8. Entitled
Firen had never imagined her first trip to the Halls might include being whisked into a darkened corner. Never thought that her mate would cage her between his arms, his dark wings shielding them further from view.
But then, she had never pictured herself here at all.
“Take a breath, Firen,” Lucian instructed, his face close to hers so that she could look at nothing but his pale eyes. “Another.”
She did.
Three, in fact.
She’d been tugging at the bond again. Because no matter how she wanted to deny it, she was nervous. Not at meeting someone new—there was nothing more natural than that after being raised in the market.
It was the consequences that worried her the most. That Lucian might go without... again. Because of her. And this time would be worse, because she could not control the manner of her birth, the status of her family. The placement of her home and the district it inhabited.
This would be because of how she talked. How she didn’t talk. If she clung too much to her mate, or if she remained too aloof. She’d slept little the night before. Not from lack of trying. Or from the fervent efforts of her mate to please her before he had settled into his side of the cots and found his rest. She did not begrudge him for it, and she tried to tell her mind to quiet so the bound wouldn’t press at him and wake him prematurely.
She must have fallen asleep at some point, although she could not recall doing so. It was suddenly just morning, and Lucian was dressing and had a great number of her clothes strewn about the room, eyeing them all with a critical eye.
It should have been insulting, but she found it all rather amusing in her tired state. She might have pulled the blankets higher about her, and answered his questions about if a particular piece was inner or outer wear, and his eyes grew more judgemental as they grew thinner with finer bits of lace about the edges. “For summers,” she’d murmured, watching his eyes widen and his eyes drift over her form. Not that there was anything to see, huddled as she was beneath the quilts.
But she liked to think he was imagining it. Imagining her in nothing but that shift, with bits of lace about her throat and at her elbows. There would have been at least another layer beneath, as well as bindings about her midsection, but he needn’t know that. Let him think she’d prance about in nothing but a gossamer shift and let him growl at her all he liked.
But he was focused, and he hadn’t pounced on her. Just muttered something under his breath that might have sounded a bit like a complaint, but she merely smiled and let him fret.
Only for her own fretting to creep in, no matter how unwelcome she insisted they were.
Which was precisely what she didn’t want. Didn’t want to be a hindrance, didn’t want him having to fuss and look after her because she was unconsciously nagging at him through their bond. “Just...” Firen hesitated, uncertain she should say anything at all.
He touched her cheek. Just once. Then leaned his forehead against hers. “Do you know how it feels? When you’re nervous?”
She would have given him an incredulous look if he was not so close to her. “Every instinct tells me to look out for what threatens you. It sets my teeth on edge. Makes me want to snap at anyone that even looks at you.” He pulled back, and she gave him a sheepish smile in apology.
“I’ll get control of myself. Promise.”
He hummed. Not in outright disbelief, but it did not sound full of confidence either.
She didn’t want to disappoint him. Didn’t want Vandran to reject him. Reject his offer of leaving. Not when it would mean so much for the both of them. Their more intimate moments aside, they needed something to go right. Needed this to go right.
She gripped his hand, and he took a step backwards. He watched her carefully, and she smoothed her clothes, determined to be better. She wouldn’t ask for reassurances. Wouldn’t pull him close and ask if he’d be truly cross with her if something went wrong. He needed her strength and her good manners, not to dissolve into a fledgling in need of care and attention. “Ready?” She asked brightly, and she was relieved that his shoulders relaxed ever so slightly as he nodded to her. She could do this. Would do this.
He did not take her hand, nor her arm. But he tilted his head every so often to ensure that he kept pace with her, that she was not growing distracted and lost as they twined through the hallways. She’d never been here. Never had the need. She could recall only a few disputes over trade and payments gone wrong, and those were quickly overseen by the Proctor and never escalated further.
There were fewer people about than she might have expected. The hallways were lit by moonstones rather than torches, and she was resentful that it now reminded her more of her time in the tower than the festivals she’d loved as a girl. There were chambers built into the stone. Heavily riveted doors sealed the entrances, and she kept herself from pestering Lucian about what lay behind them. Books, she decided. Rooms full of them. To dwarf Oberon’s meagre offerings.
Could just anyone read them? Or were they only for the highest officials to study? She wondered that too, but didn’t ask it. She’d keep a list. All the things she could ask once they were tucked away in their beds again.
He stopped at one. It looked no different from any of the others, but she supposed if she squinted just right, she could make out some sort of runes etched into the stone arches above the doors. She could admit she’d spent little time studying how to read such things. It hadn’t seemed practical when she needed to know how to calculate figures and study the smithy books and old papers that littered the workshop. All of which were written in plain speech, only the margins were occasionally notated with something written so tightly they could have been mistaken for some of the scratchings that indicated this was the door they were meant to go through.
She would have liked to see the main Hall. To know where Lucian would sit—stand?—and if he had ever spoken before the magistrate. Or perhaps he was still too new in his profession for something of such importance. There was so much she’d like to ask, but caution stayed her. There was much to learn, not only in the little details of Lucian’s life, but also in how to talk to him. How and when to ask him about her many queries.
He did not knock. Instead, he pulled on a woven cord poking through a small hole bored through the heavy stone. It was tasselled, and reminded her of the one he’d pulled in his little bathing room that brought the hot water to the tap.
“What’s that do?” It left her mouth before she could remember to simply add it to her list for later, and she shook her head quickly when he glanced down at her. “Sorry.”
But he didn’t chide her. She even thought he meant to answer her, except that the door was unlatched and drawn open.
It was the man she remembered. Looking older, perhaps, than the last time she had seen him. His face was lined, and the markings at this cheekbone had faded and bled with age. A muted blue, she noted with some approval. Not quite like hers, but not so dissimilar, either.
He wasn’t smiling. Not exactly. He was not frowning either as he looked them both up and down. She didn’t fidget, didn’t lean closer into Lucian. Just waited calmly. He was the elder—he could speak when he wished it. They’d made that mistake in the tower, and she would not do it again here.
“You will make beautiful fledglings if they take after their mother.”
He waved them inside, and she smiled warmly at the compliment. “I don’t think they would be worth abandoning if they take after their father. But I suppose we shall have to wait to decide.”
Lucian snorted beside her. The room itself was lined with books, as she’d expected. There were the long tables filled with papers. Some scrolls. Others were books so small they would have fit nicely into her hands when she’d first sprouted her flight feathers. There was no hearth, so there was a distinct chill that was rather unpleasant, and the large window on the far end was shadowed by trees beyond.
It did not seem the sort of place a high-ranking lawmancer would have chosen for himself, but perhaps he liked it for other reasons.
He eased down into his chair and gestured for them to make use of the two seats across from him. There was a tray already laid out, with three cups and a plate full of baked goods that looked suspiciously like the ones from the shop Lucian favoured.
“Would you mind pouring?” Vandran asked, rubbing at the palm of one hand. It shook—not badly, but as she glanced at the surface of the desk, she could see it was affecting his penmanship.
Lucian reached for the pot—metal wrapped in carved wood. The handle had been covered in a knitted sleeve, protective and charming in a homey sort of way. “Did your mate make that?” she asked, pointing to the sleeve.
His eyes crinkled about the edges. “My daughter. When she was very young. I’d burned my hand rather badly—no, not on the pot. Just an incident with the hearth at home. She decided I could not be trusted with anything hot afterwards and set about making all sorts of things to help me. I had protested the gloves she made for me, so this was her next solution.”
“A tender-hearted girl,” Firen declared, thanking Lucian quietly as he passed her a cup. “She sounds lovely.”
His pride in her was obvious. “The very best. Matched only by her sister.”
As it should be. Her attention drifted toward Lucian, who offered Vandran one of the cups—not filled to the brim, she noted. A kindness, so he would not have to suffer the indignity of sloshing hot tea over the sides if his hand trembled. He seemed untroubled to hear of other families. Ones that loved each other and had no difficulty making it known to any that thought to ask.
“So. Firen, was it?”
She nodded, taking a sip of her tea. A light blend, a little cooler than she would have preferred given the coldness of the room, but perfectly pleasant.
“What did your mate tell you about our discussion?”
Her throat tightened, but only briefly. He reminded her a bit of Da’s father before he passed, and she regretted thinking poorly of him when he came through the market. He was proud of his family and of his accomplishments. That was all.
“You’re considering taking Lucian on as your pupil. To finish his apprenticeship.” She did not say more. She did not know how many details Lucian had thought necessary to give about Oberon and the rest of them, and she did not think it was her place to enlighten him.
“I did not say finish,” Lucian cut in. “It, of course, would be up to your discretion if I must return to the beginning of my studies.”
Firen’s own smile faltered, and she looked between both men worriedly.
Vandran took a long sip of his tea. “Lucian,” he began at last, setting down his cup and smiling at him. It wasn’t condescending, but it wasn’t entirely pleasant either. “Do you know why I wanted your mate to attend with you?”
He settled back into his seat, his expression blank. “I should not like to say.”
Vandran tapped his finger against his cup. “Then I shall clarify what you will not. I did not want to assess her as your father would have done. I did not need to judge her quality. She is your mate, and that comes before else. Correcting her in front of a stranger is hurtful, did you know? I imagine it was common for you to witness in your younger years. It will not win you any affection, of that you may be certain.”
Lucian’s jaw tightened ever so slightly. “I thought we were going to discuss the terms of my employ.”
Vandran nodded slowly. “We are. But more than anything, I’d like to be certain you are of better stock than your progenitor.” His attention drifted toward Firen. “I hold no great fondness for Oberon. He thinks my position is unearned. Not of the blood, yes? As if the old stories matter.”
She did not look at her mate. She thought Vandran was a better ally than she might have ever imagined, and she leaned forward slightly. “They keep saying that,” Firen encouraged. “I’m not the right blood. My family isn’t old enough.”
Vandran chuckled lowly, shaking his head. “Origins of our kind. Old histories. I’ve books on them, if you’d care to read them. Hardly shared any longer. Not exactly pleasant, especially when it does not speak well of some of our founders. Better just to move on.” He spared Lucian a quick glance. “Others do not agree.”
“I have no complaint about my mate’s blood,” Lucian interjected. “And I am not my father.”
Vandran’s eyes narrowed. “You will have children by her, then?”
Firen’s throat tightened, and embarrassment crept through her, despite her efforts not to let it. It was a common enough question, although usually endured after a fresh mating on first market days, when well-meaning elders came and fussed and tried to decide if a fledgling was already settling in to nest.
They hadn’t discussed it. She’d... assumed.
Which was a mistake, and she knew it. Their whole trouble was tangled expectations. Of saying little and presuming much. She looked at her mate, trying to read him. And if she tugged at the bond, it was with no actual intent at doing so. But he turned his head and met her eye, and she felt a push of comfort back toward her. It was all right. Those talks were personal. Would certainly not be happening here.
She took a breath and held it. “Vandran, she began, keeping her voice gentle. “I do not think I’m comfortable with such talk.”
Lucian reached for her hand and took it. “Your point is made,” he affirmed. “And I’ll not deny that my priorities have been on securing our future rather than adding in...” he hesitated. And for one horrid moment, she thought he meant to call their future family a complication. But he didn’t. “Anyone else.”
So he hadn’t been trying. It didn’t hurt. It made sense. He had plans. Promises he meant to keep. But it made her wonder what would be different when they both were ready. What the books meant about wanting and trying.
Her eyes drifted over the many books lining the room, but she doubted any of them could answer it for her.
She’d experience it, eventually. She ached inside and felt him soothing her through the bond. Keep calm. They would talk. No need to fret, not about this...
“Fair enough,” Vandran allowed. He set down his cup and reached for a sheet of paper. It had been lined with what was meant to be neat columns, but the ink had smudged and wavered in places, leaving a distinct slant to all of the work. “And I did not intend to make you uncomfortable,” he directed to her. “I only wish to know that he is as he claims to be. You are to be treated with all the respect you are due, not dallied with.”
Not used. To go willingly into her mate’s bed, only to find that he had no intentions of creating a family with her. She did not mind waiting—there was wisdom in it, for certain. But she wanted to know his feelings on the matter. To know if the delay was for a time, or for the whole of their mating.
There were some couples that went without, but it was inappropriate to ask if it was by design or be some physical impediment.
More that no one had warned her about. More talks that would be difficult, and she was so tired of that.
She pushed it all aside. Lodging. Employment. Those were what mattered at the moment.
“I’ve drawn up a chart,” Vandran continued, turning the paper about so they could both look at it. “These are your entitlements.” Lucian took it, but kept it angled so that she could read it as well. “What I should like to make clear, simply because I can, is that these were allotted to you from the beginning of your apprenticeship. To all apprentices. That your father presumably did not make that known to you is...” Vandran picked up his cup again. “Unsurprising.”
There was a margin on salary. She did not know how many years Lucian had been apprenticed, but given his age, it must be at least his sixth cycle. Perhaps so far as his tenth if he started early. And if her figures were right, there should be enough for quite the comfortable living set aside.
If he’d had it.
Which the tightening of his jaw suggested he had not. His eyes skimmed over the page, his mouth forming a tight line as he continued to read. Quarters were supplied—and could be altered depending on where they needed to accommodate a mate or an entire family. Allowances for robes. For access to the Hall’s libraries.
“What cycle are you in?” Firen asked, not so quietly it was considered a whisper and rude to their host, but softly. Because it was an admission of more they had not discussed, and she did not know if that might embarrass him.
“I am in the middle of my ninth.”
Firen turned her head, feeling cold and uncertain. “And you were willing to start over?”
He met her eye, and it wasn’t a glare, but it was near to it. For questioning him? Or for doing it in front of Vandran? “Yes,” he answered simply. “If that was required of me.”
She wanted to say more. To speak to the unfairness if it all. To give a plea to Vandran and not have it bungle everything that was already too tangled and ridiculous to her.
Lucian continued to look over the list, and she looked to Vandran, mouth dry despite the tea she could have sipped. Lucian had given her no permission to ask anything like what had settled on the tip of her tongue and weighted on her stomach like a stone. But the lawmancers were trained in the service of their people, were they not? And she was people. Just the regular sort, not just Lucian’s mate.
“Vandran,” she began, not looking at Lucian. Keeping her voice calm and measured, and more importantly, the bond. She’d been sworn to no secrets. Had not been bribed or cajoled into silence. Perhaps they had thought Lucian would take care of such matters.
But he hadn’t.
“Hmm?” Vandran turned his attention to her, his eyes kind.
“Growing up,” she began, her thumb sliding over the rim of her cup, over and over. This wasn’t wrong. It couldn’t be. “We were always told there were laws to protect the bond. The sacred nature of mating. That... that it was the highest offence to meddle with a pairing the Maker had put together.”
Lucian grew very still.
She couldn’t look at him. Could feel him pull at the bond, a warning? Or perhaps a caution. Was there a difference between the two? She didn’t know. He would.
“Is that true? Or is it just what’s said amongst...” she stumbled over her words, but caught herself quickly. “Just regular people.”
She didn’t like that it made it sound like members of the Hall or dwellers in high towers were special, but it couldn’t be helped.
Vandran leaned forward and kept his attention solely on her. “Have you been threatened, dear? You can tell me.” She did not know what to say. Hadn’t intended to prattle on about the entire wretched supper and his family and their twisted insinuations. But she could admit she was tempted. She cared for Lucian, not for them. And he hadn’t... he’d done no wrong in it. Not really. He’d taken care of her. Wanted to provide for her. And she did not want that jeopardised.