Bernard and Dace fasten another chain to the cuff on his right wrist, then attach the other end of the chain to a ring in the wall. Ronan has enough room to walk around next to the cot, or lie down, but not enough to get within five feet of the door.
He stands in the center of the room and listens after the door closes. All the lighter footsteps head up the stairs, and the heavier pair—Bernard and Dace in their heavy boots—stay on the same floor, pacing back and forth. Their occasional conversation yields nothing of interest. Now’s as good a time as any to give the coin a try.
Ronan paces the room too, making no attempt to conceal his footsteps or the slight clink of his chains. If these were ordinary cuffs, he could have escaped weeks ago; his wrists are bound in front of him with a one-foot length of chain. Picking the cuffs would be child’s play, and the length is enough to wrap around someone’s throat. But these cuffs are spelled with Varan runes, and it took him a week to steal a coin.
Magic locks need magic keys. Ronan’s pacing provides an alibi for the clinking chain as he reaches into his pocket. The copper coin is cool to the touch. He paces a few more steps, then sits on the cot and looks down at the gleaming copper.
He’d rather have his dice, but a coin will do.
Ronan has worshiped the Trickster since his early teens, when his teacher found him cheating at dice games in a Praian tavern. She plucked him from a wasted adolescence, taking his talent and turning it into purpose. “Chance is the way of the world,” she used to say as she taught him games.
She still prefers cards, playing King’s Hands and Burning Heart and Kettle Jump and Athwin, her plump fingers running through the deck as if through a rushing stream. Her cards whisper against the table until her deep green magic ripples. Cause and effect. When she flips a card, a candle lights across the room. She taught Ronan the rules to every game—and how to break them. How to hide cards and coins in his sleeves, how to count, how to watch.
Chance is the way of the world, but the Trickster rewards successful cheats.
In the Harvest Lord’s cell, Ronan thinks about his locked cuffs and flips the copper coin. There’s no suspense. The coin lands crown-up, dagger-down in his palm, and a spark of cyan magic flashes. With a click, the cuffs unlock.
Ronan checks just to make sure they’re unlocked, but doesn’t take them off yet. He’s barely been downstairs for twenty minutes, and it’s still light outside. He needs to wait until night falls to have a better chance of getting out after taking down the guards downstairs. Or someone will come feed him, or check on him, and he can take a hostage.
It’s not time yet, but his hands still burn with the echo of magic. After these weeks of tedious travel, he’s ready for some excitement.
And he’s ready to teach these Varans a lesson: catching Ronan Vizia is one thing. Keeping him is quite another.
***
Opportunity arrives two hours later. A key scrapes in the lock, and a figure in a sky-blue squire’s tunic slips in the open door. Ronan doesn’t move from his seat, but his eyebrows lift. “They’re sending children to interrogate prisoners now?”
He recognizes Karis Cooper, of course. The squire with tracking magic. This auburn-haired wisp of a young man is the reason Ronan is in chains right now.
“Yes, isn’t it shocking?” Karis runs his fingers through his loose curls. “I’m here to brutally torture you.” The words are utterly incongruous with his appearance. When Ronan looks at him, the first word that comes to mind iscute.
It isn’t a compliment.
The door closes but doesn’t lock. There’s a knife at the kid’s belt. Ronan barely glances at it before focusing on Karis’s sun-kissed cheeks and pale amber eyes. He’s never seen eyes quite that color before.
Karis sighs when Ronan doesn’t respond. “Actually I do have some questions.” He leans against the door. His voice is quiet, like he doesn’t want anyone else to know he’s here—which is interesting. “Why did you come back to Charain?”
Ronan could knock this kid out in a single move. He just needs to make sure there’s no sound to alert the rest of the church. Though if he grabs the knife, he should be fine even if the Varans do have warning. “Your superiors have already asked me that.”
“You weren’t in the country four months ago. You could have been free and clear,” Karis says, seemingly unconcerned by Ronan’s reticence. “There must be a reason you came back. Everyone thinks it was just to rob the Sephinians, but that’s not a real reason. Surely there are holy relics in Praia too.”
“How do you know I wasn’t in Charain four months ago?” Ronan settles back on the cot. Glances at the squire’s knife again. “Tracking magic isn’t always reliable.”
Karis lifts his chin. “Mine is.”
“Charaini mages always think they can control everything.” Ronan could go on for hours about the subject, but he cuts himself off before he says too much. Nobody’s gotten under his skin like this in a while. Insufferable. The Varans will probably be grateful when Ronan knocks this brat unconscious.
Though, knocking Karis out might not be a good enough solution. If Karis is right and his tracking magic really is that good, Ronan doesn’t want to waste time running only to be caught again. If he just had to get to the border, where Varan magic can’t reach him, that would be one thing. But the last thing he wants to do is lead the Radiant Order to the Locksmiths’ base.
“How old are you?” Karis asks out of nowhere.
“Twenty-eight,” Ronan answers. He could kill Karis easily, that might be the best solution.
“What’s your favorite color?”
“Are you twelve?” No, killing him would be a waste. Another solution starts forming in Ronan’s mind.
“Do you serve a god or a demon?”