by R. K. Thorne
She needn’t look. He had a diverse array of options. Time to seal the deal, he thought.
“My lady, dry those tears. This beautiful garden you maintain is so large and open.” Her eyes widened as she caught the meaning in his words. “But were you able to visit me at Mage Hall, I would be able to better acquaint you with the capabilities of my estate and forces.”
“I don’t know if the king would approve of my interest in… your martial affairs,” she said, fidgeting.
“Perhaps a visit to his cousin, our lady Seulka then. She has not attended tonight, claiming ill health. It has been too long since you visited; perhaps you should check up on her.” He smiled, letting a little of his natural deviousness through.
Her eyes lit up. “Indeed. I am quite concerned about her health,” she said. She was a good actress, sounding sincerely worried. Good, one less liability.
He stood, still clasping her hand in his. “I fear I have been gone too long from the feast. I must let the king know how much I appreciate the fine treasures I’ve discovered in his gardens. Will you give me my leave, Your Majesty?”
“Of course,” she said, although she looked disappointed he was leaving so soon. But this was a promising start. He could not afford to raise suspicions of any connection between them before their plots were even begun. He could see so much potential here. Respected by the king or not, the queen held real power. While Demikin dallied, she had sown gratitude among many of those lesser nobles, and many would feel indebted, even if she hadn’t yet realized it. Those seeds of appreciation could be reaped later. Although he had the impression she’d acted more out of boredom and duty than determined maneuvering, Daes could help her take advantage of these bonds she’d naturally made. The king was a fool to make an enemy of her. Another way the king and Daes were quite different.
He bowed deeply and brought her hand up, carefully pressing his lips to her fingers with a slow, soft kiss, leaving a trace of cold wetness behind. All the while, he watched her eyes flick from his gaze to his hand and back again, her mouth dropping open slightly. Then, before he could ruin it, he took his leave.
He heard no footsteps behind him, so fortunately she’d taken his lead not to return together. He found himself striding back to the feast with a spring in his step. This was good. Very good. And he was not the only one who’d struck gold tonight. Queen Marielle had received a valuable reminder of her actual power and comfort besides.
This could only get better.
Chapter 7
Instruction
Jaena awoke to a knock at the door. Tharomar had been asleep beside her, apparently, because he roused with a snort and a start and stumbled to the door. Good thing he’d slept with his clothes on. A part of her had expected some sort of betrayal in the night, and she couldn’t believe in the bleary morning light that he could possibly be just what he said he was. But it seemed so. He had treated her ankle and given her a place to sleep and nothing more. And he hadn’t asked for anything in return.
He squinted and ran a hand over his face as he stumbled to the door and opened it. Jaena’s heart leapt as reality rushed back into her groggy mind. It could be Devoted or others from Mage Hall looking for her. Should she hide, pull the cover over her head? She lay facing away from the door. She decided not to move. Motion might just draw more attention.
“Mornin’, Ro. You wanted me to stop before I headed into the city?” said a gravelly man’s voice. Apparently her host had a nickname.
“Morning, Nemin. Yes—one moment.” Tharomar strode across the room, opened his cupboards, and rummaged around.
“Another share for the womenfolk?”
Jaena felt another leap and sputter in her chest. Perhaps he was not so unattached after all. Curse her, why did she care? She did not have time to moon after this man. Or any man. It did not matter if he had ten wives in ten different cities and a dozen children by each of them. It should make no difference to her.
“Aye,” he said, striding back with a burlap pouch in both hands. Coins clinked against each other. “It’s not much, but tell them…” He stopped, looking thoughtful.
Nemin laughed. “You’re not trying to think up a reason why you aren’t sending more, are you?”
Tharomar looked surprised. “I was, why?”
“They haven’t even let me finish telling them your tales the last three times.”
Tharomar grimaced but still seemed intent on thinking of something.
“No, no. Don’t misunderstand me, Ro. They don’t care. You could send them nothing. They’re just happy you’ve made this life here at all. Better than many of their kids end up. They don’t care about a single coin.”
“They need it.” His voice had an edge.
“They raised you without it somehow. I’ll have to ask them if they know any way to get you to relax.”
“Tell them I should be able to take an apprentice by the spring.” Apparently Ro was determined not to relax.
“Aye, well, that they’ll listen to. But don’t be so hard on yourself, all right, my boy?”
“I’m hardly a boy, Nemin.” He finally handed the visitor the pouch of coins.
“I’ll see this there safely, Ro. Don’t worry.”
“Blessed be, as the spring blooms, Nemin. Safe travels.”
“May her sun watch over you, my friend.”
And then the visitor was gone. Tharomar flopped back down on the cot, stretched, and seemed to consider sleeping more. But after a moment, he said quietly, “You’re awake?”
She turned on her back to face him and was rewarded with a reminder of the horrible pain in her ankle. She stifled a groan. What a mess she’d gotten herself into. “How did you know?”
He sat up and rubbed the sleep from his face again, then shrugged. “I’ve spent more of my time sleeping near others than alone. You learn to tell.”
She snorted. “I could interpret that more than a few ways, you know. Soldier? Patron of brothels, perhaps?”
He turned and gave her a grin that was entirely too charming. She should get out of here as soon as she could. “I was raised in a temple of Nefrana. Well, mostly.”
Oh. That explained… a lot. The necklace, the pious fear of mages, the womenfolk Nemin mentioned. His generosity. His determination to help her, without seeming to seek a reward. She had never encountered much kindness from someone who was devout—except perhaps him—but the sermons did speak of caring for one’s neighbor. Perhaps he was the one fool who had actually listened? He hadn’t exactly denied or even flinched at her brothel accusation, though, she noted. “You were raised in a temple? To be a priest?”
“Yes, it was inside a temple, although it was more like an orphanage. They just didn’t call it that. No, not to be a priest. They have enough priests, charity isn’t a great way to feed a temple full of parentless children, and they were all women anyway. I’m happy to contribute in other ways.”
She nodded and eased herself to sitting as he spoke. She winced but tried to hide it. “Like coin?” Or were there other ways?
“Like coin. They set me up with this smithy. I can never repay them for everything they’ve done for me. But—well, at least I can try. So when Nemin takes his goods to the city, I send help along. It should really be more, but it’s hard to charge more for a horseshoe when you know a farmer needs it to survive and can’t pay any more. But the temple has been struggling too. Some merchants have no trouble charging more, no matter who you are.”
“You said ‘mostly’ raised there.”
His smile turned sheepish. “Well—let’s just say I know my way around alleys more than anyone really needs to.”
She nodded. Alleys and maybe brothels too, she suspected. A gasp escaped as she tried to put weight on her ankle, and instead he helped her to the edge of the bed. She swung her feet to the floor. Her head didn’t pound, which seemed remarkable. What was in that mead?
“Did those priestesses give you those salves too?” she asked, putting the facts
together.
“Exactly. Nothing gets by you, I see.” He grinned. “And it looks—and sounds—like time for another application, eh?”
She nodded, scowling at her ankle in disgust as he squatted down to inspect it. She wanted to hide back under the covers so he couldn’t see. It’d swollen up and turned black and blue and purple. Like a beaten hog’s leg. Damn it to all seven hells.
After a thoughtful inspection, he grinned up at her, straightened, and headed back to his cabinet for the salve. He’s a smith, she reminded herself. He’s probably turned his thumb or his knee that color more than once. Nothing he cares about. Why are you being such a fool around this man? The sooner she could heal and get away, the better.
He handed her the salve this time. “If you can put this on, I can get us some breakfast.”
She opened her mouth, thinking she should deny needing any breakfast, since she certainly had no coin. But that hadn’t mattered before, had it, nor had he accepted any of her objections. And she wasn’t healing and getting away any faster on an empty stomach.
Instead, she took the jar. “Got it.”
Aven had woken with a headache after they’d freed the first warrior mage, but this morning was worse. He’d gone back to sleep for a while, his head pounding. Perhaps even with help, there was some cost to these spells that he wasn’t quite compensating for.
He should probably just stick to one a night. If he got Wunik and the others doing it, maybe he wouldn’t end up feeling like a mace was crushing his head from both sides. In between dreams and pained bits of sleep, he worried.
The thoughts he’d felt from Miara last night had scared him deeply. So much… doubt. So much concern. Her feelings for him were as strong as ever, if not stronger. But then in that one unguarded moment, he’d seen deeper. He’d felt her fears, her inadequacies.
Everyone had such feelings, of course. What worried him was… what was she going to do about it? Her affection was so constant, he had never questioned if she’d want to marry him. That was a bit foolish in hindsight. And of course, she did want him. But unfortunately he, like most men, came with a job description attached. One she seemed to think she was ill-suited and unprepared for.
She was wrong. So wrong. And yet, he knew enough about insecurity to know he couldn’t just argue the point. He couldn’t simply insist to her she would be an excellent queen, a strong leader, a steady and careful hand at his side. She would dismiss anything he said as biased, as said only out of love and not out of logic. But of course the things he logically thought would be good he also found terribly attractive. Was that so hard to believe?
No. He’d have to get others to convince her. Or help her find that in herself. Or put her in situations where she could see that she was more than the slave she’d thought of herself as for so long.
When the pounding had finally subsided—which might have been partially due to inhaling the dumplings, sausages, and tea that had appeared next to his bed while he was sleeping—he sat on his bed, scratching his jaw.
He’d hoped to show her his room last night, but again, that hadn’t worked out. And he’d intended to head there to check in with her this morning, but… he found himself hesitating. He wasn’t ready to talk about whether or not she wanted to be queen, and he didn’t think she was ready to talk about it either. But the idea fogged his mind—and he didn’t feel much like talking about some other topic.
He dressed and, with some mixed feelings, went looking for Wunik instead. There was time to figure things out with Miara, time to show her his room, time to talk about their whole situation when he wouldn’t be so tempted to go to insane lengths to convince her of her worth. In a few hours, he had a feeling he’d be much more rational about it, and he’d have something else to talk about—namely, spells.
Wunik was delighted to see him so early, and they spent the morning practicing setting things on fire and then putting them out. Wunik also showed him the strange pastime of building up a static charge in one iron orb and then jumping the charge to another—exercises in tiny, well-controlled lightning bolts. The practical use of this, he wasn’t certain, but it sure looked impressive.
By lunchtime, though, Aven was wondering where Miara was. And regretting he hadn’t gone to see her. Would she be wondering what had happened to him? If he’d been okay? She hadn’t been completely comfortable with his departure with Dom and Derk at his side. Damn, that was thoughtless. He should have already gone to see her.
Her rooms, however, were empty when he strolled by. Fayton had said she’d been at the Proving Grounds one morning. He’d never found out why. Perhaps she was there again, so he headed that way.
He stood at the top of the high stairs and surveyed the Grounds and the many seats that surrounded them. Off to the left, Thel sat with Renala, watching a group of young prospective wardens practice. Well, that was an interesting match—was Thel interested in her, perhaps? That would take the pressure off Aven, at least. At the bottom of the steps, Derk was chatting with Siliana and Dom. No Miara, no red hair anywhere.
Hmm. Where could she be?
“I heard you’ve been practicing spells with Wunik.” Aven roused to realize Derk was talking to him.
“Uh, yes. All morning. Yesterday too.”
“Well, come on then. Let’s see. There’s room down there, right?”
“What?” Aven blinked.
“Let’s spar. Show those soldiers over there another kind of battle, eh? What do you think?” Derk grinned and held up a hand like it cradled a ball. A flicker of flame burst to life in his palm, mildly threatening.
“When I spar with swords, I know how not to go killing my opponent. I’ve learned. I don’t know how to do that with magic, yet. Just as importantly, do you?”
Derk shrugged. “We’ve got some healers. We’ll be fine.”
Well, that was encouraging. But Derk brought out a competitive streak in him, and he found himself nodding and following the blond mage back down toward the main ring. There was room for three times as many soldiers on the field as they had, so they shouldn’t have to worry too much about hitting anyone. He hoped.
This was also a good excuse to live out the violent fantasies he got every time Derk looked at Miara. Or talked to her. Or was in the same room as her.
He sighed. Was this jealousy? He had nothing to be jealous of, did he? Miara had no interest in the fellow. Did she? He knew better than to let jealousy eat at him.
This is new to you, Aven, he reminded himself. You’re no veteran. He would be more likely to get trounced by the more experienced mage than to live out any fantasies of jealousy or dominance or socking him in the jaw.
But then again, if he surprised the bastard, that would be delicious. Worth the risk of getting knocked on his ass.
Aven stepped out onto the field. “What did you have in mind? Obviously my sparring experience is strictly limited to blunted and slicing implements.”
“Well, what has the old man been teaching you?”
“Farsight—”
“Not much combat use, I’m afraid.”
“Fire—”
“Now we’re talking.”
“—and small charges, lightning sorts of things.”
“Oh, balls of iron are my favorite.” Aven had no idea if that was sarcasm, innuendo, or something else altogether. “Well, take your pick. Oh, and I also heard you know how to cast a breeze or two. You should definitely conjure us some pleasant weather, maybe a tropical breeze for our affair.” He laughed now.
Aven gathered the energy inside him like a fist clenching and sent a rush of air at Derk’s left.
Not expecting it, the mage stumbled and nearly fell. He recovered just in time, blinking and laughing. “All right, you proved your point,” he said. “My turn.”
A crackle in the air was all the warning Aven had. Lightning arced out of the air as if originating from the ether and stabbed into his left thigh.
He swore and stumbled backward, but thankfully he did
n’t lose his footing. Damn, how was he supposed to defend against that?
Another crackle. This time, Aven held up the palm of his left hand, which dutifully caught the brunt of the crack of lightning but failed to defend him in any meaningful way. Getting shot with an arrow in the hand was not really an improvement on getting shot in the thigh. His palm was black, like he’d been handling burned logs. Well, that was just great.
How could he defend against—
Another crackle. This time, Aven jumped to one side, but it was no help. An arc of light connected with his shoulder and sent the muscles of his arm spasming.
Well, this was far too lopsided to be called sparring at this point. Aven concentrated for a moment, ignoring the spasms as best he could, and lit the soles of Derk’s shoes on fire.
The stream of curses was all that told Aven he’d succeeded, for he was busy trying to calm his arm down with his singed palm.
How did they defend themselves? Certainly there had to be a way, especially if you could see the spell coming. He wanted to bounce the lightning back to him, or catch it and—
That must be it. Something like that had to be possible.
Another crackle broke through the musty air. No, two this time.
Aven tried not to look for them. He didn’t need sight or sound. He needed that extra sense, to feel the energy in the air as it moved toward him. He could sense an arc of mental energy mirroring the light that shot through the air.
He reached out and—
He missed the first. It slammed into his ear, of all places, and sent him spinning. But the second, he caught. It soaked into him like water into a sponge.
He felt hot, euphoric. Too much. He hadn’t expended the energy, and it bounced around inside him now, jockeying for release.
He sent his own arc of lightning back, but it shot wide, connecting with the practice rack behind Derk with a small shake. A few of the warden students stopped and stared for a moment, then diligently pretended to return to their own activities. He could feel at least a few of them watching. Derk raised one cocky eyebrow at him, and Aven felt him readying something.