Feir looked fat, but he could move and he trained daily with the Blademasters, who kept their central training facility mere minutes from Sho’cendi. For Solon or Dorian to volunteer to spar with him was to volunteer for bruises. Dorian could heal bruises later, but they still hurt.

Dorian had half-packed saddlebags open on the bed.

Feir sighed. “You know the Assembly’s forbidden you to leave. They don’t care about Cenaria. Honestly, if Solon weren’t there, I wouldn’t either. We could send him a message to leave.” The school’s leaders hadn’t phrased it that way, of course. They were more worried about delivering the continent of Midcyru’s only—perhaps the world’s only—prophet into the Godking’s hands.

“You don’t even know the best part yet,” Dorian said, grinning like they were children.

Feir felt the blood draining from his face. The wards to keep magic in the room suddenly made sense. “You aren’t planning to steal it.”

“I could make the argument that it’s ours. The three of us were the ones who tracked it, found it, and brought it back. They stole it from us first, Feir.”

“You agreed it would be safer here. We let them take it from us.”

“So I’m taking it back,” Dorian said, shrugging.

“So it’s you against all the world again.”

“It’s me for all the world, Feir. Will you come with me?”

“Come with you? Is this the madness?” When Dorian’s gift for prophecy had surfaced, one of the first things he’d tried was to tell his own future. He’d learned that no matter what he did, he would go mad one day. Delving into his own future would only hasten that day’s arrival. “I thought you said you had still had a decade or so.”

“Not so long, now,” Dorian said. He shrugged like it didn’t matter, as if it didn’t break his heart, exactly the way he’d shrugged when he’d asked Solon to go to Cenaria, knowing it would cost Solon Kaede’s love. “Before you answer, Feir, know this: if you come with me, you will regret it many times, and you will never again walk the halls of Sho’cendi.”

“You make such a convincing plea,” Feir said, rolling his eyes.

“You will also save my life at least twice, own a forge, be known throughout the world as the greatest living weaponsmith, have a small part in saving the world, and die satisfied, if not nearly so old as you or I hoped.”

“Oh, that’s better,” Feir said sarcastically, but his stomach was doing flips. Dorian rarely told what he knew, but when he did, he never lied. “Just a small part in saving the world?”

“Feir, your purpose in life isn’t your happiness. We’re part of a much bigger story. Everyone is. If your part is unsung, does that make it worthless? Our purpose on this trip isn’t to save Solon. It’s to see a boy. We will face many dangers to get there. Death is a very real possibility. And do you know what that boy needs from us? Three words. Maybe two if the name counts as only one. Do you want to know what they are?”

“Sure.”

“‘Ask Momma K.’”

“That’s it? What’s it mean?” Feir asked.

“I have no idea.”

Sometimes a seer could be a pain in the ass. “You ask for a lot from me,” Feir said.

Dorian nodded.

“I’ll regret it if I say yes?”

“Many times. But not in the end.”

“It might be easier if you told me less.”

“Believe me,” Dorian said, “I wish I didn’t have such a clear view of what lies before you down each possible choice here. If I told you less, you would hate me for holding back. If I told you more, you might not have the heart to carry on.”

“Enough!” Gods, was it going to be that bad?

Feir looked at his hands. He’d have a forge. He’d be known throughout the world for his work. It had been one of his dreams. Maybe he could even marry, have sons. He thought of asking Dorian, but didn’t dare. He sighed and rubbed his temples.

Dorian broke into a big smile. “Good! Now help me figure out how we’re going to get Curoch out of here.”

Feir was sure he had misunderstood. Then he felt the blood draining from his face. There were wards on the door to keep magic in. “When you say ‘here’ you mean ‘here, in the school.’ Like I still have a chance to convince you not to try to steal the most guarded artifact in Midcyru. Right?”

Dorian threw back the covers on the bed. There was a plain sheathed sword on it. It looked entirely normal, except that the sheath was made entirely of lead, and it covered the sword entirely, even the hilt, damping the magic. But this wasn’t just a magic sword. It was more like The Magic Sword. This was Curoch, Emperor Jorsin Alkestes’ sword. The Sword of Power. Most magi weren’t even strong enough to use it. If Feir (or most others) tried, it would kill him in a second. Dorian had said even Solon couldn’t use it safely. But after Jorsin Alkestes’ death, there had been quite a few magi who had been able to—and they’d destroyed more than one civilization. “At first, I thought I was going to have to prophesy my own future to get it, but instead, I prophesied the guards’. Everything worked perfect except one guard came down a hallway that he only had maybe a one in a thousand chance of taking. I had to knock him out. The good news is, he’s going to be nursed back to health by a lovely girl whom he’ll later marry.”

“You’re telling me there’s some guard unconscious upstairs right now, just waiting to be found? While we’re talking? Why are you even doing this?”

“Because he needs it.”

“He? You’re stealing Curoch for ‘ask Momma K’ boy?” Feir asked.

“Oh no, well, not directly. The boy who needs to hold Curoch—the one the whole world needs to hold Curoch—isn’t even born yet. But this is our only chance to take it.”

“Gods, you’re serious,” Feir said.

“Stop pretending this changes anything. You’ve already decided. We’re going to Cenaria.”

Sometimes a seer could be a pain in the ass? Try always.

What is your problem!” Master Blint screamed.

“I don’t—” Kylar said.

“Again!” Blint roared.

Kylar stopped the practice knife with an X block, crossing his wrists in front of him. He tried to grab Durzo’s hand and twist, but the wetboy slipped aside.

They ranged around the practice building of Blint’s newest safe house, vaulting off walls, maneuvering each other into beams, attempting to use every uneven edge of the floor against each other. But the match was even.

The nine years Kylar had spent under Blint’s tutelage had seen him harden and grow. He was maybe twenty now. He was still not as tall as Blint and never would be, but his body was lean and taut, and his eyes were the same light light blue. As he sweated and fought, every muscle in his arms, chest, and stomach was distinct and moving precisely to its task, but he couldn’t make himself really engage.

Durzo Blint saw it, and it infuriated him. Swearing long and eloquently, Master Blint compared his attitude unfavorably with a lackadaisical prostitute’s, his face with unlikely and unhealthy body parts, and his intelligence with several species of farm animals. When he attacked again, Kylar could see him mentally ratcheting up the level.

One of the many dangerous things about Master Blint was that even when he was furious, it never showed in his fighting. His fury would only be allowed expression after you were lying on the ground, usually bleeding.

He moved Kylar across the open room slowly, hand clenched in fist or extending in knife hand, the practice knife glittering in quick arcs and jabs. For a fraction of a second, he overextended a stab and Kylar managed to slip around it and hit Master Blint’s wrist.

But Master Blint held onto the knife, and as he drew it back, the dull blade caught Kylar’s thumb.

“That impatience cost you a thumb, boy.”

With his chest heaving, Kylar stopped, but he didn’t take his eyes off of Master Blint. They’d already practiced with swords of several kinds, with knives of varying lengths. Sometimes they fought with the same weapon, and sometimes they’d mismatch—Master Blint taking a double-edged broadsword against a Gandian blade, or Kylar taking a stiletto against a gurka. “Anyone else would have lost the knife,” Kylar said.