Chapter 22
TWENTY-TWO
THE MAGE KING WAS NOTHING LIKE THIA IMAGINED AND YET SOMEHOW exactly as he should have been.
He was tall and slender, but well-muscled enough to be intimidating beneath his high-collared black tunic and midnight cape, which was draped under him as he sat on an enormous obsidian throne.
He appeared somewhere in his late thirties, though based on his sixty-nine-year reign, he had to be far older than that.
His wavy black hair was tied in a low ponytail, his face beardless.
He had strikingly white skin, a haunting contrast to the black that dominated the space.
His eyes, also, were strange: completely blanched except for the pupil and a thin onyx ring around his irises.
There was a dangerous smile on his lips as she approached, and an aura of crackling power that made his outline blurry, like he was giving off waves of heat.
But when he spoke, it was a voice she recognized. “Thia Sanbrooke.” Deep and rich, yet cold and slithering. Despite the yards between them, it seeped into her skin, coating her bones in ice and chilling her from the inside out.
She forced herself to keep moving, chin raised with a confidence she didn’t feel. When she was nearly at the throne, she bowed, reminding herself that she was not supposed to crumble to the floor at the mere sound of a voice. “Your Majesty,” she said, trembling only slightly.
He grinned with predatory intent, and she had a sudden image of him sinking those white teeth into her mother’s flesh.
She hid a shiver by crossing her arms over her chest, remaining bent at the waist. He’s a murderer, not a cannibal, she reminded herself. Mavrel pecked her cheek lightly, and the pain steadied her.
She rose from her bow, contemplating whether she was expected to introduce her companions. But he beckoned her closer, and she found herself unable to speak.
“I never thought someone of your talents would be so young.”
Thia took a wobbling step, lungs shaking. “My talents, Your Majesty?”
He laughed. Thia felt a thousand maggots crawling over her skin. She told herself she would not run screaming from the room.
“Of course, you would be modest for Callista to be taken with you.” He said the word modest like someone else might have said foolhardy.
She decided to step into the role, trusting whatever plan the Silver Sorceress had concocted would not actually involve her having to demonstrate such talents. She cleared her throat. “One cannot help the way one is born, Sire.”
The king chuckled. She wanted to brush the crawl from her skin, but she kept her arms locked to her sides.
“You have spirit,” he said. “I suppose I should have expected it of a witch-slayer.”
A witch-slayer? Thia kept the shock from her face only barely. Dess’s eyes burned into her back, and she quelled the urge to scold him for his lack of subtlety. She could hear Thran’s breaths as well, though they were quickly soothed as he fought for control.
“Tell me,” the king continued. “How exactly did you vanquish Asha Würmheart? A mighty foe she must have been.”
Thia swallowed. She decided truth was her best option. “I—knocked her from the sky.”
He leaned back against his throne, relaxing almost good-naturedly. “Intriguing. With what, pray tell?”
“With…” Now the truth tripped her. She didn’t know how to say it without linking herself to the Storm Crow. “With an arrow,” she finished.
The king raised his black brows. “What a shot that must have been. And tell me, Thia Witch-Slayer, why you did not think to bring me her head as a gift?”
She forced herself to hold his gaze, squirming under the glittering accusation in the question. He thought she was some great witch-slayer? She would show him that. “I fed her to the n?gens,” she said haughtily. “They looked hungry.”
There was a moment of silence, and she wondered if she had pushed her luck too hard. Her blood rushed in her ears. His lips rose in a snarl.
But then he laughed.
She wished he would stop. It was like rocks grinding through her mind.
“An excellent choice,” he said fondly. “I do so love those little beasts. Abominable things.” He leaned forward, suddenly serious again. “So, Thia Sanbrooke, Slayer of Asha Würmheart, why have you come to see me, if not to bring me the gift of a witch’s head?”
Thia’s heart thumped. Now was her chance. “That’s the thing,” she began. “I…never meant to come here. It was a mistake.”
“A mistake?” His voice was dangerously pleasant. “Perhaps there are too many witches elsewhere for you to spare the time to help a mere Mage King.”
She gulped. “Not at all. A mistake as in…I meant to come sooner.”
He settled back in his throne. “I see. And now that you are here, how long shall you remain? We would be pleased to have someone of your prestige among us. For a time.”
“The truth is,” Thia replied, stomach dropping to her feet, “I did not come here just to…slay.” She nearly stumbled over the word.
The corner of his mouth twitched. She dug her heels into the ground so that she wouldn’t back away in fear.
“I wished to slay Asha. But…I also came to help my attendant.” She beckoned Dess forward.
“He was cursed as a young boy. By a magician from a faraway land.” She hoped the lie wasn’t a stretch.
“He does not remember who he is. I wish to help him regain that.” She paused, waiting for the king to respond.
He didn’t. She took a shaking breath. “And also,” she said in a rush, “I came here by magic. I need magic to send me home.” Her breath was too loud, too fast. From the tilt of his head, she wondered irrationally if he could smell her fear.
She forced herself to dip her head in reverence.
“Your Majesty.” She held the pose, staring at the ground and counting the seconds, her pulse pounding in the silence.
“So,” King Caradoc said at last, when she thought she might pass out. “You’ve come to make a deal. You think because you killed my witch, I must be obligated to help you.”
No, no, no, no.
The plan was falling to pieces. She could see it in the angry way he watched her, his fingers tapping a threatening rhythm on the arms of his throne.
But then he said, “Very well,” and she nearly fell over.
His gaze kept her pinned in place. “Since you have so graciously killed Asha Würmheart for me, I will forgive you for your unbidden trespassing on my lands. And because of your reputation, and my Silver Sorceress’s obvious faith in you, I will make a deal.”
He paused, waiting. Thia wetted her lips. Another show of power, to make her ask. “What kind of deal, Your Majesty?”
“Dispatch Xercae for me also, and I will grant your requests.”
No.
The blood drained from her face. She had been so close. So close to getting home. The room tilted. Tears pushed against her waterline. She couldn’t be stuck here. She couldn’t.
Someone was speaking to her.
Dess.
He had stepped into her orbit and was gripping the back of her shirt where the king couldn’t see, whispering her name under his breath.
She had to pull herself together—if not for her sake, then for his. On her shoulder, Mavrel ruffled his feathers uncertainly, anxious at her obvious distress. The falcon fixed his round eyes on the king like he knew exactly what kind of monster they faced.
She ducked her chin, sweeping into a bow. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”
He inclined his head in return. “An interesting pet.”
Thia was reminded of his words to the Magician: a lovely ring. Her heart stuttered. “Not a pet, Your Majesty. A Guardian.”
The king’s brows rose. He looked at the falcon for so long that Thia wondered whether she’d said the wrong thing, if he might ask to keep the bird. But he said, “Ah. Perhaps the reason why one so young has survived such a dangerous game. Farewell.” He waved an elegant hand.
They were dismissed. She wasn’t going home but—they had lived. She clung to that thought as they backed slowly out of the room.
“Oh, and Thia,” the king said, when they were at the door. “I trust you will not need longer than a month. For someone of your skills, that should be no trouble at all.”
She met his stare one last time. “Of course, Your Majesty.”
“And this time”—his voice was a caress, and that more than anything scared her—“bring me her head.”