Will (Book 2)

by S. F. Burgess

  “I really thought we’d be having a little down time, be going somewhere safe for a while,” Amelia said sadly, staring into the fire.

  “Conlan won’t abandon his grandfather. If we’d refused to go, he would have gone by himself,” Will said.

  “I know, it’s just…” Amelia left her disappointment unspoken. Her big, sad, grey eyes gazed at him and his heart twisted painfully. I’m sorry. I’m sorry this world isn’t safe. I’m sorry it frightens you. I wish I could make it right, but I can’t. This world isn’t going to change just for you, Amelia. Will concentrated on returning her look with a detached, calm one of his own. She wanted sympathy and reassurance. He had provided both in the past, but neither had helped. It was time to try something else. Eventually she sighed, dropping her head, and noticed Will was holding his sketchpad and pencils.

  “You’re going to do some drawing?” she asked, surprised.

  “I need to talk to Eleanor,” Will said, standing.

  “Does she need illustrations to get the point?” Amelia asked with a grin that forced the melancholy out of her eyes.

  Will chuckled. “No, but she’s been desperate to get a look at what I’ve been drawing, so…”

  “So you’re going to use her curiosity to get her to talk to you?” Amelia shook her head. “That devious mind of yours is going to get you into trouble one day.”

  Will shrugged. “Yes, but hopefully it will be able to get me out of it as well.” Amelia giggled, then gave a contented little sigh as he leaned in to kiss the side of her neck.

  Will headed off in the direction Eleanor had gone, feeling rather disgruntled as he passed the hive of activity that was Mickle’s workshop. Later, he promised himself.

  Out among the trees, the world became a different place, an easier place. The soft bird song, coupled with the sounds of woodland animals going about their daily lives, brought a sense of peace. Will marvelled at the stunning sight of the sun’s powerful rays pouring in through the canopy of the evergreens above, dappling the detritus on the floor in front of him, tiny insects and pollen motes drifting in the light. Although there was still a chill in the air, this far south, spring was on its way. Soon the most glorious wildflowers would carpet the forest floor in colourful profusion. It was part of what made spring Will’s favourite time of year.

  He walked, enjoying the beauty around him, thinking through what he wanted to say to Eleanor. She never responded well to a direct telling off, and she was smart enough to see through a lot of attempts at manipulation. With Eleanor, the trick was to get her thinking in the right direction, wait for her to criticise her own behaviour and then simply agree with her.

  Will’s musings were disrupted by the unmistakable prickle of the hairs on the back of his neck, which told him he was being watched. A quick brush of his surroundings with his energy, and he found her; now he just had to wait for her to come to him. Looking round, he found a small bank of raised ground and climbed it, settling himself on the moss at the top, satisfied that he had a clear view of the surrounding area.

  His fingers caressing the smooth, warm leather of his sketchbook, Will opened it to the next available page, loving the feel of the thick cream paper. Amelia had no idea what her present had meant to him; she was just self-conscious that it was never out of his hands. Buying it had been Eleanor’s idea, but Will was certain that not even the little pixie had caught on to the significance of the gift. His entire life might be stored somewhere in Eleanor’s head, but Will got the impression that Eleanor did her best to ignore this information. He wondered, for the hundredth time, if her decision not to delve into these memories would change in the not too distant future. The here and now. The here and now. The here and now. Shaking off this dark possibility, Will concentrated on reproducing the glory of the morning forest on the paper in front of him.

  Time slipped by, and Will lost himself in his art, in the faithful rendering of all the joy and peace of life around him. And when he looked up from the particularly tricky fronds of the purple-tipped fern in a small hollow to his right, he found Eleanor standing next to him. He jerked back in surprise; she was getting far too good at moving silently.

  Without invitation, Eleanor sat at his side, pulling her knees into her chest. “Do I get to look?” she asked, nodding towards the sketchbook Will had just closed with a snap.

  With an evasive glance to the side, Will shook his head. “They’re not very good. Just practice.”

  Eleanor smiled. “Please?”

  “Can we have a chat afterwards if I let you look?” he bargained.

  Suspicion, apprehension and curiosity filled her eyes. She looked from the pad to Will’s face, then back to the pad again, licking her lips.

  “Okay,” she said slowly, her curiosity winning, as he had assumed it would. “But,” she continued, her cute little pixie face in full pout, “I’m still angry.”

  He handed the book over with a resigned sigh. Eleanor carefully opened it, brushing her fingertips across the grain of the paper, and then began slowly turning the pages. Will watched her focused concentration with trepidation. While he had used the lure of his work to get Eleanor to talk to him, he was nonetheless uneasy about her reaction to it. He knew she would not pull any punches, and his skill was average at best.

  Slowly, her eyes missing nothing, Eleanor moved through his rough recordings of what they had seen on their travels. A rich man on his strutting horse, his face an expression of haughty disdain. The view they had seen with the Central Tower in the distance. The players juggling—a piece of work Will was especially proud of, as he felt he had managed to capture the flow of movement. The beautiful garden Eleanor had inadvertently created in front of Duncan, an image that made her smile. Conlan in a relaxed pose, reading, oblivious to Will’s observation. Freddie laughing himself silly at something, eyes full of life. That was one of Will’s favourites. And of course there were faces, many faces: Amelia, Freddie, Eleanor, Conlan, the people of Mydren.

  Turning the page again, Eleanor came across a picture of Conlan and froze. It was a good likeness, but his face held an expression Will had rarely seen. His eyes were soft, dreamy, his attention held in the distance, a small smile playing at the edges of his mouth. He looked so happy, almost awestruck, and there was something else, something deeper, something Conlan was trying to hide, but which Will had attempted to express for him. Will watched the little pixie gently trace a finger over the pencil line of his jaw, as if stroking his face.

  “I’ve never seen him look like this,” she said in wonder.

  “It’s not a look I’ve seen very often,” Will agreed.

  “What was he looking at?” Eleanor asked.

  “You.”

  Eleanor stared at Will in shock. He smiled. Does she really not know how much, or for how long, Conlan has loved her? She turned back to look at the picture. It was a while before she spoke.

  “What was I doing?” she whispered.

  “You were running barefoot through the grass.”

  “I don’t understand…”

  “Don’t you remember? It was when we first reached the mountains, crossing from Drent, there was all this grass and—” Will started.

  “No,” Eleanor cut him off. “I know when you mean, but I don’t understand the look. He was really irritated when I finally agreed to get my boots on and get back on Horse.”

  Will smiled, remembering the argument. “He’s a complicated man.”

  “That’s like saying water’s a bit damp,” Eleanor commented, and Will chuckled. “I thought… now we were…” Eleanor paused, searching for the right word.

  “Lovers?” Will supplied helpfully, amused by Eleanor’s blush even as she nodded.

  “Why does saying that to you make me feel like I’m confessing something to my father?” she muttered, not able to look at him. Will felt his heart swell for her. Because, little pixie, I love you like my own child, and deep inside, you know it.

  Eleanor shrugged off her awkward
ness and tried again. “I thought, now we were lovers, that he’d see us as more of a partnership. I thought he would be less difficult to deal with, that there would be less arguing.”

  “Well, think about it Eleanor: all you’ve done is shown him something he’s not willing to risk losing,” Will said.

  Eleanor nodded slowly. “Okay… so I understand why he wouldn’t let me go into town. I knew that when I was yelling, too. It just annoyed me that he wouldn’t let me make up my own mind.”

  “He’s going to let you go, as much as it will kill him to do it. He just wanted to send Moylan to check the town out first, to see what security there was,” Will told her quietly.

  “I guess I should have given him the chance to say that…”

  “It would have been more helpful than yelling about wanting to make your own decisions. Eleanor, we’re going to make him a king. He’s going to be making decisions, weighing risks, for a lot of people, for the rest of his life. Don’t begrudge him a little practice.” Will watched distress move into her expression.

  “I’m not really getting him into the mindset of a king by yelling at him and telling him his plans are stupid, am I?”

  “No, you’re not,” Will agreed. “I know this is difficult, Eleanor, but he needs your support—much more than he knows. He has it in him to be a great leader, to be the greatest, most forward-thinking king that Mydren has ever seen, but we have to give him that chance. Which means we have to give the impression that we already believe he’s a king.” Will gave her a sly grin. “And as a general rule, kings don’t get yelled at in public by short, annoying girls.”

  Eleanor smiled ruefully. “Even when he’s making a poor choice?”

  “I’m not saying you have to agree with him all the time or stop pointing out when his thinking is flawed; you just need to stop doing it out in the open. Take him to one side, whisper your concerns, guide him. Quietly. Better still, get him to talk his thoughts out with you first—then you can offer your advice before the fact, not after it.”

  Eleanor gave him a shrewd look. “Like you do.”

  Will sighed. “I try, but I’ve never been able to get as close to him as you are.”

  “He trusts you, Will, you know that. He couldn’t function without you. I’ve seen it in his head—”

  “No, Eleanor, don’t say any more,” Will said, holding up his hand, not wanting to deal with the emotional fallout of what she might say next. He had not realised how harsh he must have sounded until he saw the distress on her face. He took a deep breath and added quietly, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap, but it would be a betrayal of trust. If he wanted me to know this, he’d tell me. I believe in him, and I’ll serve his best interests as long as I live and consider it a life well spent, but in the future it will be you who’ll have more opportunity to guide him. You’re closer to him, so you both need to learn respect for each other’s judgement.”

  Eleanor nodded, turning back to the sketchpad, continuing to turn the pages as she processed their conversation. Several of the pictures held her captivated, and Will enjoyed her smile of delight. Eventually she reached the picture he had just been working on. Holding it up, she compared the drawing to the view in front of her. Then she carefully handed the book back, a pouting look on her face that dropped Will’s heart into his stomach.

  “You don’t like the pictures?” he asked, struggling to keep the ‘just kicked in the gut’ feeling off his face.

  “No, Will, no—they’re amazing. So lifelike they’re like black and white photographs. You have so much talent. When Conlan gets to be king you should be the official court artist,” Eleanor said earnestly, smiling at him.

  His sick feeling lifted slightly. “Then what’s the problem? You look… sulky.”

  “There are no pictures of me. I just felt left out, that’s all. No big deal,” Eleanor said in a small voice, blushing again.

  “Yes there are,” Will said, confused.

  Opening the book again, he flicked through the pages until he found the one he wanted and handed it back to her, although he was fairly certain that Eleanor had already seen the picture that filled the page. One of my better pieces.

  “This isn’t me…” she murmured.

  Will looked at the woman in the picture. She stared back at him from a delicate, impish face framed by dark, thick, glossy, flowing hair. Huge, dark eyes held his gaze with ferocious intelligence and humour, one perfect eyebrow arched in question. Her mouth was pursed into a strong line of determination, the hint of an amused smile at one corner. The person in the portrait was not perfect, not a classic beauty—the forehead was a little wide, the upturned nose slightly wonky, the high cheekbones sharp, and there was a thin scar showing under her bottom lip, a thicker scar on her neck—but this only served to enhance the stunning look of strength, humour, intelligence and confidence.

  “Yes, Eleanor, this is you,” he assured her softly.

  Still staring at the picture, Eleanor unconsciously raised her fingers to the scar where she had bitten through her lip and then down to the raised welt Adra had left on her neck, as if trying to root something of the image before her in solid fact. She moved her fingers to the scar under her eye, gained after he had drawn the portrait she was looking at. Heartache filled her eyes as she flipped back to the picture of Conlan, running a finger down his facial scar.

  “Often the scars that grieve us the most are the ones we carry deep inside,” Will murmured softly.

  Eventually Eleanor closed the book, handing it back. “You took some serious artistic licence, Will. You even managed to make the tangled mess of my hair look like a work of art.”

  “Nope, you’re beautiful.” There was no flattery in his tone. It was, for him, just the truth.

  “You’ve been staring at Meran’s back end for too long—it’s affected your judgement,” Eleanor muttered, embarrassed.

  Will frowned. Any other woman and he would have assumed that she was angling for more compliments, but Eleanor was not like other women; she just looked uncomfortable.

  “You are beautiful, Eleanor. Irritating and loudmouthed, but very beautiful,” Will said.

  She gave him an arched eyebrow of mock disdain. “I can’t promise an improvement in the irritating part, but I’ll make an attempt to curb the loudmouth bit, I promise.”

  Will smiled. “Good enough.” He glanced up at the sun overhead. “We should get back. Conlan will want to practice the connection again when we do our balance session.”

  Eleanor was quiet as they walked back, thoughtful, her concentration elsewhere. Will felt eyes on his back as they passed the outer limits of the camp—one of the three Protectors guarding them, he assumed—and he wondered for the hundredth time if they really could be trusted.

  “Will, why were there no self-portraits?” Eleanor asked as the campfire came into view.

  “Pardon?” Will replied, distracted by Amelia bright smile of welcome.

  “In your sketchbook. There are no pictures of you,” Eleanor said, giving him a questioning glance.

  Will shrugged. “I don’t have a mirror, and it always struck me as a little narcissistic.”

  “Oh.” Eleanor looked like she was about to say more when she was interrupted by Freddie hollering.

  “Eleanor! Come and look at this!”

  He was stood next to Mickle’s workshop, waving her over. Eleanor gave Will a shrug and a smile before running off to join him. For a brief moment Will caught a glimpse of the sweet, carefree girl that life in Mydren had all but suppressed.

  “So your talk went well?” Amelia asked Will, wrapping her arms around his neck and placing little kisses under his chin.

  “We shall have to see,” Will murmured, his mouth finding hers. Soft, warm peace flooded through him as she melted into his arms, her tongue dancing against his, slow and sensual. As he pulled her close, her slim body curved into him, all supple, yielding perfection. The subtle smell of incense and lavender wafted around him and her thick blac
k curls shook in response to the shiver of delight that travelled through her. For him it was the smell of home, of comfort. The incense smell had always been Amelia’s, a leftover from the ritual used to create her, but Will loved the way it complemented the lavender of the perfume Eleanor had bought for her. He reached out, gently caressing her energy, and she shivered again.

  We don’t have time for this, she admonished him in a contradictory seductive purr.

  Then perhaps we should be making time… he replied, giving her energy a firmer stroke. Amelia gave a quiet, wanting moan, and desire surged through him.

  There was a cough from behind them and Amelia jumped. Will turned, Amelia still pressed tightly against him. Intense glowing green eyes trapped his gaze.

  “Excuse me for the interruption,” Conlan said, “but I’d like to practice the connection again when you do your ‘balancing session’, if you’re ready?”

  Amelia’s eyes widened in surprise. Did he just apologise for disturbing us?

  Maybe finding love himself has made him a little more patient with other people expressing it.

  You think? Amelia asked, sounding very unsure. Doesn’t explain why he’s suddenly so polite!

  It’s an improvement—don’t knock it, Will said, smiling at Conlan.

  “Yes, we’re ready. Eleanor and Freddie are watching Mickle make bows.”

  Conlan nodded. “I’ll go get them.”

  The place they had selected for their daily balancing and connecting session was quite a distance away, out of sight of the camp, in a natural dip in the forest floor. The five of them sat in a circle, eyes closed, calming their minds. Will concentrated on his control, firming it up, all the ability at his command focused on maintaining a steady, reliable presence in their endeavours. It seemed a harder task than normal, his headache throbbing miserably.

  Adapting to Conlan joining them, using the connection in their ‘balancing’ sessions, was a struggle. They could all feel his heavy, dragging presence, but he had no understanding of what they were doing. The patterns they manipulated were not visible to him, and the comments and thoughts that erupted, randomly, from his raw, unshielded mind, stabbed into their brains like heated steel blades. The whole experience felt like an endurance test. While the wider, more comprehensive view of Mydren that Conlan’s connection afforded them was a great help, Will was not sure it was enough to justify Conlan’s continued participation.