under his skin, shimmering through his fingers, illuminating Micah’s astonished face.

  “When did you get to be a wizard?” Arkeda Mander wailed, as if Han had somehow talked his way into their blueblood club.

  Staggering backward, Micah groped inside his collar for his flash, reaching his other hand toward Han.

  Unwilling to chance the Waterlow amulet, Han grabbed a fistful of Micah’s cloak and pulled him forward, pressing the blade of his knife into Micah’s throat.

  “Let go of your flash or I’ll cut your throat,” Han murmured.

  Micah dropped his hands, his eyes nearly crossing as they fixed on the blade.

  “Hunts Alone!” Dancer repeated. “No.”

  “Better study up, Bayar,” Han said, his face inches from Micah’s. “I’m in Mystwerk House, too. Better study up in a hurry if you want to keep up with me.”

  He said it knowing that issuing a magical challenge to Micah Bayar was probably one of the stupider ideas he’d had in a very bad year.

  But it was that or cut his throat on the spot, in front of dozens of witnesses. His fury had ebbed. He’d not survived seventeen years on the streets by being stupid.

  The front door banged open, and the server marched in, leading four provost guards in gray uniforms. “It’s them, Max,” she said, pointing at Han and Micah. “They’re the ones.”

  Han stepped away from Micah, returning his knife to his sleeve. He and Micah shoved their hands into their pockets, the picture of innocence.

  Max pulled out a small notebook bound in leather. “Anyone else hurt?” he asked, licking the end of his pencil and glaring around.

  Nobody made eye contact or said a word.

  Kind of different from the bluejackets, Han thought. Armed with a notebook instead of a club.

  Max singled out one student slumped over a table in the middle of the room. “Hurd! What did you see?”

  Hurd shrugged. “Didn’t see anything. Didn’t see any fighting.” He glanced at the server nervously, then away. “Not that I think Rutha was lying. I just didn’t see it. Must’ve been sleeping.” He yawned hugely and laid his head back down on the table.

  Max looked at Han and Micah. “Names?” he said.

  “No need for names, is there, sir?” Han said, shrugging. “Nothing really happened. Just a bit of loud talk and hand waving.”

  Max snorted. “You say. Rutha, which one burnt you?”

  “The dark-haired charmcaster there. The fair-headed one came to help me.”

  Han’s eyes shifted from Max to Rutha. He couldn’t believe it. For once he wasn’t getting the blame.

  Max glared at Micah. “Name?” When Micah didn’t reply, he added, “You don’t give your name, we’ll take you to the provost gaol for the night.”

  “Micah Bayar,” Bayar said, grinding the words between his teeth.

  “Where are you staying?” Max continued.

  Micah rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. Either he didn’t want to say where he lived, or it was a commentary on the accommodations. “Hampton Hall.”

  Han and Dancer exchanged glances. Bayar was lodging in the same dormitory as them—the worst one on the quad. Which made sense, since he’d come late also. What had he been up to, that he was so late to school?

  “You a first year or what?” Max asked.

  “Yes,” Micah said. “I’m at Mystwerk House. I just arrived from the Fells this morning. If you’re taking names, you should know that my father is—”

  “You should know that we don’t tolerate fighting here at the Ford,” Max said, plowing right over Micah’s words. “No matter who your father is. Newlings don’t know better, but they learn fast or they’re gone. You’ll need to learn to control your temper and keep your hands to yourself.”

  Like a street player, Max paused and swept his gaze over his captive audience, then fixed it back on Micah. “I’m giving you fair warning. Any more trouble from you and you’ll go up before the rector. An’ the rector’s not afraid to expel you neither, if you’re too stupid to learn to mind your manners.”

  Max leaned in toward Han and Micah. “Magical assaults is a different matter. Use your amulets to attack somebody, and there’s no hearing. You’re out. Understand?”

  Han swallowed hard, glad he’d resisted the temptation to let fly with his amulet. Likely this was a speech Max had given many times before to upstart blueblood first years accustomed to getting away with bad behavior at home.

  “I’m not the one who should be answering questions. He’s a thief!” Micah said, pointing at Han. “He stole my amulet.”

  “Already?” Max asked, flipping to a new page in his notebook. “When did that happen? I thought you said you just got here.”

  “It happened back at home,” Micah said. “My cousins saw t
he whole thing.”

  The Mander brothers nodded in unison, like puppets lashed to the same strings.

  “I was there too,” Dancer said, moving forward out of the shadows to stand on Han’s right side. “And I remember it differently.”

  Bayar seemed even more startled to see Dancer. “You? What are you doing here?”

  “Same as everyone else. I’m here for school,” Dancer said. He’d let go of his amulet, and now he too glittered with accumulating power.

  “But you’re clanborn,” Bayar said, wetting his lips, seeming more unnerved by Dancer’s presence than by Han’s. “You’re not…” He stopped. He was probably going to say, You’re not gifted, when the evidence in front of him was plain as day. “But that’s impossible,” he said, disgust twisting his features. “Congress between copperheads and the gifted is forbidden.”

  “For someone who just got here yourself, you sure got a lot of opinions, Micah Bayar,” Max said, stowing his notebook away. “We don’t have jurisdiction outside the Ford. I don’t care what happened back home. You got to leave it behind.”

  By now, Micah had mastered himself. Whatever else you could say about him, he was a quick learner. He turned to Rutha, the server, who stood by watching. “I apologize for your injury and my rude behavior,” he said, inclining his head. “It was inexcusable. Please, see a healer and send the bill to me at Hampton Hall.”

  Rutha nodded, sniffing. “Just watch yourself from now on.”

  “You can depend on it,” Micah said. He turned to Max. “Sir,” he said, “I apologize for this incident. You won’t have any more trouble from me.”

  “Good,” Max said, looking mollified. “See that I don’t. Now you two shake hands, and I’ll be about my business.”

  Han looked Micah Bayar directly in the eyes and smiled, a street-lord challenge. He extended his hand. After a moment’s hesitation, Micah gripped it. Power flamed between them, a magical duel that ended in an impasse.

  Micah leaned in close to Han and said, “Better watch your back, Alister. Now I know where to find you, and I’ve got plenty of time.” He let go of Han’s hand, and took a step back.

  Micah swung his cape about his shoulders, fastening it at the neck with an elaborate clasp. His gaze swept over Dancer and locked on Cat, still huddled at the corner table. Micah smiled—a long, slow smile—and bowed sardonically. She twitched and hunched her shoulders, scowling.

  Now that Han thought about it, Cat had been surprisingly shut-mouthed during his face-off with Bayar. After what had happened to the Raggers, was she scared of wizards now?

  Still smiling at some private joke, Micah nodded to Han. “Alister,” he said. “I wish you luck.” Gesturing to the Manders to follow, he walked out of the tavern.

  C H A P T E R T W E L V E

  RAISED FROM

  THE DEAD

  Raisa was waiting for Amon in the common room of the dormitory when he returned from his late recitation. Maps of the Seven Realms lay scattered across the table in front of her. She was supposed to be writing an essay on how geography had shaped the great battles of the past, but she was having trouble concentrating. In fact, all she’d managed so far was a title. “How Geography Has Shaped the Great Battles of the Past.”

  It was still pouring rain, and Amon looked weary and worn down as he stripped off his wet cloak. Five days a week he had patrol duty at 6:30 a.m., and his late recitation on Modern Weaponry ran until ten p.m.

  “Blood of Hanalea,” he grumbled, hanging up his cloak. “It takes a special talent to make weaponry boring.” He yawned hugely. “Do you think you remember what you hear in your sleep?” He sloshed the teapot to check the water level, then put it on to boil.

  “He’s alive,” Raisa said, practically bursting with the news. “I saw him. Cuffs Alister.”

  “What?” Amon flopped down in a chair and tugged off his boots. He inspected his feet, wrinkled his nose, and began peeling off his socks.

  “Cuffs Alister,” Raisa repeated. “He’s here.”

  Amon stopped peeling and looked up, frowning. “What are you talking about?”

  “I was walking across the courtyard near the stables and he nearly rode into me.”

  The socks dropped to the floor. “What would Alister be doing in Oden’s Ford? That doesn’t make sense.” Amon leaned forward, hands on his knees, his face hard and intent. “Did you speak with him? Did he recognize you?”

  Raisa shook her head. “Well, no. As soon as I recognized him, I ran away.”

  “You ran away?” Amon lifted an eyebrow. “You didn’t think that might raise his suspicions?”

  “Well, yes,” Raisa said, feeling irritated. “I didn’t know what to do. I never expected to see him here. You told me he was dead.”

  “He’s supposed to be dead,” Amon said, as if Cuffs had pulled a nasty trick by being alive. He paused, chewing on his lower lip. “You sure it was him?”

  She scowled at him. “I know it was him.”

  The teapot shrilled. Amon pried himself out of his chair and crossed barefoot to the hearth. “Want some tea?” he asked, spooning leaves into a cup and pouring for himself.

  “It was Cuffs Alister,” Raisa repeated stubbornly, ignoring Amon’s question. He poured a cup for her anyway and set it on the table in front of her.

  He looked slightly less agitated, and Raisa knew he was convincing himself she’d been mistaken. “It’s been raining all day,” he said, sitting back down. “So I’m guessing he was cloaked and hooded up.”

  Well, yes, Raisa thought, unwilling to say it aloud. But I know what I saw. His fair hair had badly needed cutting, and his blue eyes were as brilliant as she remembered in his appallingly handsome face.

  The last time she’d seen him, he’d been covered in cuts and bruises, his arm splinted, courtesy of the Queen’s Guard. Now his face was marked by a different kind of injury—pain and loss and betrayal—and layered with a new wariness.

  “Sometimes it’s hard to tell one person from another when they’re wrapped up like that,” Amon persisted.

  Raisa rubbed her forehead, trying to recall every detail. Now that she thought about it, the boy she’d seen in the stable yard was riding a clan pony. He’d been dressed in expensive trader garb—a boiled-wool cloak and fine clan leatherwork boots.

  That didn’t make sense. Alister was a slum dweller—where would he learn to ride a horse? Where would he get one? And why would he be dressed as a trader?

  Raisa’s certainty began to crumble. Did she want Alister to be alive so much that she’d conjured a ghost? Had a stranger’s resemblance to Cuffs brought him to mind?

  “Even if he were alive, what would he be doing here?” Amon said, his voice a constant drip-drip-drip against her hopes.

  “I don’t know,” Raisa said, too stubborn to concede. “Maybe he’s going to school, too. Or maybe he’s just hiding out here until things settle down in the Fells. Like me.”

  “He’s not like you, Rai,” Amon said. “He’s a thief and a killer, and you’re—”

  “You’re right, of course. There’s nobody like me,” Raisa said, wrapping her arms around her knees and feeling sorry for herself.

  Amon raked his fingers through his wet hair so it stuck up in all directions. “Why do I get the impression you hope it was him?”

  “Well,” Raisa conceded, “I hope he’s not dead.” Ever since she’d heard that Alister had been murdered, she’d felt hollowed out and guilty. She’d failed him, like the queen had failed all the desperate residents of Ragmarket and Southbridge.

  “If you’re going to hope, then hope that he’s alive and happy someplace far from here,” Amon said. “Eventually you’re going to be recognized, but I’d like to put it off as long as possible.” He pulled a sheaf of papers from his carry bag and wedged them onto a free corner of the table.

  “Alister doesn’t know who I really am,” Raisa said. She blew on her tea to cool it, and took a cautious sip. “So he can’t give me away.”


  Amon rolled his pen between his fingers. “I’ll look into it,” he conceded. “I’ll see if anyone by that name is enrolled at Wien House or Isenwerk. If he came here for school, it seems most likely he’d be going as a soldier or engineer.” He bent his head over his work and began scratching notes. “Unless you think he’s going into orders. Speaker Jemson seemed impressed with him.”

  Amon Byrne was actually making a joke.

  Raisa watched him for a long moment, then slumped in her chair. “You’re right. I was probably mistaken.”

  Amon kept working, so Raisa turned back to her own task, squeezing sentences out with great effort and little enthusiasm, like paint from an empty tube.

  She tried to ignore the dull ache beneath her ribs that might have been disappointment.

  C H A P T E R T H I R T E E N

  CHARMCASTING

  FOR BEGINNERS

  Han scrubbed at his eyes with both hands and set the book of simple charms aside. He was a decent reader—he’d been the best in his class at the school at Southbridge Temple—but this vocabulary was totally foreign to him. It didn’t help that he’d risen before the sun, after a sleepless night, driven by worry. It was only his first day of classes, and he was already drunk with fatigue.

  Taking hold of his flashpiece, he walked the perimeter of his room, stumbling over words as he tried to reproduce the spoken charm. When he’d circled the room twice, he stopped in the center and looked around.

  Nothing happened. No gush of flame charred the walls (a good thing). No shimmering net of protection settled over the doors and windows (maybe a bad thing). The book had described it as a charm of protection against those who meant him harm. How would he know it worked if there was no enemy to try it out on?

  An enemy lived two floors below. And he still hadn’t decided what to do about it.

  He’d already sat through a lecture from Dancer on the topic, the night before, when Micah left the tavern and Han wanted to follow.