Page 15 of Kingdom of Locks

“All the other attacks had more personal motivations as well,” said Amell. “That doesn’t mean there isn’t a wider connection.”

“Well,” said King Bern, rising from his seat, “we can certainly discuss it further. But I think you’re grasping at straws, Amell.” He picked up the billet from the messenger. “My captain will be waiting for me.” His gaze passed over his family, a crease between his eyes. “I’ll have the guard around the castle doubled while we decide how to contain this disaster.”

“Is that the best use of—” Tora started, but the king had already paced from the room. Amell stared thoughtfully after him, wondering if his father’s parting words had indicated some small openness to the idea of an attack targeted on the royal family.

He turned back to find his mother looking at him pointedly, and stilled his tapping foot. He knew the habit irritated her, but he hadn’t even realized he was doing it. It was just so hard to sit sedately at lunch when such dramatic events were occurring. Grim as he knew the situation to be, he couldn’t help being glad that the captain had refused to sidetrack the delegation as Amell had requested. It would have been maddening to have arrived back from Entolia only to find he’d missed the opportunity to play a role in his father’s response to the prison break.

An explosion, his father had said. What could cause such a thing? It was clearly magical in nature if the magic-users employed at the prison had felt a surge of power approaching.

As soon as it was polite to do so, Amell extricated himself from the dining room. Remembering his father’s admittedly pertinent reminder, he didn’t go in search of Furn straight away. The guard deserved an hour to himself, particularly if he was going to be dragged from the capital again within the day.

He made no attempt to find his father, either. If the king had been willing for his son to join him in his interview with the captain of his guard, he would have invited Amell.

Instead, pausing only to change out of his traveling clothes, the prince left the castle. It was only a short walk down the cobbled streets to his destination. He stopped outside the imposing stone building, his eyes lingering on the elaborate scrollwork over the doorway.

Enchanters’ Guild, it read, etched in large letters into the stone.

Amell felt a swell of determination as he strode through the doorway. His father might not take him seriously, but he intended to follow his hunch regarding the attack. And even before this latest incident, he’d already been planning to make inquiries with the Fernedellian Enchanters’ Guild, to satisfy himself that there was no reason to think his kingdom might be harboring magic-wielding conspirators. If he was going to be occupied with the situation at the prison for some time to come, it would be just as well to snatch this opportunity to make contact with the guild.

The fact that it meant he could be doing something, instead of sitting around waiting for his father to decide things were well enough in hand to involve his flighty son, had nothing to do with it. Of course not.

“Your Highness.” The clerk manning the guild’s lobby greeted Amell with evident surprise as he entered the broad, well-lit space. “What an honor.” He rose, bowing low, but Amell waved an airy hand.

“No need for formalities,” he said cheerfully. “I’m not here on official royal business. I was just hoping to speak with Bartholomew.”

The clerk blinked at this casual reference to one of the guild’s most senior enchanters, but he quickly bent into another bow.

“Certainly, Your Highness. He’s in the building, meeting with the recruiters. I’ll let him know you’re here.”

The man scurried from the room, and Amell was left loitering in the lobby. He strolled over to a bookshelf, running his hand along the leather bindings of a series of books on magical theory. He’d never studied it much. He remembered his excitement as a small child when the concept of power had been explained to him. And then his disappointment when he learned, not only that no amount of training could give him the aptitude for magic some were simply born with, but that studying the craft without being able to actually do it was just about the most boring topic in his education.

He turned with a sigh from a tome called, ‘The Basic Principles of the Counterforce’, and wandered over to the other side of the room, where a stand was displaying a worn leather glove. The placard read, ‘Fernedell’s first known artifact’.

He studied the item dispassionately. He knew the tales as well as any royal would. No one knew exactly when dragons had come to Solstice, but it was generally accepted that humans had been there first, and that before the advent of the beasts, the human population had carried no magic. But once the dragons arrived, and started flying around, involuntarily shedding their magic everywhere they went, it slowly became clear that some humans had the capacity—equally involuntary—to absorb that magic and carry it in their own right.

And so power had entered human bloodlines.

It had taken some time for the magic-wielding humans to study their new ability sufficiently to learn the craft of pouring their magic into items that could later be used. And apparently, the first known Fernedellian enchantress to create an artifact had felt the need for gloves that kept her hands warm perpetually.

“What a mundane use of something so exciting,” muttered Amell, turning away from the object, from which all magic had long ago leaked.

His face brightened at the sight of the clerk, returning with a familiar figure in tow.

“Bartholomew!” Amell cried, striding forward to meet the elderly enchanter. “I was lucky to find you here.”

“Not so lucky, Your Highness,” chuckled Bartholomew. “I’m mostly to be found here. I’m delighted you came looking. What can I do for you?”

Remembering the secrecy with which Basil had told him of his theory, Amell glanced at the clerk. “Walk with me?” he asked Bartholomew, tilting his head toward the open door, and the bustling street beyond.

“Certainly,” assented the enchanter, and within moments they were out on the street, strolling at a sedate pace comfortable for the elderly man. “It won’t be much satisfaction for you, walking with me,” smiled Bartholomew. “I move so slowly, you may as well be standing still.”

Amell flashed him a cheeky grin. “I thought you knew me better than that, Bartholomew. I never stand still.”

The old man chuckled. “Truer words were never spoken,” he assented. He bent a shrewd look upon his visitor, the keenness of his gaze at odds with his frail frame. “What’s brought you to see me, Your Highness?”

“A matter of some delicacy,” said Amell at once. “I’d be grateful if you’d keep it to yourself.”

“Of course,” agreed Bartholomew readily.

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