Page 38

“That’s Fate for you.” His lips twitched. “And before you ask, Rhys definitely stole that one from me. They didn’t elect him Bandit King twice for nothing.”

Laurent narrowed his eyes at Jordan. “So what should she do? Farsee once a day? Try her hand at this Making thing, whatever that means, and try not to worry about Midian showing up?”

“I couldn’t say, Your Grace,” Jordan answered.

Anger flashed in Laurent’s eyes. “Forgive me, Brother Jordan, but that will not do. You can’t drop the knowledge of this power on her without telling her how to use it.” He counted items off his fingers. “What’s it for? What is she supposed to make? How does it square with the prophecy? Are you being truthful about it?”

“Laurent,” Given said quietly.

Laurent kept going. “If you want her to wield this power, for the love of the gods, tell her how!”

Jordan’s expression remained as unflappable as ever. “The last person to possess the gift of Making was King Avenor. He died five hundred years ago, Your Grace. I’m a mage of Wesyfedd. I am not all-knowing. I watch, I See, and I serve Ter Isir.”

“Yes, but you swore to serve Given.”

“And I won’t be forsworn, nor will I be kept by a priest against my will.” As he finished the sentence, the door clicked. Slowly, it opened.

Laurent turned toward the door. When he turned back, his eyes were colder than the winds in the Wastes. “I care nothing for the latter, Jordan. But if you’re lying about the former, your parlor tricks won’t save you.” He extended a hand to Given. “Come, my lady. It’s been a long day.”

As they moved to the door, I lifted my voice. “I would speak with Brother Jordan alone.”

Laurent stopped and looked at me over his shoulder.

I kept my gaze on Jordan as I added, “With your leave, of course, Your Grace.”

“Of course,” Laurent said softly. He and Given left.

And I was alone with Jordan of Twyl for the first time since the beach in the Wastes.

Chapter Ten

VARICK

I didn’t bother shutting the library door. It wasn’t like I had secrets anymore. Jordan of Twyl seemed to know them all anyway.

“You could have saved a lot of people a great deal of trouble by speaking up sooner,” I told him.

He drew an even breath. “I could not, Lord Varick.”

“Why,” I said bluntly.

“It would have influenced your actions.”

“That sounds like an excuse. Something a manipulative person would say to get what they want.”

His shoulders lifted. He opened his mouth—

“If you’re about to foist some kind of veiled life lesson on me, I’ll puke.”

He shut his mouth. Then he went to the settle by the window and sat. He smoothed his hair, mussing the chocolate-brown waves before resting his elbows on his knees and lacing his fingers lightly together. “I was ten years old when I learned I was the Archmage. I’d had visions before, but never like—” He cut himself off. Looked up at me before dropping his gaze to the ugly carpet. “They came so quickly. Possibilities. Sometimes certainties. I knew everything everywhere all the time. If a vision was very strong, I would feel the pain of the person within it. There were cases where I knew someone would experience agony. Seemingly pointless agony but necessary for something more important to happen. And I’d have to stand by and say nothing.” He swallowed. “It became…unbearable.”

I stared at him, curiosity tugging at me despite myself. “So what did you do?”

“My teachers taught me how to turn it off.” He lifted one hand, palm up, and angled his other hand like a blade in the center of it. “The visions would never stop coming, but I could dam them up. Let them trickle through more slowly so I could see them when I wanted to.”

That sounded fine. “It worked?”

He nodded.