Aetos winks. “Careful out there.”
I shove him. It’s like ramming my hand into a marble statue. “Why does everyone suddenly think I need protection? Didn’t you just decide I’m the menace who can kill by accident?”
“So you can?” Desma asks.
I shake my head. “Of course not.” I hate lying to my friends.
* * *
A boy with a berry ice in his hand and red dripping down his chin passes me three times before he finally stops.
I point to the chair across from me. “Sit.”
Looking skittish, he lands on the edge of the seat. “Can you see my future?” he asks.
“Maybe.” Never commit to something you probably can’t do. I can try to have tea with Zeus. That doesn’t mean I’ll succeed.
His expression turns belligerent. “Does that mean you can’t?”
“Let’s make a deal.” I lean forward, lowering my voice. “If you don’t think I do a good job, you don’t have to pay me.”
Hazel eyes sharpen, and he nods.
“Say it,” I prompt.
“It’s a deal.”
I sit back, satisfied. “What do you want to know?”
He shifts uncomfortably. His face, boyish and awkward now, but promising to break hearts in a few years, scrunches up. I wait, trying to look patient until his question finally pops out.
“Will I ever have magic?”
I stifle a sigh. You’re either born with magic or you aren’t. Magoi or Hoi Polloi. It seems cruel to dash his hopes too fast, though. “Give me your hand.”
Trusting, he holds out his right hand.
I wipe my slippery palm on my leather pants, which does nothing, and then take his hand in mine. His is sticky with berry ice juice, and our hot skin fuses.
Palm reading is an ancient ritual, one that holds no bearing on anything whatsoever. You can’t read a damn thing from the lines on someone’s hand, but if the boy has even a tiny, glacial shard of the Ice Plains inside him, I’ll feel it. His power will want to come to me the same way mortals reach for the Gods.
There’s nothing. He’s warm, sticky, and smells like kalaberries. His hand holds no power, although that doesn’t mean magic is forever out of his reach. I hesitate before sending him on a dangerous path. “Why do you want magic?”
His cheeks color. “I’ll never be as smart and strong as the tribal warlords. If I don’t have magic, I won’t have anything.”
That’s not true. He has a brain. He seems healthy. He can do anything he wants. The boy believes what he’s saying, though, or else my magic would react to the lie.
“Are you brave?” I ask.
He looks surprised. “I-I try to be.”
“Do you love your mother?”
He nods, his brow creasing at my question.
“Say it out loud,” I insist.
“I love my mother.”
“Is your family good to you?”
He starts to nod, and I raise a warning finger with my free hand. I have to hear it. There’s magic in spoken language. It’s binding. There’s a reason people ask for someone else’s word. Every sentence a person utters can be a promise—or a betrayal.
“They’re good to me,” he answers.
A loving family. How novel.
“If you saw a child being beaten, would you walk away or would you intervene?”
His eyes widen. “But what could I do?”
“That doesn’t answer the question.” A hard edge creeps into my voice, and he pales.
Note to self: Don’t scare children.
His shoulders straighten. “I would intervene.”
I brace for a ripping in my soul. Surprisingly, none comes. He’s told me the truth, which makes him worthy of my advice. He’s also courageous and has a family that will support him, which means he might actually survive it.
“The Gods favor kindness and selflessness.” Some do at least, and despicable people like Cousin Aarken get chomped. Ha! “Under the right circumstances, goodness and honesty can be rewarded.”
The boy looks confused. “I have to be good and ask the Gods for magic?”
I sit back, releasing his hand. “Yes, but you can’t just go to the temples, pray, and say, ‘please, please.’ It doesn’t work that way. You have to prove yourself. When you’re older, wiser, and much stronger, choose either the Ice Plains or the Lake Oracles.”
“You mean go north.” His freckled nose wrinkles in distaste.
“That’s where the magic is. Here, we’re so far from Olympus that it’s weak and diluted in the people who possess any at all. Even Magoi have trouble this far south. It’s harder for most of us to wield our power.”
“Most?”
I wink conspiratorially. “Most.”
The boy chews on his berry-stained lip with teeth that are white and straight. “Which should I choose?”
He’s so earnest that something in my chest tightens. I’m pointing him toward vicious magical creatures or Oracle fish the size of Dragons. What if I’m sending him to his death?
“You have to be very strong to survive the Ice Plains. The Oracles are capricious but usually the safer bet.”
He nods, storing the information away. I should charge two coppers for this kind of thing, especially in southern Sinta. There’s more ignorance of magic and history here than anywhere else in Thalyria.
“Which lake?” he asks.