Chapter 4
WYLAN
“Ah, I don’t mean to be rude, but… is there a reason we walk everywhere in Tawney?” Lord Dren stood in the courtyard, eyeing the stables just beyond the gate. Inside, their horses lounged, perfectly content to wait out the winter in a magically-heated barn with a never-ending supply of hay.
Wylan chuckled. “Tawney is fairly small, despite its growing population. Walking isn’t much of an inconvenience—but calming my horse after she sees a dragon flying overhead absolutely is.
Just something we weigh here.” He tightened his cloak around his shoulders, offering his arm without thinking. “Shall we?”
Dren glanced at it, his cheeks coloring. Without a word, he looped his hand around Wylan’s bicep—which meant they were now standing side-by-side, performing an equivalent of holding hands.
It had felt so natural with Feo. Wylan hadn’t even realized it’d be awkward elsewhere. He cleared his throat and started moving, because if he didn’t give Dren time to assess what he’d done, maybe it wouldn’t seem so forward.
Maybe Lord Dren would simply assume this was the culture in Tawney, same as choosing walking over horseback riding.
As they strolled down the stone path leading away from the manor, Dren asked, “Do your citizens host bonfires often?”
“Oh, yes.” Wylan smirked, blowing to see his breath.
It was the perfect evening for a bonfire; absolutely freezing otherwise.
“My grandparents felt it was important to incorporate community during the coldest months. We paused for a few decades during the dragon attacks, since we had enough fire around then—”
“Dragon attacks?” Dren choked, twisting to look at the sky. It was getting dark out, so even if a dragon was soaring overhead, they’d be difficult to see against the gray clouds. “I—surely, the dragons wouldn’t attack with Queen Reyna here—”
Wylan flapped his free hand. His other arm, he didn’t dare move, lest Dren pull away.
There was something nice about their proximity, about the way companionship could be fostered in the slightest warmth against his side.
“Oh, they stopped attacking several years ago. A mere misunderstanding—one we needed Kianthe to resolve.” Wylan paused.
“I thought everyone in the Queendom had heard about Tawney’s dragon attacks. It gave us quite the reputation.”
Lord Dren hesitated. “Admittedly, I didn’t spend much time learning about the north. I was… more than shocked when Miss Tessalyn contacted me about this position.” He sounded embarrassed.
Wylan directed them through a narrow alley, the fastest path to the town square. “You must have done something to grab the Capital’s attention. Local government work, perhaps?”
“Something like that. Lord Jaquine was… well, you met her.”
Wylan distinctly remembered the crotchety old woman who’d visited from Mercon for Kianthe and Reyna’s wedding—and Tilaine’s inevitable downfall.
After Reyna took the role of sovereign, Jaquine had bitched about Reyna’s lack of “proper bloodlines,” even though—according to Locke, the Queendom’s old spymaster—Jaquine’s father had been a tanner, and she’d seized the title of lord illegally.
He also remembered, two years ago, Reyna calmly implemented age limits on lords, to “better represent the population.” Jaquine’s child, far more loyal, had replaced their mother as Mercon’s new lord. Wylan secretly hoped any tea Jaquine brewed in retirement was bitter and unsweetened.
“She was a treat,” Wylan muttered.
“She was better suited for Tilaine’s rule, not Queen Reyna’s.
” Dren shook his head. “I’m an accountant.
When I presented her with proof that our citizens were losing too much money to her taxes, she refused to change.
So, I rallied the citizens to bring attention to the matter on a wider scale.
That’s when I met Tessalyn and Queen Reyna—a couple years ago, we marched to the Capital to report her. ”
Interesting. Wylan had always wondered when age limits had become a sticking point for Reyna, someone raised with the old Queendom laws where a lord ruled until the day they died. Now he knew.
And how very convenient that it removed Reyna’s final dissenter in the process.
“Well, it sounds like you put yourself on the map.” Wylan squeezed Dren’s arm, then gently separated. They were one turn away from the town square, and people would whisper if they arrived arm-in-arm. “I’ll be delighted to see how you improve on Jaquine’s procedures in Pine Island.”
“Me too,” Dren said doubtfully. “But thank you, Wylan. It’s… nice to be accommodated.”
“My pleasure.” Wylan tried to ignore the happiness flooding his chest at the gratitude in Lord Dren’s eyes. It doesn’t mean anything, Wylan thought. He’s grateful for a friend. Nothing more.
But it felt like more.
They stepped into the town square, and a boisterous cheer arose through the crowd. For a confusing moment, Wylan thought the Tawneans were cheering at their arrival, but it only took a breath to realize what was happening.
A competition between the Alchemicor and the Arcandor.
Two bonfires, two mages stoking the flames.
Reyna held a tight grip on her daughter’s shoulders, keeping her from racing forward, and several other parents were doing the same with their younger kids.
Older ones were rolling a paste of finely ground nuts and honey onto the ends of a few sticks and shoved then into the flames, marveling as the paste burst into flames and swiftly turned into caramelized torches.
“Give up yet?” Kianthe sounded bored. Her bonfire was superheating the space. She kept it fairly contained, but the base spread much wider than a normal bonfire, licking at her boots and pants. She shooed the flames away and twisted a hand to bring it higher, thinning out the robust base.
Meanwhile, sweat beaded on Feo’s brow. A pointed alchemy circle encompassed their bonfire base, and the flames kept a perfect cylinder, climbing for the sky. Feo huffed. “Let’s try freezing time, and see which fire lasts.”
“Oh no. We started this because you were bragging about elemental magic.” Kianthe smirked, positively devious. “I never pretended to be good at time magic.”
Feo grumbled something and let their flame vanish, which seemed like impressive control over their magic with something as volatile as fire. “All right, all right! I yield. You are the ultimate elemental mage.”
“The Mage of Ages,” Kianthe prodded.
“The Mage of Ages,” Feo replied, rolling their eyes.
“Are you quite satisfied, dearest?” Reyna sounded exasperated, but also mildly amused. “Or would you like to welcome Feo back into our fold by defeating them in molem, next?”
To Wylan’s surprise, Feo wasn’t offended by that. They flapped a hand. “Kianthe can’t sit still for a whole molem game. But I’ll brainstorm for something else. Perhaps griffon racing.”
“Oh, Visk would be delighted.” Kianthe grinned.
She snapped her fingers, and her bonfire settled into a gorgeous flame, comforting and warm.
Parents released their kids, and across the square, Hansen started passing out pints of ale.
Sasua plucked a fired marzipan from her son, said something about bedtime, and stole a bite when he grumbled and turned away.
Wylan hadn’t moved since seeing Feo. They weren’t supposed to be here. All the bonfires over the years, and they hadn’t deigned to attend—which meant Wylan had grown comfortable walking around town. Comfortable interacting with his citizens, knowing his ex wouldn’t just appear like magic.
The party had been one thing.
A recurring incident was… terrifying.
Feo hadn’t noticed them, but Wylan took a step away from Lord Dren, just in case Feo glanced over.
It was incredibly obvious, and Dren raised his eyebrows, rubbing the arm that had previously been looped around Wylan’s.
Wylan stumbled through an excuse. “Looks like the bonfire is in full swing. Maybe you should grab some ale?”
It was a desperate request.
Lord Dren frowned slightly, but nodded. “Of course. I’ll, ah… mingle.” He didn’t sound thrilled about doing that alone, but he was also a lord of the Queendom—and they both knew that meant socializing with citizens.
So, he merged with the attendees, leaving Lord Wylan on the outskirts.
Which left him open for Sigmund and Nurt. The two town informants sidled up on his left and right, and Sigmund elbowed him. They were a Tawney staple, older, yet spry as ever. Wylan normally enjoyed their company, but considering they saw as much as Reyna did, today he wasn’t thrilled.
Sure enough, Sigmund raised a pint of ale. “The bereft lord, caught between his old lover and his new one. What a pickle.”
“’S a pickle, indeed.” Nurt hailed from the Queendom, and the sharp accent clipped his words—but the effect was ruined by the whistle of a missing tooth.
“Neither are my lover,” Wylan said, his voice hushed. “And I’d appreciate discretion here.”
Nurt raised an eyebrow. “Please, m’lord. We’re always discreet.” He exchanged a glance with Sigmund, and they both started laughing.
“Enjoy the bonfire, lad,” Sigmund said, clapping Wylan’s shoulder.
Wylan muttered thanks and ventured deeper into the town square, knowing they’d be watching. Frankly, between their nosey stares and Reyna’s sharp gaze, this event was looking less and less appealing.
Even worse that Quinn jumped him next. Literally—as he walked down the sloped path to the square’s center, the young girl leapt from the bushes onto his back.
Wylan stumbled, grunted, and automatically shifted to catch her weight.
She looped her arms around his neck, her legs tight at his waist. Her voice was a screech.
“Uncle Wylan! You knew the spymaster. Tell me tell me tell me!”
“Where’s your adult voice, love?” Reyna called, accepting a glass of wine from Matild.
Quinn huffed, her breath hot by Wylan’s ear. “Will you please tell me what Locke is like? Please?”
That seemed very suspicious. Wylan looped his arms under Quinn’s legs, holding her steady. “Why do you want to know?”
Quinn very obviously stared at Feo, then looked away. “It’s a secret.”
Reyna winked, and her daughter giggled.
Suspicious now didn’t begin to describe this situation.
So, Wylan lied: “The spymaster was very scary. He had magic, like your mother or Enty Feo. Some say even now, in retirement, he hears when you say his name—and he’ll sneak into your house at night and steal all your toys if you talk about him. ”
Quinn stared at him skeptically, which was impressive considering she had to crane over his shoulder just to meet his eyes. “That’s not true.”
“You asked,” Wylan replied.
Quinn scowled deeply and wiggled free from his hold, dropping back to the ground.
She ran into the crowd without so much as a goodbye.
There were other kids her age, but she ignored them, sprinting for an alleyway instead.
Wylan saw a dark shape, and when he squinted against the light of the bonfire, it became apparent it was a griffon with sleek black feathers. Ponder, then.
Kianthe stepped up to him, offering a pint of ale. “Welcome to the party, my lord.” Titles with her were always vaguely sarcastic, and she raised a glass of cider to compliment it. “Sorry for our terror of a child. Reyna’s teaching her to be a spy.”
“One conversation is hardly teaching her to be a spy. She’d need far more education than that,” Reyna replied, clearly insulted. At her side, Matild snorted and took a deep swig of her wine.
“Oh, my apologies,” Kianthe drawled.
Reyna sniffed. “You’re forgiven.”
Wylan shook his head, raising a hand to stop them. Every moment he talked to them was another moment Feo could mosey over. He needed to make the rounds, collect Dren, and leave. “I’m not even going to ask. Why—um, why is Feo here?” He lowered his voice into a hush.
Kianthe quirked an eyebrow. “At the community event? Near the place where he lives?”
“He hasn’t bothered in recent years,” Wylan muttered. He couldn’t keep the bitterness from his voice.
That made the Arcandor narrow her eyes in a somewhat dangerous manner. “Well, times change. Is it a problem?”
Wylan clamped his mouth shut, finding Feo across the crowd. They were chatting with Janice and Patol like they hadn’t vanished for four years. Janice laughed out loud, and Patol lightly smacked Feo’s arm in a friendly gesture.
Reyna answered for Wylan. “Oh, don’t be silly, dearest. Lord Wylan would never want to appear unaccommodating to the Alchemicor. He’s just finding his feet at this party.” She smiled at Wylan and returned her attention back to Matild.
Wylan nodded, suddenly feeling quite threatened.
“Right. My mistake. Have a nice time tonight, my lord.” Kianthe smirked and rejoined her wife. The music was lively, the townsfolk clearly enjoying themselves. In the shadows, Quinn conspired with Ponder, and Sigmund and Nurt lurked on the outskirts of the town square, always watching.
Business as usual.
Wylan sighed and stepped into the fray.