Chapter 15
~15~
A lise stood back, nerves in her belly, as Cillian thumbed open the Iblis lock on the outer door to his apartments, then popped the door open and invited Alise to precede him with a sweeping gesture. They hadn’t spoken on the short walk from the infirmary. Alise had a very strong sense that Cillian was waiting until they were alone to pursue his many questions for her, now that she was free to answer them.
She probably should have opted for the infirmary.
Wandering to the center of the living area, Alise wrapped her arms around herself and surveyed the small, cluttered room. She’d only been there the one time and it felt like a lifetime ago. It also seemed like very little had changed since then. The teetering piles of books that looked haphazard still covered every surface. Notes, scrolls, pens, and other bits of writing things occupied the interstices. Several shelves contained not books, but numerous small figurines and collectibles.
“I’ll brew your tea,” Cillian said, setting a tiny fire elemental to heat the teapot. “And warm up something to eat. Then you can go to bed. Are you cold?”
“No?” she answered, puzzled, then realized she probably looked like it, with her arms nervously wrapped around herself.
“There’s a throw there if you do get cold.”
Alise followed his pointing finger to the colorful quilt tossed over the back of what was clearly his favorite reading chair. Fingering the soft fabric, she knew it must be handmade, love in every stitch. For the first time she wondered about Cillian’s family, probably totally unlike her own. The kind of people who sent him to Convocation Academy with a quilt made with hands, not magic.
Though she politely kept her gaze averted from the notes he’d scribed in a surprisingly stylish script, she couldn’t help noticing the title of the book on the table next to the chair, bookmarked halfway through. The Saga of Sylus and Lyndella. “You’re still reading it,” she said aloud in her surprise.
“Yes. I apologize for my careless remarks about it. I still have issues with some of the content, but I believe I better understand why it’s so beloved. Why you love it, in particular.”
That arrested her. Also, this conversation was far better than the much-dreaded demand that she explain what Gordon Hanneil had said to frighten her so. “Interesting. Why do you think I love it?”
Cillian glanced at her from behind the high counter, meticulously measuring the herbal tea Healer Jonathan had given her. “It’s a study in loyalty, isn’t it? Beyond the intensity of the love affair, it’s a tale of a magical partnership where Sylus and Lyndella are loyal to each other until death—and beyond. They’d both rather die than allow the other to come to harm. They become a true, unbreakable unit, loving each other despite their flaws, perhaps even because of them. But ultimately it’s about unshakeable loyalty, the family they made with each other, one more important and profound than the families they were born to.
“Also,” he continued, “Sylus is arguably awful to Lyndella, but I can see why you find his behavior captivating.” He strained the tea, considering thoughtfully. “Nothing matters to him more than her, being with her, possessing her. There’s a thrill to that fantasy, that you could mean that much to someone else. In particular, that someone so difficult to literally everyone else in the world, would love you. Sylus loves only Lyndella, alone of everyone in the world, which makes her the center of his entire universe. That’s powerful.”
He brought her the mug, holding it rotated so she could grasp the handle. “Careful—it’s hot. But it’s also at optimal steeping time, so try to drink it quickly. You can sit there.”
She nearly protested that it was his chair, but also every other possible surface sported books and papers, so she sat. And sipped. Processing Cillian’s rather astounding assessment of the saga. “I mostly thought it was sexy,” she admitted. “And romantic.”
Cillian sat down in front of her on a low table, facing her, a half-smile on his lips. “No, you didn’t. I’ll accept that you thought those things, sure—and it is sexy and romantic—but I bet I’m right and you just don’t want to admit it. That’s fine.” He cocked his head at the ding of a bell. “There’s the kolaches warmed up. You’ll eat one.”
“You sure are bossy all of a sudden,” she griped.
He pointed at the book as he went to the kitchen nook. “You like bossy.”
“Not to live with,” she retorted, but had to swallow a smile.
“Well, now, that’s another conversation entirely. And it’s early days to consider such a big step.” He grinned when she scowled, annoyed at how he’d twisted her words, and returned with a steaming, fragrant kolache on a plate.
“Kolaches, again ?” she mock-complained.
“You know you want one.” He waved the plate under her nose. “Don’t be stubborn.”
“There’s the pot calling the kettle black.”
“Don’t be stubborn for the wrong reasons then.”
She took the plate. “I did eat dinner, as even you acknowledged.”
“Yes, but that was coming up on ten hours ago. It’s been a long night. And Healer Jonathan specifically said you needed nourishment after that healing session.”
Unable to muster an argument, she took the plate and bit into the succulent roll. It tasted even better than it smelled, the fluffy pastry melting in her mouth like buttered sunshine, the spicy sausage within a perfect flavor match, somehow more nourishing than anything she could remember eating in forever. Before she knew it, she’d gobbled down the whole thing, dabbing up the crumbs with a fingertip so as not to miss a morsel.
“It was really good,” she said belatedly, looking up to find Cillian watching her with an odd expression on his face.
“I’ll get you another,” he said, his voice slightly hoarse, taking the empty plate from her. “Drink the rest of your tea first.”
Obediently, she took up the mug, now cooled enough to be pleasantly warm to wrap her fingers around, and drank, watching Cillian move with efficient grace around his little kitchen. It was oddly intimate, even homey, being in his golden-lit rooms in the small hours of the morning, with most of Convocation Academy asleep. Almost as if they were the only people in the world. Which makes her the center of his entire universe. That’s powerful. Blushing for no good reason, Alise drank down the rest of the tea, ready when Cillian brought a second kolache and resumed his same seat on the table.
“You don’t need to watch me. I will eat it.”
“Oh, I know you will,” he replied lightly. “I’ve seduced you now. It’s simply a pleasure to watch you eat.”
She nearly choked on a bite and had to take her time chewing.
“You don’t allow yourself much pleasure, do you?” Cillian asked, then held up a hand. “A redundant question. You would no doubt argue, but I have observed the truth for myself.”
“There hasn’t been a lot of room in my life for frivolity lately,” she answered anyway.
“Interesting, that you consider simple pleasure frivolous, but we can debate that another time. What I want to know is what Healer Jonathan meant by telling you that whatever Gordon Hanneil suggested to you wasn’t your shame.”
Here it was. She couldn’t meet his gently inquiring gaze, grateful that she’d finished the kolache and couldn’t choke on it. “I don’t know either. Did he say that?”
“Alise.” There was a world of reproach in the one word.
She clutched the plate in desperate grip. “I’m exhausted and need to sleep.”
Cillian gave her such a long look that she thought he might refuse, but he released a weary breath and stood, easing the plate from her death grip. “Very well. I wish that you trusted me though.”
“I trust you,” she ground out.
“Then tell me. Let me be a friend.”
“You’ll be angry if you know.”
Cillian regarded her mildly. “Oh, Alise. I realize you’re in your head a great deal, but surely you can’t be that obtuse.” He gazed down at the plate in his hands, then abruptly hurled it against the wall where it shattered dramatically. Cillian looked from it to her. “I am already angry, darling.”
Cillian gazed back at Alise, who gaped at him in apparent shock. Not that he blamed her. Had he ever done anything like that in his life? No. Anyone who knew him would be stunned. He didn’t quite understand it himself—but he also squelched the urge to apologize. It had been his plate to keep or break as he pleased. If he wanted to throw it against the wall, that was his cursed prerogative.
Alise tipped her head and narrowed her sharp, black eyes. “I can’t believe you accuse me of being in my own head. You’re the one who’s always daydreaming.”
“Yes, but at least I am daydreaming about you ,” he retorted, still too caught up in the swell of anger to think better of the admission. But then, all along, he’d had a distressing tendency to blurt out his every thought around Alise. And she already knew of his feelings for her, if only because that fucker Gordon had used them against her.
“I apologize for that, Cillian,” she said quietly. “And I’ll accept the charge. I am guilty of being oblivious to all the world.” She let out a long breath and combed her fingers through her short, glossy hair. “I don’t want you angry on my behalf.”
“Why not?” He was genuinely curious and, in this interstitial bubble of time between night and dawn, he thought she might tell him. “I don’t think my doing this bothered you.” He gestured vaguely at the shattered pieces of ceramic, taking a step that direction to pick them up.
“Allow me,” Alise said, a waft of her magic blowing past him like a warm, rose-scented afternoon breeze. A bevy of earth elementals answered her call, coalescing around the detritus, eagerly consuming it. “And no, your brief, mild show of temper hardly would attract a glance at House Elal. My papa was infamous for his rages, all the worse when he was quietly furious. We all learned to tiptoe around him.” She looked briefly, profoundly unhappy, staring off at some memory. “Well, except for Nic. She always enjoyed his very best attention, until she manifested as a familiar, that is.”
“I’m sorry,” he told her, wishing he could comfort her in some other way.
Her gaze focused on him again. “Nothing to be sorry for,” she replied briskly. “I envied her all that time, sure. Probably I gave into jealousy when I shouldn’t have, since Nic suffered far more than I ever did. I could wish that Papa had loved me like he loved her, but at least that means he had nothing to take away from me. He punished Nic, hurt her deeply, by withdrawing his regard. He can’t do that to me.”
Couldn’t he? Cillian wondered, but didn’t say aloud. Piers Elal had a hook deeper into Alise’s heart than she realized, he thought. Hopefully he wouldn’t ever choose to use it. “Time enough to speak of these things tomorrow. The bed is through there.” He pointed, even though it was obvious. “You need to sleep and I’m keeping you up.”
He should have known better than to press her right now. It just gnawed at him, the need to know what Hanneil had said to terrify her, to do something about it. How could he begin to help her if he didn’t know?
Thing was, he suspected he did know.
“No.” Alise shook her head. “First of all, I’ll take the couch.” She held up a hand, jaw sharp with determination. “I won’t put you out of your bed, Cillian. Second, let’s finish this conversation, so it’s not hanging over me.”
A pang of guilt shot through him. This pressure came from him, from his needing to know. And what would he do once she told him? He couldn’t fight a wizard of Gordon Hanneil’s psychic might. But he could listen, and he knew from bitter experience—he’d at least learned that from the Szarina debacle—that telling someone of a painful thing lessened its sway over you. “Let’s sit,” he said, gesturing to the couch so they could sit together, then belatedly realizing he’d stacked it with books. “One moment.”
“You don’t have to…”
“Well, I will have to at some point, if I’m to sleep here.”
She didn’t reply, rather pointedly not renewing the argument over who would sleep where. He restacked the books without much regard for their previous order, though he kept a mental tab on the current organization, so he could revisit, then plumped the crushed cushions of the couch until they looked, if not entirely welcoming, at least not so forbidding.
Turning back to Alise, he found her eyeing him and the couch with a wry expression. “Do I even want to know how long that piece of furniture has functioned as a bookshelf instead of a couch?” she asked.
“Probably not,” he admitted, unable to quite recall the last time anyone had sat there. “I don’t entertain visitors often, so…” He shrugged, helpless in the face of his own foibles.
Alise sat gingerly, adjusting her narrow bottom, then frowning. “I don’t think anyone should sleep on this thing. Or rather, attempt it, as I don’t believe sleep would be possible.”
“I can sleep in my reading chair.” Sitting beside her, he had to acknowledge the truth of her observation. The cushions were packed hard as rocks. No amount of fluffing could save them. Oh well. “I sometimes fall asleep there anyway.”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” She twisted her fingers together, eyes darting away from his gaze. “I don’t know quite where to start.”
“At the beginning,” he replied promptly. “Here, this will help.” He scooted into the corner of the couch, half-reclining, and laying an arm along the back. “Lean against me.”
She looked dubious, but complied, edging herself hesitantly against his hip, then lying stiff as a slim board against him, tense enough to spring up at a moment’s notice. “Like this?”
“Yes, except relax. And maybe no spirit bottle,” he suggested as it ground against his leg uncomfortably. “Surely nearby is good enough?”
“Sorry,” she muttered, sitting up to extract the thing from her pocket and set it on a pile of books. He really needed to clear some space.
When she laid back down, he lifted the hand from the back of the couch to stroke her silky hair, going carefully, coaxing her into settling that busy head into the nook of his shoulder. “Better. Now tell me. Start with where you first encountered Gordon Hanneil.”
She nodded, then began. “There’s not that much to tell, really. Nothing actually happened, it was all suggestion.” She told the tale in fits and starts, staring up at the ceiling while he caressed her hair, petting and calming her. When she haltingly repeated the vile threats to assault her sexually, she began trembling. The fury coursed through him cold as chilled mercury, thick and viscous in his veins, but he held himself still, not allowing the tension riding him to leak through to disturb her. Alise wept a little, a few tears sliding down her cheeks to settle on his shirt and soak through, where they dampened his skin with her fear and sorrow.
She wound down soon after, correct that it wasn’t a long tale, just a horrifying one. At last emptied of the unbearable tension, Alise lay lax against him, her breathing deepening into sleep. He should move. Get up and get her into the bed. But he found that he couldn’t lift even the hand resting over her forehead, her light body a delicious weight he couldn’t bear to shift. Feeling his own heavy eyelids lowering, he instructed himself to move. To no avail.