Chapter Twenty-Nine
Penn had completely lost the mage’s attention. Days passed with Valistair barely looking at him, too absorbed in Val’s grimoires.
The shift in attitude thrilled Niall, who poked and prodded Penn during every opportunity. Hissing in his ear, “Soon, he’ll tire of you completely” or “your death will be so satisfying.” Though he was careful never to speak loud enough to disturb his master’s reading.
Penn kept a neutral expression even as he fantasized about slitting the traitor’s throat.
I’ll hide the body and take over driving the carriage.
Valistair is so preoccupied, he might not even notice a change in direction.
I could take him to Adelaide’s cottage, like we’d planned.
Though I have no idea how to help him once we get there …
Bringing the mage to Adelaide’s cottage would do no good if the Witch wasn’t there to heal him, but it could cause real harm to Adelaide and her daughter if they’d fled there after the fight. After buying their freedom, Penn wouldn’t risk bringing Alistair to their doorstep unannounced.
The sudden snap of a closing book brought Penn out of his thoughts. Startled, he glanced at the mage, expecting him to immediately dive into the next riveting read, only to find those mismatched eyes locked on him.
“You’re wearing a glamour,” Valistair said with no prelude.
First thing he says to me all day, and it’s still about magic. “Yes.”
“It’s one Valerian crafted?”
A needle pricked Penn’s heart at the mage talking about Valerian while abusing his body. “Yes.”
“Come here.” The mage patted the bench next to him.
Penn’s jaw tightened and he leaned more firmly against the carriage wall.
“Are you sulking because I’ve neglected you?” Valistair asked, lips quirked in amusement. “I promise to pay more attention to you going forward.”
Penn didn’t think anything good could come of the mage familiarizing himself with Valerian’s work, but he still needed to play along, at least until he had a solid plan for how to save Val. So Penn planted himself on the bench next to the mage, close enough for their thighs to touch.
Valistair took Penn’s hands, twisting them to examine both the backs and the palms. Not finding what he wanted there, the mage carefully slid his hands up Penn’s wrist, pushing his sleeves up, examining each inch of his skin.
The rough callouses on Val’s warm palms reminded Penn of other times they’d been intimate, before Alistair had taken over.
The missing fingers on his left hand reminded Penn that his lover was still in danger.
“Ah, here it is,” Valistair murmured softly, twisting Penn’s shoulder to examine the faded mark. The tattoo had been a dark, intricate glyph while fresh, but in the past few weeks, the ink faded to a faint gray, the lines blurred. “The magic is almost spent.”
“It didn’t last as long as he wanted,” Penn admitted.
The glamour was supposed to buy him a few months of a new identity while he helped Silas take his kingdom back from the traitors.
It was almost a good thing the plan failed before it’d even fully begun or Penn’s darkening hair and complexion would have drawn the wrong attention.
The mage’s gaze grew distant as he brushed a thumb back and forth over the spell mark. “I prefer your original appearance.”
The real Val likes me no matter how I look.
The warmth of Valistair’s touch grew so hot it burned. Penn instinctively tried to pull away from him, but the mage tightened his hold and continued tracing his thumb over the tender skin.
“What are you—”
The heat turned to a sharp, slicing pain, as if the mage was cutting something out of him.
Penn finally yanked his arm out of Valistair’s grasp and threw himself onto the other bench.
He lifted one foot to block the mage from following him and clapped a hand over his injured arm.
Except there was no blood, no bubbling skin, no lingering pain.
Penn craned his neck to examine his shoulder and saw that the faint tattoo had completely disappeared.
Not only that, but his skin was darker, back to his original amber complexion.
He ran a hand through his hair and pulled a lock into view, shocked to see deep, raven wing black rather than the pewter it had been when last he’d looked in a mirror.
His voice was faint as he said, “Valerian said he couldn’t remove the glamour. ”
“I am not Valerian,” the mage reminded him with a mix of annoyance and amusement. “I broke the glamour like I would break a curse or a ward, unraveling it at its root.”
“Why?”
“To see if I could.”
The hair stood up on the back of Penn’s neck.
What else will he learn from Val’s grimoires?
Penn eyed the books, considering the best way to remove them before Alistair learned all of Val’s tricks.
Toss them out the carriage? Burn them in a hearth or campfire the next time they stopped for the night?
But he hesitated, because what if while Alistair read, Valerian also absorbed information?
A hand covered the nearest book and tucked it close to the mage’s side, out of Penn’s reach.
I need to stop fucking second-guessing everything and act.
The slowing of the carriage drew Penn’s attention back to the road.
On their way to Swallow’s Nest, Niall had forced the reins into Penn’s hands at every opportunity.
Since leaving the small town, Niall had insisted Penn stay in the carriage, only allowing him two or three breaks throughout the day to stretch his legs or piss.
It was a little soon for another break, but Penn wouldn’t complain. He wanted to put some space between himself and the mage, take the time to clear his head and think.
The carriage door opened, and Niall’s eyes raked over Penn. His lips curled up as he examined Penn’s original appearance. “Well done, master. Now that he looks like himself again, he can drive.”
Penn hesitated, looking between the two mages. Despite what he’d promised, Valistair’s attention had already returned to the grimoires. “Where am I driving?”
“Find us a border crossing,” Niall said, holding the door open and impatiently waving Penn forward. “Somewhere we can drive the carriage through. I’m not walking through the bloody mountains.” When Penn didn’t move fast enough, Niall reached for his wrist. “We don’t have all day!”
“Careful, Niall,” Valistair said, his tone casual as he flipped to the next page. “He’s likely to bite.”
Penn bared his teeth in agreement.
Niall hesitated, eyes narrowing and lips pinching into a sour pout. “We shouldn’t be dragging around an untrained mutt.”
“You misunderstand,” the mage murmured, his mismatched eyes sliding up to Penn. “I want someone willing to draw blood for me.”
“Alistair, I—”
“However.” Valistair grabbed Penn’s chin and slowly stroked a thumb over his lips, parting them to test one sharp canine. “We don’t want to bite our friends, do we? Be a good boy and show him a clear path into the mountains.”
A shiver ran down Penn’s spine at the hidden threat. He waited until Valistair released him, then climbed out of the carriage and into the driver’s seat.
Wake up.
Blade buried in a man’s belly.
Bounty poster.
Pack.
Run.
Knocked out.
Wake up again.
Listen to Maksim monologue.
Whipped.
Grab the axe.
Throw it—
Wake up.
Blade buried in a man’s belly.
Bounty poster.
Wake up again.
Listen to Maksim monologue.
Whipped.
Grab the axe.
Throw it—
Again and again and a-fucking-gain. It would drive anyone mad.
Valerian could only hold on to reason, to the knowledge that he’d experienced this before, for a few seconds after the scene restarted.
For the first few rounds, he only knew something was wrong.
After the fifth time he woke up with a stranger’s blood staining his hands, he remembered who he was. More importantly, who he was not.
He was no longer the young mage who had only stopped running for his life once he was caught. That man was decades behind him.
He was Valerian Sommers, ex-mercenary, shopkeeper, and mage adviser to the King of Bellacosta.
Valerian salvaged each scrap from the mess of his own mind, holding onto them even as his body acted out the darkest memories of his life. The awareness faded quickly, leaving him at the mercy of the past, but if he could find a way to hold onto himself, he could change what happened.
He could break out.
Wake up.
One of Valerian’s hands strained and cramped as he resisted the urge to follow the same motions as always.
Instead of shoving the dead man off him, he held the man there, his other hand clasped firmly around the dagger.
No matter how many times he reenacted these memories, he would never learn who the man was.
No new information would ever be available to him.
He didn’t even bother to look at the stranger’s face this time.
All his attention was locked on the dagger in his hand.
Pull it from him. Wipe it clean. Stash it in your boot. Leave the rest of the shit behind, you’ll never have a chance to use it anyway.
His hand trembled as he tried to force his body off script. Slowly, the dagger slid out, slick with blood. The man’s body slumped onto the bed beside him.
Valerian reached for the dead man’s pockets but froze. Searching for information on his attacker would only waste time. He straightened and walked toward the door, every step like swimming against a strong current.
The first time he’d lived through this moment, he’d still been somewhat inexperienced.
He hadn’t checked for any accomplices, and he hadn’t searched his surroundings.
He’d even left out the front door rather than choosing a back exit or climbing out a window.
Valerian had spent too long as the hunter, so when he finally became the hunted, he made the same stupid mistakes as all the other prey.
This time, he forced his reluctant body toward the back exit. The boarding house blurred around him, difficult to focus on. Since he’d only lived there for a few months, his mind struggled to fill in the details.
Valerian grabbed the doorknob and slowly pushed the door open, gritting his teeth from the effort. The stars outside invited a dreamer’s gaze, but he refused to look at them, focusing on his surroundings instead.
Nothing lurked in the shadows.
When I find my way out of here, I’m burning this damn tree to the ground.
He stepped forward, focusing on stepping out of the memory and into the forest.
The scene went black.
Valerian opened his eyes to see Maksim looming over him again.
“Welcome home, Valerian.”
A hundred curses sped through Valerian’s mind. He didn’t pay attention to a word Maksim said—he’d heard it too many times already. The only thing Valerian had accomplished with his latest escape attempt was that he now had to suffer through every indignant lash as his present self.
The abuse paused. Maksim lifted Valerian’s chin with the whip’s handle and gazed down at him with ice blue eyes. “You have a steel will, forged in blood and misery,” he said with the echo of Alistair’s voice. “But I will break you, no matter how long it takes.”
He dropped Valerian’s head and walked behind him. The monologue didn’t continue. Maksim didn’t grab the axe. The whip struck Valerian’s back again.
Valerian didn’t wake up.
The scene didn’t restart.
It remained suspended in that point of time, with Valerian still bound to the posts, taking lash after lash, until he lost count.