Free Bound by Erica O'Rourke Page A

ways. If you hold back the truth from him, you’ll both be hurt.” She touched her hair, tucking a stray wisp back into its elaborate twist. “I know you don’t want to leave your Flat life behind, but you are meant for so much more.”
    “That was Verity, not me.” The old hurt surfaced again. The pain of losing Verity, and of knowing I couldn’t measure up. The fatigue of fighting against a force I didn’t even believe in.
    “This is more than a single prophecy. It’s a chance to shape the future of our world. Verity was never called for such a task. Only you.”
    “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” I said softly.
    “Become what you’re meant to. There’s no heavier charge, but it can’t be helped.” She smiled regretfully. “And I’d ask you to do a kindness for me, as well.”
    “Anything.” Marguerite had been nothing but kind to me. I was eager to return the favor.
    “Help Luc. He needs to see that becoming his own man is just as important as any destiny he’s taken on.”
    I’d given so much thought to what the Arcs considered my destiny, I rarely thought about Luc’s. But his future had been laid out in prophecies as well—his place as the Heir, bound to me, charged with saving the magic and stopping the Ascendency. I wondered what sort of life he would have chosen, left to his own devices. He’d probably never considered the possibility.
    “He won’t believe that, coming from me.” Not when I’d railed against the idea of destiny all along.
    “Oh, Mo. You’re the only one he will believe.” She stood. “Come. I imagine Dominic is near to bursting, we’ve kept him so long.”
    I guided her toward the doors Luc had gone through, massive metal slabs, and she reached out, rapping five times in quick succession. The metal glowed where she’d struck it, and the doors swung open.
    Inside was the Assembly, the seat of the Quartoren. I’d been here before, to sign the Covenant that protected Constance. Like before, it was empty, the rows of seats reaching upward. But my attention was riveted on the group clustered onstage, seated at a massive black table that nearly vibrated with power.
    Luc met us halfway down the aisle. “Good chat?”
    Marguerite smacked him lightly on the arm. “Don’t pry, son.”
    He guided her to a chair along the side of the stage as I approached the Quartoren, my smile falling away.
    “Maura,” said Dominic coolly. He didn’t rise from the table. Luc’s father was a broad-shouldered man with mahogany skin, narrowed eyes, and an air of unmistakable command. Patriarch of the Fire Arcs, he was the strongest of the Quartoren, and the one I trusted the least.
    “Dominic.” I inclined my head. It came across as a gesture of respect, but really I wanted to see the symbols shifting along the table in front of me. If I squinted, I could almost bring them into focus enough to read. But like letters in a dream, they wiggled away just as I started to understand. They were the language of the magic, I’d been told once. My nerves tingled as the source strained to connect with them, like calling to like.
    “What do they say?” I asked as Luc rejoined me, fingertips brushing the back of my hand.
    “I don’t see why you’d need to know.” Orla, Matriarch of the Air Arcs and the lone woman of the Quartoren, sniffed. She was old and plump, fussy about protocol, and absolutely despised me. She frowned as we neared the dais. Of the three Arcs in front of me, she was the least dangerous—her hostility was out in the open, and easiest to defend against.
    “It’s the language of the magic in its purest state. The symbols form the charter of our people. They delineate the Houses, and by extension, the Quartoren,” Pascal said, giving her a quelling glance. “No Arc can speak it perfectly, but these are the original words of power. Everything else is a distortion, no matter how slight.”
    As always, Pascal stood off to the side. His face brightened,