Chapter Ten
Dungeons
“Stay,” Emperor Aldritch commands, and I barely bend into a bow since he pays me no attention.
Instead, he turns to Wyrth, as he gestures for the Philosopher and their collective Guards to follow wherever he leads them through the dungeons.
He leaves me and my Guards to stand against the wall again in the former-prison-turned-ballroom, with his tiny spy spinning over his shoulder to stare at me until they’re fully absorbed within the black uniforms crowded around us.
“What do you suspect they’re colluding on this time?” Fray asks, eyes narrowed.
“Something they apparently do not want any of us to be aware of,” Malin says.
“Meaning it can’t be anything good,” Cirrin says.
“Godsdamned snatchers,” Lars says.
“Lars,” Hendry warns, shifting his gaze to glare back at him.
Fear roils in my stomach with the urge to follow closely behind and modify His Majesty’s mood, as necessary.
With the incessant pressure of responsibility, I need to prevent the tyrant from acting as one, no matter how much I must conserve my magic.
The absence of knowledge of his well-being and the impact on the rest of us is sickening.
I would prefer to overuse what is left of me to protect our citizens from whatever consequence these sorcerers’ mysterious scheming may bring upon us.
Cirrin reads my need, and I roll my shoulders under the cool touch of his healing, easing the pressure in my skull while soothing the muscles fatigued from the Emperor’s assault.
Yet the sense of relief only lasts so long, as grief takes its place and his magic fades, having given me all he is able to without endangering his health.
Despair descends, matching all the fervency the grief brought with it, as even the most powerful healer is incapable of removing the level of fatigue and lethargy crowding inside me.
I scan the room, desperate to catch sight of Varic before his presence takes me by surprise. My veins prickle with anticipation of the moment he will slink from the shadows to siphon any semblance of peace I might experience, simply by existing in close proximity.
“Perhaps he left after dinner,” Hendry says, refusing to look in my direction as I pivot. Shrugging his shoulders, he adds, “He has done so before, explaining that he needed to supervise his unit, escaping the Palace with the Emperor’s approval.”
The level of envy infused in the last sentence draws tears to my lashes as I try unsuccessfully to draw on my mental wards.
I cannot possibly make it through the night without being able to block the emotions of others.
Panic scrabbles for purchase, as the need for more healing is apparent; a need I refuse to voice, since Varic’s presence will disarm me regardless.
A momentary reprieve not worth the cost to my healer when all it takes is one look—one momentary glance—from Varic to topple any ward I manage to form.
“Maybe it’s better this way, so you don’t have to worry about seeing him,” Hendry says, and I open my mouth to respond when a sorcerer I did not expect to see enters the dungeons.
Dimitri Royce, Hand to the King of Draconea, and my mysteriously missing dinner partner, scans the space with his knowing gaze, seemingly searching for someone in particular.
A jolt of surprise rises in my chest when his ice-blue eyes catch on mine, and he forges forward until he reaches me, dropping back to stand by my side without a word.
“Does it ever bother you to imagine what used to occur in this space?” he asks.
“You want to know if I ever experience a sense of disgust whenever I am made to observe members of the nobility engage in frivolous acts in what is now His Majesty’s entertainment space, which was intentionally renovated to maintain enough of a reminder as to its horrific past, such as the lines on the wall where each cell once stood holding an untold number of prisoners? ”
He allows a small laugh to escape before covering his reaction with a quick swig of wine. “Do we share the same sentiment of how it is also disturbing that he still refers to this space as the dungeons, though you no longer take prisoners?”
“Perhaps more disturbing is how one must act in the Emperor’s—” I clear my throat for emphasis, “—the Empire’s best interest, or risk rotting in a mass grave.”
Dimitri lets out a sigh. “I cannot say imprisonment is a practice I condone generally. However, I am grateful we do not plan to adopt the Ampara Deicra way in Draconea. At least not during King Culven’s reign.
” Contempt and disgust emanate from his chest, feelings my magic digests now that he’s no longer warding against my curiosity, tapping into the enigma that is the new diplomat.
So different from his peers, I only hope he survives the appointment to his role, as the outspoken often find themselves silenced when His Majesty deems them too forthcoming.
“You make the new King seem far more reasonable than his father,” I say.
“Indeed. He is the best of us. The most understanding being I have ever had the honor to know—and I can claim to know this well, as he has granted me a lifetime of dear friendship.” He cocks his head to the side, and a small smile rises.
“Well, there is one other I know who can rival him for the title of ‘best’ in my mind, though he would not be offended were we to tell him this.” Embarrassment spirals inside his stomach, piquing my interest.
“Oh?”
“Yes. In fact,” he gestures to me, “you quite remind me of her.”
My cheeks pinken, and I glance over the crowd for the sorcerer who always seems to come to mind anytime heat rises beneath my skin.
“She would like you,” Dimitri assures me. “I am convinced you two will become fast friends.”
My chest constricts to think anyone could look at me, the picture of intensity, and assume I could be anyone’s friend.
I do not know what to do with this absurdity.
Draconean royal servants must be allowed both time and freedom for leisure—something I have a hard time imagining, having never been granted either.
“Have I offended you?” he asks, far too perceptive for a sorcerer.
“No, I was merely considering how different it must be where you’re from as Imperial servants like myself are not permitted to form relationships.” I turn to my Guards, who act as if they are not listening, before I add, “We are not given time nor agency for any sort of friendships.”
“Perhaps that can change,” he says with conviction.
A small laugh escapes me, and I swallow the rest of my reaction before someone else notices me speaking so casually.
“I amuse you.”
“It is an impossibility,” I explain.
“A wise professor once told me to never believe revolution is impossible. Instead, he encouraged us to study the history of our lands, the various species roaming our Continent, and to pay close attention to the vibrant cultures we’ve built over the centuries, including the rich languages we have spoken—all of which were created by others just like us.
A reminder that all we know in the present does not have to remain as it is.
Change is always possible. That is the only true definite.
” His ice-blue eyes pin mine with a promise, and I almost believe him.
“Or so I tell myself when everything seems too bleak, and I have forgotten that we do not have to maintain the broken system simply because it is inherited, given to us with the expectation that we will continue in our former ruler’s stead.
Though it is not a requirement. Not so long as there is breath in our lungs. ”
I am unable to perform the sociable expectation of sharing in his apparent optimism—especially since his king inherited a land with the strictest rules on what witches can and cannot do on the Continent.
And while their citizens would benefit greatly from sweeping changes to their laws and customs, I have no reason to believe the same would ever occur in Ampara Deicra.
Then why am I risking everything for this book Sal has apparently found?
The crowd stirs, separating into smaller groups who gather near settees, lounges, and sofas strategically placed around the room for uses I prefer to ignore.
Imperial servants carry trays of wine dosed with luss flower essence—said to enhance one’s pleasure.
The same flower Dimitri mentioned only grows in his land, and potentially the best chance he has at negotiating power.
Dimitri clears his throat and turns to me.
“I appreciate having the opportunity to speak with you, Imperial Grand Witch Tasch. Please consider my professor’s words when everything seems impossible.
I will be curious to know if your thoughts on the matter might have changed the next time we speak.
” He glances around the room and shudders when those near us begin to shed their clothes.
“Seems it is time I take my leave.” He bows to me before stalking off to the sound of carnal activities.
Regardless of being told to stay, I take off at a clip to storm through the space in search of fresh air.
Hendry’s watchful eyes dart around, assessing the area, while his long legs have no trouble keeping pace with mine.
He never wavers in his proximity to my side, regardless of how quickly I weave in and around the overly enthusiastic crowd made up of Imperial Army officers and the witches they’re entertaining.
But I stop in my tracks when General Sal makes eye contact.
He pointedly glances from me to the hallway leading to the nearest balcony.
Hendry holds out a hand to stall my movement, preemptively throwing off suspicion in the event anyone cares to observe me. Time slows as my pulse pounds, thrumming with each passing second of waiting for my Lead Guard to deem it safe enough.