Chapter 11 Lysa #2
The connection to the ley-line seemed obvious.
In healthy environments, ley-lines fed ambient magic into the land above them, a slow, steady pulse that creatures absorbed naturally over time.
Bonded familiars drew more deeply from this well, their magical cores shaped by proximity to their human partners, but something was poisoning the flow here.
The energy moving through these creatures felt wrong, tainted with that same discordant rhythm I’d sensed in Fenrik’s chest. Instead of nourishing their magic, the ley-line was flooding them with something corrupted.
I turned a page. The footsteps continued.
The dead dragons in town had been bonded creatures, deeply connected to their humans, deeply connected to the magical current flowing beneath Abberwyn. Who knew how far this ley-line stretched even further, and how much of Lumenvale it crossed.
I turned another page. Still pacing.
I looked up at the wall. “Are you planning to wear a groove in the floor, or is this some sort of exercise regimen?”
The footsteps stopped.
Then, muffled but distinct: “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You’ve been pacing a lot.”
“I pace when I think.”
“You must think a great deal, then.”
More silence. Then the footsteps resumed, slower this time, as if he was trying to be quiet about it.
I snorted and returned to my reading.
An hour later, I moved to the parlour to examine a map of our realm of Lumenvale that Thorven had mentioned seeing somewhere in the east wing. The moment I settled onto the settee, I heard a door close in the room behind me.
Then footsteps pacing the length of what sounded like a dining room.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.”
I stood up, crossed to the door that connected the parlour to whatever room lay beyond and yanked it open.
Fenrik stood three feet away, caught mid-stride, looking like a cat discovered on the kitchen counter.
“Are you following me?”
“No.” Too quick. Far too quick.
“You’re in every adjacent room I enter.”
“The manor is large. Don’t flatter yourself.”
“The manor is large, and yet somehow you’re always on the other side of whichever wall I’m nearest.”
His jaw tightened. Silver flickered in his eyes, there and gone. “I have business throughout the house.”
“Business that requires you to pace in circles while I read?”
“I pace when I think.”
“So you’ve said.”
We stared at each other. The fire crackled, rain lashed the windows.
Fenrik broke first. He looked away, colour rising on his pale cheekbones, and said, “The sanctuary wards need checking,” before sweeping past me so close I caught his scent.
The door slammed behind him. The house, apparently dissatisfied with this outcome, immediately swung it back open.
I looked at the empty doorway, then looked at the ceiling. “You’re not subtle,” I informed the manor. “Not even slightly.”
The fire popped cheerfully in response.
Probably in wicked partnership with the house, Mrs. Crane had rearranged the dining room.
I noticed immediately upon entering, because the last time I’d eaten here in awkward silence, Fenrik had occupied the far end of a table long enough to land a flying carpet, while I’d huddled at the opposite extreme.
We’d communicated primarily through the butler, a nervous young man named Aldric who’d ferried bread baskets back and forth.
Tonight, however, my place setting sat beside Fenrik’s chair. Not across from him, where I might have maintained some pretence of professional distance. Beside him, close enough that when he pulled out his seat, his elbow grazed my shoulder.
“Mrs. Crane,” Fenrik said, in the tone of a man who has discovered his housekeeper has committed high treason, “there appears to have been a seating error.”
“No error, sir.” Mrs. Crane emerged from the shadows near the sideboard, her expression serene as a saint’s. “The heating enchantments are failing at the far end of the table. We wouldn’t want Lady Stormgarde catching a cold. She’s been straining herself lately and the air in here is quite chilly.”
I glanced at the far end of the table, where the candles burned steady and no visible frost crept across the wood.
“How thoughtful,” I said.
“Isn’t it just.” Fenrik sat down.
The soup arrived. Some sort of root vegetable thing, rich and golden, steam curling from the surface. I reached for my spoon at the same moment Fenrik reached for the bread, and our forearms brushed.
Heat. And I wasn’t thinking about the pleasant warmth of shared proximity, but actual heat, radiating from his skin through the fine wool of his sleeve. I felt it bloom across my arm and spread upward, settling somewhere beneath my collarbone.
I pulled back. He pulled back. We both stared fixedly at our respective dishes.
“The soup,” I said, because someone had to say something, “smells lovely.”
“It’s Mrs. Crane’s secret recipe.” His voice had gone slightly hoarse. “A family tradition.”
“Mm.”
I lifted a spoonful to my mouth. From the corner of my eye, I watched Fenrik do the same.
He actually ate, not just pushed food around his bowl or took a single bite before abandoning the effort like the past days. His throat moved with each swallow, and I found myself tracking the movement with rather much attention.
From the shadows, I heard Mrs. Crane exhale. “First proper meal in a week, sir.”
Fenrik’s spoon paused halfway to his mouth. Something flickered across his face, surprise, perhaps, or embarrassment at being so obviously monitored.
“Has it been that long since I’ve eaten?” he asked.
“Eight days, sir. I’ve been counting.”
I set down my own spoon. Eight days without proper food. That explained the sharpness of his cheekbones, the shadows beneath his eyes that I’d attributed to sleeplessness alone.
“The curse suppresses appetite,” I said.
Fenrik’s jaw tightened. “Among other things.”
“What else?”
“Is that actually relevant?”
“Yes. Everything about your condition is relevant. I’m trying to help you, remember? That’s why I’m here.” I gestured at the absurdly intimate seating arrangement. “That’s why we’re sharing a chair.”
“We are not sharing a chair.”
“We’re close enough that I can feel your heartbeat.”
The moment the words left my mouth, I regretted them.
Because it was true, I could feel it, that strange doubled rhythm pulsing through the air between us, and now we were both aware that I was aware, and the heat radiating from his arm had intensified to the point where I half-expected my sleeve to start smouldering.
Fenrik set down his spoon. “You can feel my heartbeat.”
“It’s rather loud.” I reached for my wine glass, desperate for something to do with my hands. “And slightly off-rhythm. Like a drummer who’s had too much ale.”
“How flattering.”
“I’m a healer, not a poet.”
“Evidently.”
The fire crackled. Rain hammered the windows. I took a long sip of wine and tried to organise my thoughts into something resembling coherence.
“The creatures in the sanctuary,” I said. “They’re all showing the same symptoms. Silver threading beneath the skin, erratic magical discharge, sensitivity to the ward fluctuations.”
“I’m aware.”
“Three bonded dragons died in town last night. Identical presentation.”
His hand tightened on his glass. “I hadn’t heard.”
“Maren sent word this morning. And Thorven mentioned something interesting.” I set down my wine, turning slightly in my chair to face him. Our knees nearly touched beneath the table. “He saw Lady Kelda’s carriage outside one of the victims’ homes. The evening before the dragon died.”
“So? Kelda has many acquaintances in town,” Fenrik said.
“She was watching the house. From her carriage. In the rain. For no apparent reason.”
“Perhaps she enjoys the weather.”
“Perhaps she’s—“ I stopped, reconsidered, then started again. “The energy coming off you right now. Can you feel it?”
“I feel many things right now.” His voice had dropped, rough-edged. “Most of them inappropriate for dinner conversation.”
Heat flooded my cheeks. “I meant the magical energy. The static.”
“Ah.” He didn’t sound disappointed, more... resigned. “Yes. It worsens when my control slips.”
“It’s not just worsening.” I leaned close enough to see the silver threads flickering beneath the skin of his throat.
“It’s reaching out. Like a signal fire, but magical.
Every creature bonded to this land, every familiar drawing power from the ley-line, they’re answering to whatever you’re sending them. ”
Understanding dawned in his eyes. Horror followed close behind.
“The deaths,” he said. “The silver veins. They’re not just similar to my symptoms, they’re—“
“Echoes,” I finished. “You’re the source. And if Thorven’s right about what he saw...” I swallowed. “Lady Kelda isn’t trying to cure you, Fenrik. She’s tuning you. Like an instrument.”
Fenrik held my gaze. Had the man ever smiled in his life? “That is a mad explanation,” he said. “And an even wilder accusation.”