The caste mark on Henry's palm was drawn in black ink, vivid and fresh despite being more than fifteen years old. At the age of two, his father had brought him to Crystallinus for his official induction into the Order of the Apostles, and a Scholar had used a fine, delicate brush to draw the proof of nobility on his tiny hand.

"He used a brush? That's all?" Adrian asked. He looked more closely at the symbol on Henry's now-sizable palm, a circular design of fine lines depicting the facets of a round-cut jewel and an archaic rune at the center representing the Fifth Caste.

"Aye, and the mark will never fade," Henry said. "The Scholars brew up this special ink in their laboratories, but they can only do it successfully in the capital, in the Summerlands."

"Hmm," Adrian said, but did not elaborate on his skepticism. He'd heard of regions down south that embedded ink with similar permanence, but there they used needles to pierce many thousands of tiny dots into the underlayers of the skin. To have painted ink linger indefinitely was a sure sign of terramancy, the so-called forbidden art.

"How's your tea?" he asked Henry, who was holding a half-drunk cup in his other hand.

He glanced at it. "Oddly… salty."

"But no additional effects?"

He shook his head.

Adrian grinned in vindication. "That was a light sleeping draught. You should've felt drowsy at the very least, if not for the sprinkling of salt I added."

Henry grimaced. "You could have informed me first."

"Your ignorance ensured a more honest result. I tried the tea myself earlier, but I needed another test case to confirm it."

Henry emptied the cup into the grass. "Confirm what?"

"That salt somehow nullifies terramancy. It's why anything pickled loses its inherent terramantic traits, why I feel an absence rather than some distinct impression when handling it, why there's a sizable pouch's worth in my leather wallet. It makes a certain kind of sense… Eris' bounties cannot grow in salted soil, right?"

"All right…" Henry said uncertainly. He glanced at his palm. "What does this have to do with my caste mark?"

"If you were to soak your hand in a strong salt solution, the ink may leech out." Adrian raised his own. "Ready to be transferred."

Henry blinked. "Oh." His jaw worked. "I'd… no longer be a noble, would I?"

"The proof of your noble lineage would be gone. But I'll return the ink when I come back." He paused, then amended reluctantly, "If I come back."

Henry considered for a few long moments, then he chuckled and held out his hand. "Do what you will."

They started by setting Henry's hand in the iron pot filled halfway with heavily-salted water. Half an hour later, Henry lifted it back out to let Adrian observe any potential change. Alas, the symbol remained as dark and sharply-defined as ever.

"Perhaps it takes longer," Henry suggested.

"We don't have much longer," Adrian said. "Only four sunsets before Ascension Day. One way or another, we'll all have much larger concerns after that." He scratched his head. "Perhaps a more direct approach…"

He took a large pinch of salt from the wallet, which was spread open on the grass beside him, and rubbed the coarse crystals into Henry's palm in a circular motion.

"Make a fist," he said, and Henry did so.

Another half hour later, Adrian dusted away the salt to reveal the edges of the caste mark barely, but noticeably, softened.

"Won't the salt simply dissolve it entirely?" Henry said.

"It's not dissolving the ink; it's loosening its binding to your skin. Still, not fast enough…"

Candra returned from her morning wash in the river, damp hair swept over her shoulder. Adrian quickly caught her up on what he and Henry had been doing.

She crouched down for a long look at the latter's slightly-blurred caste mark. "Salt, you say?"

"You know of its uses in terramancy?"

"No. I was a junior-ranked Scholar, far beneath those permitted to practice the forbidden arts."

Adrian's brows jumped. "Officially-sanctioned terramancers? In the capital?"

"Only three chosen ones at a time, and only for select substances brewed diligently from ancient recipes. No wandering off the beaten path."

"Glorified apothecaries, then."

"You appear to be on the right track with the salt, but not with the extent of penetration. The ink does not lay at the top surface of the skin; we need to pierce deeper, leech it out as directly as possible." She shot Henry a grim look. "I've an idea, but you won't find it pleasant."

*

There was no shortage of river stones along the banks of the Hadria, and Adrian promptly settled on a pale, flat one with a suitably rough texture. Henry and Candra seated themselves at the bank as he sloshed back to them through the cool water.

"Ready?" Adrian said, holding the damp stone over Henry's upturned palm.

He nodded and set his jaw.

Adrian began to rub the rough stone against his palm, sluicing off a little skin with every short stroke.

Henry's grimace grew more pronounced as the long minutes passed, but he made no sound of pain or protest.

"Don't draw blood," Candra warned. "It could taint the ink."

I'm not stupid, you know. But Adrian didn't respond, and focused only on his task. Henry's palm was now a raw, angry red. And was he imagining it, or did the ink seem glossier and darker?

"Adrian," Henry said abruptly, as if the word were ripped from him. Adrian stopped and looked up. "S--sorry, I just--could we take a moment?" He chuckled weakly.

"Right, of course." Adrian cleared his throat awkwardly and seated himself on the bank at Henry's other side. A few minutes of silence later, he turned to him. "Let's have a go with the salt. Perhaps that was enough."

Henry swore a string of colorful epithets when the crystals met his freshly-flayed skin, but he held his palm steady despite the pain and bit into the knuckles of his other hand to stifle further cries.

Candra patted his shoulder in an attempt at consolation, then turned to Adrian. "How does it look?"

Tiny dots of liquid ink were slowly beading up between the salt crystals. "It's working," he breathed. He held a small glass vial beneath the edge of Henry's spasming hand. "Make a fist and turn. Hold in the salt, let the ink run off."

Henry, his eyes glossy with pain, did as he was told. A few breathless seconds later, the first dark drop fell into the vial, followed gradually by others.

The vial was a quarter full when the last drop fell, and Henry opened his palm to reveal a vibrantly-tortured, but empty, swath of skin.

The three of them ate a quick lunch--dried apples and jerky--before starting in on the next phase of Adrian's grand plan.

Using a long bone needle from the seamstress' kit that Candra had found in her dress pocket and now dipped like a quill into the extracted ink, she began the slow, painstaking process of scratching the Fifth Caste mark across Adrian's left palm. Henry watched the proceedings closely, his own hand bandaged with a cloth strip soaked in a cooling infusion of Adrian's making.

"I'd drawn a mere two caste marks before the Madness and the Exile, and that'd been with a specialized brush," she said, her tone as flat and deliberate as her miniscule ink strokes. "And the mark must be perfect to pass muster at the gates. So don't rush me. Shut up entirely, if you can."

Adrian and Henry complied and made no further noise, even as the ink sank beneath the surface of the former's skin like tiny, red-hot needles.

The delicate task took her well into the afternoon. Once Candra had made doubly-sure that every line and rune was in place, she straightened up for the first time in hours and stretched mightily with a long groan and an audible crack. Henry, who'd brewed some tea from the pouch that Adrian had pointed out in the leather wallet, offered her a cup.

"It's done?" Adrian said quietly, staring at the indisputable mark of nobility that now graced his palm. It was practically indistinguishable from Henry's, if perhaps just slightly rougher in the linework.

"It's done," Candra confirmed, sipping the tea with relish. "The gates of the capital will now open to you."

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He closed his hand, and it took him a few seconds to parse through the emotions suddenly surging up in his chest. Some of it was awe that this idea had even worked, but most of it was an incredulous amusement at the fact that, despite everything, Adrian had finally gotten what he'd yearned desperately for ever since he was a young, deluded child.

I, Adrian of Laetera, am now a noble.

*

"I know what you're thinking," Candra said, blowing smoke puffs into the cool twilight air.

"Do you?" Adrian said. He straightened the linen tent's pitching, whose interior seemed cavernous and empty now that he was its only occupant.

"You're thinking that if you'd known about Henry sooner, Cedric needn't have entered the tournament at all."

Adrian's stomach clenched, and he shrugged without looking at her. "What's done is done," he said. "Cedric can handle himself. He wouldn't be much of a Blessed One if he couldn't."

"You don't worry for his chances at victory. You worry for the cost of it."

"There may not be a cost," he said, unconvincing even to himself. "His opponents may yield."

Candra's pipe briefly flickered with dots of bright embers. "Regardless, if it'd been Cedric entering the capital with Henry's caste mark, there'd be no one to save the commoner children enslaved under Lady Salus, would there?"

She dumped out the contents of her pipe and bid him good night. Adrian lay awake in his tent for much longer than he usually did, missing the warm presence of the one who used to lay beside him.

There was still plenty to be done the next morning before Adrian could convincingly present himself before the gates of Crystallinus. A little after dawn, he headed for Henry's camp.

Henry had a covered wagon of his own, newer and better-made than Adrian's. But his horse, a cream speckled mare named Lily, was not nearly as impressive as Nightwind.

"Father left her with me," Henry said, stroking her corn silk mane. "Come, my things are in the back."

A handsome wooden chest lay open beneath the wagon's cloth canopy and curved ribs among Henry's possessions and supplies, and inside was a good assortment of colorful garments, messily folded and packed.

Henry glanced at Adrian's comparatively smaller frame and stature. "I may have some clothes from my earlier years in there."

Most of the tunics, vests, and breeches Adrian rifled through were indeed at least a size too large, and ill-fitting garments--no matter the fineness of their cloth or patterning--would come across far worse than Adrian's reasonable-looking traveler's clothes. But just as he was about to give up and take his chances with what he was already wearing, he found a deep green tunic embroidered with delicate gold thread whose dimensions matched his more closely. As Adrian threw off his overshirt to try it on, his initial assumption was confirmed.

Henry then pulled from the pile a light, glossy cloak trimmed with white fur around the shoulders and collar. Adrian pulled it on, briefly relished its luxurious softness, then spread his hands. "What do you think?"

"You wear it well," Henry said with an open sincerity that almost made Adrian blush.

A brief, awkward silence fell between them.

"Thank you, Henry," Adrian finally said, forcing himself to meet his eyes. "For everything. You're the only reason I’ve even the slightest chance at this."

Henry scratched at the base of his neck, equally awkward. He was still wearing the bandage. "I had little use for my caste mark anyhow. Or that undersized tunic."

"I'll bring it back," Adrian said hurriedly. "Both those things, I mean. And… sorry about your hand."

Henry surprised him with a lopsided grin. "Be honest, you rather enjoyed it."

Adrian found no desire to dispute the truth. He shrugged, wearing a rueful smile of his own. "For what it's worth, I think I've now expended every drop of ill will against you. Take care, Henry Avidus."

"Good luck, Adrian."

When he returned to camp, Candra's reaction to his disguise was considerably less heartening. "Don't tell me you intend to leave like that?"

"What's wrong with this?" Adrian demanded, his self-satisfaction immediately displaced by self-consciousness.

"Not your clothes; they'll do fine. Hurry, go wash yourself before you soil them further. Don't return until you've scrubbed yourself raw, understood?"

Adrian grumbled at length, but did as she ordered. After safely storing his new nobleman's garments in the wagon, he marched down to the river in his underthings.

He scrubbed with a dedication like never before, and even scraped away every speck under his fingernails. Once he was painstakingly clean, he found Candra at camp brandishing a comb like a weapon. Ten brisk but not-entirely-unpleasant minutes later, she finally seemed satisfied. With Adrian's appearance, at least.

"Looking the part is half the battle," Candra said. "I'd argue far less than half, actually. Your conduct is how you'll truly deflect suspicion in the capital. Show me the traditional greeting I taught you."

Adrian held up his hand to display his caste mark, his thumb and first two fingers extended with the last two folded, then touched his forehead and his heart.

"Again, this time less like a toddler who's wet himself."

He continued to practice the traditional gesture of greeting, steadily hardening his expression following each insufficient attempt. Eventually, on what felt like the hundredth try, Candra snapped her fingers and pointed at him, eyes bright.

"That's the one," she said intently. "That look, right there. Wear it unwaveringly, with your head held high, and no one would ever think to question your presence in the capital."

Adrian did not like how the expression felt on his face; he couldn't remember ever making it in the past. "Really? This one?"

"Not a trace of self-consciousness or doubt. Utter assurance in your standing, bestowed upon you by birthright and ancient law. 'Wherever I am, I belong. Whatever I desire, I am owed.' Repeat this to yourself until you believe it."

"How can I believe what I know is a lie?"

"Is it?" Candra retorted, casting a meaningful glance at his caste mark.

She was right. As far as the capital would know, Adrian was a legitimate noble with all the privileges that status would grant. He dropped the hard mask of his expression.

"You were a noble, once," he said. "What changed your perception of them?"

"The Exile, of course," Candra replied with a wry, humorless smile. "When I was personally wronged, forced to reconsider ingrained beliefs and assumptions from a less pampered perspective. Before that, my youthful brashness and contempt of elders had never transcended beyond typical juvenile defiance. Except in the way I… expressed it, of course."

She considered her scarred palm, where some remnants of dark ink remained like scattered specks of dirt. "Having lived among both, I can say with certainty that nobles are born no different from commoners. Nothing in their precious blood or their closeness to the Heirs has inherently distinguished them from the so-called rabble. The sole proof of divine grace here is the perpetual health and bountifulness of the Summerlands; all the nobles' claims to superiority ultimately stem from being housed and well-fed all their lives." She returned her gaze to Adrian. "When you're in the capital, remember that as well."

He briefly wished he could give the past version of himself a good walloping. What a deluded idiot I truly was. "Am I ready, now?"

"Nearly. Tell me about the six castes, first."

Adrian recounted what he remembered from her previous teachings. The First Caste: personal advisors and governing officials, the only ones eligible to offer themselves as courtesans to the Heirs. The Second Caste: scholars, academics and lower-level officials. The Third Caste: musicians, entertainers, artists, physicians, and craftsmen. The Fourth Caste: servants, guards, and city caretakers. The Fifth Caste: Enforcers. The Sixth Caste: former commoners who'd earned noble status through exceptional merit.

"Surely not every member of a family chooses the same occupation as their predecessors?" Adrian asked. "What if a Second Caste wishes to be a physician or artist?"

"They could, as long as they had siblings to maintain the family's standing," Candra said. "But moving upwards, from a musician to a governing official for instance, is significantly more difficult. In neither case do their castes change."

"Then, if I'm a Fifth Caste… would I defer to everyone in Crystallinus, including the servants and caretakers?"

Candra shook her head. "The castes are so named and ordered for their physical closeness to the Divine Heirs, but the social hierarchy is not so simple. We haven't the time to dive into its countless intricacies, but in no world are servants regarded more highly than those they serve. On the off chance you cross paths with a First or Second, however, address them as you would a respected wiseman."

"Servant nobles," Adrian murmured to himself. The very phrase rang of contradiction.

Candra had drawn him a Fifth Caste sigil so that he could impersonate Henry rather than attempt to sell a fabricated identity. Still, he briefly wondered how different things would be if Candra had painted him into a more distinguished caste.

"Now, my lord, you are ready," Candra proclaimed. "Let's get Nightwind saddled up."

A potent pang of dread and realization clenched Adrian's gut as he settled on Nightwind's back, and several seconds passed before his conscious mind caught up. He hadn't thought about it in more than a day, and this was his reward: the full-fledged truth crashing into him like a rampaging beast.

There was only one thing Candra could have told Cedric the morning he'd left for the tournament. Something that devastated him yet did not sway him from his path, something that'd prompted him to bid goodbye with such awful finality in his eyes.

"He's going to die, isn't he?" Adrian said numbly, though his voice didn't feel like his own. "Even if everything goes right."

Candra's head snapped up, and she stopped adjusting the various straps on the saddle. There was surprise on her face, but no trace of denial. "He made his choice," she finally said.

Adrian didn't know who he wanted to strangle more, Candra or Cedric. He gnashed his teeth. "That bloody mule-headed--"

She caught Adrian's forearm in a bruising grip. "Do not lose sight of why you're here. Cedric has his mission, you have yours. Look at me. Tell me you understand!"

He shook off her hand, flicked the reins, and set off without a word of goodbye.

*

Beneath the late morning sun, the wide bridge beneath Nightwind's hooves seemed made of solid light rather than stone. Adrian set forward at a relaxed trot, mostly so he could pull himself together by the time he arrived at the gates.

Upon better sight of the guards, Adrian forced himself to blink away the film of unshed tears, straighten his posture, and clear his mind. It was time to don his true disguise, one he couldn't remove until he was safely outside the walls again.

The two guards were clad in shining plate armor adorned with an intricate crest at their center. Proud red plumes sprouted from the tops of their helmets, and they acknowledged Adrian's approach with a caste greeting which the latter returned, accompanied by his most imperious expression.

Wherever I am, I belong. "Well met, men. I, Henry Avidus, seek entry into the capital. My father Eudon will have already arrived."

After a tense moment, during which Adrian wondered if they'd simply laugh at this obvious commoner's nerve before lopping his head off, they inclined theirs. "Well met, my lord," the taller one said. He was young, fair-haired, and broad, a picture of well-fed strength. Adrian could hardly believe his guise was working when he had this to be compared to.

The guard took a vial from his belt and tilted two clear drops onto Adrian's open palm, which tingled and swiftly turned an opaque black before absorbing into his skin as if it'd never been there.

With the ink proven authentic, the guard craned his neck up toward the soaring wall and signaled his fellow men stationed atop. "Welcome home, Lord Avidus," he said to Adrian with a tip of his helmet.

As the gates began to open, smooth and soundless despite their immeasurable weight, Adrian could not resist asking, "How fares the tournament? We are on the third day, correct?"

"Oh, the festivities are like nothing I've seen, my lord. Food and wine flow freely up to Ascension Day, as ordained by the Red King. And the Golden Heart has caused quite a stir among gamblers and romantics alike…"

He fought to keep his expression placid. Golden Heart, of course…

"… though perhaps that name is no longer suitable."

Adrian blinked. "Why do you say so?"

"The match this morning. Word around the city is that he tore Lord Claetus' throat clean out. Seems his vow was not so ironclad as he claimed."

"Oh," Adrian said in a small voice. His body had gone numb, and the gate was open for several long moments before he remembered to flick Nightwind's reins. He considered thanking the guard, then decided against it; there was nothing to be thankful for. Whatever I desire, I am owed.

Adrian entered the city of Crystallinus with a heavy heart, but also with grim determination. He'd rescue the commoner children from Lady Salus, and then he'd find Cedric. Even if he had to break into the Vault itself.

Even if he could only be there to watch him die.