Chapter Eighteen
Penn sat on a rock, struggling to bandage his injured hand. The fact it was his dominant hand made his work more tangled than a ball of yarn after a kitten played with it. Teeth gritted in frustration, he began to rip it off, intending to start over.
A pair of scarred hands grabbed his, halting his destruction.
He refused to look up at the mage. If he didn’t look, he could pretend Valerian had won.
That when he’d opened his eyes, they’d both been hazel, proving he’d freed himself from Alistair’s mental hold.
Penn could pretend that he hadn’t already seen the mismatched eyes gazing back at him.
The hands were surprisingly gentle as they unwound the soiled bandages and replaced them with clean ones. The left hand still bore its own wounds so the mage’s efforts were hardly better.
“Tell me what happened.” Despite the soft tone, it was clearly an order.
“Which part?” Penn asked. “The part where you lost control of your magic and dumped me into a river? Or when I had to drag you out of it, so you didn’t drown or freeze to death?
Or when you almost bled to death? Or perhaps you want to hear about how, when I dragged you back to Niall to seek his help, he tried to kill me. Any of that catch your interest?”
The mage’s thumb gently stroked the sensitive skin of Penn’s wrist, right below where the bandages stopped. “That is not the story Niall told.”
“Then I guess you need to tell me what happened according to your faithful servant,” Penn snapped, spitting out the last two words.
The thumb continued its gentle path back and forth across Penn’s skin, as steady as a metronome. “Niall said you attempted to kill me while I was vulnerable, so he stopped you.”
Penn snorted. So he claimed he won our fight?
Did that kick to the head damage his memory?
He finally looked up at the mage, focusing only on the hazel eye.
“I have done everything in my power to keep Valerian alive. I gave myself to you, I’ve cooperated, I haven’t tried to run or turn you over to the authorities.
Why would I waste all my efforts to then turn around and kill you?
” He raised his hand to the mage’s throat, pressing his thumb against the prominence.
“If I wanted to kill you, if I was willing to hurt you at all, everything would be so much easier.”
The mage gazed at him. There was no spark of magic or attempt to defend himself. He arched his head back slightly, as if to give Penn better access. “You won’t kill me.”
Penn squeezed his eyes shut. “No, I won’t.”
The mage’s other hand slipped behind Penn’s head to tangle in his hair. “You won’t betray me.”
The moment stretched on as he waited for something. Licking his lips, Penn whispered, “I won’t betray you.” With his eyes closed, he could make the vow to Valerian alone.
The hand twined in his hair tightened, pulling Penn closer. “You won’t leave me.”
Leave me, Val had begged before he lost consciousness again. How much did he know about Alistair’s actions while in his body? Did Val know the other mage had inherited his affection for Penn, twisting it into obsession?
If Penn left, it would only save himself. Valerian would still be under Alistair’s control. Alistair would be free to regroup with his allies, rise to power again. Penn was the only one who cared about stopping Alistair and saving Valerian.
“I won’t leave you.” When Penn spoke, his lips brushed against the mage’s.
The mage closed the distance between them to kiss Penn, tasting his promises and swallowing them whole.
A tear trailed down Penn’s cheek. All he wanted was to open his eyes and see Val staring back at him. Since he knew that wouldn’t be the case, he kept them firmly shut, holding onto Valerian’s name for every second of the kiss. Valerian, Valerian, Valerian.
The mage finally pulled away and said, “I’ve dealt with Niall.”
Penn opened his eyes and looked over his shoulder. The carriage door was open, showing Niall inside, slumped over. He would have appeared to be a bloated corpse if it weren’t for the wheezing snores. “What did you do?”
“The memory of your fight would not serve my purposes,” Valistair explained, standing upright.
A shudder went down Penn’s spine at the calm way he discussed tampering with someone’s mind. “What did you replace it with?”
“Nothing. It is easier and less invasive to snip a stray thread than to patch a hole. He will remember crossing the bridge and then falling asleep.”
“How do you plan to explain the bruises once they appear?”
“He fell,” Valistair replied, deadpan.
“Why keep Niall around? You seem powerful enough to have top shelf underlings, but all the ones I’ve met so far are bumbling idiots. That whole council couldn’t find their own asses without you drawing them a map.”
Valistair arched a brow at his colorful description. “He has his uses, as did they all.”
“When he was Head of Staff, maybe, and helping you rule Bellacosta from the shadows. But as a traveling companion?” Penn shook his head. “Even as a mage, he couldn’t help you with …” He trailed off, not sure how to describe the bloody episode.
“You have not seen his strengths yet, but I assure you, they exist.”
Penn shrugged, recognizing when it was time to retreat. Forcing the issue now would more likely drive a wedge between himself and Valistair than between the two mages. “Are you riding with him or with me?”
The mage looked to the interior of the carriage, his expression unreadable. “I will ride with you.”
“Then let’s go.” Penn climbed up into the driver’s seat.
Valistair sat next to him, his thigh gently pressing against Penn’s. From this angle, only the hazel eye was visible, and Penn could pretend he and Val were off on an adventure. No looming war, no villains, no transactions.
By tomorrow, they would reach Swallow’s Nest, where Penn hoped to make that daydream a reality.
Thirteen years after escaping Krasna Manor, Valerian had finally returned home.
Not home, he corrected with a grimace. The estate where he’d spent the first half of his life had been more like a prison.
But Master Imus had called it ‘home’ when he’d congratulated Valerian on completing his general studies.
“You’ve worked hard, boy. Take a break, visit home, and then we’ll discuss your future. ”
What he really meant was: show Lord Endre his investment.
The lord wrote Master Imus once a quarter to check on Valerian’s progress.
Valerian never saw the letters, only caught glimpses of them on the master’s desk before they were discretely hidden away.
Every time one arrived, their lessons shifted toward flourishing farms, clean rooms, and magical protections.
The type of magic a high and mighty lord might want his personal mage to perform.
Thankfully, these changes only lasted a week before Master Imus returned to the more interesting subjects, crossing every end of the spectrum: battle, divination, healing, and—Valerian’s personal favorite—transformation.
If he could have stayed until he perfected transformation magic, Lord Endre would never be able to track him down.
But transformation was one of the trickiest varieties of magic.
In his years of study, Valerian mastered glamours and basic enchantments.
He still had a long way to go before he could help someone escape their fate.
So he walked down the winding lane leading to Krasna Manor, hands in his pockets, cloaked in a studied air of casualness.
Lord Endre just wants a return on his investment, Valerian reminded himself.
I’ll show him the numbers, convince him that it’s more profitable for me to be a mage-for-hire than to save his crops or blight his neighbor’s.
He’d already made some money by assisting Master Imus and selling his enchanted items. He planned to present the small bag of clinking coins to the lord as his first installment.
As Valerian neared the manor, a turn in the road presented him with a choice: he could take the well-trodden path to the servant’s entrance, or he could walk straight up to the front door, like a guest. After a short hesitation, he walked straight ahead.
At the front door, he almost knocked, then noticed the bellpull to the side.
The estate was large enough that, unless someone was standing near the door, they might miss his knocking.
The bell was guaranteed to get someone’s attention.
If I knock, but no one answers, I’ve done my due diligence.
I can return in another year, after I’ve made a little more money.
He knocked lightly, waited a few seconds, then turned and started down the road again, determined to return to town before nightfall.
The door opened behind him. “Can I help you?” a woman’s voice called.
Valerian sighed and turned back toward the manor.
He recognized Mrs. Rutter, the same housekeeper who had served Lord Endre for over four decades.
The years showed in her graying hair and deepening wrinkles.
She should be retired by now, sitting around a fire, fat and happy with a dozen grandchildren.
Instead, she continued to serve the same master, a fate that might have befallen Valerian if he hadn’t been given a way out.
“Hello, Mrs. Rutter,” he said, giving her a charming smile perfected on the girls—and boys—living in the town near Master Imus. “You’re even lovelier than the last time I saw you.”
A confused furrow formed between her brows, and he wondered when she’d last heard a compliment. “Do I know you, young man?”
“Forgive me, it’s been a long time. My name is Valerian Sommers, I used to—”
Her eyes widened and she gasped. “No! Little Val? He should be twenty-five by now, you look barely sixteen!”