“You must be proud,” the young man said excitedly. “Especially at his age.”
She stopped pouring honey as the word ‘age’ struck her in the ego. “You realize that he’s only a year older than me, right?”
“No,” Mehta said, looking up in surprise with those dark pools. “I assumed you were much younger than him.”
The flirting made her heart race like she was being chased in a park. He was just so, very pretty. How did Angst get anything done with young women like Faeoris and Victoria around? She suddenly realized she was stirring his milk and honey with a finger, while she stared into his eyes. After jerking it out of the mug, she licked it without thinking, and then realized she’d licked it, and then really wanted to leave the room.
“What is it you do, exactly?” she asked, taking a deep, calming breath. “Why were you put on guard?”
“I can create—”
There was a grinding crunch of stone, and the house shook violently. Both twins cried, and Heather rushed to cover their baskets. Mehta stood, holding both fists out as if ready to box. A cloud of dust fell from the ceiling, making sunlight visible in thick beams. She tried to calm the babies while fighting back a sneeze.
“I do this!” Mehta said heroically, pressing his wrists together, spreading his hands, and aiming them toward the hallway. Soapy bubbles poured from his palms, and a gray-blue misshapen orbs of light quickly surrounded them. It smelled like sulfur. “You may feel queasy. I’m working on that. They will be enough to protect your entire home in...just...a...minute”
The house shook again, and again. Mehta grunted with each attack. There was a scream of anguish from outside as the ground rumbled. A cabinet filled with dishes rocked forward and then back again, the smelly bubbles keeping it in place. Heather held her babies close, concentrating on keeping her fear in check so Mehta could focus.
“Where is Kala?” Nikkola cried from outside the house. “Where is my daughter?”
“Nikkola, what are you doing?” Heather shouted.
The house shook again, and Mehta took a step back. His face was strained, veins bulged at his temples, his eyes pinched in concentration.
“Kala!” Nikkola cried. “Where is she?”
“I haven’t seen her since Angst left,” Heather said, and then it struck her. “Oh, please no...”
“Where is she!” Nikkola shouted again.
“Mehta, let the shield down,” Heather said.
“What?” he asked, panting heavily. “No way!”
“Please,” she said, placing a hand on his arm.
He looked at her with eyes that, under other circumstances, would’ve melted her. She nodded, and he lowered his hands. Their soapy protection slowly disintegrated as bubbles popped.
Nikkola entered the room, her face filled with the rage of a thousand volcanoes. Darkness surrounded her hands, and hundreds of tiny black orbs circled her forearms, each growing until they exploded with an electrifying snap. Her eyes were mad and wild, looking from Heather to Mehta. She raised clawed hands toward them, the flurry of dark orbs spinning faster around her forearms. Nikkola’s breath hastened, and Heather placed a calming hand on Mehta’s shoulder to hold the young man back.
The kitchen now smelled of rotten eggs and moldy books. The crackling from Nikkola’s hands sounded like a forest fire in a lightning storm. The twins screamed as if they’d never eaten. Kala’s mom saw the babies, and her heaving chest slowed. Her lip quivered as she lowered fists, the darkness flickering away like a candle out of wax.
“Nikkola,” Heather said. “Please tell me she hasn’t gone with Angst?”
The poor woman looked frail and disheveled as she reached into a pocket and pulled out a note. She handed it to Heather with a shaky hand.
Mom,
I went on an adventure. I wanted to keep Scar and Angst safe. I’ll be home soon, promise.
Love you!
Kala
“No,” Heather whispered.
Nikkola collapsed to her knees, and Heather knelt beside her. She took the woman in her arms and instinctively patted her head.
“I’m so sorry,” Heather said. “I didn’t know.”
“She’s all I have,” Nikkola said between sobs. “After my sister, Janda, passed, Kala is my only family. My daughter.”
“This is my fault,” Heather said. “I didn’t think. She and Scar are inseparable. I told Angst to take Scar, I wanted him to be safe. I didn’t think Kala would try to sneak along. I’m so sorry.”
Nikkola sobbed into her shoulder, dampening it with tears. Heather focused, taking deep, calming breaths, and the twins stopped crying.
“I don’t even know where she is,” Nikkola said, choking on her grief. “I’ve never felt so lost.”
Mehta handed Nikkola the mug of milk and honey. She took a deep draught and spat it onto the stone floor.
“Ugh,” she said, handing back the mug and wiping off her mouth. “It’s so sweet!”
“I like it that way,” Mehta said with a shrug, finishing the mug.
Nikkola glared at Heather.
“What?” Heather asked.
“You’re as bad as your husband!” she said loudly.
“I don’t understand?” Heather asked.
“Angst drags these young women on adventures to who-knows-where doing who-knows-what,” she said, her face curled in a sneer. “And here you are, with your own young man, offering him milk and honey and whatever you and Angst promise!” Her glare turned on Mehta. “What were you promised? Adventure? Sex?”
Mehta avoided making eye contact with either of them, wringing his hands, his muscular shoulders tensing.
“Well?” Nikkola shouted.
“They didn’t promise me anything,” he said with a long sigh. “I volunteered to be here because, well, I like it here. Heather is nice, and pretty, and Angst has always been kind to my family. And...”
“Tell the truth!” Nikkloa said.
“That is the truth,” Mehta snapped. His eyes were glassy. “But you’re right, there’s more.”
“Finally,” Nikkola said, her shoulders dropping.
“It was a long time ago, like twenty years,” he began.
Heather and Nikkola winced.
“My parents were in the Wizard’s Retreat,” he said.
“The Wizard’s Revenge,” Nikkola corrected.
“Back then,” Heather said, “it was called Wizard’s Retreat.”
“My parents were married at the bar,” he went on. “They said Angst was there with a pretty young woman named Izzy. Just as the ceremony ended, the Wizard’s Retreat began to burn. Izzy said she could make it stop forever, but she would never be able to see Angst again. She kissed Angst, and they said goodbye. Even though it was illegal, he used his power to keep the building stable until my parents could escape. He saved them. He saved everyone. Ever since they told me, I’ve wanted to be a hero like Angst!”
It was apparently not what Nikkola had expected to hear, and she sobbed freely. Mehta looked at Heather with the blank expression of an innocent puppy. She nodded to let him know it was okay before looking at the door, urging him out of the room.
“Just...just please tell me he’ll bring her back home,” she said, her face filled with desperation. “Alive.”
And it struck her. Was this what it was like for her husband? With beautiful young temptation at arm's reach, she was forced to make snap decisions to keep everyone safe. Every decision was a sacrifice, and every promise made a half-truth. What had Angst given up to be a hero? What had she done holding back their daughter’s name?
“I promise,” Heather said resolutely. “I promise Angst will keep your daughter alive.”
Wilfred’s freshly minted mage armor was the definition of “something is better than nothing.” Not because of how it looked, or how he looked in it. For the first time since tending the throne, he felt, dare he think, kingly. Teedle the blacksmith had somehow squeezed weeks of work into days, without any loss of
quality—at least not that Wilfred could tell. The suit felt solid, and despite his girth, it wasn’t cumbersome. The armor fit snug around the front of his legs and arms without chafing. He looked in the mirror, attempting to adjust the breastplate, but it wouldn’t budge. He rapped it with his knuckles, like kicking a wagon wheel for durability, and felt nothing beneath. He grasped onto that false sense of security, knowing that in spite of everything the armor was, there was plenty it wasn’t.
The plate armor that knights of Unsel wore covered everything. Layers of steel like an onion—that probably smelled as ripe on the inside—surrounded soldiers in a metal cocoon. It was the reason they were all so mighty; they needed all that muscle just to walk around, and even more to swing those swords. Wilfred’s new armor protected his heart, the tops of his arms, and the front of his legs, but not much else. Throw on a cloak, though, and nobody would know it was half a suit of armor. Whoever had provided Angst with his cloak had excellent foresight.
“I feel pretty good,” he finally said, admiring himself in the mirror. While the armor didn’t hide his dark wispy hair or heavy cheeks, it covered enough of everything else and was made to fit. Angst and Faeoris had been right; he only hoped they continued to be. “I should wear this all the time.”
“You certainly look less frumpy,” Mirot said. “I suppose more like a leader. It was good advice, except I’m not sure the style you chose was wise.”
The style of armor was his idea. The armor of zyn’ight, a wielder’s armor similar to what Angst wore. The armor Teedle had fashioned for Angst was a dusky black, supposedly because he’d been in a hurry. Wilfred’s was the bright silver of a polished sword. It didn’t look as tough, but that wasn’t his goal.
“They’ll recognize it as one of their own,” Wilfred said confidently.
“Everyone will,” Mirot warned, his nostrils flaring and lips curling downward. “There haven’t been zyn’ight for centuries. The very thought of magical knights, of a militia who can wield is... It’s just...”
It was the first time Mirot had shown emotion since positioning himself as second. The general normally defined stoic, but his prejudices were showing today like a gaudy brothel sign. Anger surged through Wilfred, and he spun on the man, pointing a finger at his face.
“It’s time!” Wilfred shouted as loudly and sharply as any slap in the face. Mirot stepped back. “Bigotry will not be accepted while I am in charge. If that’s what you have to offer, you can step down right now!” He took a step forward, and Mirot shuffled away, his eyes wide with surprise. “That look of disdain you wear when you say wielder will no longer be accepted in Unsel, especially in this castle!” Wilfred said loudly. “The champion of Unsel wields magic. The people we are asking, once again, to defend Unsel wield magic. And by the Vivek, when our queen is saved, she will wield the most powerful of magics.”
“I...” he said, looking about wildly with as much discomfort as a scolded child.
“Princess Victoria reads minds,” Wilfred explained. “She knows what you think. She sees the future, your future! Tell me, what future will she see for you?” He hadn’t even realized his finger was pounding on Mirot’s chest piece. Wilfred lowered it as if withdrawing a broadsword. Nearby soldiers shuffled in place, glancing at each other, but remained quiet. The general hadn’t backed down, but he swallowed hard, his face pale and cheeks flushed.
“I will serve my queen with my dying breath,” Mirot said. His voice sounded dry, and he smacked his lips as he spoke.
“Even a queen who wields?” Wilfred asked.
“Without question!” Mirot said proudly.
“Don’t you see, man?” he said. “If you accept one, you have to accept all of them.”
“I...” Mirot sighed deeply. “I just...”
“Do you believe it’s the right thing to do?” Wilfred urged.
“I hate you,” Mirot said between gritted teeth. “And I hate this conversation.”
“Do you hate Heather, Mirot?” Wilfred asked. “Do you hate Angst’s wife?”
“No, of course not,” Mirot said, his cheeks red. “She’s a lovely woman.”
“Do you hate Princess Victoria?” Wilfred asked. “Do you hate our queen?”
“By the Vivek, I love my queen,” Mirot swore. “I have said as much! Why do you keep riding me?”
“Because I’m trying to get it through your thick skull. Heather is a wielder, her husband is a wielder, Princess Victoria is a wielder,” Wilfred said patiently. “If we treat them as equals or our betters, then we must treat all wielders the same.”
Mirot nodded once, briskly, but looked to be struggling through his own internal battle.
“We are facing too many unknowns to rely on one man who isn’t even here,” Wilfred said. “Angst has requested we put a wielder on guard at Victoria’s chamber. That’s easy enough, but how do we defend against a Fulk’han army without magic? Do we bring back the zyn’ight or let our soldiers muscle their way through monsters?”
Wilfred gave Mirot a moment to toil and tangle with this conundrum. It took a while. The Unsel military was set in their ways like a tile floor. It took a leap to recognize that the tile was broken.
“You are right,” he said, his voice tight. “We need the zyn’ight.”
Wilfred looked into the general’s eyes, staring the man down even while his own heart raced away. Those dark gray eyes were filled with questions. There was a sadness, or the type of hurt that comes with change, with admitting you are wrong. But, slowly, those eyes submitted.
“And our queen will see that,” Wilfred said with a gentle smile, patting the man on his arm.
“Thank you.” Mirot lowered his head, albeit briefly. It was enough.
“Heather has coordinated a meeting at Rookshire in the town hall. Now that I am presentable,” he slapped his breastplate, “maybe I can convince them to join us.”
“What is your plan?” Mirot asked, wringing his hands.
“We will reinstate the zyn’ight!” Wilfred proclaimed proudly. “We will have wielders as protectors, once again, officially recognized by the crown.”
“What will the citizens of Unsel say?” Mirot asked.
“Nothing, if they are dead,” Wilfred said. “This isn’t just any war. This is the war! Our soldiers won’t be able to fend off the zealot Fulk’han, not alone. If we’re asking wielders to defend us, to die for us, they deserve that title.”
Mirot wasn’t as intelligent or cunning as himself, but he had a sort of wisdom, a street-smart that came only from experience. Mirot seemed as upset as Wilfred’s stomach after skipping two meals. The general was lost in thought and calculation. This was it; this was the test. Mirot was deep in the throes of bigotry, but he was also a planner. If Mirot accepted his plan, there was a greater chance the citizens of Unsel would follow. The battle wasn’t only with the Fulk’han, it was here at home. And who would win? Bigotry or the will to survive?
“We also need the zyn’ight to work as a part of the military, not alongside it, doing their own thing, or we risk putting everyone in danger,” Mirot said. “That is a reason we can share with our people.”
“Yes,” Wilfred said, unable to hold back a smile. “You should join me at Rookshire.”
“If you wish,” Mirot said, “but it may be best for me to stay behind. My opinion is well known.”
“Exactly why you should be there,” Wilfred said. “But it has to be your choice.”
“Then I will join you,” Mirot said, wiping his palms on his legs.
Wilfred nodded, sighing in relief. One down, thousands to go.
23
Unsel – border of Grayhollow Forest
To his surprise, Angst felt cold, but not tearful. He’d thought of Marissa as a friend. Not a close friend, like Victoria, or something else, like Moyra, but a buddy he could talk to. Someone he could count on. He couldn’t imagine what had overtaken her to try to seduce him. Maybe her eyesight was bad. His wasn’t. Angst had seen clearly, even thr
ough his cloudy drunkenness, how incredible she’d looked standing in that pool. His stomach cramped with the vision of the dragon tearing into her, a memory that would leave scars. It hurt, but he didn’t feel like mourning. This fresh wound made him itch to fight. Anger simmered at the base of that pain, a slowly boiling pit deep in his gut. As if fed by his fury, the songs of Chryslaenor and distant Dulgirgraut clashed in his head like an orchestra terribly out of key.
“Angst!” Faeoris shouted, smacking the back of his head.
“What?” he lashed out. Had she been talking? She really didn’t deserve his anger, but he hated everything right now, and she smacked hard.
“Fine,” she said sharply. “If you aren’t going to listen, you don’t need me here.”
Faeoris shoved down hard on his shoulders as she launched from the back of his steel ram swifen. She was upset, her voice filled with worry and fury. It had been thoughtful of her to ride with him after Oakhaven, but his mood was shrouded in darkness, and he couldn’t have been worse company. Angst had never felt so bitter. Everything was falling apart. His marriage was all but over. His friends missing. His best friend, Victoria, almost dead. And now Marissa? The more he tried to be a hero, the more he put people he loved and cared about in danger. He only wished there was a way to go back and change it. To set everything right. The only way out of this mess was to destroy everything that threatened him and his, or die trying. And right now, buried somewhere in his gloomy thoughts, he also worried about what he was leading these people into. And what in the world was he going to do with Kala?
“We are close to the forest,” Maarja said, as if answering his unasked question. “We should make our way through it quickly.”
“Carefully,” Aerella corrected, holding tight onto Kala. Even though Kala could summon her own swifen, they’d all agreed she would be safer traveling with an adult. The young girl could quickly be lost if she were to race off in panic. “There are reasons people avoid Grayhollow Forest, and not just because of the terrible stories.”
Angst Box Set 2 Page 15