The agreement was clear. If Quincey could keep the secret of House Surral, then Lady Edris would keep his.

They withdrew once more into the study of her late father, while Lady Inara finally gathered her youngest children into her arms and appeared calmer once she could hold them far from the knight. She did not seem inclined to trust him, yet she allowed him to remain beneath their roof a while longer and to be alone with Edris—a choice that surprised him.

In the end, however, she was still a grieving widow, and it seemed she wished to contend with nothing beyond her own mourning, seeking solace in the company of her children, who were too young and innocent to grasp the weight of death.

Quincey, on the other hand, became aware that with every passing minute spent in this household, he stole time he might have given to his mother. It seemed he would have to postpone his visit to her, else it would arouse suspicion that he had lingered so long within The Gilded Quiet.

“What do you see when you look at me?”

The knight was drawn from his thoughts and turned his attention back to the dark-haired maiden, whose eyes had returned to their natural shade of brown.

He gave a brief shake of his head, and before he could confess he did not understand, Edris clarified. “Not my appearance. What do you see with your magical instinct?”

Quincey recalled the sensation from when their hands had first brushed by accident and tried to look upon her in the same manner.

This time he knew what to seek, and so the aura that encircled her form and wove about her like rays of light striking glass was clearer to his sight than before.

“I do not know how to name it,” he said at last. “There is something about you. Some strange radiance.”

Edris nodded. “You saw it before, did you not? Over tea.” She inclined her head toward the table, where the tray still rested, though the tea upon it was no longer as warm as when she had brought it.

There was no cause to lie. “Yes.”

Before the archivist’s daughter could reply, a question rose within Quincey’s mind, one he urgently needed answered.

“Do I bear one as well?”

“No.” Whether that revelation should bring him relief or further dread, he could not tell. After all, he was no mage by birth, and yet Edris had felt magic within him. “I cannot fathom how it is so, but it confirms your claim that you are not a mage.”

“So what then? I am no mage, yet I possess magical power? My magic cannot be seen by the eye, yet you can sense it when you touch me?” He had more questions than answers.

“I cannot sense it unless you grant me leave,” she corrected him with a faint frown. “Your magic shields you without your knowing it. That is a formidable gift.”

He understood what she implied. He who carried out the king’s will with steel now bore a power that could enforce any command, should he choose to wield it. No matter how dark. Quincey was not merely powerful, but dangerous, even if he currently lacked the means to command the storm inside him.

“I do not wish to harm anyone,” he assured her once more.

“Then you must learn to master your magic swiftly.” The words fell from her lips as though it were simple, yet in truth the knight had no notion where to begin.

“How?”

“As I said, I will help you.”

Though the promise sounded fair, Quincey could not ignore the obstacle before them. As a knight, he could not come and go at will, and as Messenger-at-Arms he would soon be sent beyond the borders of the realm. There might be months when he would not see her at all.

It seemed Edris read the concern upon his face and chose to dispel it. She stepped closer and took a blank sheet from her father’s desk, tearing it into smaller pieces before the knight’s eyes.

“I shall teach you a trick.” She took one of the small scraps of parchment and set it between her forefinger and middle finger, holding it thus. Then she flicked her hand to the side, as though casting it away with effortless grace, and Quincey followed the motion closely enough to see that in the very instant the scrap left her grasp, it vanished.

Yet that was not the true marvel of the trick Edris chose to show him. No, the greater surprise came when his instinct stirred once more, and he swiftly raised his hand, snatching at what seemed to be empty air before him. And when he opened his palm, he found the very same scrap of parchment resting there.

“What?” He stared at it in confusion.

“Your magic guides you by instinct. That is well,” the girl explained. “In this manner, we may remain in contact.”

“Can you teach me how to send them?” He shifted the scrap from his palm into the same place between his fingers as she had done, then lifted his gaze back to her.

“Of course.” She nodded and stepped nearer. To his astonishment, she placed her palm against his chest, and he instinctively lowered his eyes to the gesture.

“First you must feel your magic within, else you cannot command it,” she said. “Each senses it differently. For some it is a tingling, for others warmth. You must discover which sensation within you is your magic, your instinct.”

The Messenger-at-Arms recalled the moment he had struggled to free his hand from her icy hold, how something had coursed through his body toward his limb before his fingers finally obeyed.

He closed his eyes and sought that same sensation once more. Yet where he felt it most strongly, that steady pulsing, was not beneath the place where Edris’s palm now rested, but at his scar, which had not ceased to make itself known since he had entered this house.

“What next?” he asked when he believed he had found what he sought.

“Guide that feeling into your fingers.” While he strove to do so from within, the maiden mirrored the act on the outside, drawing her hand from his chest across his shoulder and down along his arm toward the fingers that held the scrap of parchment. The gesture bordered on intimate, yet he forced himself not to dwell upon it.

As before, when he had sought to free his hand, he moved the energy within him as Edris had instructed, and to his surprise, it yielded with ease. Soon he felt a tingling in his fingers, and when he opened his eyes, he beheld about them an aura much like the one he had seen surrounding the maiden.

“Do you see it?” he asked, unable to tear his gaze from the bending air that danced and wavered about his hand like light upon the surface of water.

“No.” This time her answer disappointed him. “It seems you are the only one to whom your magic is willing to reveal itself.”

“You speak as though it had a mind of its own,” he murmured, still watching his fingers and the scrap of parchment between them, upon which his aura gradually settled, cloaking it in that clear, rippling air. He knew not how better to describe it. It was as if the paper were submerged beneath water, and yet the water was so pure it resembled glass.

“It has covered the parchment,” he told her what he was seeing.

“Good.” In the corner of his vision he saw her nod with approval. “Now think upon your desire that it come to me, and cast it.”

Before he could ponder it overlong, he obeyed. To his astonishment, the scrap vanished indeed. A few heartbeats later it reappeared, and Edris caught it in the air with the same graceful ease he had shown moments before.

“Congratulations. Your first intentional spell.” The dark-haired maiden offered him a faint smile, and he returned it without thinking.

He could barely believe it. He had wrought magic. So much for the comfort of believing the earlier moment had been mere chance.

“Now I may teach you.”

Though trust between them was not yet firm as stone, but rather cracked like weathered sandstone, it seemed for now it would suffice. Each held the other’s secret, and either could bring ruin upon the other’s life.

One might have thought Quincey held the advantage. Yet as he departed the archivist’s residence, the lady of the house herself came to see him off, and with a simple, “I send my regards to Lady Harathea,” Lady Inara made it plain that as surely as he knew where to find her family, she knew where his own resided.

For the present, there was peace between them. Yet in days when a king had only just been laid to rest, proving that no soul stood truly safe, peace was a fragile thing.

Still the knight chose to defy the duty expected of him. Rather than report the half-mage family, he resolved instead to learn from them. Edris promised she would send him incantations and instruction, teaching him little by little, as one would guide a child. They agreed that neither would dispatch a scrap at an hour when watchful eyes might catch them. Such messages would pass only when the sun had fallen from the sky and their secret might be veiled by night’s darkness.

Thus the Messenger-at-Arms returned to the castle bearing a new alliance, if such it could be called, and the knowledge that he was no longer merely a Valerionian, but in truth belonged, at least in part, to the race of mages who were at once at home everywhere and nowhere. In this kingdom, the latter was the far grimmer reality.

Though he had failed to see his mother and wring further answers from her, he deemed the day’s mission a triumph.

Upon his return, he surrendered Astrum to the grooms and made his way to Cassian’s study to deliver not only the chest but also to return the key bearing the royal seal.

“My apologies for the delay, Sire,” the knight said, yet the king merely waved a hand.

“I am glad you could spend some time with your mother,” replied the long-haired monarch. “I trust you conveyed my regards?”

“I did.” Quincey inclined his head, grateful that falsehood came to him without strain. His voice did not tremble, nor did his gaze falter. In recent days he had practiced before the mirror so diligently that he could offer any lie as though it were simple truth. “She sends her heartfelt condolences. I assured her you remain well and do not overburden yourself with duty.”

“You were always the better liar of us two.” Cassian gave a brief, amused laugh. They both knew the statement was untrue. Or rather, Cassian did not know that Quincey knew the truth of his nature.

“It is enough that I must watch you go without sleep,” Quincey answered, the very image of a devoted friend. “Your Majesty.”

“I shall sleep when I am certain Valerion and its people stand secure,” the king protested. “My father’s death has shown me that none of us are untouchable. I would not have another whom I cherish pay the price for a lack of protection.” As he spoke, his gaze rested squarely upon his oldest friend, leaving no doubt of whom he meant.

“I am certain you need not fear, Sire.” Quincey stood straight before him, the sword at his hip a testament to his readiness for any fray.

Cassian sighed, and though the knight expected him to resume a formal tone and dismiss him with courtesy, the king instead offered unexpected words.

“Only promise me I have not erred in naming you Messenger-at-Arms. Not for lack of your skill, but because you will be sent far from home, into peril.”

“I promise I shall always return to you, Cassian,” Quincey answered without hesitation, as he would have in the life he had once lived.

It seemed that was all the king needed to hear. This time he released him easily, with a promise that they would next meet at supper.

Quincey was thus free to withdraw to his chamber, to refresh himself and rest after his first errand. Though it had not been physically taxing, he had no duties until the evening meal, where he was to stand by the king’s side.

So, he found himself before the mirror once more, as he had so often in recent days, but this time he shed his tunic as he studied his reflection.

After Lady Edris had been unable to see his magic, while he himself could behold hers, he wished to witness its true extent, though he knew not whether such a thing might reveal itself in glass.

Within the Surral household it had been easy to focus upon magic, when it lay thick in the air about him and his scar burned ceaselessly, reminding him where his own power dwelled. Now he stood once more within the castle walls, far from the only mage who resided there, and he needed to know whether he could reach his abilities here as well.

He closed his eyes and sought to concentrate. Yet his instinct lay silent. No tingling came, no burning, no current he might guide through his limbs as blood through his veins.

His brow furrowed, though his eyes remained shut.

When Edris had guided him, it had seemed almost effortless. Now he felt nothing within him that spoke of magic. However hard he strove, he could not summon the same sensation he had stirred in the late archivist’s home.

To say he was frustrated would have been an understatement.

Fortunately, Quincey was still a knight. And though he could not train in magic, he could train with steel and hone the craft that felt like his very breath.

So, he retreated to the training grounds, driving himself until his palms were raw with the promise of callouses, losing himself in the rhythm of combat, and he remained there until the sun dipped low, reminding him of his duty as Messenger-at-Arms: to attend a simple supper at the side of his king.