He pursed his lips and turned my fidgeting hand over. I’d left my gloves in my mother’s chamber. In the window light, it was easy to make out the dozens of thin scars on my uncovered skin.
“Tell me,” he said, “how did your soybean crop turn out?”
I grimaced. “In all honesty, I never had an occasion to try that one.”
He laughed. “It wouldn’t have worked, but it would have been fun to see you try. No, blood magic won’t grow soybeans. That’s better suited to another type of magic entirely.”
“Feral magic?” I guessed.
“Indeed. I see Vitesio’s Compendium de Magia there in your collection. It’s an excellent overview of all three magic disciplines. Good to know you’ve read that, at least.”
“I have, cover to cover. The problem is, there isn’t much left between the covers.”
He picked it up and thumbed through the sparse pages. “Disgraceful,” he said. “Someone has amputated eighty percent of the book! This is practically incoherent.”
“Most of my books are like that. The Tribunal’s regular purges of witch-friendly reading material are thorough. I’m lucky that any of these books made it at all. Most of what I know, I’ve gleaned over years, from snippets.”
In frustration, he slammed the book shut. “Lesson one: Magic is that thing that makes trees and animals and plants and us different from rocks and dirt and water . . . it is the spark. Spirit. Life. Whatever you want to call it, it is power. That said, there are three prevailing methods of accessing this power. The first is called sancti magicae, high magic. Practitioners access it through meditation, prayer, spiritual communion with the Empyrea. It gives them visions of the future, the ability to move objects with their mind, sometimes the power to heal. Renalt’s famous queen, Aren, was an anchorite of the highest order before leaving it to marry into the Renaltan monarchy. The second is called fera magicae, or feral magic. It is mostly herbology, divination, transfiguration . . . it’s the magic of nature. Of growth. Of cyclical order and balance. Our namesake king, Aren’s brother Achlev, was a mage of this order. And the last is sanguinem magicae. Blood magic. Magic of passion and sacrifice. Probably the most powerful and destructive of them all. Before he swore off spells and became Founder of the Tribunal, the third sibling, Cael, was a blood mage, and one of great power. The three of them together were very powerful, in their day. Triumviri, they were called by the Assembly at that time. The best in their fields.”
I listened in silence as I used his simplistic explanations to fit disjointed pieces of my scavenged knowledge together. “I never knew that about them.”
“How could you?” Simon said, casting a dour glance at my piecemeal library.
“Wait,” I said, “did you say lesson one?” I asked hopefully, “Does that mean there might be a lesson two?”
Simon gave a low whistle. “Your mother, when she wrote to me and asked me to come, said that you were ‘dangerously unconcerned with the precariousness’ of your position. I begin to see that that was not an exaggeration.”
“She’s wrong,” I said. “I know exactly how precarious my position is.”
“And you collect magic books and practice blood spells anyway?”
I shrugged, frustrated. “The Tribunal terrorizes this country—my country. If they view witchcraft as a weapon, I must learn to wield it against them”—I swallowed hard—“before they can use it against me.” Or others, like Mabel and Hilda. I pushed all thoughts of their deaths down deep, twisting my guilt and sorrow into the taut coil at my center.
Simon was making a face. “Lesson two: witchcraft is a coarse term. The Assembly, fallen though it is now, never allowed its usage. The word witch refers to untrained, undisciplined practitioners—especially those who willfully ignore the Assembly’s statutes, which were established for the safety of all, mages and the magicless alike.”
The Assembly of Mages—it had waned in power for many years before it finally fell. I was too young to recall it myself, but I grew up hearing stories about the grand, glorious festivity in Renalt that had accompanied the news of its demise. It was an occasion often remembered and remarked upon with nostalgia, a source of fond anecdotes to exchange in good company. Where were you when you heard the news? Remember the fireworks? The dancing all night in the streets?
It wasn’t until I was much older that I realized that what everyone was celebrating was death. Death to people with magic, like me.
“What happened to the Assembly?” I asked. “What really happened?”
A shadow crossed Simon’s expression. “A lesson for another day, I think.”
“So you’ll really teach me?”
“When you stepped into the triangle during our spell, the luneocite stones flashed. An indication that you’re already somewhat attuned to the power. But magic—blood magic, especially, can be grueling to learn and painful to practice. With the Assembly gone, I’ve long wanted to pass my knowledge on to another generation, but the last time I tried to take on a novice, I am afraid it did not end well. What you experienced within the triangle today was just a breath of what’s in store. I must ask you honestly: Are you sure you’re up to the task?”
“Yes,” I said. “Absolutely, yes.”
“All right, then. I’ll teach you—just on a trial basis, mind you, and only after we’re back in Achleva, after the wedding. Until then, I think it would be wise if you abstain from magic completely. That way we can start fresh. And you won’t be dead.”
“Both good things, I suppose.” I paused. “Are you not going to lecture me about revenge? Tell me that after becoming Achleva’s queen, I should just let my grudge against the Tribunal go?”
“Dear me, no,” Simon said. “The Tribunal is an abomination. I can think of no greater legacy for a queen of two nations than to rid the world of that organization for good.”
I sat back, speechless. For the first time in my life, I was looking forward to my wedding. “I’ve never thought of it that way.”
“It won’t be easy, mind you. And Achleva may not have the Tribunal to worry about, but we have our own troubles.” The corners of his mouth sagged, and I began to see those troubles etched in the creases framing his lips and eyes, easily mistaken for laugh lines. “I’m hoping that, while I’m here this week, I can look into some things that have been disconcerting me back home in Achleva.”
“What do you think you can discover in Renalt? Renaltans can’t even cross Achlev’s Wall without . . .” Trying to be delicate, I waved my fingers up and down. When his eyebrow shot up, I said, “You know. Burning to death?” Our histories were full of horrific illustrations of Renaltan armies dying in large swaths trying to breach Achlev’s Wall. Prompted by the writings of the Tribunal’s Founder, Cael, Renalt tried for three hundred years without success, until the marriage treaty allayed the aggression between our countries, if not the underlying enmity.
“Renaltans don’t have to cross our wall to influence what goes on behind it,” Simon said. “I want to figure out the reason for the sudden abundance of Renaltan coin in circulation with ours, merchants forging new trade deals with coastal Renaltan ports that would never have received them before . . . Hallet Graves, de Lena . . .”