35. Chapter 35 #2
My mouth went dry. I forced myself to breathe evenly. “Is this your craft? Are you an artificer—or an enchanter?”
Mireille tore her curious gaze from me and slid the ring off, setting it reverently atop the cloth. “An artificer,” she said. “I imbue metal and stone with magic.” A faint, rueful smile touched her lips. “To varying degrees of success.”
“She’s very good at blowing things up,” Reina added with a smirk.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t tell if that was a joke or not.
Guess I won’t be touching anything for fear of losing a limb.
Mireille’s fingers hovered over the ring. “But this…” She shook her head. “I could never achieve something so discerning. This is the work of a grand mage at the very least.”
“Or an artifact,” Reina said softly.
Mireille inclined her head. “Or that.”
A heavy, contemplative silence settled between them. In the rush to get me ready for the luncheon, and then the haste to get to the Tir, I hadn’t told anyone about the device I’d seen Thibault using on the king.
“Have you ever heard of an object that can distort magic?” I asked carefully into the quiet. “Or maybe drain it?”
Both women went completely still. Reina’s voice, when she finally spoke, was unnervingly calm, each word delivered with deliberate slowness. “Lady Lunette, have you seen such a device, or is it something from another of your Fae books?”
“This morning.” I nodded. “In the king’s chambers.”
Mireille went as white as fancy candle wax.
Reina’s attention pinned her with a glare just before she snapped at me. “Do not say another word—not here.”
Uh oh.
Mireille swallowed. “We’ve been friends for thirty years, Reina,” she said quietly. “I swear on my life, not a whisper of this will escape my lips. I know you wouldn’t hesitate to slit my throat yourself.”
“Promise I’d make it quick,” Reina confirmed, delivered with the same calm one might use to comment on the weather. Then, so quietly I almost missed it: “I’ve buried enough people I loved who died slowly. I wouldn’t do that to my oldest friend.”
Another chill ran down my spine. Reina’s gaze on Mireille had the exacting measurement of a master artisan deciding where to make the first cut. This wasn’t a joke between friends. It was setting expectations.
Except I was the only one shocked at this. Mireille only inclined her head.
“I’ll leave the ring,” Reina added. “Send me a report on it tomorrow.” Then, as if a curtain had dropped on the conversation, Reina turned brisk.
Her choices were swift and expensive. “We will take that,” she said, pointing to a collar of woven gold set with deep green stones.
“And that. Those three. And bring me your best emerald.”
Within moments, the selected pieces were wrapped and sealed.
Mireille handed them over to Reina’s waiting servants without further discussion or money changing hands.
I moved to follow Reina toward the exit, reeling and more than a bit frightened of what might’ve just transpired in the space between the words.
Before we left, Reina paused and cast one long, pressing look at Mireille.
Mireille smiled back weakly.
The ride to the castle blurred into a wash of motion and noise. I tried to mark the streets—the crooked baker’s chimney, the red awning of a weaver’s stall, the fountain carved with images of the forgotten gods—but my mind refused to anchor on any of the sights I wanted to remember.
It circled instead around Mireille’s pallor.
Reina’s alarm. The device used on the king.
Worst of all, the fact that Thibault hadn’t bothered to conceal it from me at all.
I’d known the mystery around the device would be bad, but I’d convinced myself it wouldn’t be any worse than bloodletting, a regrettably common practice among mundane healers.
And then I saw a man in a dark cloak, his form a silhouette against the building opposite the gatehouse, where the guards stood watch over the drawbridge.
He was watching us with undisguised interest. Still as a post while the crowd moved around him.
His clothes were plain but too dark for the bright streets of the Tir.
His hands were empty but held as if he would summon magic at any moment.
I looked away before he could feel my attention. My heart knocked against my ribs with rising dread. Something about him told me to be wary.
I didn’t mention it to Reina, but I could tell by the way she hadn’t looked at him that she’d already seen him.
My heart only started to calm when the portcullis rose, allowing us back into the safety of the keep.
Reina quickly ushered me through corridors I hadn’t yet explored. “Where are we going?”
“My rooms.”
Her chambers were as opulent as mine, though colder in tone.
Black velvet draped the walls. Silver trim traced the edges of furniture and doorframes in swooping lines.
The hearth was carved with snarling wolves instead of flowers.
Her family crest maybe? Even the rugs were dark—midnight threaded with moonlight.
It fit her perfectly.
Inside, Reina dismissed the lingering servants with a flick of her fingers. The door shut behind them, and shadows slid the heavy bar into place with a decisive thud. By this point, my nerves were in tatters. I started sweating as if it were midsummer.
I didn’t think Reina would harm me, but it felt like she was planning on harming someone.
She moved to her desk, where stacks of letters, wax seals cracked and some only partially answered, lay scattered. Then motioned to the chair facing her. “Sit.”
I sat.
“So,” she began, folding her hands atop the desk, “you saw an enchanted device being used on our king and didn’t think to tell me?”
I clasped my fists beneath the table so tightly my nails bit into my palms. “I have been a bit busy since this morning, Duchess Reina.”
Her brows lifted. “Fair… And at my doing. My apologies.”
I was so taken aback by the concession that a grin crept across my face. I pointed at the mantel. “You’re something of a dire wolf when it comes to your family. I like it.”
A corner of her mouth twitched. “I deserve that characterization.”
“It was that or a badger with very long claws. Thought you might like the wolf better.”
She shrugged, unbothered. Then leaned back slightly, eyes narrowing.
“As you so graciously educated my nephew, I display the stereotypical traits of a Nocthel. I was simply…trained to fight a different kind of war. One fought with secrets and strategy instead of conjured weapons. And to do that, I need information.”
I told her then, in full, what I’d witnessed in the king’s chamber.
I described the slender black instrument with a silver lattice pattern.
Its discordant low hum as Thibault passed it over the king’s sleeping form.
The way the king’s magic had felt thin and frayed when it had been so much stronger just the night before.
With each word, Reina’s tension visibly mounted, her breathing shallow. Her fingers tapped once, twice, against the desk before flattening, palm down, as if holding back something violent.
“He didn’t even try to hide it from me,” I finished.
I refused to be small. I made myself sit straighter and ask the question I’d been circling since we left the jeweler.
“What I don’t understand is why you care so much.
If Berian died, Owain would be king. And—forgive my bluntness—your relationship with the king seems rather… one-sided.”
Her gaze locked with mine.
“You are correct on all counts,” she replied slowly.
“The problem is that right now, Owain does not want to be king. His brother has spent the last twenty years convincing him that he’s a stain on the royal family, that he’s beneath them, a failure.
And, Lunette, a reluctant king is vulnerable.
Weakness—even if it is only in his mind—invites all manner of ambitious vultures to circle the throne. ”
I suddenly understood. The worried look Owain had worn the first time his eyes flashed black in my presence, how he’d seemed to think I’d cringe from his magic. He’d been convinced he was less because he was Nocthel. When the exact opposite was true—he was more.