Chapter Nine
Generals
Pressure fills my ears from the voice of every General filling the expanse of the dining hall while I scan the room as inconspicuously as possible, needing to know if Varic has followed us in here after failing to catch sight of him in the War Room.
I need to prepare myself to hide our connection as well as I can, especially with how depleted my magic is feeling.
I become so lost in seeking him out, my whole body shudders when Fray leans in to whisper over my shoulder.
“What do you think the Emperor and Wyrth are discussing”?
“Shh,” Hendry warns, almost loud enough for others to hear.
“I don’t know,” Malin whispers. “But they’ve been doing this far too often for my liking.”
“Is anything ever to your liking?” Lars asks.
Malin’s magic winds around my front to poke Lars in the side as he yelps.
“Quiet,” Hendry says, rounding on him in the absence of our ruler.
My palms itch with the frustration of being forced to wait for our ruler to finish his conversation, made to stand along the same wall as the other Imperial witches, whose only purpose here is to modify the mood of the sorcerer for which they are responsible.
Those select few who earned their title and privilege by the strength of their magic, and nothing of merit.
Despite the heat I felt in the War Room having disappeared since, my eyes cannot stop scanning every guest in search of Varic.
Wishing he had accepted the appointment of an Imperial witch, so that I might seek her out, as well.
But as none exists, in his refusal to allow any other than me to attend him following his rehabilitation, I have no choice but to seek his form alone.
“They’re getting bolder,” General Astos says, pulling my attention.
“More strategic,” General Sal says, with a quick glance in my direction.
“And the Emperor refuses to acknowledge any of our reports,” General Astos says, lowering his voice. “Even when we bring him compelling evidence of coordinated efforts between the bordering lands.”
General Sal waves to me before speeding around the sorcerers until he arrives by my side with not a graying hair out of place and a playful smirk rising on one side of his face.
“Finally, someone worth speaking to,” he says, playfully.
“Careful, or those you’ve been conversing with will be offended to know you value a witch’s word over their own.”
General Sal’s hazel eyes catch the light as he leans in to whisper, “I have something for you.” He chuckles when my brows rise in question, shoulders quaking as he straightens.
“I cannot hand it over with such a large audience.” He turns to the crowd forming. “However, if you were to meet me on the balcony after dinner, we might have enough privacy.”
I nod as he returns to his conversation partners before the whole room turns to bow as the Emperor’s cough announces his arrival.
He covers his mouth with a fist while his healer sends magic into his chest—which is seemingly ineffective, as the severity of each exhalation our ruler takes is brutal.
Yet the tyrant plays it off as well as he can, stalking in with his trusty spy sitting on his shoulder, flanked by his Guards, cape rippling behind him.
He tosses the silky black fabric back and sits upon the dining throne, gesturing for the rest of us to follow his lead and take our own seats. Raki skitters across his shoulders, settling at the edge closest to me, swaying its tail as it stares in my direction.
“Your Majesty, allow me to advise you to drink more water than wine this evening,” Wyrth leans closer to speak in a low tone. “Per my research, it will aid in our efforts for longevity.”
The Emperor waves him off, coughing into his hand before reaching for the full goblet.
I send my magic to tether his mood while Hendry pulls my chair out for me, keeping a constant read on him while we share a room.
General Sal is seated too far away for us to speak, so I focus on the meal before me, decreasing the likelihood I’ll catch the eyes of a certain sorcerer whenever he deigns to join us.
Scraping sounds arise beside me, and I turn to find Dimitri Royce taking the seat, striking a thrill through me, as it is so unlike the Emperor to allow a diplomat to sit next to his pet.
“Glory to the Dragons, to whom we owe everything,” the room chants as one before any of us dare eat a morsel in the company of others.
“Would you please pass the butter?” Dimitri asks with a deep, accented voice—pronouncing the ‘w’ as a ‘v’—with a bemused expression which appears out of place within his otherwise severe countenance as he awaits my response.
Forbidden from touching anything aside from my own utensils and drinking vessels, I reflect on his sentiment, as no one from Ampara Deicra would dare ask me to pass them anything—especially not something as basic as a butter dish.
Yet this outsider does not seem to know nor care about following our decorum.
“Of course,” I say, reaching forward.
The chill of the metal bowl bites into the pads of my fingers as I scan the room, ensuring no one else notices.
“Don’t,” Hendry warns, the closer I bring the dish to our esteemed guest.
“Thank you,” Dimitri says, as I set the small gold ramekin next to his plate.
I smile in response and flick my gaze over to Hendry to make a point.
Then my hand shakes as I pick up my fork to stab at a slice of roasted vegetable, having to clamp down hard to force the piece of it between my teeth.
Then the familiar heat builds in the center of my chest, searing as it proceeds to climb up my neck.
Anticipation and fear shift to a feeling of safety and comfort—a trick brought on by old emotions. Simply a reminder of what I once felt near the sorcerer inducing this current reaction.
The heat claws its way into my cheeks while the strength of our invisible tether pulls taut around my heart.
I abandon my fork and force my gaze lower to study my tightly held fists in my lap, unable to tolerate the consequence of glancing up at the sorcerer powerful enough to conjure this unnatural sensation before my eyes ever recognize his presence.
“Are you feeling unwell, Imperial Grand Witch Tasch?” Dimitri Royce asks, concern lacing his tone.
I shake my head and attempt to ignore this growing urge—this burgeoning need—to look where Varic surely must be staring over.
Then fear spears through my being, pressuring me further to ensure I am not hallucinating—not somehow forcing this warmth while pulling up some past memory to experience what his presence always does to me.
Increasing the need to know he’s unharmed.
To know that he has made it here safe. That some terrible accident hasn’t befallen him.
Nor that he refused to attend, thus garnering the Emperor’s wrath as a consequence.
I can’t. I can’t look.
But I also can’t keep from looking.
Heart kicking, slamming, and breaking to pieces, I lose all resolve. My lungs constrict as I betray everyone’s best interest by lifting my gaze to those impossibly bright brown eyes staring at mine.
He’s here. He’s okay. He made it.
Fuck.
His plush lips curve in a subtle smile, deepening the lines at the edge of his eyes as our confounding connection allows him to send me an abundance of joy—overwhelming in its genuine expression.
I swallow nothing, stomach fluttering as I look away, though nothing will hide me from this sorcerer who sees past my armor. My vision blurs as I force another bite through my lips, incapable of ignoring the tingling summoned by his attention.
Varic’s rough, warm hand skating around the small of my back.
I slam my eyes shut, jaw working as I desperately pull on my mental wards, needing anything to block these fantasies from infiltrating. Needing to prevent the visions I use to survive the darkest moments—though they aren’t visions. I shouldn’t think of them as such. These are only fantasies.
None of it has ever happened between us—nor can it—so it should not prove to be as comforting as it seems, knowing it can never come to fruition.
Because Varic and I can never be free to make our own choices nor act on our feelings.
He closes the front door behind him, greeting me with a vibrant smile that tugs on my heart after missing him all day. His eyes beam with pride the moment our daughter runs and jumps into his arms, and he spins her around, fanning her brown waves out behind her.
Their shared laughter trills inside my chest, as if this were a memory rather than a fabrication of a life I dream of regularly. Swallowing against the tightness in my throat, I try to distract from the flesh throbbing beneath my fingernails, piercing through the leather of my pants.
“My little witch,” Emperor Aldritch says, and my heart plummets as I pull in a breath to help neutralize my expression.
“Keep your eyes open. Have you no manners?” He grabs my shoulder and shoves me until I am forced to face him, so his eyes can trace a line starting in the center of my chest up to my heated cheeks.
Raki’s tail swings faster as the Emperor runs his cold finger over my cheek, and I flinch.
“What is this lacy rash?” he asks, glaring up at Cirrin.
“Heal her. She seems to be having a reaction. Look,” Emperor Aldritch commands, ushering Cirrin to look as the deep brown of his cheeks stains wine red, knowing as well as I do this flush is one his magic cannot prevent.
Not with a particular sorcerer present.
Yet we must make a show of it, so Cirrin splays his hand over my back as the blue-green mist envelops me, temporarily relieving my joint pain and lethargy while barely taming the flames beneath my skin.
Seemingly satisfied, the Emperor turns to address Wyrth, whose own attention turns to mine, making a point of narrowing his eyes. I raise my goblet in salute, pulling my lips inward to staunch the laughter from building when he grimaces before turning back to the Emperor.