“It’s magic, though?”
“No,” said the King. “And yes.”
Azalea took a bite of her bread and cheese, not tasting it. They had taken a detour to the kitchen, where the King took a bit of bread and cheese wrapped in a cloth and gave it to Azalea. Now he sat next to her, on one of the fine sofas by the mantel. The spindly legs creaked.
“Azalea, you know about Swearing on Silver. Do you not?”
A slight tingle rose in Azalea’s chest, and she thought of Mother’s handkerchief.
“I don’t think I do,” she said slowly. “Not fully. If…you make a promise with silver, it…helps you keep your oath? Just like if you…swear on blood…” Azalea stopped, shuddering. The King considered her.
“Yes,” he said. “It is like the blood oath the High King made, before he was overthrown. But it is the full opposite. Just as strong, but with silver as the mediator.”
“And it makes the silver…a sort of magic?”
“Just so,” said the King. “But a much stronger magic than the common sort. Stronger than the magic of the passage or the tea set, because it is sealed with your word. The people under the High King D’Eathe had very little, but what silver they had they kept close. Wedding bands, family heirlooms, and such. They believed silver the purest sort of metal. It was with those things they made the sword and swore to protect their families and their country. We swear on it now, in parliament.”
Swearing on Silver. A stronger magic. Everything connected in Azalea’s mind, a magic sealed with silver. She set the bread and cheese on her lap and pulled Mother’s handkerchief from her pocket, turning it over in her hands, remembering how Mother had pressed it into her palms.
“It doesn’t make sense, though,” said Azalea. “If this were true, then Mother’s handkerchief would be magic. But it’s never unmagicked anything. Or—” Azalea thought of the sword, and how it didn’t unmagic the passage at her hands. “Perhaps there is something wrong with me.”
The King stood and tended the fire with a poker, for it had started to die.
“There is nothing wrong with you,” he said. The firelight illuminated his face, deepening the wrinkles by his eyes. “The sword has been sworn on for many years, by kings and ministers. As such, the magic in it runs deep. For those who have sworn on it. To our visitors and guests, and even you, it is only a sword. Even so, your handkerchief is magic—for you and you sisters, weak as it is. You cannot expect one promise—”
“Two,” said Azalea quickly. “Mother had me swear on it. Before…before she…died. It…well.” She turned her eyes to the bread in her lap, feeling silly. But she couldn’t discount the first promise she’d made—it had felt so strong.
The King was quiet for a while. He looked at the handkerchief she turned in her hands, the silver shimmering softly in the lamplight.
“I gave that handkerchief to your mother,” he said. “As a wedding gift.”
Azalea held it tightly, praying he wouldn’t ask for it back.
He did not. Instead he said, “What did you promise? May I ask?”
Azalea traced the embroidered letters with her thumb. She hadn’t even told her sisters this.
“That…I would take care of the girls,” she finally said.
There was a moment of silence, but not awkward silence.
“I’m not doing a very good job of it,” Azalea mumbled.
The King’s firm, heavy hand rested on Azalea’s shoulder. It was such an unexpected gesture of affection that it rendered Azalea speechless. The King removed it, quickly, but his voice was gentle.
“You’ve done a fine job,” he said. “You cannot expect it to be as powerful as the sword. But I should think your handkerchief harbors a deep magic nonetheless. You have made it so.”
Azalea focused on her bread and cheese to keep from making a scene. She thought of Mother, hand over Azalea’s heart, sitting next to her in the ballroom, and telling her about the deepest sort of magic. The warm, flickery one. Azalea knew it wasn’t the common magic, nor was it the cold, shivery prickles of Swearing on Silver.
“What of the other magic?” said Azalea. “The one Mother used to speak of? The one without a name?”
There was a pause, the longest yet. The King stroked his well-trimmed beard, looking at the drapes across the hall. His eyes were bright, but sad.
“Yes,” he said. “They say there is a third sort of magic.”
Azalea waited, her food forgotten in her lap. The King shifted, stiffly, and considered the fire poker in his hand.
“It is,” he said finally, “the deepest magic of all. So deep, and rare, it doesn’t even have a name. It needs no silver. It has to do with the piece of you that is you, inside. Your soul. A promise so deep, it blurs the line between mortal and immortal, souls that have passed on. This unnamed magic has caused many strange things to happen. So it is said.”
“Such as?” said Azalea.
“I don’t know.”
“You…haven’t seen any evidence of it?”
“No.”
“Do you believe in it?”
The King sighed. “I don’t know, Azalea. I truly don’t. But your Mother did. More than anyone I knew.”
Azalea gazed at the glow of the fire flickering in the hearth next to her, thinking about the warm flickery bit. She hadn’t felt it for days, even when she danced. It was easy to believe in things, when Mother was here. Now, thinking of Mother, images of white lips and red thread passed through her mind, and it was as though a bucket of frigid stream water poured through her lungs and stomach. Azalea stood quickly, upsetting her cheese and bread, and hurried to the glass case that held the sword.