Chapter Nine #2
Connor’s stomach twisted. He didn’t ask how she knew. He didn’t want the answer.
“I was asked to request that you and the other Valour meet Xiathen at The Dry Pig tomorrow morning. They have news they wish to impart.”
“Great,” Connor grumbled. “More fucking secrets. Fine. I’ll call Adrian and let him know.”
A laugh rang out from farther down the lane. Bright, musical. It drew Connor’s attention like a hook.
A young woman stood outside a workshop, sleeves rolled up, hair pinned messily, her arms dusted with fine metallic powder.
She held a small glass vial up to the light and smiled as if she’d captured something precious inside it.
Light itself seemed to gather around her, faintly, like she was a hearth in human form.
The Apothecarist’s expression changed to something like respect, something like wariness. “Irial,” she murmured.
Irial turned, and her gaze landed on Connor with startling directness. Then she grinned. “Oh,” she said, her voice warm as summer. “You’ve come back.” She waved at the Apothecarist. “Good morning, Rowan.”
The Apothecarist acknowledged her greeting and stepped back into the shop.
Connor inclined his head in hello. “We’re checking in with the village.”
Irial’s eyes flicked over Fraser, then Laird, then back to Connor. “Good. We like being checked on. It makes us feel…claimed.”
Connor’s shoulders went rigid. “We’re not claiming anyone.”
Irial’s grin widened, unfazed. “That’s what everyone says right before they do it.”
Fraser’s voice was calm. “You’re an alchemist.”
Irial’s eyes lit up. “Yes. And no. Depends on who’s asking.”
Connor gestured at the vial. “What’s that?”
Irial held it up. Inside, something glowed, soft, golden, like bottled sunrise. “Happiness,” she said simply.
Laird blinked. “You…what?”
Irial stepped closer, and Connor caught the scent of her, the citrus and smoke, and something electric. “I can transmute emotions into matter,” she said, as if discussing baking. “Anger into fire. Joy into light. Grief into salt. Fear into smoke.”
Connor’s skin prickled. “That’s impossible.”
Irial tilted her head. “So is our village arriving in yours. Yet here we are.”
Fraser’s gaze was sharp. “You can create objects.”
Irial nodded, delighted. “Yes. But nothing living. I can’t make a bird from longing, no matter how poetic it would be. But I can make a cloak from comfort.” She tapped the vial. “Or a lantern from joy.”
Connor’s mouth went dry. “And anger?”
Irial’s smile didn’t fade, but it cooled. “Anger is easy. Anger is abundant. Anger makes weapons.”
She held out her empty hand, palm up, and Connor felt the air shift like pressure changing before a storm. Irial’s eyes darkened, and for a heartbeat Connor saw something flicker behind them: heat, memory, old rage.
A thin line of flame curled above her palm, twisting like a ribbon. Startled, Laird took a step back. Fraser didn’t move, but his body went subtly ready. Irial closed her fist and the flame vanished.
“See?” she said lightly, as if she hadn’t conjured fire from nothing. “It’s not all pretty.”
Connor’s voice was rough. “Why would whoever brought you here allow you all to leave?” He waved a hand around the village. “Why would they allow this at all?”
Irial’s gaze sharpened. “I don’t know. They took what I made. They rationed what I was allowed to feel.” Her smile returned, but it was brittle now. “Do you know what it’s like to be punished for being angry? For being joyful? For being human?”
Connor didn’t answer. Because he did know, in a way, in his own life every time he’d swallowed emotion because it was safer to be stone.
Irial exhaled, and the brittleness eased. She looked around the street, at the people moving freely, at the children laughing. “Here,” she said softly, “I can feel what I feel. And no one drags me into a chamber to drain it out of me like blood.”
Laird’s voice was quiet. “So you’re…happier.”
Irial smiled at him, genuine this time. “Yes. And terrified. Because happiness is a thing you can lose.”
Connor’s gaze went to the workshop behind her. Shelves lined with jars and vials, bundles of herbs and metal tools. A life being rebuilt. It filled his chest with a dull ache.
Fraser’s voice cut through, practical. “Anything new? Any changes in the air?”
Irial’s expression sobered. “The air is calmer. The village is…settling. But surely soon the Council will notice we’re not where we’re supposed to be.”
That bloody Council again. Who the hell were they? Xiathen had promised to tell him all about it when he saw them next.
Connor’s stomach tightened. “And then?”
Irial shrugged, but her eyes were sharp. “Then they’ll come looking. Or they’ll send something else. Something that doesn’t need permission to cross.”
Laird swallowed. “Like what?”
Irial’s gaze slid to the mountains beyond the village, to the line where mist clung like a bruise. “Like hunger,” she said quietly. “Like debt.”
Connor felt the old, familiar surge of protectiveness rise in him, hot and immediate. The instinct that had made him King long before anyone had called him Valour. He didn’t want this responsibility, but it was already wrapping itself around his throat.
He looked at the townspeople, at the Apothecarist watching with steady eyes, at Irial with her bottled happiness and her fire, at the people moving through the street with cautious freedom. They were safer now. Freer. And that made them vulnerable in a new way.
Connor’s voice came out low. “If anything changes, you send word.”
Irial’s smile was small. “To you.”
Connor didn’t correct her this time. Fraser nodded once, satisfied. Laird looked between them, then at the village, and Connor saw something in his face. Hope, tentative and fierce.
Connor turned, already planning the route back, already thinking of walls and watches and what he’d do if the Council came.
As they walked away, Irial called after them, her voice bright again, as if she refused to let fear be the only thing that lived in her throat. “Connor.”
He stopped against his better judgment and looked back. Irial held up the vial of happiness, the light inside it glowing warm against the grey day.
“Tell your people,” she said, “that we remember what it’s like to be caged. We won’t go back quietly.”
Connor held her gaze for a beat. Then he nodded once and kept walking, Fraser and Laird at his sides, toward his meeting with Xiathen, the weight of Valour settling heavier with every step.