Chapter Two
A King's Man
I did not wake with the dawn.
It might have been the first time in over a year.
My mind had trained itself to switch from black, dreamless sleep to an alert and mildly anxious state at the slightest shift of the light.
But that morning, I didn’t stir until the greyish Stormsby sunshine had fully flooded my small bedroom.
Perhaps my body had finally given way to exhaustion.
More likely was the rare and efficient climax I’d coaxed from myself in the middle of the night, moans muffled into my pillow at the thought of some nameless man’s hand between my legs; how he might look at me, as the Fox had looked at his Lark.
Whatever the reason, I didn’t wake feeling like Death’s mistress. My body didn’t ache when I eased myself out of bed. I was revived – optimistic. A well-rested, upbeat version of myself I’d almost forgotten existed.
Today was going to be a good day, I could feel it.
I took my time dressing and preening, a scarce luxury — but a worthwhile one for I felt most like myself when I recognised the woman in the mirror.
I’d also learned that our patrons developed a peculiar generosity when I took the time to corset my waist and hoist my bosom, and since Magnus had flounced off and fairly emptied our coffers on his way, I relied on that generosity more and more.
But I wasn’t going to think of my brother today; I was not going to waste this rare, shimmering hope.
By the time I stepped into the lobby, an idea had taken root, and my Flame was humming in my chest, revelling in the near-forgotten light of my bright mood.
I let it unfurl a little, let it stretch its fiery tendrils down my arms until my palms heated, then I snapped my fingers and sent fire bouncing to life in the little hearth.
Together, we lit candles in every sconce and lantern as I passed through the lobby to the tavern, and when I paused at the front door my magic swirled around my heart, practically purring.
Its warmth was so consuming I didn’t bother with a cloak when I stepped out into the crisp, winter air.
It was over an hour later that I heaved myself and a fluffy little evergreen through the doorway, dewy with exertion and the heat of my still-glowing Flame.
“Morning, Miss Roz,” called a gruff voice, echoed by a softer, mumbling one.
I peered through the spindly pine needles, and found Tanner and his friend Roy peering back at me.
Still such an odd pair, I thought.
They’d met right here in the tavern when Roy first moved to Stormsby a few years ago, and had been inseparable ever since.
In a way, it made sense - they balanced each other.
Tanner was loud and effusive, Roy quiet and unassuming.
Even physically they were opposites in every way; Tanner stout, round and pale as milk, and Roy tall and spindly with deep brown skin.
They stared at me from their seats at the bar, pints lifted in unison while Sorcha stood wide-eyed as ever just beyond them, sorting through a pile of post.
“Did you pass her by on your way in?” Sorcha asked.
“Aye,” said Tanner, oblivious to the note of accusation. “Swingin’ away with her axe, so she was.”
“Swingin’ away,” Roy said softly, then added; “And doin’ a fine job.”
Sorcha tutted, though her tone was light as she tucked the post into her apron and rounded the bar toward me.
“I’d have thought big strong farm folk like yourselves might lend her a hand.”
“Retired farm folk,” said Tanner. “And sure Roy would fall faster than the tree.”
Whether Roy’s answering grumble was one of agreement or disgruntlement would remain a mystery, like most things about the soft spoken farmer.
“I’m alright,” I called from behind the evergreen, but when Sorcha wove her hands through the branches and seized the trunk, I nearly collapsed with relief.
My arms were little more than woolen threads, and my thighs burned with the effort of planting myself in the snow while I swung the axe at the surprisingly stubborn little tree.
In years past, this had been my father’s job, and then eventually Magnus’s.
Last winter, the one and only Yule we’d ever spent without our parents, Magnus had chopped down a stately fir nearly taller than he was, and I’d kept him fuelled with a flask of hot chocolate and tales of a life outside Stormsby.
Of the odd jobs I’d worked, none of which had ever amounted to more than amusing stories to bring home to my family.
But despite my regrets, all that time wasted, he’d been in utter awe at the idea.
I wondered if he was living that life now; if he’d even allow himself that luxury or if he was still running, like he’d begged me to.
We can’t live like this, Roz. We’re not made for it.
“Roz,” Sorcha said gently, drawing me back to myself. “You can let go.”
I startled slightly, but released the tree and sagged gratefully against the doorframe.
If Tanner and Roy thought it odd that my tiny cousin swept so easily across the tavern with that evergreen in her arms, they didn’t mention it.
And, to be fair, even I couldn’t say whether her ease was that of a sprightly nineteen-year-old, or an Earthwitch wielding her natural affinities.
By the wink she sent my way after planting the tree in the corner furthest from the hearth, I could only assume the latter.
I joined her in front of the tree, and we admired it together, Sorcha patting my shoulder in a warm, congratulatory sort of way, as though I’d slain a dragon and mounted its head on the wall.
It didn’t feel entirely disproportionate.
The four of us passed the morning companionably, as had become our custom.
Tanner and Roy would wile away entire days here — and with increasing frequency since Sorcha arrived.
They doted on her like a favourite grandchild, Tanner talking her ear off while they sat at the bar with their bowls of porridge in the mornings.
She’d listen sweetly and quietly swap out their breakfast for bowls of biscuits or crackers, and the endless cups of tea that they’d sip until the stroke of noon.
I’d normally be in the background, scrubbing at tables or stocking the bar shelves, but today I was indulging myself and my good mood; I was decorating for Yule.
“You’re about a month early,” Tanner observed, while I sat at a table and sorted the baubles and garlands into neat little piles.
That earned him a laugh, yanked free from the same space in my chest where my Flame twisted and danced.
And perhaps I’d underestimated the rarity of my own laugher, for Tanner’s grey brows shot up at the sound, and he twisted in his seat to face me fully.
I wrapped a berry-strung garland around my neck and gave him a wry look.
“Don’t start with me, Tan, I’m in a fine mood today.”
“Aye, I can see that,” said Tanner. He raised his teacup in salute. “And it has to be said, you’ve a knack for it.”
He twinkled at me in that grandfatherly way normally reserved for Sorcha, and my Flame may have glowed just a little bit brighter. I did have a knack for it. I’d always loved decorating for Yule.
Tanner turned back to the bar, and I let the gentle drone of his voice lull me like a familiar melody as I worked.
He was telling Sorcha about “bad, bad business” in Kingsborough.
Gossip from his city-dwelling brother, a trusted source of indisputable information among Tanner and his ilk.
The young King was as bad as his father before him, Tanner had heard.
Worse, Roy interjected with rare venom. Aye, worse, Tanner agreed.
The coronation was just months away, and we could all expect every freedom we enjoyed to be yanked out from under us, just mark Tanner’s words.
“Sure, we all got the letter,” he said darkly. “That Royal Decree.”
He wiggled his fingers, slipping into a haughty nasal tone that I could only assume was an impression of a Kingsborough noble.
With a non-commital hum, I continued my ministrations on the tree; out of the corner of my eye, I noted Sorcha’s diffident shrug.
We had seen the decree, of course. I doubted whether there was a magic user in all of Qyelles who hadn’t.
I wasn’t worried, truth be told, but the lull of Tanner’s monologue sharpened all the same, my ears perking as though someone had spoken my name.
“It’s registration they’re wanting now,” Tanner went on. “By the end of next year, I’ve heard. Not enough to classify the folk like a herd of animals, now they want to brand them like cattle?”
Roy gave a quiet snort of outrage, and Tanner drew himself up, fortified by the attention. He sat taller in his seat as righteous ire overtook him.
“His father started the very same way. Grand declarations, all for the good of the people. And aren’t the magic folk people, too? What good does it do, dividing us against our own?”
“Not about us at all,” said Roy evenly.
Tanner pounded his fist on the bar in hearty agreement.
“Not about us at all,” he echoed, then gave a great huff.
“They’re classified by their threat to the Crown and the Crown alone.
When you’ve got tasters paid well to die for you, what’s a little bit of poison?
There you have it, Herbalists; Class A. But an army of the dead?
A Serpent spy, with the face of a nobleman?
They could bring the Crown to its knees.
Necromancers, Serpents; Class X, and off with their heads. ”
“And their skin,” said Roy.
Tanner shuddered.
“Poor souls. You watch how this new King treats his magical subjects, and mark my words, Sorcha, love – we’ll get a small forecast for the rest of us. Aye, the magic folk will see the worst of it. They always do.”