Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
K ing Artos was all sympathy and kindness, and Thea could hardly stand it. His apologies sounded sincere and the magic that surrounded her was warm and comforting, but apologies were not what she’d dreamt of all these years. Her vision blurred as her future crashed around her.
‘I do hope you stay for the feast after your long journey,’ the king was saying. ‘You are welcome at my table. Do not think your current role in Thezmarr is not one of honour as well.’
‘Thank you,’ she croaked out and with a final hurried bow, she rushed from the throne room.
For a moment, it was as though time had stopped and the king’s words spun over and over in Thea’s mind.
‘For a woman to hold a blade in that place, was to risk peace in our realms. The prophecy spoke, the law was changed. And thus it must remain so.’
Thea’s hands shook as she blinked back tears.
‘And thus it must remain so.’
All she wanted was to be one of them, to give what little of her life remained some purpose. To become… something more. She wasn’t usually one to cry, but this… This hurt in a way she hadn’t dared to imagine.
‘Well?’ Hawthorne leaned against the shining tiled wall outside the doors, his arms folded over his chest.
She didn’t allow her tears to fall. ‘Well, what?’
‘What did they say?’ the Warsword pressed.
‘They said no,’ she told him coldly. ‘Just as you hoped.’ She made to push past him. Gods, the last thing she wanted was to be in his presence right now, to deal with his smugness, his satisfaction at her failure.
‘I see.’
‘ See? You see nothing.’ All her rage surged forth, vibrating through her like a furious current, a worthy outlet in her sights.
It was all Thea could do not to snatch her dagger from his belt and put it to his throat.
‘How could you possibly see? As if you’d know what this is like, what this means.
’ Her dreams had been within her grasp after years of secrecy and dreaming, only to be wrenched away by some stupid prophecy and law.
‘Did they say anything else?’
Of course he wouldn’t acknowledge her fury, the injustice of it all. ‘No.’
‘Nothing?’
Thea bit back an array of profanities. ‘Only that I should stay for the feast. That I was welcome at King Artos’ table.’
Hawthorne blinked. ‘So we must find accommodations for the night.’
‘What? I’m not going. The last thing I want to do is sit and dine with a bunch of people who —’
‘If the king invites you to sit at his table, you sit at his table.’ Hawthorne’s gaze locked on hers, no compromise there.
Infuriated anew, Thea realised he was right.
It would be an insult to not attend at the king’s invitation, but she looked down at her filthy appearance.
‘I can’t go like this. It’s one thing to address the king in muddied clothes, but to sit and dine with nobles when you smell like a sweaty horse… ?’
‘You may have a point.’
Thea threw her hands up. ‘Well, what can I do? Do you know somewhere I can —’ she gestured down her front dramatically, words no longer powerful enough to express her anguish.
Hawthorne gave a frustrated sigh. ‘There’s a place a few streets away. You can fix yourself up there.’
In the damp washroom of a boarding house, Thea scrubbed angrily at her skin with a rough cloth. Judging from the way the matron had batted her eyelashes at Hawthorne and used any excuse to touch his muscular arms, Thea wasn’t sure she wanted to know how he’d discovered this place.
She stood naked and shivering as she sloshed the cold water over her body and washed her hair, praying that her efforts would make her even a modicum more respectable than before.
A fist pounded the door and she jumped.
‘You done in there?’ came Hawthorne’s deep voice.
‘No!’ she half-shouted, leaping to grab the threadbare towel the matron had given her to cover herself.
Acutely aware of her bare skin, Thea rushed to pull on her undergarments and trousers, only to grimace at the state of her shirt. It was grubby, to say the least… with a giant stain down the left side - when did that happen? Her spare was worse.
The door creaked open and Thea’s hands flew to cover her breasts, her heart seizing.
A tattooed hand slid between the crack, holding out a fresh, white linen shirt. ‘Here,’ said the muffled, gruff voice of the Warsword.
Trembling, from the cold or from anticipation, Thea took it, her icy fingers brushing the warmth of Hawthorne’s hand. The shock of contact sent a bolt of lightning through her and a rush of goosebumps across her bare skin. She shoved the sensation aside.
Pity , that’s what this was from him. After all his insults and bickering, the Warsword pitied her.
But who was she to complain? A nobody.
‘Thank you,’ she said quietly, and the door closed once more.
The shirt was crisp and clean and it felt amazing after days of wearing damp and dirty garments. Thea slipped her arms into the sleeves and buttoned it.
It was enormous.
His shirt, she realised. He’d given her his last clean shirt…
She did her best to tuck the billowing material into her belt before working her hair into a quick side braid, the end still dripping. She shoved her soiled clothes into her satchel and threw the door open.
Hawthorne stood there with his arms folded over his sculpted chest and surveyed her, his gaze lingering on the wet trail of her hair and the seemingly endless yards of fabric.
‘Hmm,’ he grunted.
‘You’re not even using words now? Do I not look alright?’
To her surprise, Hawthorne laughed, the sound rich and deep. ‘Here.’ He reached for her sleeves.
Against her better judgement, Thea leaned in.
She stared as the Warsword bent down and gently rolled the material to each of her elbows, his fingers brushing her skin ever so lightly, sending a delicious rush of warmth through her.
He caught his lower lip between his teeth in concentration while he secured the fabric in place with a tight tuck, before stepping back to scan her up and down once more, his eyes at last meeting hers. ‘That’s better.’
Thea exhaled. ‘Thank you.’
The Warsword shrugged. ‘You represent Thezmarr, we can’t have you looking…’
The tingling sensation that had started to build within Thea dissipated. ‘Like shit?’ she supplied.
‘Not what I was going to say.’
Thea forced her voice into a casual tone. ‘Doesn’t matter. Thanks for the shirt.’
Hawthorne hesitated for a second, but then he turned towards the exit. ‘You need to get back to the palace.’
Upon her return to the Heart of Harenth, Thea and Hawthorne were shown to where the feast had begun.
The Great Hall was resplendent in draped silks, hundreds of candles, ribbons and flowers, while two hundred or more nobles sat at long tables covered in elegant linens.
The ache in Thea’s chest would not relent, nor did the shame burning her cheeks as she moved further into the hall.
She would return to Thezmarr as she’d left it: an alchemist and nothing more.
What would become of her then? Her spying and secret training days were over, and she wasn’t fool enough to think that they would be sufficient for her now anyway.
Not after the time spent in a Warsword’s company, however prickly it had been.
Was she destined to mix potions and grind herbs until her fate caught up with her at the ripe old age of twenty-seven?
Hawthorne broke away from her, taking up a post by the far wall, watching the festivities like a hawk.
Her Warsword escort; everything she’d now never be.
The man who had been against her from the start of this cursed venture.
But… He’d held her in his sleep… He’d given her his shirt…
The man might be an arrogant bastard, but…
there was an element of humanity in there… wasn’t there?
Tucking her fate stone down the front of the billowing shirt, Thea started towards the king’s table.
King Artos sat beside King Leiko of Tver, with the Queen of Aveum opposite him.
Their magic once more roiled towards her and she wished she could understand it, wished she could see it take their individual forms, untangled and free.
But that was not the most pressing matter at hand.
Gods, she hated being so unsure of the correct etiquette and the warring emotions within.
Did she truly have to acknowledge the man who, in a handful of sentences, had brought her dream crashing down around her, all the while forcing her to attend a party she had no interest in?
Did she thank him for the invitation? Should she approach him at all?
In Thezmarr she knew where she stood and what was expected of her, and what rules she wanted to break, but here… This was a new world.
However, she needn’t have worried, King Artos spotted her and motioned for her to approach. Gratitude surged, there was a thoughtfulness to the monarch that she hadn’t anticipated.
‘Ah, Althea…’ he greeted her with a broad smile. ‘I’m pleased you accepted my invitation,’ he said, smiling.
‘Of course, Sire,’ Thea bowed. ‘You honour me.’
‘Not at all, not at all,’ he replied. ‘My daughter, Princess Jasira, is eager to meet you. Your boldness impressed her today.’ He motioned for a servant to make room a few seats down on the opposite side.
Thea couldn’t find the words, so she said none as she tried not to glance in the Warsword’s direction.
‘The Guild Master’s letter mentioned you were an alchemist of sorts. I thought you might like to share some of your tales with my daughter. She has always been fascinated by all manner of teachings.’
Thea’s cheeks flushed. ‘It would be a pleasure to speak with her, Your Majesty.’
And that was how Thea found herself seated next to the Crown Princess of Harenth. The young woman was Wren’s age or a little younger, and her gaze was bright as it landed on Thea.
Thea bowed her head. ‘Your Highness.’
The princess gave a wry smile. ‘I’m sure this isn’t where you had hoped to end up this evening.’