Chapter 8
Reagan
The wind gusted through the outpost, leaves and golden flecks of pollen from the surrounding flowers spinning up against the blackened sky. Laughter and argument carried from the other rooms, loud with card games and half-emptied glasses cluttering the common tables.
Finn lounged against the open corridor railing on the second floor, grinning down at one of the battle mages stationed there.
Reagan watched from one of the common rooms, trying to recall whether her name was Ramilda or Rosalie.
Tonight, she looked ready to keep Finn occupied until dawn.
Reagan wondered if he would be returning to the Hall alone.
Gwinifer tossed her gloves onto the oak table as though discarding a carcass. “Why do people insist on being bloody idiots. We’re not even two weeks in.”
She shoved a report across the wood. Reagan skimmed it, though her opinion mattered more to him than what was written.
“Do you ever get tired of mocking everyone?” he asked flatly.
“No.” She dropped into the chair across from him. “If I can mock it, it’s survivable. You, on the other hand…” Her gaze dragged over him. “How’s the sulking treating you?”
“I don’t sulk.”
“You absolutely sulk. You’re in that mood again. The I-hate-everyone mood.”
He ignored her and read on, searching for the useful line. “Is this the incident you’re complaining about? Soil tempering.”
“A family tried to improve the fertility of three kilometres of wasteland with a homemade draught,” she said. “It left a foul smell on the soil, and now the neighbours are complaining.”
Reagan rubbed a hand over his forehead.
“They’re impatient now that we’re supposed to be recovering,” Gwinifer went on. “They haven’t heard a word of your official plan, so they’re inventing their own.”
“I’m waiting on the arcanists. I’ve already pressed them. One more time and even I’d tell myself to fuck off.” He sighed. “I’ll address it at the next Audience. Just tell them.”
“I think they’re expecting that.” She plucked a newspaper from her pile and tossed it across the table. “But this is where it’s coming from.”
His gaze caught on the commentary section, the image of the Highlands steward’s son glaring back at him.
“Bloody herd mentality,” Gwinifer said.
“You’re telling me Zephyr’s rubbish is spilling beyond the Highlands now.”
She nodded. “You and Cerridwen want to keep the responses amicable, but it’s not working.” She leaned forward, eyes sharp and decisive. “You need to go for the necks. Reprimand them.”
The thought had already crossed his mind.
Since the curse had broken, the Highlanders had made a habit of airing complaints in public.
Mild responses had bought him patience at the last Audience, but clearly no goodwill elsewhere.
A public dressing down would quiet things for now, spare him a dozen of these conversations.
It was also precisely what they expected from him.
“This is just a symptom,” he said. “The Highlands are the wound. If I deal with that, the rest should bleed less. And once the arcanists deliver their plan, their tempers will cool down.”
“They would cool faster if you stopped brooding and looked optimistic,” she said, faintly patronising.
Heat flared in his chest. “I sulk and brood. Should I smile more, sister?”
“Nobody cares if you smile,” she said evenly. “They care if you look like things are improving. Like there’s a timeline. Like their lives will actually get better. Pretend, if you have to.”
He was not optimistic, and he doubted progress would come as swiftly as his people expected; nothing ever moved the easy way—not his rule, not the recovery, not even his chosen, whose abilities seemed dulled, hampered by the ring that weighed in his pocket.
This problem had been gnawing at him since her exam, demanding attention he could not squander on thoughts of Zephyr.
Leaning back, he let out a bitter laugh. “Should I promise them this won’t be another season of stunted crops? That they’ll somehow get three times last month’s yield?”
“Spare me, Reagan. I’m trying to help,” Gwinifer said, waving a hand as she rested her feet on the table and crossed her legs.
Footsteps echoed down the corridor as he exhaled, reaching for the bottle of ale over the table and pouring himself a glass. He needed the edge taken off if more sermons were coming.
Finn joined them, grinning like someone actually grateful to be free of a curse.
“Plans for the night?” Reagan asked and drained his glass.
“Ramilda volunteered to keep me company,” Finn said, waggling his brows. “She promised to demonstrate her skills with long daggers.”
Gwinifer snorted. “You shouldn’t promise what you can’t deliver.”
“Jealous, Gwin?” Finn sprawled in the chair, his grin wicked. “You’ll always be my favourite. I could tangle with you tonight if you invited me.”
“Another time, Atkus,” she said smoothly with the same old game.
“Let’s hope Ramilda doesn’t break my heart like that,” Finn lamented.
Reagan’s shoulders shook with mirth. “She looked interested, but not in something as soft as your heart.”
Finn’s grin widened. “That’s why you have my attention for five minutes before I go meet her again. What did I miss?”
Gwinifer told him about the unfortunate draught and the situation with the Highlands. They spent the next moments deliberating over the problems and decided they were all too drained to produce decent solutions.
“Yeah… Other than scaring them,” Finn said, “I don’t know how to deal with Zephyr or Castor.”
“Let’s leave scaring as our last option,” Reagan said wearily.
“Is that it?” Finn asked, stretching his legs, clearly eager for his next meeting. Reagan nodded. “Then I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Gwinifer followed suit. “I’ll leave you too. I’m staying with Astrid here. Think about what I said.”
Reagan nodded again as she left, leaving only the cracks of the logs burning in the fireplace and the remaining bottle on the table for company.
For a moment, he didn’t know what to do with himself. He should have been going to his bed, using those rare moments to sleep; something he had allowed himself little in the past years. Being still felt as though he had forgotten what needed to be done.
He tried to recall what he’d turned to in those early years.
Likely the same distraction Finn sought now, finding someone to fuck for a night, perhaps two if it meant keeping them at arm’s length.
It had been easier when it was impersonal, ensuring anyone in his bed understood that he expected nothing lasting and avoiding any awkward questions.
Until even that had stopped working. Before Jane, he hadn’t taken anyone to bed in months. Didn’t want to. And afterwards…
He had drunk himself into a stupor yesterday and awoke no more rested than before. He didn’t want to linger in the outpost, but he couldn’t stand to return to the Hall, where he couldn’t see her.
Gwinifer was right. He was sulking, but he would risk dismemberment before admitting that to her.
Nights were when Jane and he spent time together, when he could soak in her warmth and wit.
He remembered months ago, when she first arrived in Mountheim, and his suspicion had driven him to learn more about her.
He'd wondered if humans were all like that.
Curious thinkers. Fast learners, with an irresistible quick tongue that seemed to have an answer for everything.
Gwinifer had claimed a different picture.
He’d observed her carefully, noting how she paid attention during his meetings while pretending otherwise.
At first, it had set his teeth on edge. Her curiosity was relentless, but her questions never crossed the line to sensitive topics.
When she’d offered to work for him, driven by some inexplicable moral compass, he’d realised she didn’t fit a suspicious profile.
But he told himself he needed to be certain anyways and made an excuse to keep her close.
She had been guileless, unintentionally amusing, and far more casual with him than most people ever dared to be. And then she had looked at him like that for the first time in Erisea.
He had tried to ignore her beauty, yet she grew bold, comfortable with him.
When she stripped before him, his blood had thrummed. He hadn’t believed she would rise to his challenge. But after that, and after earning him a lucrative new deal with the Barrows, he’d learned not to underestimate her.
Once he had seen more of her, his thoughts had become uncontrollable, conjuring images of tasting her mouth, pressing his hands between the softness of her thighs. He thought a taste might finally take the edge off. She had looked at him as if she wouldn’t recoil at the thought.
Grimoire, he had been wrong.
He’d made it worse. When his flux surged after that kiss, it hit him like a punch to the gut, a wildfire through his veins.
He didn’t sleep that night, and he wouldn’t sleep this one either.
Leaning over the table, Reagan poured the bottle of ale and winced down another glass.