The Sorcerer’s Guardian

by Antonia Aquilante

  “In a little while. Just let me finish.”

  “No, now,” he said almost before Savarin finished speaking, which earned him no goodwill from Savarin. “We have to make Rivage before the storm breaks.”

  “We have plenty of time for that. Gemella said late tonight, and we’ll easily get to Rivage by dinnertime even if I work here a little longer. Stop worrying.”

  “I think your friend may have been mistaken, or perhaps something changed, but I don’t think we have until tonight.”

  Savarin glared at him, arching one pale brow. “And you’re a weatherworker now, are you?”

  “No, but I can look at the sky and see what’s coming.” A stronger gust of wind blew through the trees, whipping their hair and clothing. “We don’t have as long as we thought we would.”

  Savarin glanced up and scowled, presumably at the thick, dark clouds. How he’d missed the clearing darkening while he paced about, Loriot would never know. Savarin was completely oblivious while using his Talent to examine the spells, but he hadn’t been using his Talent for the whole time they’d been there. He cursed, using blistering words Loriot had only heard from seasoned soldiers and that seemed out of place from the mouth of such a sophisticated man. Loriot blinked but said nothing. Savarin eventually wound down and turned his scowl on Loriot. “When did that happen?”

  “Why do you think I’ve been trying to get your attention?” Loriot didn’t think Savarin’s irritation was at him any longer, but he made a note to himself not to interrupt Savarin at work if he had any other choice. “We need to leave.”

  A sharp nod was his only answer. But at least Savarin understood the urgency of the situation. They moved to the horses, mounting up and trotting back out to the road. There were other travelers out, all of them moving with a single-minded urgency to beat the weather to their destinations. They might not have all the information he and Savarin had, though word of the storms had been spread so people could prepare, but even without specific knowledge, anyone could see they were in for some unpleasant weather. Once the storm broke, it wouldn’t be just unpleasant to be out on the road, it would be dangerous.

  They rode as quickly as they could without wearing out the horses. Overhead, the sky continued to darken as the afternoon wore on. A few raindrops splattered on their heads midafternoon, but the rain ended before it could really begin, for which Loriot was grateful.

  The clouds above turned black and roiling, and by late in the afternoon, it seemed like night. Savarin created light for them, a bright globe of it that lit the road ahead. The wind gusted, and Loriot wished for a heavier cloak, though it would likely just take flight. But the light stayed steady, unaffected by the strong winds. Some function of Savarin’s magic, holding the glowing ball in the air above and in front of them, keeping it moving with them no matter how hard the wind blew.

  Loriot believed they might make it to Rivage before the storm broke. He really did. If his recollection of distance from the map was correct, and he didn’t see how it could be wrong with the amount of time he’d spent studying it, they weren’t far away. They’d come this far with the sky above them looking as if it was about to open up, and it hadn’t; they would make it a little farther.

  If only his optimistic beliefs—hopes—could have had some sort of weight in the outcome.

  Chapter 12

  LORIOT COULD see the lights of Rivage in the distance when a few more raindrops splatted on the back of his gloved hands. And then with a roar, sheets of rain poured down over them, sudden and hard and unrelenting. How could rain be so chilled in summer? He gasped and sputtered at the icy water, fumbling to pull the hood of his cloak up. With the wind, it was horribly inadequate and blew back down a moment later. He didn’t dare take his hands from the reins to put it back up. He couldn’t.

  They did have to slow down or risk injuring themselves or the horses. When the rain began, he lost sight of the town, but Savarin kept the light he created steady, helping them see through a dark that felt like midnight instead of evening and keep on the road. Loriot wasn’t sure how they would have managed without the light. They would have had to dismount and lead the horses at a walk or risk veering off the road entirely.

  It was a harrowing stretch of time, and Loriot wasn’t even certain how long they rode in the dark and rain, thunder rumbling ominously in the distance. It felt as if they traveled for hours, but it couldn’t have been so long. He was never so happy as he was to see the walls of Rivage looming suddenly in front of them. The gates were open, the gate guard huddling in his small shelter. The guard waved them through with only a cursory look in their direction. At any other time, Loriot would have had something to say about his lack of vigilance, but the rain still beat down on him and he thought it might be getting worse, and he couldn’t be bothered to lecture a guard who looked almost as miserable as he felt.

  With Savarin’s light still guiding them, they rode directly to the larger of the two inns, which also had the advantage of being closest to the gate. They dismounted in the inn’s stable yard and hurried to lead the horses into the stable where two stablehands were quick to take the horses’ reins from them.

  Loriot stepped aside and wiped his face with the handkerchief he pulled from his pocket. The cloth was nearly as sodden as his skin so it didn’t much help, but he was happy to be out of the rain anyway. Only he had to go back out in it. The thought was enough to make him seriously consider spending the night in the stable, which seemed snug and dry. He went to the door and stared out into the downpour. Water pooled and puddled in the stable yard; the rain showed no signs of slowing. But they couldn’t stay in the stable, certainly not when a warm, dry inn with baths and beds and food was mere steps away.

  Steps through a veritable deluge, but steps nonetheless.

  He glanced at Savarin beside him and saw the same grim resignation. The usually well-groomed sorcerer looked more like a drowned rat, with his hair plastered to his forehead and his clothes soaked and mud-splattered. “Let’s get this over with.”

  Savarin nodded. “No sense waiting.”

  Loriot took a deep breath and plunged back into the rain, Savarin at his side. The light Savarin had made out on the road bobbed ahead of them again, turning the stable yard bright. It allowed them to avoid the worst of the puddles and the rush of water flowing like a river near the foundation of the inn, but they still splashed and slid as they dashed through the stable yard to the door.

  Savarin reached it first, his long legs carrying him ahead of Loriot. He threw the door open and stumbled inside but waited for Loriot, holding the door for him as he practically fell over the threshold and then slamming it closed against the rising wind. Savarin’s magic light winked out above them as if it had never been.

  The inn was as warm as he could have hoped; the howling wind outside seemed far removed once they were in the brightly lit entry with the sound of voices floating out of the common room into the corridor and the smell of food in the air. Loriot let out a long breath and let his shoulders sag slightly. Savarin slumped against the wall next to him and closed his eyes. If possible, he looked even worse than he had just a few moments earlier.

  The innkeeper bustled out of the common room and started when his gaze fell on them. He hurried over, but there was an element of trepidation in his demeanor that had Loriot steeling himself for disappointment.

  “Good evening, sirs,” the innkeeper said when he reached them. Savarin opened his eyes and straightened away from the wall when the man spoke, his height making him tower above the short and rather portly innkeeper.

  “Good evening,” Loriot replied. “We need two bedchambers for the night—well, likely more than one night, if the storms continue as they’re supposed to.”

  “Ah, well,” the innkeeper said, “as you can hear, the inn is quite full.”

  Savarin straightened further. Loriot could feel the tension in his muscles just standing next to him. But Loriot wanted to slump to the floor.

 
“Are you saying you don’t have chambers for us?” Savarin said.

  “No, no. Not exactly.” The man stuttered over the words, and Loriot wondered if they were really that intimidating. He didn’t feel intimidating dripping water all over the stone floor.

  “What do you mean, then?” Savarin prompted, and Loriot had to concede that however Savarin looked, his tone remained intimidating.

  “I’m sorry, sir. I meant that I don’t have two chambers for you, but if you would be willing to share, I do have one left vacant.” He rushed on before Loriot or Savarin could say a word. “The storms have driven many travelers into town. I just heard that the other inn has just filled its last chamber, and as I said I have just the one left empty. But it’s a larger chamber and quite comfortable.”

  Loriot glanced at Savarin, searching for his feelings on the matter. But really, what could they do? The other inn was full, and he had to force down a shudder at the thought of going back out into the storm even if there had been a place for them to go. Savarin nodded, and Loriot turned back to the innkeeper. “We’ll take the chamber, and hot baths wouldn’t go amiss.”

  “Of course, sir.” The innkeeper radiated relief. “I’ll show you up and have water brought to you.”

  The innkeeper led them down the corridor and up two flights of stairs, then around two turns in another corridor, Loriot and Savarin dripping the entire way. They likely weren’t the only ones to have done so that evening, which seemed to be proven when they passed a maid in the upstairs corridor with a mop. Loriot felt bad for giving her more of a mess to clean up. It seemed the innkeeper was leading them to the bedchamber farthest from the entrance, and they left a trail of water the whole way. Her eyes widened when she saw them. The innkeeper sent her scurrying off with an order to fetch towels and bathwater.

  “Here you are, sirs.” The innkeeper finally stopped in front of a door. He unlocked it and ushered them inside. “I hope this will suit you for the time being. I apologize for not being able to give you two chambers as you asked.”

  Loriot glanced around the bedchamber. As the innkeeper had promised, it was good-sized, larger than most chambers in inns, and a fire already crackled in the hearth. Two comfortable-looking chairs and a small table were positioned near the fire, a painted screen separated off a corner of the room, and a wardrobe stood against another wall. A large bed took up a good deal of the remaining floor space. He looked back at the innkeeper quickly. “This will be fine. Thank you.”

  Relief again colored the innkeeper’s voice. “I’ll leave you, then. Can I bring you anything else?”

  “Something hot to drink. Please,” Savarin said.

  “Of course.” The innkeeper bowed slightly and left them, closing the door behind him.

  Fatigue hit him at all once. All Loriot wanted to do was sink down into one of the chairs by the fire, let the thick cushions cradle him and the fire warm him. But he was soaking wet and sitting on one of the chairs now would render it unusable once he was dry.

  Savarin let out a gusty sigh. From the look of him, Savarin had come to the same conclusion as Loriot had, and he was resigning himself to the fact that they were going to stand there and drip until someone came with towels and their bags. Savarin met his eyes, and Loriot huffed out a laugh at the frustration he saw there. Savarin’s eyes narrowed in a glare, but even that didn’t have its usual force. Well, it had been a tiring day. Still, it looked as if Savarin might snap at him anyway, but they were interrupted by a knock on the door.

  Loriot was closer so he pulled the door open. The maid from the corridor stood on the other side with a stack of towels in her arms so high they almost reached her nose. She still managed a small curtsy. “I’ve brought towels for you, sirs.”

  She walked into the bedchamber and placed the towels on the table. Another servant followed at her heels with their bags, which he left near the wardrobe. He disappeared with a bow and no words exchanged. He’d barely left when two young men arrived carrying a copper tub between them. They set it down near the door and moved the chairs away from the fireplace. Then they positioned the tub closer to the fireplace before hurrying from the room.

  “They’ll bring another tub up for you as well, sirs, and we’ll get them filled,” the maid said. “The inn has a bathing room, but with so many people caught in the storm, there are many people waiting. It’ll be quicker for you if we bring the tubs up.”

  “Thank you,” Loriot said, more grateful than he could express at the consideration, even though he hated the extra work for the servants.

  “Not at all, sir.” She bobbed a quick curtsy and disappeared out the door again.

  “We must look particularly pitiful,” he said, still staring at the doorway, door left open to allow the servants to return with hot water and the other tub.

  “We do.”

  His reactions must have been dulled because it took him a moment to hear the dry humor in Savarin’s words. But when he did, he barked out a laugh, and then couldn’t stop laughing. The same two male servants returned with the second tub; they barely looked at him, but they did give him a wide berth. Savarin shook his head at him when the two servants had hurried out, but there was a spark of humor in his tired eyes. Loriot saw it before Savarin snatched up a towel and rubbed it over his face and head, and the humor didn’t help him in his quest to catch his breath and rein in his laughter.

  Savarin slid the towel away, leaving his pale hair standing up around his head. Possibly an improvement over it being slicked to his face but still odd on a man so particular about his appearance. And no help whatsoever for Loriot. Savarin shook his head again. “I don’t know why you’re still laughing. I’m going to get out of these wet clothes.”

  Savarin grabbed another towel with a sharp movement and disappeared behind the screen in the corner as Loriot choked on his laughter. The maid appeared again, accompanied by another, each carrying large pitchers of steaming water. She flicked a concerned look in his direction, but said nothing. She poured the water into one of the tubs and disappeared from the bedchamber again, the beginning of a parade of maids who brought up pitcher after pitcher of water.

  Sodden fabric hit the floor with a thump behind the screen. He didn’t look in that direction. He took a towel of his own from the table and rubbed it over his face and hair, and tried not to think of Savarin stripping off wet clothes down to his damp skin. Tried not to think of what that skin might be like, might feel like. Tried not to think of Savarin rubbing one of the soft towels all over that skin.

  And he was doing a very poor job in the attempt.

  He rubbed at his hair harder, toweling out the wet from the rain that he could hear beating against the shutters. The wind had kicked up even more since they arrived. It was good they’d gotten here when they had. Of course earlier would have been better. Perhaps then they would have been able to secure two chambers instead of just the one. He should be grateful they had a bedchamber, shelter from the violent storm outside, even if they had to share it.

  As Loriot pulled the towel away from his head, Savarin emerged from behind the screen, a towel tucked around him covering him from waist to knees and another slung around his neck. But far too much of him was still exposed. Pale skin warmed by flickering fire and candlelight that Loriot’s fingers actually itched to touch. He looked away. Away from Savarin, away from the large inviting bed. Why was he even thinking of it?

  “I can take those from you, sir. We’ll get them clean and dry.” The maid who seemed to have adopted them reached for the wet clothes in Savarin’s hands, taking them and juggling them easily with the empty pitcher. “One of the tubs is filled. We’ll have the other full shortly.”

  Savarin gestured at the tub, full of steaming water, while the maids hurried out the door. “Do you want to…?”

  He shook his head. “Go ahead. You’re already undressed.”

  “Thank you.”

  When Savarin stepped over to the tub, Loriot strode behind the screen. The area be
hind the screen was small, but still large enough for him to undress in without knocking into walls or screen, and slightly shadowy, but again light enough for him to undress. A thin stand with a basin of water on top stood next to a straight-backed wooden chair that was pushed into the corner, Savarin’s boots tucked neatly underneath. He hung his towel over the corner of the screen and sat to work on removing his own boots, the leather wet and muddy under his fingers.

  The sound of water splashing came from the other side of the screen, followed by a long sigh. He could picture Savarin stepping into the tub, but he shouldn’t. He turned back to his boots and wrestled them off one by one, dropping them beside Savarin’s. As the splashing from the bath continued, he fought with the rest of his sodden clothes, undoing ties and buttons to remove each layer. He dropped the clothing on the floor and was mildly surprised at how much water remained in it. It pooled around the growing pile of wet fabric.

  His skin was damp and clammy, and he shivered even though the room was warm. Grabbing the towel from the corner of the screen, he dried himself off. More noise came from the other side of the screen, water being poured into water.

  “The tub is full for you, Loriot,” Savarin called.

  “Thank you.” He wrapped the towel around his waist and gathered his wet clothes from the floor, now puddled with water. When he came out from behind the screen, he found Savarin in the bath, his knees sticking out of the water because his legs were far too long for the tub. It would have been funny seeing the elegant sorcerer scrunched up in the too-small tub if it wasn’t for Loriot’s uncomfortable awareness of Savarin being naked.