The Beggar King by Michelle Barker

father out of the Meditary and across the palace courtyard. Neither of them dared to speak until they were on the cobblestone road leading down the mountain.
    Finally Jordan tried to say what was on his mind. “Do you think, I mean, is it even possible that they’re — ?”
    â€œWe have to believe they’re all right, Son,” Elliott said. “They’re all right, and they’ll come home.”
    Jordan’s mother had often said that while it was Elliott’s sharp tools that cut wood, it was his voice that smoothed them into works of art. Jordan took comfort in that gentle tone now.
    â€œWhat will happen to Malthazar?” he asked.
    â€œI don’t know. But the high priestess named the year well. Year of the magpie.”
    The twin moons were still full — though not true-full anymore. They looked like two round eyes, watching Jordan. And then something struck him. “Has Maelstrom’s moon gotten darker?”
    Elliott squinted up at the sky. “Maybe it has.”
    â€œDo you think it means something?”
    â€œWho can say?” said his father. “These are dark times.”
    â€œYou told me people call it the undermagic moon,” said Jordan. “But the undermagic could never come back to Katir-Cir, could it?”
    â€œAnything can happen if we allow it.”
    Jordan glanced back at the holy tree that hadn’t burned on the Feast of the Great Light. Its branches were black against the dusky sky — its branches, and the dark outline of a hanging body, had transformed the mystery of this beautiful tree into menace.

Five
L ADY D ESTINY
    S ARMILLION HAD ALWAYS FIGURED HE COULD tiptoe through life without ever waking Lady Destiny, but she must have heard about the raucous nights of mug-wine parties and decided it was time for some payback. Or maybe she just wanted to test his mettle. Mettle, sure. Rabellus and his men had scarcely mentioned hanging before Sarmillion was pulling out the key kept in a hidden compartment in Balbadoris’s study and leading them to Arrabel’s onyx chest, which he’d unlocked with trembling hands. An important detail, that: his hands did tremble when he gave up the precious Book of What Is. He’d been aware of the enormity of his treason even as he was committing it.
    And then last night there was Mars, one of his closest friends, telling him, “Ye should stay in Cir, underkitty. It’ll be the best means of defeating the Brinnians. Only way inside the palace now will be to work there and we’re gonna need all the information we can get.”
    Mars was staying on as palace gardener. He had nothing to feel guilty about. The hunchback would never have given up the priceless book, not even if they’d tortured him.
    â€œNo, can’t stay, can’t stomach this regime, got to get out,” Sarmillion had said to Mars. He intended to get as far away from this life of parchment and ink as he could. It would be the only way for him to sleep at night.
    â€œTragic, his burning the Book of What Is,” Mars had said, and Sarmillion had replied, “Oh yes, tragic. Don’t know how it could have happened.” It had taken every bit of Sarmillion’s willpower not to howl with anguish. There was no telling how great a loss this might be. Some of the prayers and spells were known to Arrabel alone, and she might be dead. Would the magical incantations even work now that the book was destroyed?
    At first light Sarmillion packed his belongings into a canvas bag, including Balbadoris’s sasapher pipe. He took up the scholar’s walking stick, and then turned his long brass key in the door to his apartment one last time. He crossed the tatty rug in Master Mimosa’s apartment, went through his private weedy courtyard and out the rusted metal gate, pulling it shut with a gentle squeak. That was the sound of the past, ending. And even though it seemed as if he was pulling a