Chapter 13
THIRTEEN
THE FIRE RETURNED TO ITS REGULAR SIZE, BUT IT WAS A STRANGE color, the yellow tinted green, its shadows longer than they should have been. Thia nervously smoothed her hair, and something in the action seemed to return Lord Sagan to himself. He straightened. “You must hide.”
Thia frowned. She needed to speak with the king. If he was here, then maybe her journey could be that much shorter.
But Lord Sagan surged forward and gripped her bicep with a strength that surprised her. “If you don’t want to end up like your mother, hide.”
Thia continued to stall, uncertain, until Dess shot up from his chair and yanked her forward. “Hide where?” he asked, attention flying to the door.
Lord Sagan followed the line of his sight. “There’s no time. To either side of the hearth, quickly.”
Thia allowed Dess to drag her to one side, where they pressed themselves flat against the wall. Thran and Oskaren took the other, leaving Lord Sagan to face the hearth alone. He straightened his robes, wobbling knees the only sign of his continued terror.
Closer to the hearth was somehow colder, and Thia rubbed her arms against the chill. The room was eerily quiet. She could still see the flicker of firelight on the wooden floorboards in front of her, but it was silent, no longer crackling. Then a voice filled the room.
“Riltun. You’re trembling.” It was male, dark and slithering. It curled around Thia’s ears like a burrowing insect.
Lord Sagan bowed to the hearth. She guessed he saw some image of the king within. “Your Majesty.”
The voice sounded again, a low, almost humorous whisper. “Why have you summoned me?”
Beside her, Dess shifted against the wall.
Lord Sagan said nothing. His hands continued to run soothing strokes down the breast of his robes. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again.
“I grow impatient,” the king said, voice still dangerously calm.
Lord Sagan cleared his throat. “Your Majesty,” he tried, “I—” He broke off, attention flicking to Thia.
There was an apology in his watery expression, and her belly dropped into her boots.
But then he said to the fire, “My apprentice took ill. I love the boy like my own son, and my fear for his life got the better of me. Forgive me, my liege.”
The room was silent for so long that Thia wondered if the king had departed. Blood pounded in her ears. She could see her breath in the air, so cold had the room become.
Then that whispering voice slithered again. “A lovely ring.”
Lord Sagan’s weathered fingers clutched a rather large jewel on his left hand, obscuring it from view. “Th-thank you,” he said, nearly whimpering.
“I have to wonder,” the king said slowly, “why you claimed House Griffon could not offer its full tribute at the last moon, when its lord possesses such finery.”
Lord Sagan examined the floorboards. “A f-family heirloom—” he tried, but the king cut him off.
“You are weak, Riltun, and that is why your blood calls to me. An old conjurer obsessed with books and charts, scrambling after what will only ever be a pale imitation of real power.” He paused. “You know what real power is, do you not?”
The fire surged brighter for a moment, and Lord Sagan cried out. But then it was over, and the old man bent with his hands on his knees, shaking so hard the tassels on his sleeves fluttered.
The king laughed. It was a melodic sound, but horrible, like that burrowing insect had found a way in and was wriggling holes in Thia’s brain. She bit back a scream as the king spat, “Go back to your mutterings, old man.”
There was a popping sound, and the room flared with life again. Fire crackled, and warmth surged over Thia as Lord Sagan dropped to the floor.
Oskaren, of all people, moved first. She rushed to the Magician and scooped him up more gently than Thia would have thought possible, depositing him on a chair.
Thia could feel the king’s departure in the fire’s heat, but she couldn’t make herself move. Because that man had been truly terrifying.
Beside her, Dess strode forward. “Summoned?” he bellowed, halting in front of the Magician with his arms crossed over his chest.
“Please,” Lord Sagan said weakly. “Let me explain.”
“You’d better,” Dess started, anger dripping from every word. “Or—”
“Or what?” the lord said bleakly. “You’ll kill me? Betra,” he breathed, and Dess’s arms fell to his sides where they remained, stuck.
“Let me go,” the boy growled.
The Magician waved his hand. “ábetra,” he breathed. It was a great display of what had given him his title, but he didn’t seem proud, only weary.
Dess flexed his hands as though their brief immobility had stiffened the joints. “Talk.”
“Should we send for some wyrtwala?” Thran asked, inspecting the older man’s pale complexion and still-shaking hands.
It was a nice suggestion, but it made Thia angry. He was the one who had advised them to enter n?gen territory, then abandoned her to their attack. Now was the time he decided to have some human decency?
The Magician waved him off. “It sets me on edge. Can’t drink the stuff.” His eyes found Thia’s. “I’m sorry,” he said softly, and he looked like he meant it. His voice dropped even lower. “I’m bound to his majesty. I did not mean to bring him here.”
At the intrigue, the puzzle, Thia finally pushed herself off the wall. “Bound how?”
“My father was lord of this House before me,” Lord Sagan said. “In the years of the Mage King’s conquest. He was tricked. He believed allegiance would save his people, so he swore an oath of fealty in blood. Now that curse has passed to me.”
“So you’re forced to obey him?” Thia pressed, wondering why he hadn’t immediately announced her as the Storm Crow.
Lord Sagan smoothed his long beard. “It is not quite so simple as that. He is…in my mind.” He swallowed. “Most of the time, he pays me no mind, and I can shut him out. But he knows what I feel, can sense when something is not right. And so he appears to me, in my times of terror.”
Thia shuddered, recalling the sensation of the king’s voice around her own mind. “Tell me how you knew my mother.”
The Magician pressed himself slowly to his feet, using the table for support. Instead of answering, he snapped his fingers, and a servant appeared. “If you will not value your life, then I will do it for you,” he said. “Eat. Rest. But you will leave this house at first light and never return.”
At the Magician’s direction, the servant left, then returned with food, at which time the lord himself departed. Thia waited for him to return, frustration growing with each passing minute he did not, and then it bloomed into anger. Anger and—panic.
They finished the meal, and a servant came to take them back to their rooms. Thia couldn’t stop hearing that slithering voice, and with it every warning that had been given to her.
He’ll sooner kill you than help you.
The hall felt too hot, the air too heavy, and she was suddenly struggling to expand her lungs. When they passed a door, its small window revealing grass and sky beyond, Thia excused herself and all but sprinted toward it.
“Thia—” Dess started.
“I just need a minute.” To her relief, the door was unlocked. She burst through, a feat with its thick wood paneling and iron finishes, and heaved large gulps of outdoor air. Her hands fell to her knees, clammy against the velvet skirt that covered them.
So this was the Mage King. Disdainful. Cruel. Delighting in terror.
What the hell am I doing?
She reached into the bodice of her dress and scooped the shard. Callista, she begged again.
Silver flashed—no, it was her own haunted reflection staring back, her skin so white her freckles stood out like they’d been scribbled on by a marker.
He has not helped a great many people.
Thia was so incredibly stupid. This entire quest had hinged on the sorceress’s instructions. Yet even Callista had been skeptical from the start.
Thia dropped the shard, and it bounced against her breastbone.
I’m going to die here.
Home had never felt so out of reach. A sob shuddered through her.
“Fair Havens!”
Thia jumped, turning to see Archer, who had apparently just rounded the corner of the nearest turret, nearly crashing into her. He backed up, smoothing a set of green robes similar to the ones Lord Sagan wore. “Sorry about that, Thia.”
She sniffed, hastily wiping her face with her sleeve.
“That’s alright. I haven’t properly thanked you for saving us.
” His long, wavy brown hair was tied back beneath the same green cap he’d worn before, a golden plume cascading from its right side down to his shoulder.
Rosy cheeks gave him the appearance of someone younger than his height and stubble suggested, and she placed him somewhere in his mid-twenties.
He waved her aside. “But of course. The Magician was in the middle of an intricate spell and could not be interrupted. Just as well, as I need the practice.” He smiled, though it dipped slightly as he inspected her. “What are you doing out here?”
“Waxing existential,” Thia muttered.
“A favorite pastime of mine also,” he replied, and she laughed. He watched her for another moment. “I was just about to set the wards,” he said. “Would you like to accompany me?”
“The wards?” Thia asked, but she stepped after him as he set out across the yard.
“Magical barriers that protect this place. Xercae won’t find you here.”
Thia frowned. “Xercae?”
Archer peered down at her over his shoulder. “The witch.”
“I remember. Why would she find me here?”
He slowed, giving her an incredulous raise of one brow. Then, realizing her confusion was genuine, he relented. “Look there.” He raised a long arm and pointed out over the horizon.
Thia followed the gesture, scanning the mountains where they were lined with gold, and the shadows below.
Then she saw it—a speck, closer that she was expecting. A billow of black pacing the sky. She gasped. “She’s here?”
Archer must have sensed the fear in her voice because he stopped walking entirely and laid an elegant hand on her arm. “Our wards will hold.”