CHAPTER SEVENTEEN #2
Anya realized she had no idea exactly how old Edgard was; she hadn’t ever really thought about it before.
The crown was like the weather, or the sky: it simply existed.
No use thinking about it unless you could use it, or unless it was going to get in your way.
Gescany was a country, and a country needed a ruler.
It was the way things were. It didn’t make much difference to her who that ruler was when she was beholden to the title no matter who held it.
She interrupted Sabina, who was regaling a rapt Perrine with her exploits in the capital.
“Edgard wants this bird for eternal life. How old is he now?”
Sabina’s eyes lifted as she appeared to count in her head.
“At least twelve decades. Though he doesn’t look a day over forty-five.
I have done work on him myself, you know.
Actually,” she added, pinching Anya’s chin between two fingers, “I could do wonders with you. Such masculine bone structure.” She touched the bridge of Anya’s nose, muttering.
“This wants widening…Lower cheek bones? Ah, no, those are truly impeccable.”
Anya batted Sabina’s hands away, glaring. “Save your blood for the king, yes?”
Sabina was unphased. “Oh, he rarely calls me. Though at his age, he needs constant work. But he doesn’t need anyone else; he has Sylas.”
Mira must use her magic to keep herself young, like the king used the scribes. One scribe, in particular. And Mira used the forest.
Though it was called the king’s forest, it was not Edgard who ruled the Lichtenwald. It was not to his deference one bowed when beneath these leaves. And there was only one in the forest who demanded a deference even the sky could not command.
With whose blood did she sustain her rule?
And how long do you have left to wonder?
With a shiver of fear, Anya suddenly felt recovered. She pushed away from the tree and the others, after a moment’s hesitation, followed her.
“Shouldn’t you rest?” Perrine said, looking at Anya as if she might blow away in the soft wind.
“I’m fine,” she said shortly, still hurt over Perrine’s fear of her.
She turned back to Sabina, slowing her step to keep even with her. “Edgard. Whenever he calls. Whatever he asks. Sylas can’t refuse.” She wondered how far Edgard had tested that enforced loyalty.
“He refuses some things,” Sabina said, a bit defensively. “I know he won’t do tongue-tyings. He’s sentimental. Like with his charity work.”
Tongue-tying? What under all seven skies did that mean?
What it sounded like, she supposed. While she thought of spellscribes as artists of the flesh more than as healers, she knew they were both.
But she had never thought of their magic as a weapon.
As she understood it, they took oaths against it.
She remembered asking Sylas in mockery what he meant to do with his pen if someone had attacked them in the park.
She supposed the limits to the ways a spellscribe could harm another’s body were only of scruples, and imagination. And oaths.
But something else Sabina had said surprised her even more. “Sylas does charity work?”
Sabina nodded primly. “He takes himself to Lower Bunting and scribes for a pittance, far less than the market rate. Cures coughs and colic, birthmarks, bad backs.”
Anya couldn’t contain her surprise. “Why? Is it part of his indenture?”
Sabina shook her head. “Far from it. He comes from there; I suppose he thinks it’s his way of giving back.
The others think he’s a martyr, think he’s wasting his talent, especially for how artistic he is, and especially with his debt to pay back.
It costs far more blood to heal, no matter how superficial, so he’s out of commission for weeks after one of those little stints.
Aesthetic changes cost less and pay far more.
It’s why I pranked you, dear Anya – merely a trifle.
I do apologize again, for that.” At the last, her eyes lowered, and her voice took on an unaffected contrition.
Anya didn’t quite believe it – it was a bit too contrite – but she supposed Sabina had her own way of showing Anya her gratitude for saving her life; such as answering all her questions, of which she found she had several more.
“So it costs less blood, and pays more gold, to give someone a new nose than to cure the common cold.”
“Precisely. And he has all the wealthiest clients.”
“Then why bother curing a street urchin’s sniffle? Especially with the debt hanging over him?”
“As I said – sentimental.”
“I don’t believe it,” Anya said, shaking her head.
But, as she recalled his wistful staring out her kitchen window and plaintive speeches, the way he clung to beauty like a life raft, the way he rushed to pen a spell to help that woman before even knowing she was hurt, she realized it wasn’t so hard to believe at all.
Then how to square that with the vapidity, the carelessness, with the cruelty he’d shown so flagrantly yesterday? He wore many faces; some out of necessity, but not all. So which was the mask, truly?
And more importantly, why in all seven skies did she care?
“Why did you two split up, again?” Sabina pried.
“He didn’t want my services any longer,” Anya dismissed. “Thought he could manage on his own.”
Sabina raised a prim eyebrow. “Wasn’t he wearing those gloves at our ill-fated dinner party?”
“I needed a pair and he had one. Purely practical. Or…no, it must have been charity, as you said.”
A knowing, amused look lit Sabina’s eye, and she shook her head. “No, Anya. Not that.”
“Well, you need a hunter, and we need a wizard,” Perrine said to Sabina. Anya felt a pang at the word we. She had to get away, had to catch the phoenix, and interrogating one scribe about another wouldn’t get her any closer. In fact, she was properly sick of scribes.
“Why don’t the three of us work together?” Perrine suggested.
Sabina appraised Perrine, her height, her rifle, eyes lingering on her short, feathery hair illuminated like a halo in the sun.
“A fine idea,” she said uncertainly. “But my king won’t like it very much if I help your kingdom become eternal in place of his.”
“Yes, there is that,” Perrine admitted, crestfallen.
“Tell me,” Sabina said. “How does a woman fare on her own in your country?”
“On her own?”
“You know,” she prompted. When Perrine shook her head, Sabina sighed curtly and lowered her voice. “Unmarried.”
Now Perrine brightened. “Quite well. Once I have the coin, I’m going to purchase and run my own restaurant, with top references. Can a woman do that in Gescany?”
“I’m not sure many have tried,” Sabina returned. “The sort who’d have the funds generally aren’t the sort interested in that kind of thing. Paying someone else to, perhaps.”
“And what are they interested in?”
“Parties,” answered Anya. “Pranks.”
“Power,” Sabina returned. “It’s all I want. A little independence.”
“I admire that in a woman,” Perrine said. “An independent spirit.”
“It is an admirable quality,” Sabina concurred. “The exact kind of thing you’d want in a business partner.”
“In all kinds of partners,” said Perrine.
“Seven skies,” Anya groaned.
“It’s why I became a king’s wizard.” Sabina pressed her lips together. “Only, it hasn’t panned out quite the way I imagined. I’m just as talented as the men, certainly far more than some of them, but – oh!”
Sabina let out a high-pitched squeal of disgust. Focused on Perrine, she had stepped in something up to the ankle of her kitten-heel boots. A wet pile of dark red sludge.
Perrine grabbed her by the shoulders and jerked her backward. Her boot made a squelching sound as she pulled it free.
Anya crouched low to examine the muck. The noxious smell of decaying blood slipped up her nostrils.
The texture reminded her of a rare treat Johanna used to make, one that paired well with the walnut flour biscuits. Rose hip and raspberry jam. Dark red, glistening and thick, filled with shining little bits of sweet rose hip, sprinkled with raspberry seeds and dark flecks of mint leaf.
The bits and flecks floating in this pile were not seeds or leaves.