Inari’s sun-in-glory image replaced the generic person icon on his map, and Sarn shot to his feet. Fan-fricking-tastic, of course, she’d show up after he'd made a frigging mess.
Sarn dove for a towel to sop up the water, but it was no use. Hadrovel’s tantrum had wet everything, including the clothes on his body. For a solid minute Inari’s golden, woman-shaped avatar stood there listening, hand upraised to knock before she finally did.
“I came to see if you needed anything.”
What could have made the unflappable Inari nervous? Was she okay? His head map had no information about her state of being since his magic was still protesting his damp clothes. Sarn confined all the wet things to a pile in the farthest corner then pulled open the door. For one glorious moment, he forgot she was the wife of one of his masters.
Inari was beautiful, and the sight of her standing there in a shaft of lumir light took his breath away. Her eyes were soft and warm as a blanket, and Sarn wanted to fall into them and never climb out. But she saw what the Rangers saw: a screwed up fifteen-year-old in a body cast. Never mind he'd healed and grown up in the five years since then.
Pity flowered in her breast, Sarn could see it in her eyes. Anger flared, and he shoved his hands into his pockets, waiting for her to speak.
“I thought you might need a comb.” Inari held one up, and it took a moment for her words to register.
Sarn ran a hand through his wet hair and snagged it in half a dozen places. Maybe she had a point. He yanked his hand free, tearing out a handful of strands in his haste.
“Here, let me.”
And before Sarn could say anything, she reached up and applied the comb to the tangled mess crowning his head. It only took a moment for her to tidy his hair then she stepped back, and her smile rivaled the sun. He wanted to grab her and kiss her, but Sarn turned away and put some distance between them instead. She’s Nolo’s wife, reminded his conscience.
He had to stop liking her. Sarn wrestled with his attraction, but it twisted out of his grasp. There was something about her drawing him in. He was a moth, and she was the flame captivating him.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. I’ll let them know you’re ready unless you need something else?”
Sarn shook his head, not daring to speak. Water and soap had stripped him of more than dirt and grime; they’d removed his mask, leaving him vulnerable in his clean skin. Thank Fate he didn’t sparkle.
Relief warred with longing as the whisper of her tread faded from his hearing. Sarn propped himself against a wall, and a lock of damp hair flopped into his eyes. Since he wasn’t wearing his cowl, stone cradled the back of his head, and his magic rippled along the wall, following in Inari’s wake. Information flooded back, but he shunted it to his inner cartographer without examining it. Only one detail mattered—Inari’s safety.
Stop this, urged his conscience.
No, there’s too many weird things running around.
But he did stop, the instant she stepped unmolested across her threshold. He let his magic crawl across the door checking its soundness before withdrawing it. Fates damn him, he’d wanted to know where she lived and now he knew.
“Well, you’re looking good. You shined up like a new coin. I’ll be your escort tonight.” Ranispara said as she rounded a bend and waved him to follow.
“Where’s Nolo?”
Ranispara's smile flipped into a frown. “Dealing with the Branchers, a delegation showed up, but Jerlo’s in a meeting.” She shrugged.
Since Nolo was the commander’s second, that made sense. But what did the bunch of tree-loving Branchers want? “Why’d they come here?”
“For conclave, they’re interested in holding it here sometime in the fall. They have high hopes his Lordship will take their petition to the Council. At least I think conclave is their motivation. With them, who knows?”
True, the Branchers were an insular bunch. But they also built treehouses in the enchanted forest, so sanity was not one of their strengths. Still, Sarn wished them much luck with their endeavor. They’d have better luck getting face time with Lord Joranth in Jacora where his lordship spent most of his time. But no one had asked him.
“You remember the rules, right?”
Sarn rolled his eyes. “Yes.”
“Repeat them so when Nolo asks if I reminded you, I could say yes with a clear conscience.”
“Look at the floor. Don’t speak unless spoken to, kneel—” Sarn broke off and thought back to Nolo's earlier recitation. Had he missed anything?
“You forgot one.”
Sarn glanced at Ranispara and noted her amusement. “What did I miss?”
Doing her best Jerlo impersonation, Ranispara said, “And say good things about the Rangers.” She laughed and wiped tears of mirth from her eyes. “As if you’d speak ill of us. Sometimes the commander’s paranoia shows.”
“I guess I can do that.”
Ranispara elbowed him. “You don’t want to get us in trouble, do you? Look I know my husband’s a pain, but his heart's usually in the right place. I say ‘usually’ because the jury’s still out over his last stunt.”
So much had happened in the last two days. Sarn had forgotten about Gregori’s test and Dirk. He had to do something about that jerk and his cronies. They were a threat to his son. But now she’d reminded him, the anger came roaring back, and it targeted Gregori. He’d make the man pay, somehow, some day. That was a promise.
Ranispara shot him a knowing look, no doubt she’d guessed the drift of his thoughts. “Just remember we’re the good guys. Come on, we’d best get a move on. His Lordship’s waiting.”
Sarn’s gut clenched with dread at the thought, until his vision doubled and fire punched him in the face. Emerald light exploded from his eyes then dimmed to a less blinding level.
“You okay?”.
Sarn nodded and straightened. Already the double vision and pain were subsiding, though his eyes felt a bit scorched thanks to his magic.
“It’s this way.” She gestured to the left.
“No blindfold?”
Ranispara shook her head. “Where we’re going, I don’t think that’ll be necessary.”
What did Lord Joranth hold over her head? Something she didn’t want to lose judging by the nervous tension riding her.
“Lead on.”
And she did, deep into the most ornate part of the stronghold where only the nobles ever went. A dim place where shadows extended from every crevice or had Sarn imagined that?
Chapter 27
Sarn steeled himself. Without a backward glance, he entered a spartan antechamber leaving Ranispara in the corridor. Every muscle in his body locked up the instant he crossed the threshold and ceded control. Behind him, Ranispara’s footsteps faded into silence, leaving him alone with a man he despised.
Promises chained his eyes to the ground, magnified by his proximity to Lord Joranth—the man who owned him, body and magic too. With nothing else to do but wait, Sarn glared at the floor, and the damned thing wriggled. What the—the thought cut off as he blinked several times, stilling the mass of snakes
Sarn recoiled from the verisimilitude. Only a Litherian could have incised those snakes mid-writhe giving them the appearance of motion. They’re not real—though, something about the sinuous design was wrong. A voice sliced through his thoughts silencing them—Lord Joranth was coming.
Each step the Lord of the Mountain took sent one command ricocheting through Sarn’s skull: Obey. Obey. Obey—Yes, he must do what Master commands. Obey, obey, obey—the word cut Sarn’s legs out from under him, and his knees hit the wriggling ground. No, they’re not real—just a lifelike carving. But they were moving—he felt it through the thin material of his trousers.
Magic ground against his will, but Sarn refused to bend or break. An image sparked in his mind—a silver flame standing against the darkness. Yes, he was like her—The Queen of All Trees—and his will held against the tide pushing on it.
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I want custody of my brother, and I want him to go to school, said an echo of his fifteen-year-old self.
‘You will obey whoever I designate as your master in my stead as if he were me. And you will do so without question. Swear it.’
“I swear.”
An invisible force shoved Sarn’s head down until his forehead touched cold writhing stone. Stop it, they’re not real. Exhaustion’s making you hallucinate. There are no snakes here. Tell that to the scales undulating under his knees.
Through the cross-shaped cutouts of a floor to ceiling partition, Lord Joranth Nalshira watched him. Sarn felt the man’s gaze rake him, but he could not return the glare because his Lordship always sat in deep shadow. Perhaps his Lordship’s penchant for invisibility derived from his exalted status since he was a scion from one of the Great Houses. Or maybe it had more to do with the curse staining the Nalshira line.
Sarn swallowed, but his throat had gone dry. A descendant of his heroes’ murderer owned him and his magic. If the Guardians of old could see him now, they’d laugh at the cruel irony.
“Come closer into the light, so I can see you and take off that cloak. I want to see your face.”
Oaths he’d sworn spun chains around Sarn, squeezing the breath from his lungs as it unfolded his long limbs and stretched him out. With shaking fingers, Sarn undid the oak leaf catch, and his cloak pooled around his boots. He felt naked without its shadowy folds until his spine complained about his rail-straight posture, distracting him.
Behind the wood partition, Lord Joranth’s silhouette shifted on his high-backed chair. “You look ill. Are you feeling all right?”
“I don’t sleep much,” Sarn said before the question extracted a truth he could never admit to anyone without losing his son. In silence, Sarn begged the spirits of his heroes to stop Joranth from asking anything else on this topic.
A chair creaked, but Lord Joranth’s silhouette looked the same since it had merged with his throne-like chair, hiding the man. Rumor claimed Joranth was a tall man, broad as an ox and crafty enough to survive three decades of political intrigue.
“Sit, there’s a chair behind you.”
The compulsion was an invisible string operating his limbs, and Sarn was the puppet, unable to do anything but trip over his cloak in his haste to comply. As he sat, the pressure eased.
Joranth sighed. “I know this is uncomfortable for you and I’m sorry. I went too far with the oaths I had you swear. But it is what it is. So we’ll just have to make the best of it.”
Sarn blinked at the shadow of his owner. An apology was the last thing he’d expected. Why tender it now? Joranth had never evinced any hint of regret before. What made tonight different? Dread coiled in Sarn’s stomach. What did his Lordship want?
A door opened behind Sarn, and his sixth sense bounced off the newcomer, sending no information. So, someone covered by the oaths he’d sworn five years ago had entered. Since they only included two people, the newcomer had to be Lord Joranth’s seneschal, Olav. Indeed, Olav appeared carrying a ceramic basin. But Sarn's eyes fastened on the silver goblet and the ceremonial knife.
“On my desk, there’s a letter. It’s addressed to the dean of the University of Shayari at Jacora. You still desire your brother to attend, yes?”
Sarn nodded, and his stomach sank. He knew where this headed—another Faustian bargain. What would be the repercussions this time?
“I’ll sign it, but I require something from you in exchange. Listen carefully because I’ll only make this offer once.” Something clicked on the far side of the screen. “Before we discuss the details, you must swear to never tell anyone about this. You may speak freely.”
The compulsion looping around Sarn’s throat disappeared, taking its enforced silence with it. But the rest of his body was under Lord Joranth's control.
“Do you so swear?”
Sarn relaxed a hair when the question hung there, and nothing compelled him to answer it. Did this mean he had an actual choice? Could he say no if he chose? Though, why would he? Joranth dangled the one thing he'd wanted for his brother. Without a college degree, Miren would fall back into poverty. Money was a wheel cycling through prosperity and loss. Only an education could break the cycle and guarantee stability.
Of course, Miren would also be away for months at a time. Maybe the separation would allow his brother to work through his anger. Several months without a cranky teenager on his case sounded like paradise, but Sarn squashed such selfish thoughts. Yes, Miren was a pain in the ass, but he was family.
“Can I still decline if I do?”
Sarn wanted to massage away the ache building behind his eyes. He had no skill for this kind of thing. Even his son was a better bargainer. Where was Jerlo when he needed the man? Now would be the perfect time for the commander to pop up and do his tactical thing.
Joranth considered in silence for a moment. But it was Olav who answered from somewhere behind Sarn.
“Yes, you can. We won’t force you to do anything.”
Yeah right, but let the man think so if such lies kept his conscience clear. No way was he getting out of here without doing something he detested. Sarn glared at the bejeweled goblet again, and its gems winked at him.
“Fine, I swear I’ll tell no one about this.”
Screw civility, they had dangled the thing he wanted most, so they'd earned a little attitude. And the compulsion left enough leeway to allow some resistance.
Sarn had an agreement with them, and he’d lived up to every damned letter of it for five years. They owed him some respect and a little recognition.
His attitude rolled off Joranth like water off a tarpaulin. Maybe the man had expected it. Anger usually made Sarn's magic beat against its cage, but the oaths he’d sworn had immobilized it.
“Calm down. My cousin’s right. This is a negotiation, not an ultimatum. We both want something, but neither of us can have what we want unless we come to an accord. Do you understand?”
Sarn nodded because the compulsion forced a physical response when he gave no verbal one.
“Alright let’s move on. I’ll sign the letter and hand-deliver it to the dean. I have a meeting with him next month. In return—”
“I know what you want.” Sarn regarded the goblet out of the corner of one eye. “Why do you want it?”
“The oaths you swore constrain you because you're powerful and you chafe at that control. I can order you to do this, but we both know it won’t work. You must give it of your own free will otherwise it won’t do what I need it to do. Magic is fickle like that.”
“What do you need it to do? It won’t give you access to magic.”
“No, it doesn’t.” Joranth sighed in frustration. “Let’s say a friend of a friend contracted the Fade.”
Rumor claimed magic-infused blood cured the disease if it was harvested a certain way. Sarn had never seen any proof. Neither had he ever met anyone suffering from the Fade. But plenty of people had forced him into such bargains in the past. Though this time he could refuse and walk away with his life.
“This person is highly placed in the government, and his loss would be catastrophic. You could buy him some time if this works.”
“And if it doesn’t work?” Sarn had never heard of this working. His magic shook mountains and drove him crazy on a regular basis. If any magic could help, it would be healing magic, not his screwed-up brand. But there aren’t any true healers anymore, reminded his conscience. Because the Seekers had killed them too.
“A deal is a deal, and the terms are these. For a goblet of magic, I will sign and deliver the letter. It recommends one Miren no last name be accepted as a fellow of the University at Jacora. But it must be potent.” Sarn felt Joranth’s gaze on him even though shadows hid the man’s eyes. “You have to will the magic to flow—you have to want it. Take your time deciding. You aren’t expected back for some time yet.”
Silence fell, and Sarn sat there with his back rail straight and hurting
as mirth bubbled up. What choice did he have? He needed that letter. It was Miren’s sole shot at a university education.
“What about tuition for the university? Are you offering a scholarship as part of the deal?”
If so, he might acquire his freedom before he was an old man. Maybe even before Ran needed to start school. And what interesting possibilities that eventuality raised.
“What are you offering?”
What was he offering? Regular transfusions? No, he needed to retain something of himself for his son. “I don’t know,” Sarn admitted.
“Let’s table the issue for now. Your brother won’t start university for over a year yet, and much could change in a year. Let’s stay focused on the issue at hand, one goblet for one letter. What say you?”
In his mind’s eye, Sarn saw his son shake his head. Ran’s eyes were anxious, and they willed him not to do this thing. It was unnatural, and the request made Sarn's skin crawl and his magic revolt inside him but—
“Read me the letter.”
In a clear voice, Olav recited the words which would save his brother from poverty. “I, Joranth of the house of Nalshira, Lord of Mount Eredren, representative to the Council of Twelve recommend my vassal, a Miren no last name, to the University of Shayari—”
The letter highlighted his brother’s academic achievements and guaranteed his tuition. Somewhere inside Sarn, the fifteen-year-old boy who had forged this deal rested easy. His mission had come to fruition, but it was a hollow victory—one he might regret.
When Olav finished reading the letter aloud, Sarn opened his eyes again. “I’ll do it, but you have to sign and seal it first.”
“Done and done, Olav show him.”
Since he'd spent a lot of time in Jerlo's office over the years, Sarn had a fair idea what the letter should look like. The commander received stacks of missives every day, and he'd always made a point of glancing at them. So when Olav presented the letter, Sarn scrutinized it.
Curse Breaker: Books 1-4 Page 36