Anger flowed through his body like fire. He would find whoever did this, whoever was behind this. And he would make sure they hurt the way they had hurt his best friend.
Chapter Sixteen
The Academy for Scholars held a funeral for the five murdered students the following week. It was lovely and respectful, held outdoors like the annual commencement ceremony these students would never have. In contrast to the overwhelming grief, the warm spring sun shone brightly in a cloudless blue sky. The stage and the end of every row of seats had been decorated with vibrant chrysanthemums of mourning—out of season, but grown with the purest of earth magic.
Amarice sat as Sage with the professors and the King on the stage. She had declined to speak words of comfort during the funeral; her heart ached too badly to assume her role of leader. Quinn had been withdrawn and addled since receiving the news, often forgetting what he was saying midsentence. He had unpacked his trunk, though. Amarice searched the crowd for him. She tried to avoid looking at the distraught families in the front rows; it would be hard enough to shake their hands later in condolence. At this moment, she loathed her role as Sage. She longed to be sitting with Quinn to comfort him.
Her eyes settled on him several rows back, next to a redheaded young man she assumed was Jack. Quinn wore his black ensemble again, in contrast to the reds and oranges that were customary for funerals. She imagined it fit his mood well. He was angry and frightened. He had bottled his grief deep inside him, and she knew it threatened to overtake him. She could just make out that his face was stony, emotionless. Beside him, Jack’s face had a combined look of sadness and shock.
A few students played a funerary song on their pipes and stringed-instruments, while a young female sang. Her voice was chilling, and many in the crowd began to sob loudly, unable to hold back the emotions. The mother of the girl who had “SIN” carved on her chest screamed in agony. Quinn still sat stone-faced, unable even to comfort Jack, who had been overcome by violent, shaking sobs.
Professor Viridion, who had been the students’ mentor, began reading a eulogy he had prepared. He could not finish. His high voice broke and he began to weep inconsolably. “I’m so sorry,” he repeated over and over, until the other professors managed to pull him away from the podium. Professor Quickthorn took over the eulogy, reading the words Viridion had prepared with a sort of removed tone. Viridion’s cries tore at Amarice’s heart, and she enveloped herself in a bubble of peace.
After the eulogy, the King addressed the grieving crowd. “We will find who is behind this, and they will suffer the wrath of the Elandrian people,” he promised. He spoke with a kingly confidence, though Amarice knew he had few leads. Warnings of evil continued to be preached in the small villages, but no one confessed to any action.
Quickthorn tapped Amarice on the shoulder. “You’re up, my Lady Sage.” Amarice nodded, and met Quinn’s eyes through the crowd before she stood. His held no light.
The Sage descended the steps of the stage, grabbing five chrysanthemums from a vase at the edge. She walked toward the small pile of wood in the front of the stage. She sighed. It was customary for the Sage to draw the fire if she was present at the funeral. Amarice was aware that every eye was on her, and she hated it. This was not about her; any Scholar here could have started the fire. Wordlessly, she used her magic to light the flames as quickly as she could.
The fire roared to life. It was a small blaze, but it crackled and burned. The heat could be felt at least five rows back. She named each of the murdered students, one by one, and tossed in a chrysanthemum for each. When she got to the fifth name, her voice cracked. “Rafe Reardan.” She held out the last flower, a deep scarlet, and dropped in into the flames. She let it incinerate completely before she turned away and went back to the stage.
The crowds began to rise from their seats and made their way to the fire. Some said only the name of their lost loved one. Others threw in five flowers because they had known them all. Amarice waited for last of the funeral guests to throw in their flowers and disperse before descending the stage again to offer her condolences to the families.
Quinn and Jack were two of the last to throw their chrysanthemums in the fire. They spoke the name of their beloved friend together and watched the flowers burn. Jack put his arm around Quinn, seeking the comfort of his living friend. Quinn did not have it in him to oblige.
After a few moments, Jack spoke. “Come on, Quinn. We need to see his mother.” He was right, but Quinn dreaded it. Rafe had been close to his mother, and he knew the woman must be barely keeping herself together. He had never met her, but she was easy to spot. She had Rafe’s green eyes and black hair, though hers was touched with grey. A teen girl stood next to her; she must have been Rafe’s beloved little sister. They were both talking to the Sage.
“He always wanted to meet you,” Rafe’s mother told the Sage as Quinn and Jack approached.
Amarice forced a sad smile. “I wanted to meet him, too. My apprentice loved him dearly.” Quinn swallowed at those words. Amarice looked up and saw him standing there; she was fully in her role as Sage, but her grey eyes held the grief one feels for a dear friend who is hurting. It was too hard to look at her face. Instead, he focused on the diadem resting on her hair, trying to separate himself from the flood of emotions.
Rafe’s mother turned to see Quinn and Jack standing awkwardly. They were unsure what to say. She broke into tears again and embraced them. This time, Quinn returned the hug. “He loved you both,” she sobbed. “Thank you for being such great friends to him.” She held them tight; Quinn could feel her tears wetting his shirt. He thought for a moment it was blood and felt a sharp pain over his heart. He tensed himself and forced it to go away.
After several minutes, she let them go. Quinn and Jack hugged Rafe’s sister and murmured words of condolence. There were no words adequate to the situation. Finally, Rafe’s family began to leave. His mother turned toward the young men one last time, but her eyes met Quinn’s. “You were family to him; therefore, you are family to me. Please, do not be strangers.” She turned and walked away, holding her daughter’s hand.
Amarice spoke again. “Jack, I’m glad to meet you, although I wish it were under happier circumstances. Quinn has spoken highly of you. I’m so sorry for your loss.” Jack forced a smile, but then tears fell from his eyes again. Quinn stood stoically. Amarice embraced Jack.
“Thank you.” Jack pulled away. He gave a wet laugh. “Never thought I’d hug the Sage of Elandria.” He wiped his eyes. “Quinn, a few of us—we’re going to Bucky’s to drink to Rafe.”
Quinn shook his head. “I can’t.” Jack nodded.
“Well, be safe. See you soon.” He embraced Quinn, and this time, Quinn clung to him tight. He did not want to lose Jack, too.
***
The carriage ride back to the palace was silent. He shared the carriage with Amarice, and she did not make him talk. He was glad; just being in her presence was enough. They ate a quick dinner with the king; Raymond was not in Teleah. Thankfully, the king did not wish to discuss the attacks. He sensed the funeral had taken its toll on both the Sage and her young apprentice. What conversation they held was empty and meaningless.
Both Quinn and Amarice retired early to their rooms. He undressed, putting on only a pair of light linen pants in which to sleep. He was exhausted from grief, but he could not even doze. He thought of all the things he had never said to Rafe. He never told him how much he appreciated his friendship, how he loved him like a brother. He remembered his last promise to Rafe. His patient friend never pushed Quinn to talk about his life, but he genuinely cared. One day, I’ll tell you all about me. He should have told him then, or any time over the last four and a half years. He should have been a better friend.
Hours passed as Quinn sat thinking, alone in the palace bedroom. He did not even notice the sun set. He sat in the darkness. He felt numb, and frightened, and angry, and lonely. He suddenly became vastly aware of his loneliness. He thought it
would suffocate him.
He thought of Amarice. She had looked so lovely in her red silk dress today. She was the only light in this otherwise dark day. He felt a rush of desire fight against the grief in his heart. His heart ached, and part of it was aching for her.
Before he could overthink it, he left his room and knocked on the door next to his. Amarice opened the door. She wore her shiny white nightgown that gathered behind her neck again. Her brown hair fell unpinned over her bare shoulders. She was not wearing her Scholar’s pendant or her Sage’s diadem. In this moment, she was purely Amarice.
“Quinn?” She sounded surprised to see him. He did not respond, but stepped toward her. He leaned his head down and kissed her. She parted her lips, inviting in his tongue. She shivered as he ran his hands over the soft skin of her back.
She was no longer thinking. She threw her arms around his neck and stood as high as she could to kiss him. He lifted her in response, and she wrapped her legs around his waist. She could feel him growing hard beneath his pants. He kicked the door closed with one foot and carried Amarice to the bed, where laid her down gently.
He stroked her hair with one hand as he kissed her. She placed her hand on his bare chest, over his pounding heart. With his other hand, he unhooked her dress and exposed her voluptuous breasts. He caressed them as he lowered his kisses to her chin, her neck, and lower. She moaned and moved her hand down his chiseled chest to the trail of hair that led into his pants. She was overcome by desire.
But as he began to pull off the rest of her dress, she became conscious of the situation. “No,” she murmured. “Quinn, no. Not like this.” He pulled his hand away, looking confused. Oh, he looked good when he was confused. She shook herself. “Quinn, you’re hurting. We can’t.”
He looked her in her eyes. “Don’t you want…” His voice trailed.
“Yes, oh so much. But,” she paused. “You’re only doing this now because you need to let yourself feel something.” He continued gazing at her face. “This isn’t the way, Quinn. Just let yourself grieve.”
Quinn held her gaze for a moment longer. And then he burst into tears. He did not remember the last time he had cried. Maybe he shed a few tears when he left Corthy. He could not recall. But tonight, the tears fell in earnest. First, it was just the tears. Then he fell into sobs so strong he could barely breathe. He cried for Rafe. And when he had no tears left for Rafe, he cried for not knowing his real father. He cried for the way he had shamed his family, for the way his village had treated him. He cried because he missed his brother. He cried because he was deeply in love with the woman next to him. And he cried for all the darkness that had crept into his country and all the people who had been lost.
Amarice fastened her gown back then held him in her arms. She offered no words of comfort, just her embrace. He sobbed for hours, and she held him the entire time. She ran her fingers through his brown hair, for once not parted carefully.
His sobs turned into tearful gasps after several hours. He yawned. “Go to sleep,” she murmured in his ear. “I’m right here.” He gave one last sob before his eyes closed and his breathing slowed. She pulled the blanket over him and laid her head on her own pillow before falling into a dreamless slumber.
***
Quinn awoke the next morning, disoriented and eyes glued shut from crying the night before. His arm was wrapped around something. Someone? Oh, no. He peeled open his eyes. Amarice lay beneath his arm, sleeping peacefully. She looked beautiful, he noticed, with no weight of responsibility on her face.
But he could not keep holding her. He wondered how long they had slept like this. He removed his arm and shifted, trying to find the clock. He squinted at the hands on the large clock face across from the bed. Nine-thirty. He could not remember the last time he had slept so late.
Amarice moaned and twisted in the bed. Unsure what to do, Quinn laid back down. He could wake her, although she had stayed up late comforting him while he cried. She probably needed the sleep. He could sneak back to his room. But would that be rude? They had slept together, but they had not slept together. Still, they had shared an intensely emotional night. And they had almost…
His mind wandered back to the beginning of their night. He thought of her breasts, her lips, her touch. She was right to stop, he knew, but if she had just stopped a bit later. He forced himself to think about something else.
He took an internal inventory of his emotions, as Amarice had coached him over the last several months. Though his heart still ached for Rafe, he felt better, lighter. Most importantly, he felt. I probably should not go years without crying, he thought. He laughed at himself.
Amarice stirred and opened her eyes. She, too, had a look of disorientation. But when she realized Quinn was there, she did not panic. Instead, she smiled sleepily. “Good morning,” she yawned. Oh, she was exquisite, here in bed with no pretense. Quinn wished he had this view every morning. Stop, he told himself. She was the friend you needed last night.
He smiled in return. “Good morning.”
Amarice sat up in bed and cracked her neck. “How do you feel?” she asked.
“Better. Thank you for…” For what? Listening to him cry? That sounded inadequate. She waved her hand as if it were no issue. “And about before that—I’m sorry. That was inappropriate.”
She smiled, a touch of regret in her eyes. “Don’t be sorry,” she said, with a nonchalance she did not feel. She changed the subject. “What time is it?”
“Half-past nine.”
Her eyes widened. “We should get ready to leave. My poor driver is probably waiting, very confused.” She crossed the room to her satchel and pulled out a purple gauzy dress. She turned and looked at Quinn. He mumbled a word of apology and left her room quickly to get dressed.
The carriage ride back to the Villa was amicable and, to Quinn’s surprise, not awkward. They spoke casually, and Quinn even shared some of his favorite stories of Rafe. He loved hearing her laughter ring through the enclosed carriage.
They arrived at the Villa in time for dinner. All the residents offered their condolences to Quinn, and he could accept them with gratitude. Amarice excused herself to go to bed early, citing emotional exhaustion. Before she retired, she told Quinn, “You’re not done grieving, and that is fine. Take the time you need.” He nodded and smiled. Though he loved her, he could appreciate her as a friend and confidante if nothing more.
And he could still enjoy watching her leave the room, he thought to himself, as she walked away.
Chapter Seventeen
The next few months passed without event. No further attacks occurred, but the King’s Inquisitors had no new leads either. The Academy issued a call for all Scholars in rural villages to return to larger towns or the cities, where there was no anti-magic sentiment. Many chose to return to Teleah, as the Sage had predicted. The Villa became much busier, and Quinn found it harder and harder to find quiet time to work on his magic.
With the new residents, interpersonal relationships often suffered. A new lover’s quarrel happened in the courtyard every other day, it seemed. Quinn had to politely turn down more than one young Scholar’s offer to join their bed. Jack and Rafe would have killed him, he knew, but he was still grieving. The days got easier, but every so often, a wave of emotion would hit him like a punch in the gut. And, though their relationship had turned into a solid friendship, Quinn still only wanted one woman in his bed.
Amarice had been so impressed with Quinn’s pro-Deyoni literature that she ordered it printed and disseminated in every city, town, and village in Elandria. He had carefully collected the facts that made the Deyoni relatable to the rest of Elandria’s citizens and compiled it into exquisitely worded pamphlets and posters. Thus, the cities saw a decrease in tensions, and Amarice expressed her immense pride in her apprentice. Sentiments remained unchanged in the villages, the Inquisitors reported, but thankfully the Deyoni remained safe by staying near the protection of the cities.
Quinn had a confide
nce he had never felt before. He kept his magic, now stronger than most Scholars’, well-controlled. Amarice continued to push him to new limits. He lived for his private lessons with her, when they would go to the valley north of the Villa to manipulate nature’s forces to their will.
“Why do you always come to this spot?” he had finally asked her one day.
“Can’t you feel it? The magic is strongest here. I have walked these mountains for years. This is the heart of the earth.” She was right, of course, once he bothered to pay attention. He had felt great magic here, but had never compared it to the rest of the mountain. Now he could feel a distinct difference, and his morning runs usually brought him here to refill his well of power. And his new afternoon runs, which he used to escape from the noise and drama at the Villa.
He had succeeded in changing the speed of the river by now, and he played a crucial part in the spring’s planting. He worked with the other Scholars to distill plant oils and improved his knowledge of healing.
Quinn asked Amarice to teach him the language of the Deyoni. He wanted to continue to learn about them and write about them, but he could only gather so much from the biased books he read. Lessons were slow, as Amarice had never taught anyone a language before. For the first time, he learned that she also spoke two other languages fluently, and she had been trying to teach herself Lazori. He had a feeling he could apprentice with her the rest of his life and still learn something new about this incredible woman every day.
“I like to read books in their original language,” she told him. “There are good books out there from other lands.” Quinn was unsure he had ever read a book that was not from Elandria. Their country had the worldwide reputation for being the land of knowledge and education, and most books that existed were Elandrian in origin. Amarice then loaded him up with a stack of her favorite translated foreign books.
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