Silvercloak (Silvercloak Saga, #1)

by L.K. Steven

Pain stops when the spell stops, but fear…it burrows, it grows roots, it takes on a life of its own long after I have sown its seed. To wield fear is to wield the greatest power of all.”

Because fear was a kind of power, far easier to wield than magic. A well with no bottom.

One of the cardinal rules of magic was that something could not be made nothing. Matter could not be made to disappear entirely, because it would upset the energy balance of the world.

He looked at her as though she had saved him, which she had, and as though she would be the death of him, which she would.

Saff’s uncle Merin often went on flamebrandy-fueled rants about how the Crown should abandon the outdated notion of “making a living”—a concept born before the amplication spells were perfected—and embrace the idea that in a world where nothing had value, in the traditional sense, everyone would be free. People would still work and make and buy and sell, because humans did not like to be bored. Mal and Merin would still make cloaks, because they loved the art of it. But King Quintan was old-fashioned, and the economy gave him something to control. And, as Merin would drunkenly yell, House Arollan lived in the lap of luxury, and would it be luxury if everyone had it?

“I see you, Silver. For all that you are.”

“Do you want to?” she asked softly. “Or do you have too much power?” “The power is all yours, Silver. Do with it what you please.” It was a stirring thought. She could unmake the world… …and she could unmake the kingpin’s son.

Sleep did not find her quickly. Instead, she lay with his hand upon her, breathing gently against his palm, gazing at the sharp lines of his face, and slowly, impossibly, terribly, her magical well began to fill. Pleasure not from any physical touch, but from his mere presence, from the mere thought of him.

Let me tell you something about loss, sweetling. You can either yield to grief, or you can use it. Those are the only two choices, in the end.

Was it still killing, if you knew you would undo it later, and the victims would be none the wiser? Then came the axis tilt, the perspective shift, the great pitching of the world beneath her feet. A thunderclap of terrible understanding. Oh, she thought, horrified and fascinated in equal measure. This is how villains are born.