Chapter Twenty-Two #2
Avice was colder, indifferent, as if every task was a challenge to perform perfectly. She would often unravel a piece of work because of one dropped stitch, one tiny flaw.
And Nora, lovely, vibrant, sharp-tongued Nora? Under that web burned a raging soul, filled with anger. Her webbing bound the tightest, pressed deep against even her tiniest struggles.
It saddened him.
What was the missing one like? He hadn’t managed to learn more and didn’t dare show that he even knew of her, could see her cord stretched taut behind the Queen.
Riven rolled his shoulders and got up. He had this afternoon free, to think and ponder.
A stretch, more kavage, and then he returned to the table and reached for fresh paper and ink.
Copying the matrix from memory, putting it down on paper, kept his hand busy and let his mind wander as his fingers moved.
Kavage mug in hand, he considered his situation. How many times in the past had this spell been cast? How many other blood mages had studied that scroll?
That gave him pause. How was it that he’d never heard of this spell?
Not that blood mages really shared their secrets easily or at all. Most great workings were done secretly, and warily. But nothing like this had been hinted at, to his knowledge. Not even gossiped about.
What did that say about the survival rate of the blood mages who had cast it previously?
A hard, cold chill ran down his spine. He was fairly certain he knew their fate.
The Queen had said the scroll was an heirloom of her family, the spell cast on every child. But she was the only one of this generation. Which meant that she’d never seen the spell cast. For all she knew, he could paint himself blue and dance naked in a circle for hours. How would she know?
Riven narrowed his eyes. No doubt the rat-bastard designing this spell would take further precautions. If her father is dead, how does she know…
If it was meant to be generational, they’d leave directions.
Riven took a sip of kavage. That box that held the spell.
Old and worn…and something else inside. A set of instructions, perhaps?
Ways to check that your blood mage was actually doing what you wanted him to do and not carried away by the possibilities?
Riven let his mouth curl up. Pity. He might look good in blue.
But it made sense.
Which meant he needed to keep working, building up toward the casting. Buying time.
A knock on the door. Witless entered, a load of firewood in one hand, baby doll cradled in the other. “Fire, master.” Witless headed toward the hearth, where the fire burnt low.
“That would be welcome,” Riven said, rising from his stool and heading to the window. With the fire, and the sun, the room was warm. The windows looked down over a frost-covered garden. Seemed spring would be late this year.
“Rest babies here,” Witless had put the babe down, away from the hearth but close enough to keep watch as he added wood to the fire.
There was something different. The doll was wrapped in a blanket. “Witless, did you swaddle the babe?” Riven asked.
“Witless swaddle,” Witless looked up and grinned. “Watch.”
He reached for the babe, and undid the wrappings, tickling the doll’s tummy once the blanket was spread out.
“Baby stretch and wiggle,” Witless recited.
“But sleepy baby wrap tight. Gentle, gentle,” he said, putting the doll’s limbs in, and pulling the blanket around it, tucking in the ends.
“Then rock,” Witless said, standing with the babe in his arms. “Gentle, gentle.”
“That’s good,” Riven said, feeling sick to his stomach.
Witless chortled. “Practice, practice, for real babies,” he said, heading toward the door.
“Witless, do you like kavage?” Riven called after him.
“Kavage?” Witless’s nose wrinkled as he shook his head. “Nasty. Witless like milk.”
Riven snorted his amusement softly, then turned back to stare at the writing on the scroll without really seeing it.
He was not casting this spell, he was not killing Witless, hells, he didn’t even want to call the boy by that name.
But until he could find an escape, he needed something visible, tangible, to make sure his “hosts” stayed satisfied with his progress.
The matrix should do it.
He paced out the area needed, which took up quite a lot of the room, and marked it out in chalk. The area would need to be worked smooth. Nothing more tangible than a mage on his knees, sanding down rough spots with sandstone and water.
No better time to start than today.
The stone gave the wood a whiter sheen and the slurry created by the friction helped seal the small cracks.
Riven could lose himself in the work, gently rubbing the stone over the wood, using his fingers to detect any remaining roughness.
The sun, the warmth, the working, they were all soothing. Almost like—
Riven paused, staring at the wet wood and the stone in his hand.
The craving, the emptiness, they’d faded when he’d lost himself in dreams of power, as they always had before the bottle.
They were gone.
Riven sat back on his heels. No, that wasn’t the truth. It was there, the strong desire was still there, would probably always be there. But he had more compelling desires now.
A threat to survival sharpens the mind, apparently. Or maybe—purpose?
Whatever the reason, he was grateful. He returned to his work, not really thinking, lost in the effort until the sun went down and Witless appeared with his supper.
“No ladies, tomorrow,” Witless said as he set down the tray and adjusted the doll. “No ladies come.”
“Did something happen?”
Witless shrugged.
Riven reached for the kavage, then stopped. Had the Queen lost the babe?
His throat went dry, but then he drew in a breath and steadied himself. There’d be grief, had she miscarried. More for the loss of an heir than a babe, true enough, but grief nonetheless.
Riven reached for the kavage again. Whatever the reason, he’d know more in the morning.
Except that he didn’t.
Witless brought his breakfast, and then his nooning, and no one else came. Riven knew better than to make inquiry of the guards; they had been chosen, apparently, for their stone faces and silence.
So he worked the floor, taking care to make it as smooth as he could with the tools at hand. The wood whitened in ever growing circles, as did his trous and tunic where he wiped his hands. Water, stone dust, and wood dust, and he was a right mess by the time the evening rolled around.
The main doors opened, no doubt Witless with the evening meal. Riven sat back on his heels and studied his handiwork. He might have to go back over that one spot—
“Well,” boomed a large, warm, friendly voice. “You seem well set up here.”
Riven sat back on his heels and gaped.
A blond man stood in the doorway, clothed all in black from head to toe, except for the gold circlet on his head. Only one person he could be.
King Xyrath.