Kingsbane
“There has to be a way, some method no one’s tried,” Ilmaire insisted. “Texts, journals from the saints—”
“Journals are no use without the proper power to implement their teachings.”
“I have enough power to do it,” Rielle interrupted quietly. “I know I do.”
“As we have already seen,” Jodoc said, “that is not the case, Lady Rielle, no matter how dearly you wish it were.”
She lifted her chin to meet his glare. “Maybe I can’t do it now, but I think I will be able to someday.”
“And when will that day arrive? Tomorrow? Next year? Twenty years from now? Have you no understanding of what’s happened? The Gate is a volcano waiting to erupt, one large enough to obliterate us all, and we have no way of knowing when it will do so, no way of knowing what the angels are doing on the other side in their attempt to break free of their prison. No knowledge of how many cruciata they themselves have encountered, and subdued, and bound to them in service. And you,” he added, “have merely stoked the building fire.”
A moment of silence passed. Then Ilmaire said thoughtfully, “Perhaps she needs a casting.”
Rielle laughed. “As you’ve seen, castings aren’t necessary for me.”
“Maybe not for stopping arrows or tidal waves, no,” Ilmaire said. “But to repair a Gate sewn into the very fabric of the empirium? A Gate that required seven of the most powerful humans the world has ever known to create? For that, I think, you might need some help.”
Beside Rielle, Ludivine tensed. He has an idea, but he doesn’t want to say it.
Who does?
Jodoc. Ludivine hesitated. Ah. It’s an excellent idea.
“You have something to suggest, Jodoc?” she said out loud.
The man’s face closed at once. “Poking around in my head, are you? Can’t help yourself?”
“When you are withholding information that could assist Rielle,” Ludivine replied, “then yes, I will poke around as I see fit.”
After a moment of tense silence, Jodoc spoke. “Some of our scholars have theorized that the original castings of the saints might be necessary to achieve any sort of true repair of the Gate.” He glanced at Rielle. “As with all castings, even after their user’s death, they hold some residual power and will contain the memory of the Gate’s creation. They are familiar with the fabric of it, with how it was originally constructed.”
Audric’s expression brightened. “You think that if Rielle wields the saints’ castings—”
“That might provide her with the tools she needs to make the repairs,” Ilmaire finished.
“As Magister Cateline Thoraval wrote in A Treatise on the Inner Life of Magic,” Audric continued, “even for the most naturally talented elemental, structure is key. In the execution of any elemental task, especially those foreign to the elemental, or particularly dangerous—”
Ilmaire snapped his fingers, finishing the sentence for him. “A strong foundation of support—from knowledge to memory to the casting itself—is essential for success.”
Ingrid cast a look of disgust at them both. “That was frightening, and I beg you to never do it again.”
Rielle turned the idea over in her mind. Is this possible?
I can’t say, Ludivine replied. Jodoc seems to think so. And he has spent his entire life studying the Gate.
“If I wanted to attempt this,” Rielle said, “where would I find these castings? They are guarded by your order, are they not?”
Jodoc raised his eyebrows. “I cannot give you that information, Lady Rielle.”
“But you just said—”
“Guarding the saints’ castings and protecting the Gate are sacred duties that have been entrusted to the order of the Obex for centuries by the saints themselves. The information we hold cannot be shared.”
Jodoc’s gaze cut sharply to Ludivine. “Nor can it be easily extracted. We have worked for many centuries to close off those parts of our minds, thanks to the teachings left to us by the angel Aryava. And if you move against us, Lady Ludivine, I will blow this horn”—he gestured at the horn of bone he wore at his waist—“and every member of my order who possesses this information will hear me and, without hesitation, will ingest a poison that each of them keeps on their person, and so will I. We will die in a matter of seconds, and the knowledge we hold will die with us. The marques in our employ will travel the world and bring the rest of our order into deep hiding, and you will never find us.”
“You would rather die than help us?” Ingrid said tightly. “You would sooner leave the Gate’s defense incomplete?”
“I would rather die than have sacred information fall into the hands of an angel I have no reason to trust,” Jodoc replied.
A tense silence filled the room.
At last, Ludivine said smoothly, “Very well. I will attempt no such thing.”
Rielle threw up her hands. “So we’re meant to wander the world, with no direction whatsoever, and somehow find seven hidden castings before the Gate falls?”
“We will watch the Gate closely,” Jodoc replied, “and give you information if the situation requires it. But until then, Lady Rielle, you have proven yourself to be untrustworthy and unpredictable. And I therefore don’t care to make your burden any lighter. If you are to wield the castings of the saints to whose legacy I and my companions have devoted our lives, you will have to show me you are worthy of wielding them.
“And I must note,” he added, glancing at Audric, “that you aren’t beginning this task aimlessly. The first piece of information you need, to find the casting of Saint Katell, lies in the castle Baingarde. I suggest you leave the Sunderlands and return home to Celdaria as quickly as you can.”
With that, Jodoc and the other Obex exited the room, leaving Rielle’s group of five alone. Ilmaire walked to the window and looked out over the moonlit forest. Ingrid sat heavily by the fire and filled a plain metal goblet with wine.
“Anyone else need a drink or three?” she mumbled.
Ludivine raised her hand. “Yes, please.”
“Do you know what he meant by that?” Rielle asked Audric. “What’s in Baingarde?”
“I don’t know. But Mother might.” He sat beside her, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Are you well enough to leave tomorrow?”
Rielle smiled wryly. “Does that matter?”
Audric’s gaze was soft. “It does to me.”
She could not bear to look at him for one more second without touching him, so she kissed him, softly, beneath the murmur of the others’ voices. But that was not enough. Restless, exhausted, she knew of only one thing in the world that could grant her the peace she craved, and it was not a single kiss, no matter how lovely.