“Well—what does it do?”
“If I knew that,” he says snidely, “I wouldn’t have you looking, now, would I?”
“Right.” I lift the book’s cover and get a waft of something that smells like dried blood. And then I can’t breathe. Each page containsthree ikons, albeit with them all missing small sections so as to remain deactivated. A looping scrawl to the side defines what every ikon should do. This is a feast of ikonomancy. A thrill goes through me at the thought of the power at my fingertips. I’ll need every bit of power I can scrounge up—and I’m sure I can memorize at least a few of these ikons.
Casvian’s ikon looks nothing like the rest. It’s more rudimentary. “It’s not an ikon, is it?”
“It’s a proto-ikon.” At my uncomprehending look, he rolls his eyes. “Proto-ikons are small, ancient symbols that ikonomancers over the years have combined into ikons. As words have roots, so do ikons.”
He waves a hand in the air, as if that explains everything. He sprawls in another chair and immerses himself in shuffling a bunch of loose sheets.
The sound of distant cheering breaks over us. I glance at the balcony. “Is something happening?”
Cas scowls. “Just the monthly mating ritual of muscle-headed imbeciles.”
I blink at him.
“A scrimmage between the Wardana fighters and the Regia’s Guard. Helps the Guard see which of the Wardana to poach.”
I think of the conversation I overheard. “You never wanted to be Regia’s Guard?”
“Are we chitchatting because you’ve already found the proto-ikon and want to build up suspense? Or are you just wasting my time?”
I bend back over my book.
Cas huffs, and I can practically hear the crackle of steam rising from his skin.
I turn each page with care, forcing myself to focus. Maybe in here is an ikon to enlarge Pa’s notebook. There could be something in there Ican use; I’ve been fixated on finding him, but it’s just as important that I figure out how to break him free once I find whatever prison he’s in.
On the desk are a loose sheet of paper and a stub of a pencil, and I pull them close to me, one eye on Cas. The scratching of my pencil is impossibly loud as I carefully copy down an ikon for sticking two objects together.
Cas doesn’t seem to notice, or if he does, he doesn’t mind.
Most of the ikons are strange and esoteric; many don’t seem to do anything by themselves but are meant to layer with other ikons. A basic ikon is the name of a thing plus an action applied to it. But the ikons in this book aren’t those that would help me learn the names of things. They don’t really seem to be ones that describe general actions either. They’re more specific than that; they’re for modulating actions.
A whole section devotes itself to ikons that increase or decrease staying power by small increments; another section details how to specify when an ikon works, like from sunrise to sunset, or while touching something with a heartbeat. It’s as though I’ve been given a book of poetry when I don’t yet know my letters.
All the ikons are unfinished. Some are easy to puzzle out, others I have no idea how to complete. But I find a few ikons that look promising: one that magnifies, one makes things double in weight—and if I can figure out what bit of the ikon signifiesdoubleand what signifiesweight, I might be able to get somewhere—and one that modulates the ikon for shrinking.
A knock comes at the door. Cas barks, “What?”
The door opens a crack, and a timid voice comes from under a thatch of sandy hair. “Um, with all respect to your privacy, Mancer Haveli, you asked me to let you know if Prince Dalca was—”
“That idiot.” Cas leaps to his feet and whirls out the door.
I hesitate for a heartbeat with a glance at the book, but something compels me to my feet. I have to know what Dalca’s up to.
Shutting the book, I hurry after Cas.
Cas nearly sprints down the hall, his hair catching the pinks and browns of the sandstone walls. I’m half a hallway behind, but all I need to do is follow the sound.
The noise swells as I reach the second story walkway above the courtyard. Wardana and trainees lean over the railing, transfixed. Cas shoves through the crowd until they let him out in front.
I keep an eye on Cas as I apologize and sidle my way up to the railing. Below, a circle has been chalked onto the floor of the courtyard.
Ragno and Dalca face off in the dead center. On Ragno’s side, flanking him, are two other fighters in black and gold.
Izamal—hair mussed and clothing covered in the fine sand that covers the courtyard floor—stands to the side, along with several others in both blood-red and black. Folks who have already fought, I’d wager, from the cuts and bruises blossoming under a layer of golden sand.