“There are precious few samples to study,” Markus continued. “We must find the source, determine how it is forged?—”
Markus cut off as she leapt up from the bed. She was inches from tearing the kaldurite from his grasp when a blast of projective ley came through the open door. It was like being kicked in the chest by a mule. Ash smirked from the doorway as she flew backwards.
Markus gave her a disappointed look. “I hoped you might listen to reason, Cathrynne. Think about where your loyalties lie.”
She made a rude gesture. “Give me the stone and we’ll test your theory. I’ll shove it right up your?—”
The door closed. The bar came down.
Twice a day, her brooding was interrupted by Ash and Kane. The routine never varied: a knock, followed by a curt order to stand against the windows. They never turned their backs, never stepped fully into the room. Kane watched while Ash set down a new tray and collected the old one.
When she asked them what had happened to Mercy, they ignored her.
But something happened on the tenth day. As Ash was bending down, Cathrynne had a vision of her standing on the Corniche in Kota Gelangi. A projective spell erupted from her palm. It struck a young man with sandy hair. His body flew over a stone wall and plunged into the river below.
Cathrynne only caught a flash of his face, but she recognized him. Durian Padulski, the boy whose house they had visited in Pota Pras. His body had been displayed, and although it had the disfiguring signs of someone too long in the water, she recognized the birthmark on his cheek.
Ash was the witch who had killed him.
The vision faded, but another followed as her gaze shifted to the male witch, Kane. This time she saw him standing in the hills, facing a young woman with springy dark hair and a lean, determined face. She held a pistol with both hands. Cathrynne heard the crack of the shot. He stumbled, blood blooming across his white coat like a crimson flower.
Kal Machena had shot him! Too bad the bastard wasn’t dead.
The pair of White Foxes left, oblivious to her visions. The bar thudded down behind them.
Cathrynne sat still, the food forgotten. She always saw symbols—not actual events. Something was changing. She must be shifting into the later stage of foretelling. The one where you lost control.
Where you lost your mind.
Yet she felt a grim satisfaction. Kal Machena had fought back. And they didn’t know where she was if they were reduced to interrogating Cathrynne.
Run, she thought. Just keep running and don’t ever stop.
Chapter 22
Kal
She dug her fingers into familiar crevices, scrambling up the brick wall surrounding the Lenormand School. She’d made this trip a dozen times now, but the thrill of outwitting witches never got old.
Kal paused at the top to survey the manicured grounds. Moonlight silvered the grass and cast long shadows between the red-brick buildings. For a place that had once been a notorious reformatory, it looked peaceful. No guards patrolled the pathways. Why bother when magic detected any intruder?
The glowing blue wards set at intervals held steady, not even flickering as she dropped down to the street. As always, the kaldurite in her pocket made her invisible.
Thunder rumbled in the distance, but the sky above was clear and strewn with stars. With luck, the rain would hold off until she got back. Just a few more runs and she’d have enough money saved to leave for good.
Her main problem was getting a new identity card so she could cross the border into Bactra. Sardis had a busy port. From there she could buy passage on a vessel bound for anywhere.
Years ago, her brother Bastian had given her an old geography primer he’d won in a spelling bee. Kal didn’t care much for school, but she and Durian would spend hours poring over the imports and exports of each province, plotting out their fortune. Hardwood timber from Bactra. Salt cod and freshwater pearls from Sundland. Fine porcelain and rare books from Kirith. Henna, frankincense, and silk damask from Iskatar.
Once their reputation was established, they would focus on luxury goods: textiles and ink, incense, oils and attars, spices like cinnamon, cassia, cardamom, ginger, pepper, nutmeg, and vanilla.
Lying in her bed at night, she’d dreamt of riding camels through the desert, trekking the snowy tundra south of Isai Minye, and watching the footraces in Lagash on festival days, which came every new moon. They would visit the Gulkishar, which meant Great Hall in Iskari, and drink sweet black tea with the palatine, who was the western equivalent of a consul.
Childish fantasies, yet she had believed they would come true. It was Durian’s brash confidence, she realized that now. Without him, she wouldn’t have imagined a life beyond the boundaries of Pota Pras.
Kal dragged herself back to the present, head down and hugging the shadows with the skill of someone who’d spent a lifetime avoiding notice. The white coats of the Foxes were easy to spot. Still, she didn’t relax until she reached her destination.
Falin’s Fine Spirits sat wedged between a bakery and a glove-maker. The shopkeeper, a balding man with spectacles perched on the end of his nose, gave Kal a nod of greeting. She grabbed a basket and began her usual circuit of the store, filling orders from her list. Seven minis of starka. Two of sweet red Gamay wine for the group who liked to drink on the roof. In the imported section, she scanned the shelves, hunting for anise-flavored arak from Iskatar.
