The Wielder
NOX
Nox is in her chambers when Larkin knocks. He does not wait long. “A messenger,” he says through the door, his voice low, already knowing she will not appreciate the interruption unless it matters.
“It had better,” she replies, not raising her voice.
The man enters, bowing briefly before stepping past the light and into the darker edge of the room. “There has been word,” he says quietly. “Teorin Rathmor has been found. He will come to Eryndor under cover of night. One night only. He requests an audience.”
Something tightens in her chest, gone just as quickly.
Beside her, Larkin frowns. “Eryndor?”
“The eastern court of Veynar, you imbecile,” Nox says. “Did you never learn geography?”
The messenger inclines his head and slips back toward the door.
A knock sounds almost immediately after.
Nox exhales. “Come in.”
A servant steps inside. “The king commands your presence.”
Nox smiles, thinking of the last time he insisted on playing dress-up on a corpse.
“This should be interesting.”
Nox follows, already expecting another round of silks and decisions that do not concern her.
The attendants move quietly as they usher her in, carrying bolts of fabric and half-finished garments, their hands careful, their eyes lowered.
The air changes the moment she crosses the threshold.
It smells wrong. Sour and heavy in a way that presses into the back of her throat before she even reaches the center of the room.
Sevrin sits at his desk as though nothing is out of place.
He does not look up at first. He is eating.
The bowl in front of him is shallow, porcelain, filled with something white and thick that clings to the spoon as he lifts it.
Fraisah. The scent confirms it, coating the air with something sour and clinging that does not leave.
Nox studies it for a moment before her attention shifts to him.
“How was dinner with the undead corpse?” she asks lightly.
Sevrin does not pause as he takes another bite. “Most unpleasant.”
That earns the smallest lift of her brow. He says it as though it were an inconvenience, as though he had been served something poorly prepared rather than confronted with something that should not exist.
He finally looks at her, his attention moving over her with brief assessment before returning to the bowl.
He lifts another spoonful, almost absently.
“She hates this, you know,” he says. “It is her least favorite.” He takes the bite anyway, unhurried, as though the observation requires no further response.
“Would you like some? I can have the kitchen prepare more.”
Her nose wrinkles before she can stop it. “No, Your Highness.”
He does not seem to care. He sets the spoon down and claps once, the sound carrying sharply through the room, and at once the attendants move forward, bringing additional dresses, richer fabrics, more elaborate designs, each one laid out with care as though the act itself carries meaning.
Nox lets her attention move over them slowly. “What are these for? Have you found others?”
“There are others,” he says. “Their dresses have already been chosen.”
Interesting.
She tilts her head slightly. “Then these are for?”
“For her.”
The answer comes without hesitation. “She may yet still be alive,” he continues, his tone even in a way that suggests the thought has been turned over many times already. “And when she is found, she will require new garments in her new location.”
Nox arches a brow. “New location?”
“Yes,” he says, as though it is obvious. “She will need to be sequestered somewhere safe.”
Safe. Sequestered. The words move through her mind with quiet clarity. Morrath brushes the edge of the thought before she lets it go. Surely even he would not be so reckless.
Then again. She studies him a moment longer, the faintest smile touching her lips. If Asharin is alive, she will not be for long. You will never have her back, Majesty.
He exhales, impatient now. “Lady Brinette, I am sure you have much to do. Let us make this swift.”
At that exact moment a knock sounds at the door.
Sevrin’s irritation is immediate. “Come in.”
The attendant who enters does not carry himself well. There is tension in his shoulders, in the way he bows too quickly, as though he would rather be anywhere else.
“I have received the daily update, Majesty.”
Sevrin’s expression hardens. “Well?”
“There are no signs of her.”
The room does not have time to absorb the words. Sevrin moves in the same instant, his hand striking the bowl with enough force to send it across the room. It shatters against the far wall, porcelain breaking apart as the white contents spread across the stone in a slow wet smear.
The attendant flinches. The others freeze.
Nox lets her body react a fraction too late, her breath catching as she draws back slightly before recovering herself.
Then she steps forward, her attention moving to the fabrics as though nothing of consequence has just happened.
Her fingers brush a length of blue silk, lifting it just enough to catch the light.
“This would be perfect for an intimate dinner, Majesty,” she says smoothly.
He does not answer, and she does not wait. Nox inclines her head, turns, and leaves the chamber without another word.
The hallway feels cleaner. Larkin falls into step beside her as he always does, his presence immediate and unspoken.
“He is absolutely unhinged,” she says under her breath.
“Unhinged and distracted, which makes this the best time to move. Besides, I cannot wear this bore’s skin much longer.
” She exhales softly, irritation threading through it.
“Do you know she does not have a single cruel thought? Not one. Not even a useful one. How did she ever manage to exist?”
Larkin lets out a quiet laugh. “I have created a list.”
“I am not surprised.”
“Arthen, Prince Colsar’s trusted advisor. A Matron assigned to Princess Asharin. A servant or two. A member of the guard. Another member of council. A court musician.”
“Good,” she says. “We will start with the Matron.”
Something like anticipation moves beneath the irritation now. “I hate matrons. This should be enjoyable.”
They slow as they near the chamber.
“Bring me what I need,” she says. “Meet me there.”
She knocks softly.
When the door opens she dips into a polite curtsy, her mind already reaching backward, finding the name she needs without effort.
“Matron Oramin,” she says warmly. “I heard your latest project is nothing short of extraordinary. What is it?”
The woman pauses, clearly unused to praise, her expression shifting as she gestures toward the table. “It is a hat. I suspect when the Princess returns there will be a child, and the frost will be here before we know it.”
Nox takes a seat, already bored. Why is everyone so obsessed with this girl? The Matron continues, speaking at length, the conversation moving nowhere of value, when a knock sounds at the door.
Larkin enters. He closes it behind him. Locks it.
The sack over his shoulder moves. Violently.
The Matron’s expression drains of color. “Brinette… what is this?”
Nox studies her for a moment, assessing, and finds she has no desire to feed from her. She has nothing in her worth taking. No edge, not even enough darkness to make it interesting.
She murmurs a few words under her breath. The Matron collapses instantly, her hands flying to her throat as she chokes, her body folding in on itself.
Larkin drops the sack to the floor. “How did you get down the halls with that?” Nox asks.
“How else was I supposed to do it?”
She exhales. “A fucking sack. Really?”
The thing inside thrashes harder.
The Matron is still choking. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
Nox leans down and snaps her neck in one clean motion.
Silence follows.
Larkin opens the sack. The thing that spills out is barely a person. Its body is thin to the point of collapse, bones pressing against skin, its eyes wide and unfocused as it mutters in a broken looping language, its limbs jerking, as though it cannot decide how to move.
Nox steps over the Matron’s body and stands above it.
She closes her eyes. Her power moves without resistance. The air shifts. The creature stills. Slowly it rises, its posture correcting in increments, something aligning that had not been before, its movements finding a control they had not previously held.
It bows. “Wielder,” it says. “I am here to serve.”
Nox smiles. “I need intelligence on everything within this castle. Every movement. Every whisper. You will report it to Larkin.”
Larkin makes a face. “Larkin, do not be difficult,” Nox says. “I absolutely will not speak to my own deathmages. That is beneath me.”
The deathmage turns its head slightly, its fingertips faintly gray at the edges, wrong against the rest of it.
Nox does not look at him. She lifts her hand and presses her fingertips briefly to the creature’s forehead. The shift is immediate. Its body changes, and when it straightens again Matron Oramin stands in its place.
“Well?” Larkin asks.
“She is fond of Asharin,” it says calmly. “And knitting. She dislikes most others. She has little access to meaningful information, but there is a gathering of Matrons tonight in the south wing. It is likely that information will be exchanged.” It pauses. “I will report anything of value.”
It bows again and leaves the room.
Nox exhales. “Well. That is one.”
Her attention shifts already, moving on.
“Now where the fuck is this Arthen?“