Ishelle grinned. “It was only meant to be something small—every time he went to tell me how I would be ‘punished’ I made him say the word ‘cuddle.’ It was just the two of us, he didn’t realize it was happening, and it made the whole boring thing a lot more entertaining to listen to.”
Davian sniggered as he envisaged it. “And you got away with that?”
“Well.” Ishelle’s smile widened. “What I didn’t realize was that I hadn’t undone the Control properly before he left … and that he had a big speech in front of the entire Central Ward the next day. All about discipline.”
Davian felt his eyes widen. “You’re serious?”
Ishelle put on a deep voice, pretending that she was addressing a large crowd. “The next person who looks the other way when standards drop, I will personally cuddle. Anyone who does not perform to the level expected in Central Ward will be severely cuddled.”
Davian stared at her in open-mouthed, grinning disbelief, then guffawed more loudly than he’d intended, drawing curious glances from passers-by.
“What happened when someone told him?”
“That was the best part. Everyone was so intimidated by him, he went through the entire speech like that. No one wanted to be the one to speak up. Driscin figured out what I’d done and made me undo it straight after, but …” She giggled. “As far as I know, he never found out. That speech was two years ago, and I still hear it referred to as the Cuddle Speech whenever Lyrus isn’t around.”
Davian put his hand over his mouth, muffling another laugh. “That’s amazing. And terrible. But amazing.”
Ishelle shrugged modestly, looking pleased at his reaction.
As Davian continued to chuckle, they finally emerged into the crowds of Outer, which despite the lack of space still managed to ripple away uneasily as people recognized them.
Outer Ward was completely different again from the other two wards. Physically the largest of the three concentric rings, it was the only ward into which all the Gifted were allowed, and thus also by far the most congested. It housed not only the majority of people in the Tol, but also its own marketplace, storage buildings, the common-access library, and a hundred other facilities. It was raucous and chaotic most of the time, the extra bodies making everything cramped, loud, and uncomfortable.
After a couple of minutes they came to the Entrance Hall, and Davian glanced at the structure, wondering just how many claimants were waiting for an interview today.
“You’re sure you—”
“I am.” Ishelle made a shooing motion. “Go. Do … whatever it is you do to relax.”
Davian flashed a grateful smile and inclined his head, splitting off toward the Tol’s eastern gate. Despite the quickly parting crowd and sullen stares, he found himself with a spring in his step at the prospect of getting away from everything for a while.
He exited the Tol, even managing a cheerful nod in response to the suspicious glare of the guards at the gate. Despite the gray afternoon sky overhead, he headed into Prythe with a smile on his face.
The walk into Prythe was a short one.
Unlike Tol Athian, Shen—the fortress being above ground, not to mention the size of a large town itself—was located beyond the city’s walls, but it still essentially adjoined Prythe, and the journey took only ten minutes. It was a pleasant excursion; the clouds were finally beginning to clear, and a hint of spring was in the air now that the worst of winter had passed.
Davian, for once, didn’t feel the need to hurry. He’d made this trip a couple of times already since their arrival, despite having nothing specific to do in the city. As one of the Gifted, he’d always had to wear both a Shackle and a red cloak to identify himself in public—but as an Augur, there were no such restrictions. Not technically, anyway; he wasn’t sure if it was an oversight due to hastily drafted laws, but he intended to take full advantage of the situation while it lasted. The ability to blend into a crowd and just disappear was something he hadn’t truly been able to experience in years.
He let his mind drift as he wandered through the streets, enjoying the anonymity. Prythe had neither the breadth nor beauty of Ilin Illan—the houses and shops here were constructed from a melange of materials and styles old and new, made by hands far less skilled than the Builders’—but the city made up for it with sheer bustle. The main streets were alive, energetic, the crowds a noisy, colorful maze of moving parts as people weaved out of the way of carriages or veered toward a stall they’d just spotted.
Musicians—something Prythe was renowned for—stood at every corner; the moment one tune threatened to become soft in Davian’s ears, another picked up somewhere ahead. A young blond woman singing a bright tune made him think of Asha; as he often did, he wondered how she was getting on in the aftermath of the battle with the Blind. Hoped, idly, that things were going better for her than they were for him.
He twisted the silver ring on his finger as he paused to listen, struck by a sudden bout of melancholy. It had been one of the hardest things he’d ever had to do, leaving Ilin Illan to come here. Leaving her. It had been the right thing to do, of that he still had no doubt.
It didn’t mean he missed her any less.
Word from the capital had been scarce, too. He thought Wirr was still Northwarden, at least. When he’d arrived at Tol Shen he’d been bemused by how few Administrators there were, only to discover days later that the vast majority had left in the preceding weeks, heading for Ilin Illan to protest after the Tenets had been changed. There were some still around—three had been present for his and Ishelle’s official acceptance of the Amnesty—but in the week since his arrival, Davian could count on one hand the number of times he’d seen a blue cloak amid all the red.
He stood listening to the music for a while, standing among the small crowd the woman had gathered on her corner. Her voice was crystal, beautiful and clear, cutting through the hubbub of the city. A smattering of applause sounded when the last note of the song faded and she curtsied, face flushed from the performance.
Davian, along with several others, paused to toss a coin into the bowl in front of her. It wasn’t much, but the Tol took care of his needs, and he had more than enough to spare after his compensation for accepting the Amnesty.
The singer gave him a bright smile of acknowledgment. Then, as he was about to walk past, she leaned forward and put a hand on his arm.
“Excuse me,” she said quietly as the rest of the crowd began to drift away. “I know this is none of my business, but you may want to keep one hand on that purse of yours.”
“What?” Davian stared at her in confusion.
“You’ve wandered past this corner today, what—three or four times? Every time, there’s been a gentleman not far behind who seems intent on keeping you in sight, but staying out of yours.” She shook her head wryly. “I only noticed because he’s painfully obvious, so I’m not sure how much of a danger he is—but then, you’re evidently not used to being in the city, so …” She shrugged apologetically. “He must have seen you have some coin, sensed you were an easy target. I thought you’d like to know.”
Davian swallowed a sudden surge of unease, nodding his thanks. Had someone recognized him? There had been no reason to think that Prythe would be dangerous; no one outside the Tol should even have his description, let alone know him by sight. “What does he look like?”
“Short, stocky. Brown cloak with a hood that he keeps pulled over his face.” She shook her head. “You’ll know him if you see him. Fates, he looks suspicious enough that I’m surprised the city watch hasn’t pulled him aside yet.”
Davian thanked her and started apprehensively down the street, resisting the urge to look over his shoulder. If there was someone after him, he needed to know who.
He made himself keep a steady pace until he came to the mouth of a narrow alley, then turned down it and broke into a sprint, rounding the next corner before stopping and closing his eyes.
He pushed through kan.
He stretched his senses out back along the alley that he’d just run through, examining the crowd in the street. At first there was nothing, the ebb and flow of people seeming no different from before.
Then a source separated from the mass of bodies, pausing at the entrance to the alley; though Davian couldn’t see walls using kan, he suspected his pursuer was peering around the corner of a building.
Davian frowned. The man’s Essence glowed significantly brighter than those around him.
He was Gifted.
Before Davian could wonder at the fact, his pursuer evidently realized that there was no sign of his quarry, losing all pretense of stealth and breaking into a sprint. Davian waited until the figure was almost at the corner and then stepped smoothly into its path, ready to draw Essence if the need arose.
The brown-cloaked man skidded to a halt, blue eyes wide as he realized who stood in his way.
Davian scowled, relaxing somewhat as he took in the familiar features under the hood.
“Elder Thameron?” Davian rubbed his forehead. “What are you doing here? Why are you following me?”
Elder Thameron licked his lips, looking caught between irritation and embarrassment. Eventually, the former appeared to win out.
“Did you really think the Council would let you wander the city alone?” he snapped, keeping his voice low. “Without supervision? Without protection?” He rolled his shoulders uncomfortably, glancing around. “And keep your voice down. I’m in a lot of trouble if an Administrator finds me out here without my robe and Shackle.”
Davian stared at the Elder in disbelief. “Why not just tell me?”
“Because you made such a fuss about it when you got here.” Thameron sighed, tone softening. “We don’t want you to feel like a prisoner, Davian—but you are our responsibility. With all that entails.”
Davian said nothing for a few moments, though he was seething inwardly. He’d been surprised at how easily the Council had acceded to him and Ishelle being allowed to leave the Tol, but had assumed it was a conciliatory gesture—an attempt to compromise a little after all the other restrictions they’d placed on the Augurs. He should have known that it wasn’t without caveats.
A gamut of insults ran through his head, but he made himself breathe deeply instead of releasing them. Eventually, he calmed enough to simply shake his head in disgust. The pleasure of his time away from the Tol was now a distant memory.
“I’m going back.” He started walking, but stopped immediately as Thameron started alongside him. He turned to face the Elder, staring at him stonily. “If you need to follow me, you can keep doing what you were doing. I’m not interested in company.”
Thameron flushed but when Davian started walking again, he didn’t try to fall into step. Davian didn’t look to see how far back the man was keeping, but the mere knowledge of his presence was a knot between Davian’s shoulders.
He headed in the general direction of the Tol, hesitating as he went to walk past the singer who had warned him. The blond woman was still taking a break so he turned and veered over to her side, giving her a brief, albeit forced, smile of greeting.
“I just wanted to say thanks for the tip. It wasn’t a cutpurse after all.” He glanced over his shoulder, glaring toward the brown-robed shape of Elder Thameron as it emerged from the alley. “Just someone being a nuisance.”
The singer frowned, staring at him in bemusement. “What?” She took an uncertain half step back. “Who are you?”
Davian blinked. “Um. We spoke a few minutes ago?”
The woman gave him a hesitant smile. “Sorry, friend. I think you have me mistaken,” she said, her careful tone suggesting that she wasn’t entirely sure of Davian’s mental stability.
Davian frowned. “No—no, I’m quite sure it was you. You warned me about …”
He trailed off.
There was genuine confusion in the woman’s eyes, and no hint of recognition.
“Never mind,” he said quietly, swallowing, anxiety suddenly arcing through him. “Sorry to disturb you.”
He hurried off before she could respond, his mind racing, Thameron temporarily forgotten.
The singer hadn’t lied to him, and there were only two reasons for her not to have remembered him after such a short period of time.
Someone had taken her memories of him, or—more likely—she’d been Controlled, and it hadn’t been she who had warned him about Thameron in the first place.
Either way, an Augur had been there.
He shivered, the memory of what Asha had told him about Scyner flashing through his head. If there was an Augur in Prythe, why would they not yet have gone to the Tol? Why warn Davian about Thameron? How had they even known Davian was an Augur?
More questions occurred to him as he walked, but none of them had obvious answers. Davian gritted his teeth and continued pushing through the hubbub of Prythe, angling back toward Tol Shen as dusk began to settle on the city. He needed to talk to Ishelle.
For the first time since he’d arrived, he found himself feeling genuinely uneasy.
Chapter 7
Wirr tugged irritably at the fine shirt he was wearing.
It wasn’t so much the material; he was getting accustomed to that again, even if it galled him to think of dressing up for dinner while people in the city were trying to rebuild their homes. It was more that he’d been all but manhandled into wearing it. His uncle had insisted that he look not just presentable, but good. He’d forced the royal tailor on Wirr for just this occasion.
“You look very nice tonight, Your Highness,” observed Andyn as the carriage moved along the streets of the Upper District.
Wirr shrugged. “Not through any fault of my own,” he assured his bodyguard drily.
“Knowing your usual appearance, Sire, I assumed as much.”
Wirr blinked in surprise, then snorted and shook his head, allowing himself a small smile at the unexpected crack. It seemed that Andyn was finally beginning to relax a little around him—not to the extent of any impropriety, but enough that Wirr found himself glad for the redheaded man’s company tonight.
The ride to the Tel’Rath residence was short; all the Great Houses had residences in the Upper City, as close to the palace as they could manage. Even so, Wirr couldn’t help but fixate on the aftermath of the battle, still evident in the scarred streets and crumbling walls where blasts of Essence had torn them apart. It was too easy to recall his own wild flight down this road, away from the Shields and back toward the Tol, certain that he would die and still trying to comprehend the loss of his father.
A month on, and the memory still made him feel ill.
Soon enough, though, Wirr found himself gazing around at the Tel’Rath grounds as the carriage rolled through the tall outer gates. He’d never been here before, only walked past the high gray walls that kept passers-by from peering inside.
Despite knowing how wealthy the family was, he was still surprised to find the grounds were nearly as impressive as the palace’s. The immaculately kept lawns and gardens had been untouched by the invasion, and a dedicated road wound its way up to the enormous house—verging on a castle—that sat with its back firmly against Ilin Tora.
Wirr grimaced as the carriage came to a stop, noting the throng of people waiting outside the front door for him. Not just Lord and Lady Tel’Rath, along with Iria. All the servants had come as well.
“Quite the welcome, Sire,” observed Andyn cheerfully.
Wirr kept his face smooth, fighting the urge to glare at his body
guard.
The next half hour passed in a mildly awkward, stiffly polite blur of pleasantries and small talk, followed by another hour of equally polite one-on-one political discourse with Lord Tel’Rath. Wirr had assumed part of the evening would go this way; Wirr’s influence was significant regardless of his current conflicts within Administration, and Lord Tel’Rath was hardly the kind of man to pass up a chance to further his various agendas.
Still, by the time dinner was announced, he had more than had his fill of the conversation. Lord Tel’Rath was civil enough, even outwardly friendly, but Wirr couldn’t help but get the sense that every word out of his mouth was guarded. Considered. Tactical.
It was almost a reprieve when he was seated next to Iria at the dining table.
The meal passed pleasantly enough, much to his relief. Lady Tel’Rath, a statuesque woman whose long hair had begun to show signs of silver, was clearly skilled at diverting her husband’s attempts to discuss politics at the table—even if she managed to find a way to heap praise on Iria every few minutes instead.
For her part, Iria seemed more embarrassed than anything else by the attention. She was a pretty woman of around twenty years, only a year or two older than Wirr himself, but more shy than he’d expected from a daughter of one of the Great Houses. Her long black hair was simply bound, and she wore a green dress that was form-fitting but still on the side of modesty. She was friendly toward him but far from pushy, engaging him in light, albeit awkward conversation here and there over the course of the meal.
As dinner began to wind down, Lord Tel’Rath was fetched by a servant, and he nodded politely to Wirr before hurrying off after the man. A few minutes later, Lady Tel’Rath murmured an excuse and disappeared as well, leaving only Wirr, Iria, and Andyn in the room.
Wirr did his best not to look irritated. He’d known this moment in the evening would come—some casual excuse to leave him and Iria alone, with only Andyn standing discreetly in the corner to ensure there were no suggestions of impropriety. Iria was proving to be sweet-natured, occasionally even funny—certainly not what he’d expected—but that, of course, didn’t change anything.
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