CHAPTER 42 Torj
CHAPTER 42
Torj
‘Phantom sensations, such as pain or tingling, are a perplexing phenomenon in the realm of magical injuries. They can continue to affect the afflicted long after the physical wounds have healed and often arise from severed magical connections’
– A Study of Accidental Curses
I T HAD BEEN a mistake, sparring with her. The lightning in his chest thrummed with renewed madness, and nothing would quell it. His thoughts were a tangled mess. He’d spent so long resenting the beautiful alchemist, but when it boiled down to it, Torj couldn’t stand the thought of someone else being so close to her, touching her. He told himself that if anyone was going to teach Wren how to defend herself, who better than a Warsword of the midrealms? Who better than him ?
The thought of her getting hurt set his teeth on edge and made his fists clench to the point of drawing blood from his palms. Which was exactly how Wren found him waiting outside the changing rooms. She surveyed him from head to toe, her hand pressing against her sternum absentmindedly.
‘What’s wrong?’ she asked. She had washed and changed back into her skirts, the damp hair at her nape curling slightly, her cheeks still flushed with the exertion of exercise. Her eyes were bright, though they narrowed in concern as she studied him.
‘Nothing,’ he said quickly, pushing a canteen into her hands. ‘Drink. You need plenty of water after so much physical activity.’
Frowning, Wren lifted the canteen to her lips and took a sip.
‘Drink it all,’ he told her.
‘I’m not—’
He silenced her with a stare. ‘You also need to eat something before your next class.’
‘Kitchens are closed,’ she replied.
Torj had known she’d have an answer for everything, so he handed over the pastry he’d saved for her.
‘You made this?’
‘No, I just swiped it from the breakfast spread,’ he told her, motioning for her to keep moving. ‘But I don’t mind cooking, when time allows.’
Wren studied the sugar-dusted scroll. ‘Should I check it for poison?’
‘That’s usually my question.’ Torj raised a hand to Cal across the gymnasium, dismissing him. He knew his fellow Warsword wanted to map out the north building for when his special guest lecturer arrived. Torj turned back to Wren, who hadn’t taken so much as a bite. ‘Just eat. You’re wasting away.’
‘Hardly.’ But she took a bite and moaned, melted butter coating her lips. ‘I didn’t know you liked to cook.’
Torj had to refrain from adjusting himself, suddenly hard at the sound that had escaped her wicked mouth. ‘There’s a lot you don’t know about me.’
‘Oh?’
‘My grandmother taught me a few basic recipes. And usually if I’m in a unit, it’s me who’s cooking on the road.’ He didn’t know why he had offered up that kernel of information so freely, especially about Grams. It had been a long time since he’d spoken of her.
‘I remember,’ Wren said quietly. ‘It was always you preparing the meals during the war...’
They fell into step with one another as they left the gymnasium and crossed the grounds towards one of the conservatories.
‘You need to stock up on supplies between lessons, yes?’ Torj asked, nodding at the circular building in the distance.
Wren nodded. ‘Is she still alive? Your grandmother?’ she asked.
It was as though an invisible hand had reached in and squeezed his heart, causing his mind to reel with memories. Each recollection was both precious and painful, like pressing on a bruise.
‘No one knows,’ he replied, catching the hoarseness in his voice. ‘She went missing a long time ago, presumed dead. I searched for her for years, but never found anything.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Wren said gently. ‘What happened...?’
A hollow ache pulsed behind Torj’s eyes, a heaviness settling in the pit of his stomach. ‘A lot of things happened.’
Wren nodded, as though this was answer enough. ‘What was she like?’
‘She was a formidable woman from Tver. Ran a shelter like the one we went to yesterday.’
‘You’re from Tver?’
‘All these years and you don’t know where I’m from?’ he teased, trying to turn the conversation to lighter subjects. ‘Yes, originally.’ He stopped himself there, knowing where all questions would eventually lead. He didn’t share those earlier years of his life with anyone. Instead, he turned the queries back to her. ‘And you? What did you make of your homeland these past five years?’
Wren’s hand drifted to the belt around her waist, where a dozen or more vials and tools clinked together. ‘It was quiet.’
‘I’d expect as much, given that no one has settled in that kingdom in decades.’
Wren seemed suddenly distant, gazing across the grounds as they walked. ‘I could see it,’ she said quietly. ‘What it once was, what it could have been...were it not for the stain of the shadow war across its plains.’
‘You wish you could make it different?’
‘I wish a lot of things were different. But wishing doesn’t make it so...’
Her words reminded him of a conversation he’d had with Wilder long ago, during the war.
‘Not going to deny it?’ Wilder pressed, clearly hoping to rile him.
But Torj shook his head. He had watched Wilder and Thea together with a pang of envy: the familiar touches and the private smiles, the way they always sought each other out in a room full of people. ‘Why should I? Why shouldn’t I want what you have?’
Wilder looked thoughtful at that. ‘You shouldn’t deny it,’ he said. ‘You deserve what you want, brother.’
‘If only wanting made it so, eh?’
‘If only,’ Wilder agreed.
Torj came back to himself, his chest tight from the memory. It had been a long time since he’d been so candid with someone, a long time since he’d been so honest about what he wanted.
But he was a Warsword of the midrealms. His job wasn’t to want, but to serve, to protect. And once his job was done, he would be on the first ship out of here, to the lands far beyond.
He glanced at Wren, who was finishing off the pastry and licking the butter from her fingers. A fraction of the tension he carried with him ebbed away. At least she was eating.
When they reached the conservatory, Torj gave a low whistle, impressed. There was no need for torches or candles here. The glass walls and ceiling ensured an abundance of light flooded the interior, revealing sturdy wooden shelves lining the walls, each one filled with a myriad of jars, bottles and containers of various sizes and shapes.
Wren let out a breath beside him, apparently equally awed. In the centre of the room, several large worktables stood, their surfaces marked with the stains and scars of countless experiments. Burners, alembics and other apparatus were carefully arranged on the tables, ready for use. The air was filled with a complex blend of aromas, ranging from the sweet scent of dried flowers to the acrid tang of sulphur and other chemicals.
As they entered, they passed a large chalkboard that dominated the wall, covered in complex formulas, equations and hastily scribbled notes. There were other alchemists here, scribes and researchers too, but they hardly glanced up from their own projects, utterly absorbed in the work at hand.
Wren was beaming. ‘This is...’ But she trailed off, apparently unable to find the right words. Torj had to fight back a smile.
She instantly made herself at home at one of the worktables, removing her toolbelt and assessing the contents that needed to be restocked. She flitted about the conservatory, taking jars from the shelves and examining potted plants, humming quietly to herself. Torj watched her, begrudgingly admiring her work ethic, her passion.
Returning to the table, she scribbled in a notebook as she sifted through several glass dropper bottles, small hessian bags of bulbs, and an assortment of dried leaves held in place by sheets of parchment.
‘If you’re just going to stand there, you may as well make yourself useful,’ Wren said, tossing him a small pouch. ‘Count those seeds.’
Torj caught the pouch and blinked at her. ‘You want me to count seeds?’
‘You can count, can’t you?’ she replied, a teasing note in her voice.
He sat down beside her. ‘One of my many talents, Embers.’
The tips of Wren’s ears flushed pink, and she seemed to be concentrating awfully hard on shredding the bark she had between her hands.
Torj set about counting the seeds, realizing halfway through that he had no idea what they were and if they were poisonous. He hoped Wren might warn him if skin contact was ill-advised, but with their turbulent history, he wasn’t sure he could count on it.
He stole a glance at her. Her already messy bun had loosened, bronze locks escaping to fall across her face and curl at the nape of her neck. She was biting her lip as she worked, her brow furrowed in intense concentration. The sudden urge to reach out and tuck her hair behind her ear hit him.
He started, his knee hitting the underside of the worktable.
Wren peered up at him, a single brow arched. ‘You lost count, didn’t you?’
Torj looked down at the tiny brown seeds and groaned.
‘Thought it was one of your many talents. Doesn’t bode well for the rest, does it?’
‘Don’t you worry about the rest,’ Torj replied in a low voice.
Wren refixed her attention on the stalks she was slicing, but there was no missing the way she caught her bottom lip between her teeth again, biting hard.
Smiling to himself, Torj started his recount.