The Ragpicker King (The Chronicles of Castellane, #2)

by Cassandra Clare

“Beck’s done enough for you,” he said. “Keep the amulet. Get out of Castellane. Don’t ask for anything else. I’m telling you this as a friend.” “Really?” said Kel. “Whose friend? Because I know who Beck is now. Who she really is.”

“Antonetta,” Kel said. “It’s good to see you.” She looked at him without expression. “You’re soaking wet.” “I fell in the ocean,” Kel said dryly. “After escaping from the Trick.” Her red lips curved into a smile. “And you don’t look the least bit chewed on by crocodiles. It seems that amulet really does work.”

“I wanted Gremont’s Charter, too. Not for myself—I couldn’t have held it, I know that. But I could have given it to someone.” “You would have…sold it?” Kel said. “I don’t—” “No, you don’t,” she said furiously. “I can’t believe you came here thinking you had everything all figured out, Kel Saren. You don’t understand anything. I wanted it for you.”

“My lady. I am Kellian Saren, born an orphan of Castellane. I have no blood family, but I am the Sword Catcher, the protector of the Prince of Castellane, and though I am exiled from Marivent, I will always be that.”

And then there was Lin. Like Kel, she would be safe because she was away from him. He had to believe that, or die.

“I sent her away, far from here. I told her never to come back. And she’s not the only one. Kel is gone, too. My Királar. Everyone in the Palace thinks he’s dead. And I sent Mayesh away. I know you told me that he was the one I could always trust, that every Aurelian King has always depended on his Counselor. But I had no choice. They have to think I’m all alone. Can you understand that? They must believe that I am at my weakest, completely undefended. That there is no one in Marivent who will lift a hand to protect me. It will make them overconfident, and when they strike they will do so because they think I am alone. But I am not alone, am I? Not entirely.”

“They think you are weak, Father,” he said. “But I believe they are wrong. I believe we can defeat them, together.” He heard a rustle as his father moved, and a moment later the sharpness of needle points against his scalp as the King reached out and ran a clawed hand through Conor’s hair. “Yes,” Markus rasped. “Together.”