Chapter Two
Connection
My boots sink deep into the canvas flooring with each cautious step forward.
I pull in a breath, lungs filling with the scent of incense rising from golden bowls set on either of the bedside tables.
Tension long held in my shoulders relents now that the cloying stench of death is hidden beneath the woody scent, encouraging a small spiral of gratitude to swirl within my chest.
Yet the moment of reprieve does not last for long, with my Guards following closer behind me than usual as we all pass by the thick canvas partition bisecting the tent.
Turning to my Lead Guard with brows raised in a question, he silently gestures to the large wooden bed where a sorcerer-shaped lump lies under the thin white covers.
A strange sensation strikes the center of my being, tingling within each of my limbs, and urges me to launch myself forward with the distinct need to touch the sorcerer hiding himself.
I shake my head, yet no matter how hard I try to fight this, the need burrows deeper, blooming in my abdomen, tugging me toward him as it overrides the tension held in my muscles.
Every step forward is stilted as I resist, boots scraping roughly over the fibers in the canvas.
No amount of unwillingness seems to halt my trajectory.
It’s as if some spell has been cast to form an unbreakable tether, weaving our heartstrings together.
Because the closer I am forced to be near this sorcerer, the more I feel a strange need to both know and be known by him.
Something I have never truly yearned for on my own.
Feeling grateful that my Guards do not question my well-being as they witness this display of odd behavior, they keep their mouths shut as they observe me with thinly veiled confusion while I fail to hide any outward signs of this internal war with myself.
One of my shins meets the bedframe, and I come to a halt.
My heart hammers while I breathe in the comforting scent of the incense, then almost release a peal of laughter when I stare at the contrast between us—the Imperial black fabric of my dress draping over the thin white blanket Sergeant Varic uses as a shield, of sorts.
My magic acts of its own volition, sending yellow swirls of curiosity from my mind to the area where a subtle undulation indicates the Sergeant’s steady breaths in the rise and fall of his chest.
Intensity and overwhelm invade my whole body the longer my magic maintains this connection and siphons the jumble of his emotions.
Each one is nearly indiscernible as many colorful threads form knots, which I attempt to digest for him.
The only commonality between the emotions is that of a warm amber hue surrounding the whole—the shade of his magical signature, or the way I interpret it.
Curious, I press further in until my magic slams into a figurative wall.
Of course, the most powerful force sorcerer would use mental wards.
Drawing in a breath, I prepare to try again as a pressure unlike anything I’ve ever known collides inside my abdomen, and it feels as if this tormented sorcerer then sends a torrent of emotions to me.
But he can’t. Only witches are trained in this ability.
Hendry’s hands land on each of my arms, steadying me. “What is it?”
I shake my head. “I’m okay. Just let me do this.”
He nods and releases his hold while maintaining his proximity.
Every one of my Guards stares from me to the sorcerer hidden beneath the covers, their expressions filled with a mix of confusion and concern, distracting me from the need to pretend I am taking the rehabilitation of this sorcerer seriously.
Focusing, I draw on my mental wards, scrambling for purchase as I’m unable to conjure them. Fear floods my veins, uncertain why my wards are not working, as I rely on them too regularly to assume it’s anything I am doing wrong in summoning their protection.
I raise my hand in silent command, and Hendry turns to share a pointed look with the rest, encouraging each of them to step back while my pulse pounds.
Unsure of how to proceed, since nothing has gone to plan, and with this being the first time I have ever been in charge of a mission, I need to prove I can do this.
That I can manage without the Emperor dictating my every last breath and action.
Fuck it.
Let’s get this over with.
“Sergeant Varic,” I begin, then falter with the shifting of the covers.
Anticipation ripples through me as the fabric cascades down the Sergeant’s form to reveal a rumpled, shirtless sorcerer staring up at me with a hint of curiosity.
Cheeks heating from the playfulness in the quirking of his brow, I shift my gaze up to study his disheveled brown waves with strands spilling over his forehead.
Sunlight illuminates the canvas around us, casting an orange glow over his warm golden-brown skin, and heat of another kind swarms my body with an unfamiliar tingling blooming in the center of my chest, broadening with the awareness of his gaze studying me while my own eyes trace the fullness of his lips, then the angular cut of his jaw.
My eyes drop lower in study of the way the shadows define every muscle in his chest and stomach.
The corded muscles along each of his arms ripple as he leans back over the plush mattress.
My cheeks burn when I avoid his gaze and drop my own where a patch of curly black hair trails beneath the black band of his underwear.
I swallow in discomfort from my inability to treat him with the respect he deserves, as I am here to feign healing him from grief and despair, not to objectify him in the same way others lust over the facade I must wear.
Lifting my gaze to address him, I stop and stare at the silver lightning-bolt-shaped scars running along either side of his hips—the same spindly pattern conjured in the center of a force sorcerer’s palm just before they blast…
My stomach twists with the placement of these marks, rapidly studying the rest of his bare skin to determine if I could be wrong.
Yet, when no other area appears to have the same, it’s clear he has been blasting himself, as the scars mar the skin where his palms would naturally hang at his sides.
My chest tightens as I restrain from asking, wishing to know if he hurts himself in this way as a punishment, or in desperation to calm the overwhelm roiling inside of him.
Brow furrowing, I consider all the healers around who could have prevented his skin from scarring like this.
Then my stomach drops with the possibility that he may have kept them a secret.
He might prefer to keep them as an act of contrition.
Yet the lighter hue of the bolt-shaped scars on the top layer indicates this is something he has been practicing for years, at least. The markings of a sorcerer haunted by more than just one incident.
Unsure of how long I may have been lost in thought, I force myself to face him.
I instantly regret it as his impossibly bright brown eyes entrap my own.
Helpless, I visually trace the thick line of lashes around the same set of irises sent to me in a vision from the Dragons.
Tilting my head in curiosity, I become lost in the deep amber threads, marveling at the impossible brightness emanating from somewhere inside of him, as if there is a blazing fire raging deep within.
He yawns and swipes a hand through his hair, leaving it even more unkempt than before, as one side of his mouth rises in a coy smirk.
“The Emperor must be desperate for my power if he’s willing to let his pet witch off the tight leash he keeps on you, after what, twenty-odd years he’s been bragging of having discovered you and your magic?
” Sergeant Varic asks, his voice deep and crackling from disuse.
“The First of the Anomalies. The witch whose magical ability resulted in condemning the rest of us to a fate of indentured servitude.”
“Hey.” Hendry steps forward. “You will show her respect.”
“Or what?” Sergeant Varic begins. “I’ll answer to you? Good. You look like someone who could use a target for your pent-up anger. So please, do me a favor and put me out of my misery.”
Hendry rolls his shoulders, nearly knocking into my own.
I release a breath when the Sergeant’s gaze shifts to pin me in place.
“You expect me to want to live after what happened? All so I can serve the tyrant so hell-bent on increasing his own influence that he saw fit to make you serve him from the young age of what, six?” Sergeant Varic’s voice drifts as he turns away, leaving me to contend with the memories his words have dredged up.
Those which I keep buried deep, in the place I send all I must forget.
Panic courses through my veins like a toxin as I try again to slam my mental wards in place.
But they won’t budge. Feeling oddly weakened in his presence, as if some part of him can siphon my ability to wall myself off from all he reveals in my being.
There is something within him which leaves me open and utterly incapable of suppressing all I need to keep hidden.
I’m reacting so strangely to this sorcerer who mentioned a part of my history of which the entirety of the Continent is aware.
A detail many choose to mention, as if it is some sort of accomplishment on my part to have been forced to attend to our Emperor’s mood from a young age—as if it is something to be lauded simply because of whom I serve.
My Guards step forward, and I raise a hand to stall them from going any further.
“Fine. Do your worst, Imperial Grand Witch Tasch.” Varic’s voice is stern, yet my heart leaps the moment he forms my name on his lips. “Manipulate me. Make me believe I possess the will to live, or whatever it is your keeper has commanded.”
Fray charges forward, shoulders squared. “She only ever manipulates others, like you claim, when it is necessary for the protection of innocent beings. She wouldn’t do that unless His Majesty forced her by threat of harm to someone else as a consequence.”
“Fray, this isn’t your battle to fight,” Cirrin warns.
Hendry grabs hold of Fray’s shoulder to force him in line with the rest until Fray shrugs out of his hold with a look of disgust.
“Lucky for you, that is not how my magic works, Sergeant Varic. And I will not manipulate your emotions unless you try to harm me or one of my Guards.”
“Huh.” He cocks his head to the side. “I see what you’re doing, but you can drop the act. You can’t trick me into lowering my wards to make it easier for you to get inside my head and fuck with my emotions.”
“Who in the Continent broke your trust?” Lars, my speed Guard, asks as I send him a quick glare in response.
“That’s right,” Varic says, staring up at me. “Your specialty isn’t saving lives. It’s taking them.”
His words cut hot and deep, searing like a cattle brand stuck through my heart.
“You’ve killed far more than I have,” he continues, “and yet the Emperor thought it wise to send his top assassin to save the life of his strongest force sorcerer. Would any of you care to explain why he thinks you capable of rehabilitating me when your only skills lie in deception and murder?”
Lars growls, and I send him a quick burst of calm and focus to settle his nerves before he pummels this sorcerer into a pulp with the power of his speed magic.
“He did not send me to kill you. If he had, you would have died of your worst fears wringing your life force straight from your heart within seconds of my arrival. And besides, if the reports are accurate, you are more than willing to carry out that particular task yourself.”
The fucker bends forward and bows as dramatically as one can while sitting in the center of a bed.
“You claim you will not manipulate me, and I am resolute in refusing to participate in any sort of rehabilitation, so it seems we are in disagreement as to what might transpire between us. However, were you to leave now, the train could have you back to the Palace in time for dinner with His Majesty.”
“I was sent to rehabilitate you, and that is what I will do.” I lie, while the words ring true.
The Sergeant’s stomach muscles tense as he lets out a laugh. “You have no idea what to do with me.” He raises one hand to swipe at his tears. “It’s not like you have any experience supporting someone through grief, since all you do is temper the Emperor’s fury.”
He leans back to brace his arms against the mattress again, studying me with a yellow tendril of curiosity unfurling from his mind. I gasp because…that’s not possible. Only witches can practice this form of magic. I shake my head because I must be imagining it.
“I understand now. This is precisely why he has kept us apart,” Sergeant Varic says.
“I’ve always wondered why a ruler who loves to parade around his collection of the Empire’s most powerful beings would keep the two most powerful from ever meeting, but now it seems so obvious.
” A sly smile curves up the side of his face.
“He has you so well trained, he does not want to chance my influence causing you to be any less obedient.”
“She’s not—” Fray begins, but Cirrin sends him a look of warning and Hendry’s fingers dig deeper into his shoulder.
“No,” I begin. “He has kept us apart because you are the reason he can no longer claim to have appointed only the strongest sorcerers in each magical form to serve in my detail. If only you could have witnessed his expression when he first met with military leaders over the news of your power far exceeding Hendry’s, not even a full year since he was appointed as my Lead Guard.
His Majesty has raged over how thoroughly they searched the Empire, sending telekinetic soldiers to scour every region to ensure he only appointed the absolute strongest once I was of age.
Having no evidence to suggest the Anomaly was still occurring by the time you were born only two years after myself.
He never considered the possibility of those he appointed being outdone, especially not by a then seventeen-year-old from what, in his words, is ‘the poorest of regions’. ”
Sergeant Varic’s expression is contemplative when Fray decides to contribute more to the conversation. “Essentially, had your power not embarrassed our ruler, you two could have performed this stand-off years earlier.”
“Leave us,” I command.