Page 77 of The Thief and the Traitor Bride

She thought about asking Caspian or Terlo for more context about Locke’s upbringing—but what would they know? Besides, Terlo was still playing their game, and Caspian was watching them with a line of curiosity imprinted between his brows—Nore understood that look: the worst consequence Terlo had to face was losing to themself.

In the end, the Isle was simultaneously more and less impressive than Nore had expected: less because it wasn’t that big after all, and it was cloudy and gray, with rain that she thought might be a constant. And more because when the sheer black cliffs rose up before her, Nore’s breath caught in her chest.

They joined the other passengers in a long, winding queue that bottlenecked the way out of the harbor. No one could pass through the harbor gates to the city of Maerin without first going through the guard.

It was surprisingly built up, Nore thought, for a place that had long been abandoned: Maerin spread out up the hill, bright-colored houses breaking up the otherwise gray-and-black cliffs; the city was crowded along the flat that bordered the sea, then even more densely packed as it ran up the hills. She’d reviewed the map on the way over—the main road through Maerin led to the other city of Osar, then through a forest to the High Lady’s fortress. Between the two were a handful of villages and settlements; the northeast side of the Isle was thickly forested and uninhabited, mountainous, in a stretch marked as the Barrens. If there were any other places she should know of, they were not marked on her map.

She took in the other visitors, all travel weary as they were. The harbor was dotted with guards, all wearing their armor with surcoats bearing the Isle’s crest: a blade piercing through two linked rings. Nore remembered, distantly, that she had seen it on some of the papers she’d passed to Celestine. It was as if the Isle’s forces were all cut from the same colorless stone of the Isle in their drab armor.

“Any first impressions?” Caspian murmured to her.

Nore’s gaze skimmed over the harbor, then over the queue ahead of them. “For an invitation-only event,” she said, “they seem to extend quite a lot of invitations.”

“Perhaps they’re getting more comfortable again,” Caspian said.

“Perhaps,” Nore said, but she wasn’t so certain. It was like her own feelings: comfort meant letting your guard down. Comfort did not walk hand in hand with safety.

Comfort was dangerous. And from what she’d heard of the High Lady, she did not seem to be the sort to get comfortable.

Nore wound her arm through Caspian’s as they approached the guard at the front. Behind them, Terlo was occupied with looking around, taking in every little detail.

“This tiny rock—this is the center of power? This is what the mainland fought for almost twenty years for?” She didn’t know why she was chasing a conversation with him, but her stomach was in knots, and she kept running her fingers over the edge of their invitation to the festival. Her brain whirred, as if that piece of paper would not be enough, as if they would be discovered.

“It is,” Caspian said.

“Does it feel… different?”

“Hmm.” His mouth pressed into a line. “I’m not currently tethered to a well. Not drawing. Gail would be a better person to ask, but—” Caspian looked up, over their heads. Something caught his attention. “Do you see that?”

Nore looked, not certain what she was looking for—then she squinted. “What is that?”

It looked like a golden net, extending over the entirety of the Isle. It was diaphanous, glimmering and difficult to spot against the gray-white sky.

“Those are the shields,” Caspian said, leading them forward a few more shuffling steps. “Locke’s protection.”

Nore sucked in a breath. Lindle magic didn’t allow for strong shielding—the algorithms were too complex to keep it moving, and shielding was not a passive casting in the Lindle system—but she was familiar with the concept. But a shield this big…

And Nore wondered if shielding was passive here, too. If not, what kind of mage was sustaining it? What kind of mage was even capable of casting such a thing?

“How was it made?” Nore asked. “Or is it just… a result of the power?”

“It’s made. But I can’t imagine how,” Caspian admitted. “Possibly a lot of mages and a lot of wells. Or… many mages and one very strong well.”

He cleared his throat then, and Nore realized there were only a couple of people ahead of them in line. She looked over at Caspian, and before she thought better of it, straightened the lapels of his coat.

“Marne pasdhi esdhis,” he said. It took her brain a moment, after days of Idistran, to realize he was speaking Nadiran. There’s nothing to be afraid of.

“Eta, eta,” she said. I know, I know.

When it was their turn, Nore presented the invitation—and Caspian stepped forward, keeping her a step behind him. She didn’t catch the entire interaction in Caspian’s low, fast Idistran—

He knew she was worried about this, about catching attention, about moving swiftly on. He knew she was afraid, and he handled it without hesitation. By the time Nore realized what was happening, the guard was smiling at Caspian and handing their papers back.

Nore blinked twice as Caspian’s hand landed in the middle of her back, as he steered her up toward the town.

“See, Finch?” Caspian said. “Nothing to be afraid of.”

But Nore knew what he meant, what he did not voice: See? We’re on the same side.