She forced a smile, feeling uncertain. “How many Rogues are there exactly?” she asked, gulping again at her water.

“Among the five thousand or so mages currently in the city’s temple system, only forty of us arrived as Rogues. The rest were whisked off to the Binding at the first glimmer of magic.”

Lena nodded slowly. Forty. It wasn’t many in the grand scheme of things—half as many as the cryptlings she’d grown up with in Duke’s Forest—but it was something. She liked the feeling that there were other people in this city like her and Emris. She liked feeling that she was a tiny bit closer to normal. Cryptlings had been banished, hidden, controlled. To be merely mistrusted, she thought, was something of a luxury. But is that enough?

“Constance … she was a Rogue too,” Emris said quietly. “The first in centuries to arrive here from Duke’s Forest.”

“Did you … know her?” Lena pressed. “I mean, before she committed … her crime?”

“Necromancy,” he whispered. “She was a necromancer. And, yes, I knew her.”

“What’s necromancy?”

“The Chaotic magical arts associated with death.”

She frowned and was about to ask for more explanation when a pained expression flashed over his face, quickly smothered. “Finding out what she was truly studying … well, it changed everything,” he continued. “The thing is, Lena, Constance and I … we were close. Friends, at first, and then something more.”

She hesitated, feeling awkward at the revelation, blood rushing to her face. She couldn’t imagine what it might be like to be close to anyone in that way. Vigo had been married, had even had a child, but he’d been a qualified mortician. Cryptlings weren’t allowed to touch anyone, let alone marry—and it took years to qualify as a mortician, if you were lucky enough to be as clever and skilled as you had to be in order to pass the tests. Lena had never considered a relationship to be a part of her future. But we’re not talking about me, she reminded herself. “I’m sorry,” she said a little stiffly, after a silence. “It must’ve been awful when she did what she did.” Emris didn’t seem to notice her awkwardness.

He shook his head sadly. “It was awful. I always knew she was different. I think part of the reason we were drawn together was that we understood what it was to be set apart … mistrusted.” He paused, sighed. “But it turns out she was more different than I could have guessed. In fact, I didn’t know her at all.” He turned to Lena, his face a touch lighter, as if the confession had lifted a weight from his mind. “Come on. Let’s try again.”

TWELVE

Last Rites

Gong.

A low bass note thrummed in the center of Constance’s chest. She turned in her sleep, her brow twitching. Nightmares trembled under her eyelids.

Gong.