There were those words again. Test, master, worth.
Did they have thieves from the gutter in the fae court? Did they have gutters?
Nah, Rags thought. Fae probably didn’t shit.
“If that’s true, we’re gonna be waiting a long time.” Rags tossed the lump from one hand to the other, testing its weight like a juggling ball. “I’m not worthy. I’m as lost as anyone. Don’t think I’ll be leading anything anywhere any time soon.” He set the lump on the bed, then patted his thighs mockingly. “Here, boy!”
Naturally, the lump didn’t move.
Shining Talon’s brow wrinkled in confusion. Rags didn’t feel like explaining the joke. Mostly because he was afraid of pulling the thread that revealed that he, Rags, was the only joke in the room.
If fae were so smart, Shining Talon would figure it out.
In the meantime, Rags unwrapped the red bandages on his hands, had to keep himself from exclaiming when he saw how the scabbed-over flesh had healed cleanly. After that, he didn’t know what to do with Morien’s red scarves—which, despite having been packed with dirt, weren’t dirty—so he stuffed them in a pocket and did his best to forget about them. They might be worth something someday, more than the beetle and the fae lump anyway, if he lived long enough to sell them.
Then he set to poking at the lump. To his surprise, the silver stuff moved. Not easily; it wasn’t fragile. But with dedicated pressure under the pad of his thumb, he found he could push it aside, like globs of not-quite-dry paint. Rags tried and failed to ignore Shining Talon’s attention on him as he pushed at the stuff, discovering that he could pull the silver away in layers, like peeling a piece of fruit. As he gently tore aside a thick strip, he caught a glimpse of something white and gleaming beneath. On its surface were intricate etched patterns, like the ones he’d seen in the fae ruins.
Rags hesitated. There was something special under there. Why keep peeling when it was obvious to him, if not to Shining Talon, that he wasn’t the one meant to hold on to it?
Better to leave it in its protective coating until they ran across someone actually worthy of the thing. Like One’s master. Whoever that was.
“What about your fragment?” Rags asked. Shining Talon’s silence was wearing on him, dragging him down like his nails clawing the lump’s surface. “You and the lizard”—One didn’t look up at this, deeming Rags unworthy of her attention—“were in the same place. Wouldn’t it make sense for her to be yours?”
Shining Talon looked at Rags as if he were trying to decipher the question.
It wasn’t that tough a puzzle. Rags had unlocked worse to get to the fae.
“What?” Rags asked finally, less demanding than he’d intended. Whinier. “Something on my face?”
“I do not see anything. I must look closer.” Shining Talon rose to his feet in an instant, taking Rags’s chin in both hands and turning it toward the meager candlelight before Rags had the chance to yelp a wordless protest. “All is well with your face,” Shining Talon concluded.
“Then what about my question?” Rags demanded, warning flares burning to life in his gut.
“Ah.” Shining Talon’s gaze slunk away like a kicked dog. “I sought to answer without offense. Because of the uncertainty inherent in human nature, it was decided that my fragment should be the last uncovered.”
“Okay.” Rags waited for more. There had to be more.
Shining Talon lifted his eyes to meet Rags’s. “It was thought that if I were to be found alongside my own fragment—if gathering the fragments was without appropriate difficulty—the Great Paragon might fall into unfit hands. Arranging it in this fashion allows me to study the other masters and judge the quality of their character before the Great Paragon can be completed.”
Rags’s mouth struggled to find the right scathing remark. Typical fae, making something as complicated as possible, not appreciating the shades dappling the space between truth and lie. Now Shining Talon had to pin all his hopes on Rags, who carried a sorcerer’s shard in his heart.
Rags was no expert in fae lore, but his had to be the exact definition of unfit hands.
The urge to run pierced him. Once, while he was sneaking through a storehouse at thirteen, a stray nail had gone through the leather sole of his boot. The pain had been so sudden, the resulting rush of adrenaline so heady, that he’d finished the job quicker than a cat, without leaving