He had left Amarice sleeping in the bed, as usual, for she loathed his early hours. At least she had learned to stay asleep as he dressed himself for his run. On his way out of the Villa this morning, Madge had stopped him to ask for a decision between beef and lamb for the first Harvest Holiday dinner that night. Guests would be arriving soon for the festivities, and she needed to begin cooking, she had explained to him. Quinn decided on beef.
Now, standing in the gardens, his mind clear from his run, he mused on the trivial exchange. Somehow, he had become an authority in the house, second only to Amarice. It had been a silent transition. Quinn had never been a leader before.
Nearly a year had passed since he first came to the Villa. Too many had died at the hands of Chambers and his followers. Quinn had learned to harness his immense power and had helped the Sage, the love of his life, defeat him. The last few months had passed without event. He had fallen into a happy pattern with Amarice. And now, he made decisions about food and place-settings and the grounds at the Sage’s Villa. The day he received his letter about his apprenticeship seemed eons ago.
“What’s on your mind, my love?” A sweet, sleepy voice lifted him from his thoughts. He turned to see Amarice walking toward him, barefoot in a thin dress of mauve. He smiled, as he did every time he saw her. Amarice joined him near the tree and slipped her arm around his waist. A chill had settled into the air, and she shivered.
He hugged her tightly. “Wondering who I have become in the last year. I barely recognize myself.” He kissed the top of her head.
“And who do you think you have become?”
Quinn thought for a few moments. In this moment, everything felt right, as it had for the last few months. He had never felt more confident, more connected, and more loved than he did now. He answered her, a strength in his voice never heard a year ago.
“Myself.”
Amarice grinned. She knew all along who Quinn had the potential to become. He just had to find it himself. Quinn continued, “I found much of myself in you, Amarice. I cannot help but feel that our souls are so…” He searched for the right word. “…intertwined.”
She nodded. “Like the Consort’s Tree,” she said, gesturing toward the two ancient trunks that wound around one another. “Quinn, I would like to go ahead and give you your Harvest Day gift now.”
An odd segue, he thought. Though the week-long Harvest Holiday began today, gifts were typically given on the fourth day at the grandest feast. “All right.”
She stepped away from his embrace and faced him. “Do not feel obligated to accept, my love. It would change nothing between us.” She met his confused eyes. “I have spoken with the King, and he agrees. After your commencement in a few weeks’ time, you will fully be a Scholar in your own right.” Her voice changed to a note of nervousness, an unusual tone for the Sage. “If you would accept, I would like to name you Sage’s Consort.”
Quinn waited for the punchline. It did not come. The Sage’s Consort was a rare position, and despite their bliss as a couple, he had not expected this. The position would make him one of the most powerful diplomats in Elandria, in the world. He nearly laughed at the prospect; a few months ago he was a shy, insecure boy. “Are you certain?”
“I trust you with my whole heart. I adore you. And the country will benefit from your voice,” she told him. “Do you accept?”
He let himself laugh now. “Yes! A hundred times yes!” He swept her into his arms and kissed her with a burning passion. “I love you.”
“I love you, my Lord Consort.”
He laughed again. He had a title. He carried her back to their chambers, and they did not leave their shared bed for several hours.
***
The Harvest Holiday was the happiest week Quinn had ever known. The Villa was packed with guests, and every day was filled with feasts and games and dancing. Although his title would not be official until after his commencement in two weeks’ time, Amarice introduced him to everyone as Sage’s Consort.
Jack stayed at the Villa for the holiday. He had two investors willing to pay his rent on a shop for a year, and he had found a place on the main road, near the market, to start his apothecary business. It would open just after the Feast of Fire, on the first day of the new year. He was more reserved than he had been in school, but Quinn knew he still grieved over Rafe and his unspoken love.
Prince Raymond broke from tradition and celebrated the holiday at the Villa instead of the palace. He and Daisy had corresponded and met several times over the last few months. He was quite smitten. Raymond had become one of Quinn’s closest friends, and Quinn’s urges of jealousy became more and more fleeting.
Three tribes of Deyoni had made camp on the grounds to share in the Sage’s celebrations. Most of the tribes from the Valley had begun to travel the countryside again, after the defeat of Chambers, but a few lingered. These three tribes were the only to accept Amarice’s invitation, and they put on shows for all the guests several times a day. Quinn spent several hours of the holiday in their camps, practicing his budding knowledge of the Deyoni language, and, though he tried to deny it to himself, looking for his father. “We will find him. One day,” Amarice assured him.
On the fourth day, Harvest Day, they feasted from sunup to sundown. Amarice and the Deyoni women who worked at the Villa performed traditional dances, working the dance magic on the entire crowd.
Later, a hired orchestra played, and Quinn danced for hours with Amarice, pausing only to drink or eat more. After several drinks, he and his love sat on a bench, eating chocolate pastries and watching the crowd as the autumn sun set.
A young woman in blue Messenger garb pushed through the crowd. She handed Amarice a letter. “For you, my lady,” she said before disappearing without another word. Amarice looked at Quinn, confused. Messengers only worked on Harvest Holiday in case of emergency, but the woman had disappeared.
She opened the letter, closed with only a generic seal. Her eyes widened, and she handed the letter to Quinn. Only four words were written: “SINNER, IT’S NOT OVER.”
They searched for the Messenger, but she was gone. Amarice and Quinn left the party and disappeared into her study. “What does it mean? Has there been another attack?”
“I don’t know,” Amarice said. “But right now, I don’t care.” He looked at her, surprised. “It’s Harvest Day. I’m not scared, and I have you. I’ll worry later.”
He took her in his arms and kissed her. “You’re right.” He glanced at the door that led to their room. “I don’t think anyone will miss us if we stay gone a little longer.”
Amarice grinned, and he took her to bed. An hour later, Amarice lay asleep in his arms as he stroked her hair. He breathed in her scent of lavender and kissed her brow. In two weeks, he would not only be a fully-qualified Scholar, but he would also gain the title of Sage’s Consort. And the woman who held his future lay in his arms. The insecure, stifled boy he had been when he received his letter in Quickthorn’s office was gone.
Quinn smiled and sighed, breathing in the contentment that can come only with a sense of belonging.
The Sage's Consort (The Scholars of Elandria Book 1) Page 20