Chapter Twenty-Eight
Drink
A shudder rolls through me as the undertaker and his assistant pry the body of the sorcerer I assassinated onto a wooden cart, and I stifle a grimace at the terrible high-pitched squeak of the wheels as they move through the open doorway to dispose of him in one of our mass graves.
Four Imperial servants stride in before the door has a chance to close on them, carrying black metal buckets in one hand and scrub brushes in the other.
The double doors slam with a bone-rattling clang, sending a jolt of shock through my chest. I stare down at the hands scouring the darkening blood from the marble floor, drifting into a trance-like state with the sound of hard bristles scratching over the porous stone, diluting the bodily fluids before they have a chance to leave a tell-tale stain.
His Majesty returns from his bathing chamber, donning a fresh set of black silk pajamas and a robe, adjusting the ends of his sleeves as he looks at me.
“Come, my little witch. Have a drink.” His expression is unreadable. Untrustworthy.
I hazard a glance at Cirrin, conveying my concern, to which he blinks his understanding, lifting a weight from my shoulders as I knowingly walk into the trap His Majesty has set for me.
He gestures to the chair opposite him as he casually crosses one leg over the other, leaning back as far as his chair will allow, staring at me in silence.
I take the seat as his cough overtakes him and rocks his form.
He covers his mouth with one hand while gesturing for the servant to pour the wine with his other, and my eyes widen as he fills the crystal goblets almost to the brim.
The Emperor and I each reach for our respective goblets, and I take a sip to keep the wine from spilling before he raises his in salute.
“To you, my little witch.” I nod, and we each raise the crystal to our lips.
Nostrils flaring, I tilt my head and close my eyes as the aroma of berries and cardamom helps to center me.
The cold of the crystal is a stark contrast to the heat on my skin as I tip a bit of wine inside my parched mouth and swallow.
Yet my mouth feels drier than it did before, though I cannot ask for water.
So I busy myself with tracing the Dragon in the center of our sigil etched into the crystal vessel with my thumb as I wait for His Majesty’s next scheme.
“What do you know of Annovia?”
I know of his infamous jealousy of their apothecary knowledge, since it is required for their unique spell casting.
His utter rage at their refusal to share said knowledge, regardless of the methods of torture he had used in an attempt to extract it.
His futile attempts at having our own Philosophers try suspected recipes and failed spells.
His most recent behavioral changes, alluding to the likelihood he has commissioned our Philosophers to work on secret projects for which the rest of us wait in suspense, expecting some new horrific outcome.
Our lands only partially border theirs, and we have no other qualms with them, though they have reason for many in return.
Shaking my head in response, I desperately search for memories of moments of deep focus, only to be inundated with those of Varic tangled up in crisp white sheets on the plush bed we shared. Unable to form words, I quirk an eyebrow in question.
“I believe they are trying to infiltrate our court—trying to gain access to learn our secrets and take us down from the inside.” His throat bobs, gulping, taking an impractically large sip of wine.
“That queen of theirs is envious.” He slams the goblet on the table.
“Of course she is! Who wouldn’t be dissatisfied running a simple country compared to our renowned Empire. ”
I nod, then take another sip of wine, the warmth coating my throat reminding me how warm I could be if I were nestled under the covers in my bed instead of listening to our power-hungry Emperor’s conspiracy theories.
Warmth spreading across my back as Varic drapes his arm around—
“Did you notice his nose? He looked like he could be Annovian to me.”
His nose was straight. His skin was white. Annovians are as diverse as any of the lands surrounding us. There isn’t a general look denoting an Annovian citizen.
The Imperial servant pours more wine into the Emperor’s goblet, which is promptly snatched up and tilted back upon his dry lips.
“I have full faith in our Imperial Army’s ability to determine his origins in their investigation,” Varic suggests.
Every muscle in my body stiffens. Hendry would have never spoken up like this, though he had never served in our military and understood he was to be seen and not heard.
Whereas Varic comes by his confidence in speaking on these matters from years of leading large units of soldiers, making countless split-second life-or-death decisions.
Emperor Aldritch sets his goblet on the table and leans forward. “Are you assuming I ordered an investigation into the infiltrator’s identity? Or is this a veiled suggestion?”
“Merely making an observation, acknowledging the strength of your leadership and the sorcerers you appoint to protect and defend our Empire, Your Majesty.” Varic bows, and I hide my knowing smirk behind the lip of the crystal goblet, acting as if I am taking a long pull.
“Hmm.” The Emperor narrows his eyes as he leans back, plucking his wine glass from the table and emptying it in a single gulp.
“I will invite the Annovian queen for a meeting,” His Majesty states.
“What are the odds she will accept your invitation?” Varic asks, and the Emperor’s expression rises in a sinister smile.
“I expect her to refuse.” He raps his middle finger over the table, ordering an Imperial servant to rush forward and empty the bottle into His Majesty’s goblet before turning to retrieve another as the Emperor downs this pour in record time.
“Once she refuses my generous invitation to visit our Empire on our coin, we will execute our original intention.” He sits back as the Imperial servant produces a second decanter of wine and refills the Emperor’s goblet.
His Majesty grasps the stem, lifting the red liquid in the air for emphasis.
“Which is to go to her, as our seer predicted.”
A shiver rolls down my spine, and I shift uncomfortably in my seat. Varic’s expression remains neutral, while the Emperor’s morphs into one of haughty satisfaction.
Unease begins to take over me, and I wish to be able to spare some magic so I might convince him this is a terrible idea.
Because he would divulge what the seer said if it wasn’t to do with his beloved experiments.
And with the recent increase in attacks on the Palace, traveling to another land in carriages has to be one of the least safe decisions he could make.
His Majesty stares back, raising the hairs along the back of my neck before he nods down to my goblet.
I swallow and force the rest of the wine down my throat.
He continues speaking, and I wonder what he sees, since he has never seen me.
Not truly. He merely peers straight through anything of substance to project whatever his mind decides I am onto my being—including any insolence for which he wishes to provide a consequence—regardless of whether or not I committed an offense.
His eyes lose their luster, then shift up to study Varic.
“Take my little witch back to her chambers. I need her well rested in preparation for tomorrow.” The prickly sensation running down my skin from his nickname is eclipsed by the relief washing over my weary muscles and overtired mind, needing nothing more than to melt into the mattress once Drusilla finishes the nightly routine.
Shame stabs my stomach and digs its claws in as the monster it is scales the length of my ribs, expanding and contracting with my lungs every time I pull in a breath to sustain my life after having just taken another.
I will my legs to keep moving and for my spine to remain as straight as I can maintain in front of His Majesty, whose piercing gray eyes closely observe my receding form.
Grief rolls in like a boulder and slams into the throb of guilt, its hardened surface a container for every wailing phantom once belonging to every being I’ve had to kill as I pass by the spot on the floor where so many have died by my magic.
Selfishness being my default, I avert my eyes to avoid another glimpse of the damned drain.
My shoulders drop the second we round the corner into the flame-lit hall, lungs burning from neglect now that I am finally able to take a full breath.
“Fuck, I’m so sorry, Tasch,” Varic says the moment we’re safe for him to do so.
A resigned sigh is all I can offer him as he reaches for me, then stops midway, retracting his hand to drop by his side before mimicking my heavy release of breath.
“Let’s get you to bed.” His voice is low, defeated, but firm.
I nod, and he casts his eyes ahead of him.
Fatigue and lethargy pull on me, urging me to collapse upon the stones and give up on everything. To give in. To forfeit and let them win.
Never.
That spiteful part of me will not allow it, not fully. Oh, how I wish I could silence that force, that stubborn need to push forward, to ram my way into the next day, no matter how torturous. How I wish for the ability to stop caring, altogether.
Instead, I allow the tears to fall as I force my next step forward. The ghost of a witch made to repeat the same patterns and routines. A dreariness possesses me as weariness is a constant. I’m too tired. Too weak. Too frail. I don’t want to do any of this.
And yet, I persist.
Nausea churns in my gut as the juxtaposition of coolness running up my back and down my limbs from Cirrin’s healing magic mixes with the heat of Varic’s attention.
I swallow against the bile rising in my throat while I try to accept the healing, try to take in the concern for my being.
But I don’t deserve it. I do not deserve to be taken care of.
Not after I just killed someone.