Page 23 of To Kill a King

Any minute now, he’d hear the guards. But the only sound that reached his ears was the shuffling of parchments and slamming of cabinets.

The concealed handle on the inside stuck when he yanked on it. Bending down, he squinted. A lock. Perfect. Exactly what he was looking for.

Pulling two thin slivers of metal from inside his tunic, he bent down and got to work.

Too many heartbeats later, he spread the map across the desk. He traced along the major roadways with his fingers.

Should he try to memorize this, or bring it with him and hope he could stash it before Aliya saw?

He frowned. Memorize. He didn’t want to have to kill her, too, if she discovered it in his possession.

Pausing, he listened for sounds outside. Still no alarm. Perhaps the girl hadn’t alerted the city guard, after all. A lifetime of living in the shadows, fearing their discovery, seemed like it had taught her to be wary of law enforcement. He turned his focus back to the parchment.

Famine supply lines? He glanced over his shoulder at the small pile of wheat. According to this, they didn’t run through Ithabasa, after all…which was unfortunate, as it was tantalizingly close to the elven border. But they did cut across Perdition Pass. Troop depots were stationed here and in Westcliff to the south, and Fisherman’s Warf to the east. That must mean—he traced his finger to the top of the map—the northern depot was in Lion’s Grove.

Elessan held the corner of the parchment to the lantern’s flame until it caught. The flames licked the edges, creeping inward hungrily.

He bit the inside of his lip and glanced at the wheat. Should he burn it, too?

Tsara would order him to. She’d take any possible advantage to win this war, even if it meant starving widows and orphans.

What was here in the depot was no doubt destined for the army.

He straightened his back and marched over to the pallet, holding the burning map to the edge of the closest bale. The flames caught, eagerly licking up the side.

He studied the disheveled office once more before turning his back on it. In the middle of the room lay his oiling cloth, much dirtier for wear. He picked it up, brushed off the bits of glass and rust, and shoved it into his pocket.

His fingers stuck to the fabric. He looked down—they were covered in blood, as were his tunic and pants. He couldn’t show up at the inn looking like this with Aliya there.

He poked his head out the front door. The streets were empty, and the last of the sunlight cast long shadows across the cobblestones.

The market was just to the south, and everyone was likely closing by now. It should be easy enough to find something in his size with the vendors gone. And Aliya needed a new cloak. Her coin was still in his pocket.

He shook his head and scoffed as he melted into the gloom, headed toward the bazaar. The naïve fool had tried to give him five gold!

Why hadn’t he taken it?

The scrying mirror felt heavy tied to his belt. Even now, Princess Tsara awaited his update. Unease twisted in his gut. It was his duty to report Aliya’s presence. She was a magic user and may be useful in stopping Malkov Cerel’s genocide against his people.

But a human who hadn’t been in the real world long enough to learn basic survival skills would be unlikely to possess any vital information related to the Mage Underground. Especially judging from her confusion when she’d seen the graffiti.

Unless she was more shrewd than she let on… He replayed the scene from last night as he skulked toward the market.

No. She was an open book, and too naïve to conceal something so important.

Chapter 6

Malkov

King Malkov stormed up to the entrance of the Mage College and pushed. The giant double doors slammed open with a boom that bounced off the marble walls, leaving him silhouetted against the setting sun. His shadow stretched in front of him as he marched through the grand entry. The footsteps of Brooks and the rest of his guards echoed through the chamber.

The air, weighed down by the scent of herbs and spices, irritated his eyes and nose. The effervescent tingle of magic along his skin raised the fine hairs on his arms and the back of his neck. He rubbed his hands over his forearms. There was a reason he’d never come here in person.

The swish of leather shoes over stone caught his attention as a young man in the brown robes of a novice rushed forward. His eyes widened as he beheld the crown atop Makov’s head. “Your Majesty!” Placing his hand over his heart, he bowed—but not before his face paled and betrayed his fear. “W-welcome to the Mage College. How may I assist you?”

Curling his upper lip, Malkov sneered. “Get me the head mage.” Master Thoforn had led the institute for the last decade. He would know if Aliya Larimar had recently joined their ranks.

“That is unnecessary.” The wobbly voice interrupted whatever the novice had been about to say.