by Rebecca Ross
“And what of the immortal mage, Ivina?” Evadne asked.
Damon was silent for a moment. “She presents a threat. I have no doubt she will try to impede us. Xander and Halcyon were preparing for a battle with phantoms in the dark.”
“I am not sword trained, Damon.”
“And neither am I,” he said. “We will still carry swords, to ease my father’s mind, but our greatest defense will be my enchantment. Ivina’s phantoms cannot withstand fire. Keeping them at bay will be paramount to our success.”
Evadne took up her quill, twirled it in her fingers as she pondered on what he had just spoken. “You will cast enchanted fire, then?”
“Yes.”
“That sounds simple enough.”
His eyes flashed. “It would be simple for a mage of great power. To cast fire, or light at all, is a very demanding spell. Compare it to common fire: it needs kindling and breath and constant nourishment or it will burn out.”
Humbled, Evadne fell quiet. She realized that she truly knew nothing of magic.
“I am not powerful,” said Damon. “But nor am I weak. I am an average mage.”
His words resonated within her. Because that was how she thought of herself. Not powerful, not weak. Somewhere in between the two.
“Much to my father’s dismay,” Damon said with a sad smile, “I am not as strong as someone like my aunt. I can only cast an enchantment for so long, and there are many factors that influence the depth and length of my enchantments. How tired I am, for example. If I am sick. If I am hungry or thirsty. Casting fire will be difficult for me. That is why . . . I must ask you to sing the enchantment with me, Evadne.”
Surprise flickered across her face. It was the last thing she’d expected him to say, and she tried to imagine what it would be like to sing a spell with him. She could not envision it, but nor could she imagine moving through the water and terror that was the heart of Mount Euthymius to claim a divine relic.
“It will be an enchantment composed of six verses,” Damon said. “I can deepen my magical well by letting my voice carry the brunt of the magic. So we must sing the stanzas in order, and then repeat them, over and over until we are safely out of the mountain.”
“Is this common?” Evadne asked. “Is it expected for a scribe to sing with their mage?”
Damon nodded. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair tangled. He seemed exhausted until he looked at her, and something stirred in him. “It is. Scribes record our enchantments, but they also learn them, so they can sing with us when we cast the more arduous spells. It will be like singing into the wind, like swimming upstream. I will grow weary and forgetful, and I will need you to guide me when my memory begins to slip.” He paused, the gravel in his voice softening when he continued to speak. “If I had been a more powerful mage, I could have gone on my own. Casting fire would be easier if I had a deeper well. But I do not.”
Evadne was pensive, surprised by how eager she was to sing his magic. He mistook her silence for unwillingness.
“Have you changed your mind, Evadne? You do not have to go into Euthymius with me if you do not want to.”
She stared at the map, its challenges and falls and water. She thought of Halcyon and Xander. She remembered how Straton did not think Evadne was capable of such a daunting mission.
“I have not changed my mind.”
Damon tried to hide his relief, but it still shone in his eyes as he turned away, pacing the chamber. “I think we can perfect the spell in two days. And then we should prepare to go to the mountain. But for now . . . you and I both need sleep. It will do us no good to weary ourselves before Euthymius. Return to me in the morning, when you feel rested.”
The night was deep beyond the windows, although Evadne had no inkling as to what hour it was. The curtains drifted with the breeze, and the villa was silent, slumbering.
She rose, her neck and back sore from sitting. She reached the door and was one breath from leaving Damon for the night when she paused and glanced back at him, watching as he continued to restlessly pace.
“You never asked if I am an acceptable singer,” she said.
Damon stopped to look at her. “It would not matter.”
“Really? You would be fine if I sound like an off-tune kithara while singing your enchantments?”
“Do you sound like an off-tune kithara?”
Evadne smiled and stepped into the corridor shadows. “I suppose you will find out soon enough. Good night, Damon.”
Toula intercepted her the next morning. Evadne was on the stairs, heading to Damon’s chambers, when the older woman motioned for her to halt.
“Here,” Toula said gruffly. “This is for you.”
Evadne’s brows arched when she saw it was a letter, folded and sealed. Her first thought was that it was from her parents. But then she noticed the seal and the handwriting. Both were unfamiliar.
She accepted the papyrus from Toula and ascended the stairs, waiting until she was out of sight from the servant’s keen eyes before she opened the letter.
The message was sparse:
Evadne—Meet me at the Gilded Owl this afternoon. Come whenever it is most convenient for you.
There was no signature. Only the stamp of a winding basilisk in the bottom right corner.
Evadne had seen this mark before. She remembered the strange message she had found in the commander’s satchel her first night as a servant.
Who was this person, and what did they want with her? How did they know her name? Why did they desire to meet with her?
A tremble went through her as she tucked the letter into her belt. She did not have time to dwell on it, to wonder if she should meet this enigma, and she found Damon sitting at the desk, writing painstakingly in a scroll with his right hand. He startled at the sight of her, as if she had caught him doing something criminal.
“Have I come too early?” she asked.
“No, no,” Damon said, but he sounded flustered. He uttered a charm to dry his ink, which sat crooked and miserable on the papyrus, hardly legible. And then he rolled the scroll up before Evadne could make out a single word he had scrawled. The scroll handles were gilded, and they caught the sunlight, as if they had just swallowed a secret.
“Here, sit, Evadne.” Damon rushed to stand. He smeared ink on his face as he gathered the gilded scroll in his arms, bearing it into his bedchamber.
Evadne tried to douse her curiosity as she sat, the chair still holding his warmth. It was apparent he had been working for a long while, she thought as she rearranged her desk the way she was coming to prefer it, opening the charena scroll.
Damon returned to her. He was still wearing yesterday’s clothes, and he looked tired as he arrived to stand on the other side of the desk.
“Did you sleep at all?” she asked, concerned.
“Hmm? Yes. A few hours,” he said, preoccupied. He drew his hand through his hair and sighed. “Shall we begin?”
Evadne opened a pot of ink and prepared to write. Damon began to pace, seemingly aimless, but she knew he was sorting words and thoughts, preparing to speak his enchantment into existence.
He finally came to a stop before his window. She watched from beneath her lashes as he raised his hand to a ray of sun, as he studied the way the light illuminated his fingers.
“A Song of Firelight,” he said, and Evadne wrote everything that spilled from his mouth, capturing the random words and pressing them into the papyrus. He was trying to describe the essence of fire, as if he had never encountered it before.
He began to pace, still seeking the right words, the right bones to build his enchantment, and eventually he came to a stop before Evadne.
He ceased speaking; she looked up at him. Damon was watching the way the sunlight touched her hair, the golden pins at her shoulders. At last, his eyes dropped down to the parchment, where her handwriting was drying.
“Scratch all of that,” he said, with a growl of dissatisfaction, and he began to pace again.
Evadne wanted to argue, but she did as he wanted, drawing a line through them.
She soon realized that Damon was not easily satisfied. Word after word, phrase after phrase, he spoke and then told her to scratch, as if nothing was good enough, and she began to worry that they would not have the enchantment ready in two days, as he hoped.
By the time the light aged into afternoon, Damon had perfected the first half of the song, with three more stanzas remaining to create. Evadne’s last quill finally snapped, and she thought it must be providence, because she was hungry and weary.
“That was my last quill,” she announced, groaning as she stood. “I suppose I should go to the Gilded Owl to purchase another bundle? And we should probably eat something.”
Damon collapsed in his chair and leaned his head back. Arcalos was not in his room today; Evadne wondered where the dog was, shocked by how much she missed his sleeping presence.
“Yes,” Damon murmured, closing his eyes. “Let me accompany you, though. I do not want you to go alone.”
“No, you should stay here and rest,” she insisted, thinking of her mysterious appointment. “I remember where the Gilded Owl is. I will return soon.”
“You can put the quills on my tab,” Damon said, his words smudging together in exhaustion. “And go ahead and purchase another pot or two of ink.”
She departed quietly and was almost to the stairs when she heard Straton and Cosima speaking as she passed their cracked door.
“I want you to be very careful, Cosima,” Straton said, low and urgent. “Do not drink the wine until the cupbearer has tasted it. Keep your antidotes with you at all times. Make sure Lyra is also aware of this, that she does not drink anything outside this villa.”
“You do not think . . .”
“I do. It is happening again. The land advisor has fallen ill. It will not be long before Selene has ravaged the entire inner circle.”
“Must you go so soon, Straton?” Cosima pleaded. “What is in Abacus that is more important than your family?”
“I have responsibilities,” the commander said. “I must return to the legion. I told you such a week ago that I would need to leave today. My warriors are waiting for me.”
“Your legion can wait. Please, Straton. Please stay another week with us.”
Evadne hurried down the stairs, her heart beating in her throat. She did not know why it bothered her, why she felt an echo of Cosima’s pain. But it reminded Evadne of the day Halcyon had left for the legion.
She was anxious as she passed through the villa’s gates, storm clouds beginning to blow in from the west. The streets soon cooled in the shade, and Evadne walked the way Damon had taken her the day before. Was she a fool to answer the letter’s summoning? Part of her believed she was. But she could not stem her curiosity, her hope that maybe this person would be willing to help Halcyon.
Evadne was almost to the eastern market when she felt a prickling sensation on the back of her neck, as if someone was following her.
She slowed her pace and studied the street—the Basilisk could be anyone, she thought—but no one took note of her. Evadne continued on her way until the warning shivered through her again. And she remembered how once she and Damon had gone unseen.
A mage was trailing her, invisible. She was almost certain of it.
The rain arrived and Evadne took shelter beneath the same canopy she and Damon had shared a meal. She watched as the merchants and vendors hastened to close up their market stalls; she watched the way the rain hit the paved stones, hissing with steam, and she noticed there was a small circle of street that was shielded.
The mage was standing there, a stone’s throw away, watching her.
She acted as if she had not noticed, darting across the market to where the Gilded Owl sat on a street corner, the door nearly covered up in ivy.
Inside, the shop was quiet. Evadne was overcome with the sight of all the papyri and scrolls, and pot after pot of quills. Crow quills, goose quills, swan quills. And the different-colored inks sitting within glass jars! They ranged from madder red to lapis lazuli blue. One ink was even a shimmering gold; she wondered if it was the captured ichor of a divine. By its enormous price, she imagined it could certainly be.
“May I help you?”
Evadne turned to see the shopkeeper standing behind a table, white frizzled hair sitting on his head like a cloud, his eyes gentle as he regarded her.
“Yes, I am Damon of Mithra’s scribe, and I am here to purchase a bundle of quills,” she said, stepping closer to his table.
“Damon is one of my finest customers. I take it you are right-handed, by the ink on your fingers?”
Evadne nodded.
“Come and choose which quill will suit you the best. I have all kinds of right-handed ones,” the shopkeeper said, setting out his quills for Evadne to evaluate.
She was brushing her fingertips over the swan quills, the shopkeeper telling her all about where these feathers had come from and how he had cut their nibs, when she heard the door open and close. She did not breathe as she listened to soggy footsteps draw close to her, knowing they were the ones that had stalked her in the streets, and she kept her gaze on the shopkeeper, watching as he lifted his eyes expectantly, as they dimmed when he beheld his second guest.
“Ah, Macarius,” the shopkeeper greeted in a flat tone. “It has been a while since I have seen you here.”
Macarius.
Evadne recognized his sinister presence. The mage who had stolen from her and her parents with one of his sung enchantments. And he had the audacity to stand at her side, far closer than she wanted, his sleeve brushing her arm.
He was the mysterious stamped basilisk? Her heart fell with anger, disappointment.
“Hello, Sophus,” Macarius said in that polished voice that made Evadne grit her teeth. He looked at her and feigned surprise. “Evadne? I almost did not recognize you in those fine clothes!”
Evadne frowned, as if she had never seen him before, and said, “I do not think we have met. Who are you?”
Macarius’s confidence wavered. “Of course. It was a dark night when your father was kind enough to share his fire with me.”
“Oh. Yes, I remember you now. And my parents were gracious enough to feed you for days, weren’t they?” Evadne said sharply and then looked to Sophus, who was regarding her and Macarius with wariness, as if their stilted exchange made him nervous. “I think I will take this bundle of quills, Sophus. And I would love to have a pot of black ink.”
Sophus nodded, shuffling to the far shelf.
Macarius waited to speak until the shopkeeper was out of earshot. “I trust Damon has been treating you well?”
Evadne refused to meet his gaze, focusing her attention on the quills. “I never told you I was Damon’s scribe.”
“It is public knowledge now,” he drawled. “I thought you knew such. The contract is posted in the Destry.”
She elected to ignore him. But Macarius, strangely, seemed intent on capturing her attention. “Evadne, Evadne. You are angry at me. Why?”
“Are you such a conceited fool that you must ask?” she hissed at him, her cheeks flushing in fury.
“I must say you are beautiful when you are angry.”
“You have no right to speak to me in such a way. As a matter of fact, I do not want to speak to you at all.” She took her quills and met Sophus on the other side of the store, thanking him for his assistance. He gave her an oiled leather pouch to carry her purchases in, and Evadne dashed out of the shop into the storm.
She was halfway across the abandoned market when Macarius’s voice chased after her, nearly desperate.
“Wait, Evadne! Contrary to what you may believe, you will want to hear the news I bear.”
“No, I do not think so,” Evadne shouted back at him, walking as quickly as her ankle would allow.
“But I have news of your sister. Of Halcyon.”
That brought Evadne upright. She halted, torn. Wasn’t th
is the very thing she was secretly hoping for? That the stamped basilisk would be able to help with Halcyon’s current situation? “How do you have news?”
“Come, let us get out of the rain and share a meal at this corner tavern, and I will tell you everything you wish to know.” Macarius now stood before her, his flaxen hair dripping rain, his hand outstretched, waiting for her to agree.
It was the last thing she desired. To sit in a tavern with him and share a meal.
But Evadne followed him into the corner building. It felt like a prelude to betrayal, and she hoped word of this would not trickle back to Damon.
The other patrons were reclining, sipping wine and listening to a musician play a seductive melody on her flute. They were dressed in fine garments, their hair perfumed, chased gold on their wrists. Evadne had never felt more out of place in her life as she reluctantly sat across from Macarius in a shadowy nook.
She watched him pull the curtain closed, granting them privacy. Again, that sense of unease swarmed her, and Evadne glared at him.
“What is this news? How have you come by it?”
“Patience, love,” Macarius murmured with a smile. “Have a drink first, to soften that edge in your voice.” The alcove curtain parted, and a servant girl brought a pitcher of white wine and two golden cups. Macarius waited until she had retreated, and then he poured a cup for him and one for Evadne.
“I do not want anything to drink,” she said, terse.
“Suit yourself.” Macarius reclined on his cushion, his eyes on Evadne. She was still drenched and disheveled, and his gaze lingered a beat too long on her wet raiment, where the linen clung to her skin. “How do you like it? Being a scribe, that is.”
“I am not here to converse about scribing, Macarius. If you do not speak news of my sister in the next few moments, I am going to leave.”
He sipped his wine, unhurried. But she could tell her bluntness was irritating him.
