I internally wince at the memory. The huge Kelt laughing as he dragged me away from my brother.
“So she stole his wand and hurled fire at him.” Fain sips from his glass, his eyes tight on Vale. “Well done, I say.”
Vale’s eyes flash. “Yes, well, she almost killed herself in the process. Mage Aniliese said this is the worst case she’s ever seen.” Vale looks around. “Where is the apothecary?”
“She’ll be back in a few hours,” Fain responds. “She’s prepping more tonic. But Priest Alfex has been here. He performed the healing ablutions.”
Vale’s gaze turns cynically cool. “Oh, thank the Ancient One for that. She’ll have no need for me, then. Or the apothecary. She can be healed with prayer.”
Shock cuts through my haze, anger riding swiftly on its heels.
How can he talk like this? He sounds like one of the bullying Kelts, sneering at our religious beliefs. First comes the sneering, then the vandalizing of our churches, then we’re being rounded up in barns...
Fain sets his drink down with a sharp clink. “I accept that you’re a complete heathen. But I would ask that you refrain from mocking our faith.” His tone is biting.
Vale stares at him for a long moment. Then his expression hardens, and he shakes his head. “No. I absolutely cannot do that. My mother has turned into a complete zealot, and frankly, so has Vyvian. You’re one of the only people I can speak freely with. I respect you. Can’t that be enough?”
Fain is silent, his eyes hot with offense.
“It was kind of you to let us use your tent,” Vale offers, his tone conciliatory.
Fain lets out a long, angry sigh and shoots him a sarcastic look. “It wasn’t kind. I hate staying in your tent. Priests have more flair for decorating than you do.”
Vale’s mouth lifts in a crooked grin, the tension dissipating. “I prefer minimalism.” He looks around and shakes his head. “Unlike you. It’s like an Ishkart market exploded in here.”
Fain’s expression goes sly. “Spoils of war, sweet Vale.”
“It’s not really Gardnerian, your aesthetic.”
“I have exotic tendencies.” Fain’s eyes dance as he sips his drink, as if holding on to a delicious secret. He reclines back and sends Vale a critical glance. “You seem spent. How long did it take to revive her?”
There are dark circles under Vale’s eyes, the angularity of his face seeming heightened by fatigue. “Almost the entire night.”
That unsettling warmth rises in me.
Vale revived me. Stayed with me the whole night.
Kissed me.
“Drink.” Fain motions toward Vale’s glass. “You need it. I could barely sense your fire affinity earlier—it was like she stripped you bare.” Fain’s mouth turns up at this, as if he’s amused by his own words. “Really, though,” he continues, his tone now laced with concern, “you look truly awful. How much of your fire did she pull?”
Vale lets out a long sigh and throws back a good portion of his drink, grimacing. His expression darkens. “Fain, she basically tried to devour my affinity on the way here. And it took—” he pauses, clearly uncomfortable “—a great deal of fire to restore her.” His brow tenses, and I have the strange sensation that he’s struggling not to look at me, holding himself tightly removed.
But I remember how he kissed me. The feel of his fire against my lips.
As I watch them, I realize that Fain and Vale are both incredibly striking, with their angular features, aristocratic cheekbones and dark hair. Even their postures are similar—they’re both reclining with natural grace and elegance, like people used to luxury and money.
But in other ways, they’re complete opposites, much like their affinities. Vale sits still enough, but a simmering, almost vibrating tension seems to emanate from him, his eyes razor-sharp. Fain, in contrast, seems all cool, unflappable grace, a fey light dancing in his gaze. There’s an artistic grace about him.
I study their uniforms, all black silk and silver embroidery, each with five lines on their sleeves to mark them as Level Five Mages, and part of me is stunned by this turn of events.
Our uniforms. Our soldiers. Powerful, Level Five Gardnerian soldiers. Ready to take on Kelts and Urisk and anyone else who could come after us.
The burning barn flashes through my mind. Fear grips me, pulling my gut tight. I focus on their uniforms, trying to stave off the terror. The silk of Vale’s uniform lies smooth on his chest, his wand tucked into his wandbelt. He carried me easily, back in Doveshire, all sinuous muscle and strength. Struck down the paladin and the Icaral. And others. Shielded me against his mother’s fire.
They’re both dangerous. And I’m safe. My family is safe.
I breathe in deep. A blessed feeling of protection washes over me and beats back the lingering terror.
“The grandfather says she’s a Level Three Mage,” Fain tells Vale.
Fire flashes in Vale’s eyes, and he shoots Fain a scathing look. “The same fool of a grandfather who wouldn’t let her have a wand?”
Warmth floods through me at his show of support. I’ve been so long without the support of anyone, save Jules. None of my people have ever been willing to go against the grain to support me in my quest for a wand.
Fain presses his mouth into a thin line. “The grandfather’s traditional.”
Vale spits out a sound of disdain and glares at Fain. “Isn’t everyone these days?”
“You know, you might try being positive once in a while.”
Vale’s eyes flare. “I’m too educated to be positive.”
Fain lets out a long sigh and grimaces at Vale. “As I was saying, the ‘fool of a grandfather’ informed me that our Tessla only knows about five spells. Five.” He glances toward me, and his gaze takes on a look of rapturous admiration. “The way she gathered the spells and layered them...” He pauses and shakes his head. “Extraordinary, really.”
Vale’s eyes glitter coldly in the firelight. “One more spell, and she would have essentially exploded her own body.”
Fain glowers theatrically at Vale. “Does the sheer artistry of this fail to reach you?” His lip quirks up, and he gestures toward me with his chin, his eyes filling with mischief. “She’s quite pretty. You should fast to her, Vale.”
Vale’s throws him a look of sharp censure. “Yes, I’m sure we’d hit it off famously.”
Fain laughs into his glass. “You do have quite the way with women.”
“A Lower River girl. And me.” His tone is flat. “You’re quite the matchmaker, Fain.”
“You’re a fool.”
“She is a Lower River girl,” Vale counters, irritated.
Hurt slices through me like jagged glass at the implied insult.
Fain gapes at him, his brow tensing with disbelief. “You can’t be serious.”
“What?” Vale snipes at Fain. “Did you imagine we’d enjoy the symphony together?” Biting sarcasm twists his tone. “Meander through the Verpacian archives? Discuss literature? If she even knows how to read.”
“She’s an apothecary,” Fain snipes back, annoyance darkening his gaze. “Clearly she knows how to read.”
“You know what most Lower River Gardnerians are like,” Vale scoffs. “They’re practically Keltic peasants.”
Fain’s eyes have narrowed to slits. “Well, she could teach you a thing or two about layering spells.”
“And carding wool, I’d imagine.”
Fain’s expression turns cold. “So, she’s a peasant, and you’re royalty. She’s still a peasant who faced down an ax-paladin, a large section of the Keltic and Urisk armies, an Icaral demon and a dragon attack. Surely that counts in her favor.”
Vale glares at him, unmoved.
Fain’s lip turns up in a taunting sneer. “Admit it. She’s pretty.”
Vale swirls his glass and eyes Fain cagily. “She’s...tolerable. In a rustic sort of way.”
Rustic? My profound hurt swells to a burgeoning, blood-simmering anger.
“Who’s wandtesting her?” Fain asks, undaunted. “Surely they’ll want her tested.”
“I have that unpleasant task.”
Fain shakes his head and pours himself another glass of crimson liquid from a gilded carafe decorated with red glass in the shape of diamonds. “Vale, you are my best friend. But right now, I think you are being a complete and utter ass.”
“I have no desire to wandfast. You know that,” Vale counters. “And certainly not to...her. Besides, she’ll soon be swooning over Nils and his ilk, like the lot of them.”
“Ah,” Fain gloats, grinning. “Jealousy. You know, Vale, if you tried to be just a little bit friendly, they’d swoon over you, too.”
Vale throws him a look of downright indifference. “I’ll never rate high as anyone’s romantic obsession. I’m resigned to it.”
Fain laughs. “That’s because you scare people, what with your cheerful personality and all.”
I bite back the desire to curse. I stare at Vale, inwardly seething. I struggle against the impossible, exhausted heaviness of my frame, like I’m a great hunk of iron fused to the cot beneath me. It takes great effort to even lift my tongue.
Vale is staring into the middle distance, the flash of a storm in his eyes, and I get the strong sensation once again that he’s fighting the urge to stare at me. That he’s fighting my pull, like a ship struggling against a strong current.
“Vale,” Fain says, his voice now stripped of its edge. “You should fast to her. There’s more to that girl than homespun wool and calloused hands. And...” He stiffens, blinking, looking momentarily toward the floor. “It would squelch the rumors about us.” When Fain looks back up at Vale, there’s vulnerability there. And an edge of fear.
Vale’s expression turns hard. “I don’t care what they say. I despise almost all of them. Except for you, and my siblings. Though Vyvian is growing more intolerable by the day.”
“They’re going to fast them all, in two days’ time—you know that, don’t you?”
What? No. Not me!
Vale sits dangerously still, tension simmering off him. If I touched a flint to him, I imagine he’d ignite. “No,” Vale says, his voice firm, his expression bitter. “I’ll not wandfast to anyone. Ever.”
* * *
Wandfasting.
My mind is thrown back to only days ago. Jules and I were sitting high up on Crykes Peak, side by side, our legs kicking over the edge. Jules’s thigh briefly touched mine, and he was careful to edge himself slightly away, keeping a discreet and purposeful distance.
“I suppose someday you’ll be wandfasted,” Jules said offhandedly, but his brown eyes were fixed tight on me with unwavering intensity.
The strong undercurrent of dissatisfaction in his tone unsettled me. “All Gardnerians wandfast,” I replied, more defensive than I’d intended.
He’d nodded, jaw stiff, then stared down at my hand, the subtle shimmer of my skin apparent in the dark.
Jules’s expression softened, became almost entranced.
“You’ve emerald dust on your skin.” A dazed smile lifted his lips. “It’s so lovely.”
The heat of an uncomfortable flush bloomed on my cheeks.
“They’ll mark your hands, won’t they?” he asked softly, trailing his finger lightly over the side of my hand. I could tell he meant it as a casual gesture, but his touch lingered, trailing gently on the skin of my little finger. There was a prickling heat in it that made my breath catch.
Heart hammering, I’d moved my hand a fraction away, enough to break the contact, my cheeks burning.
Perhaps sensing my discomfort, Jules had pulled his hand clear away until it was tight in his lap, restrained in a fist. He looked toward the horizon, stiff as a post, as if holding himself in censure. He swallowed audibly and looked sidelong at me.
It became clear to me in that moment that he’d thought on this quite a bit. Wanting to touch me. At war with himself over it. There was an apology in his eyes, mixed with fierce sadness.
I took a deep breath and gave him a brief, encouraging half smile, which he tried to return. But it didn’t reach his eyes.
We couldn’t touch each other.
We were both clear on the rules, both our cultures settled on this matter.
He was quiet for a long time, his jaw set. “It’s for life then, wandfasting.”
I nodded.
He turned a fraction, looked at me out of the corner of his eye. “How do they do it?” His voice was laced with dread, like I was headed for the gallows and he wanted to know exactly how I would be executed.
“Well,” I said uncomfortably, “a Priest Mage does it. The couple clasps their hands over each other’s—” I demonstrated with my own hands, drawing them into my lap, moving one over the other “—and he recites the spell over their hands and...the lines appear. And they’re bound. For life.”
“And that’s it, then?”
I shook my head. “That’s just to bind the couple. It’s like your engagement ceremony. There’s a separate ceremony to seal the fasting. Like Kelt weddings. The wandfasting lines darken when the couple is sealed. And after...” I reddened. “After they consummate the sealing, the lines spread up their wrists as a mark of their union.”
Jules considered that, his face tense. He looked at me sidelong. “So, once you’re wandfasted...you can’t be with anyone else?”
I nodded. “Or the marks turn painful. For women. Only the women’s lines turn into burns if they break their wandfasting vows.”
“But not the men?” He spat out a sharp sound of derision. “That’s hardly fair.”
“It’s to keep our bloodlines intact,” I said defensively. “We were almost wiped out, Jules. It’s still going on...”
“I know,” he interrupted, but there was understanding there. Along with his frustration.
The scourge of prejudice. We Gardnerians never seemed to get a moment’s peace from it, especially those of us in border towns. An ever-shrinking border. Our Mage soldiers were no match for the combined Kelt and Urisk forces.
Jules gave me a wry smile. “If I were Gardnerian, do you think your grandfather would have us fasted?” He clearly meant to toss it out as a flippant jest, but there was too much heat flaring in his eyes.
My flush deepened. “Perhaps.”
I can’t tell him of my private, romantic longings. The things I think about only deep in the night. My dreams aren’t of him—I dream of going to the University in Verpacia. Apprenticing to an apothecary there, and someday meeting a Gardnerian scholar. He’d be tall, his hair raven black. His eyes piercing green. He’d have a ready smile that would light up his angular face. Kind, courteous and bookish, he’d be privately affectionate and publicly reserved.
But when he looked at me, there would be heat in his gaze.
In my imaginings, my Gardnerian would see me one fall day, leaves ablaze as I walked from a University hall to the apothecary laboratory. He’d be immediately entranced. Court me. Leave me a single red rose and his favorite book, bound in black leather with gilded lettering along its side. He’d kiss me in a garden at night, lit by the blue glow of Ironflowers. Then he’d fast to me, as quickly as he possibly could, the lines on our hands now matching—thin, delicate black swirls.
We’d kiss in every secret alcove we could find.
And there’d be fire in those stolen kisses.
Then we’d seal our fasting, our fastlines darkening. And that night we’d consummate the sealing, the fasting lines flowing down our wrists, made intricate by the consummation, twining around our skin the way our bodies would twine around each o
ther...
“Does it have to be to a Gardnerian?” Jules asked, shattering my breathless reverie. His gaze is fraught with longing. “Just curious,” he quickly amended.
I’m momentarily concerned that it might show in my face—my secret, passionate longings. Longings that aren’t for him, my kind, beloved friend.
Jules’s question hangs in the air, silent and still. Full of meaning. The summer breeze holding it.
“Yes,” I told him, treading lightly, not wanting to hurt sweet Jules.
The hope in his eyes morphed to dismay, and his eyes lingered on mine the way his fingers lingered on my skin. Warmth rippled through me, and I was momentarily thrust into a new confusion.
I realized, in that moment, that I liked Jules’s brief touch. It was pleasant and thrilling to be touched by a young man. And then the thought came, unbidden—
What would it be like to kiss Jules?
Alarmed, I shook the thought away. Such thoughts were too dangerous, straying clear past the rigid, fiercely protected and imposed boundaries between our two peoples. Those lines were the whole reason we weren’t supposed to sneak up here alone.
“The fasting spell doesn’t work unless the woman is pure, and both people have to be Gardnerian, or the priest won’t fast them,” I clarified, the words coming out harsher and firmer than I intended.
He stiffened, seeing the barrier I’d set up. The barrier I was going to hold.
“I wish there were no races,” he ground out, glowering at the horizon, his voice low with frustration. “Just all of us the same.” He let out a harsh, troubled breath, his jaw tensing. Finally, he sighed deeply, appearing resigned. “I’m sorry, Tessla. I just... I feel like once you fast...” He turned toward me, his eyes intent. “I don’t want to lose your friendship.”
“You’ll never lose my friendship,” I told him with fierce assurance. “I don’t care if you’re a Kelt. You’ll always be like a brother to me.”
He winced, and I felt a pang in my heart for hurting him. But the boundaries between us needed to stand.
Or I would lead this friend I loved headfirst into disaster.
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