Dawnlight filtered through the stone lattice of Elias's room, casting broken patterns on the floor. The city was quiet for the first time in days—no horns, no Weavers, no siege beasts at the gate.
He didn't believe it.
Brynn saw him in the courtyard, lacing up his boots."The Warden's wanting to get you filled in on how the city's planned out," she said to him. "If you're going to be around, you need to know where you're going."
They walked down the curving streets. The city, at last that he was noticing, wasn't as much of a citadel as he might have imagined—old stone at the center, newer wood and brick radiating out from it in all directions, all connected by bridges and market streets. It was a city in layers. And with each layer came its own set of rules.
Brynn started the tour in the Guild Quarter, where fishy smells and pitch filled the narrow streets, and merchant cries filled the air."The Guild controls trade," she explained to him. "To sell, buy, or transport goods, you go through them. Or you deal with their shadows."
Their "shadows" were the smugglers and brokers Elias had heard whispers about—men such as Karric Vayne. He spotted the man himself in the crowd, providing a quick smile to Elias before vanishing into the sea.
Brynn escorted him up into the Sanctum District, where the spires of white rose up and the mighty bells tolled. Robed priests with silver-edged hems marched in procession, their hooded eyes vigilant."People hear with The Faith," she sneered. "And they have magic. That is different from the mages."
At the Sanctum's center lay the Cathedral of Threads—its entrance carved into a tapestry of lines and shapes that made Elias's stomach turn if he looked too hard. He wondered if they were the same "threads" he'd noticed on the Weaver.
Finally, they descended into the Arcanum Ward—a cluster of towers and low halls in which the air shivered with heat and light. Apprentices in plain robes rushed among buildings, satchels and scrolls clutched in their hands.
"This," Brynn said, "is where you'll be attending in the afternoons."
A tall, angular woman with ink-stained fingers approached them, regarding Elias as a puzzle."And so this is the Reader," she said. "You may call me Master Relane."
Relane led him into a hallway lined with suspended balls of light."You'll learn the basics of Tier One," she said. "Reading about mana flow, channeling, and the cost of overdraw."
"Cost?" Elias said.
"Magic has a price," Relane said. "It consumes something of you—strength, time, memory, life. The larger the spell, the greater the hunger."
She placed a small crystal on the table."Tap into this until it's shining. Then pull back before you feel the drain."
It was simple-sounding. It wasn't.
The first time he tried, nothing was done. The second, there was a fleeting flash before it went away. The third, the crystal flashed into light—along with a searing agony in his chest a heartbeat afterward.
Relane nodded."You'll find out your limits in due time, or exhaust yourself."
She handed him a scroll at the lesson's conclusion."Practice the runes. Tomorrow, we test whether you can master them."
As he was on his way back to the barracks, Elias noticed the Script.
"A mask will ask for your name. Refuse it."
He rested against the street, looking at the crowd. And then he noticed it—a face in the market with a white, unadorned porcelain mask, bright. It turned to look at him, tilting its head.
The voice that addressed him was firm, almost polite."What do they call you, stranger?"
Elias's heart pounded in his chest. He shrugged wildly."Just passing through."
The mask edged forward again, as if hearing something it and only it could hear. Then it nodded once and disappeared into the crowd.
Selin's voice behind him."Good. You heard."
He turned around."What was what?"
"One of the Faceless," she explained. "They accumulate true names. And once they have yours… well, let's just say you'd rather have a Weaver."
That night, sleeping, Elias thought about what he'd discovered that day—about magic, about the city's factions, about the way danger presented itself in so many various forms. And in dark depths, the Script stirred.
"The mask will return."