Chapter 37
SANDSTORMS, SPITE, AND SWELTERING SWEAT
A few days after Miss Penelope’s visit, one of Ashburnum’s famous sandstorms hit. One didn’t need to be a weather sorcerer to interpret the signs of the impending siliceous assault, but that didn’t stop them from crowing about it in the Leightonian market squares along the Strip.
This one was expected to be a “Visibility is Dramatic Silhouette Only,” a step up from “The Horizon’s Looking Suspicious,” and considerably less troublesome than “Seriously Questioning My Ancestor’s Decision to Settle Here.
” The villagers finished their business and receded like snails into their shells, locking the doors and shutters of their domiciles and plugging the holes with rags.
The would-be Heroes who had not made the crossing yet all diverted to the Mud Crab, the only subterranean tavern for leagues in any direction.
Decades ago, folks had called Mistress Quiana mad for building her tavern beneath the ground and installing a two-door airlock, but in the heat of summer and during sandstorm season, her establishment was always cool and always open.
Bradley, who had weathered such storms before, wasn’t worried for the tower.
The worst these storms could do was flood the balconies with sand.
The environmental wards protected the workroom, and Dirk would corkscrew down the tower with a wake of wind that would whisk any sand that had found its way in through the porthole windows off the stairs.
But they had never had a ministry official camping outside before, and the tower residents couldn’t help but feel responsible for Sir Eustace’s welfare.
Millie pulled the edge of the shawl she was using as a face covering away from her mouth and leaned out the training room window.
She held on to the shawl for dear life, lest the approaching winds snatch it from her, and Bradley held on to her belt so the same winds wouldn’t snatch her from the tower.
The princess had all the wobble of a perfectly baked crème caramel, that is to say, she could barely keep herself upright after the merciless training the apprentice had put her through that morning.
She’d somehow survived—again—and had gotten him back with “Self-centered sorcerers slur sadly and sing stupid songs.” Sir Roger had berated them both: Bradley, for rendering his pupil almost physically useless, and Millie, for rising to the occasion.
“The one who loses her head in a fight is the one who loses more than her head, girl.” He’d punctuated his words with a thwack of his cane. “Lunge deeper!”
They’d called an end to Swashbuckling 101 when an unusually hot wind had surged through the training room windows, sand clinking against the hourglass. Within minutes, the sun had disappeared and the horizon had become a swirling wall of orange and ochre.
At present, Dirk used his magic to keep the worst of the wind and its stinging sand away from them, but he was only a baby luck dragon who hadn’t grown out his barbels yet.
“Hurry up,” he grunted.
“I say, Sir Eustace,” Millie hailed.
“You’re not supposed to be talking to me, Princess. I am a third-party observer, remember?” The little man in his three-piece suit had to first ram his elbow down on the center drawer of his desk and then use his hip to shut it, as sand had already caked the runners.
“But, Sir, this storm. Can your tent withstand it? Would you prefer to come inside?”
“Your Highness,” the ministry official said snippily, “the Ministry of Folklore equips its employees with only state-of-the-art equipment. This tent is enchanted to withstand dragon fire—I think it can handle a little sand tossed around by a Category Two sandstorm. And the tent stakes are immovable once driven into the ground unless loosened by an enchanted hammer.”
“Is Duchess with you?”
“Oh.” Sir Eustace’s demeanor instantly softened. “Yes. She’s quite comfortable on one of my throw pillows. We’re having caviar for lunch.”
“Thank you! Please keep her safe.” Millie would’ve included Sir Eustace in her well-wishes if she knew he wouldn’t brush them off.
The ministry official set his hand over his heart and gave a little bow. “But of course.” Then he stacked his stool upon the desk and carried the stack of furniture into his tent.
Millie flapped her hand, and Bradley reeled her back inside.
“The sand is already up to our ankles in here.” Sir Roger retrieved the hourglass from its sill so it wouldn’t break in the storm and led the way out onto the landing. Bradley shut the door firmly behind them.
Millie collapsed on the stairs and fanned herself with her hand. With the other, she wiggled her reticule open and fished out some salted almonds. “It’s so much hotter than usual.”
“You’re not going to faint again, are you?” Dirk pressed his paw against her forehead. He snatched up the waterskin, uncorked it, and practically shoved it into her mouth. “Drink.”
“I’ll be fine, Master Dirk.” She took a small sip and yawned.
“I don’t know what the two of you have planned for this afternoon,” the hedge knight began, “what with my pupil barely being able to keep her eyes open.” He let that hang there, gaze boring into the apprentice.
Bradley performed a nonchalant inspection of his fingernails.
“But,” Sir Roger continued, “after this sandstorm passes, more Heroes will come. Not all might meet your criteria and become instructors, miss, but it would be best to be prepared when they do. That means equipping them with clothes, toiletries, blankets and pillows for the cots, and such things. While you continue your search for a suitable suite and more clothes and accessories for your brand, might I suggest you seek to outfit your future instructors as well?”
He turned to Bradley. “And I assume you’ve got a handle on the food? Folk tend to mutiny when they’re reduced to half-rations because someone bungled the numbers.”
Sir Roger didn’t wait for their replies; he turned on his heel and descended the stairs for cooler climes and a well-deserved nap.
Part of raising the younger generation meant you gave them a problem to solve and walked away.
How were they ever supposed to accomplish anything if they weren’t given the chance to employ all they had learned, to succeed or fail without a safety net?
As the hedge knight disappeared, Millie and Bradley shared a look. Sir Roger was right, of course—this was their responsibility.
One that could wait an hour or two. Bradley pulled the sweaty collar away from his neck and readjusted the fit of his robes.
He was itching for a swim, but he lingered on the stairs to hear the princess declare she would be copying Sir Roger’s example and retiring to his bedroom to nap away the storm.
As much as he loathed sharing his bed with her, at least he’d know she wasn’t snooping elsewhere and discovering misplaced magical artifacts without a chaperone.
Millie labored upright and cocked her head as the storm began to howl outside. She licked her lips nervously, then shook her shoulders to relieve the tension. They were safe in the tower, she knew that. And yet . . .
There are storms all the time in Amberly, you ninny, she chastised herself. Sometimes hail that sounded like the castle was breaking, but never these winds and the scream of sand that make her think the world was tearing itself apart.
“Millie, are you alright?” Dirk asked, golden eyes narrowing as he swirled closer. “You’re not afraid, are you?”
“Me, afraid? When I have a wonderful luck dragon beside me?” she scoffed.
If she was, she wouldn’t admit it. What she was very willing to admit, however, was the heat of the storm had turned the tower into a soup pot. She was positively boiling. Millie grasped the guide rope to steady her descent.
She only took a few steps before her progress was blocked by an immovable wall of brown homespun.
The thick fabric clung damply, snugly, across a broad chest. For a second, she felt a powerful pull to hide against that broad chest, to have those arms layer around her and block out the roar of the sand slamming against the tower.
It was pure fantasy, and she dismissed it for the folly it was. Her chocolate-colored eyes flicked upwards into a stony face, and she smeared the sweat from her brow. “Excuse you.”
“Wh-where. Are. You going?” Bradley asked.
Millie’s tongue-twisters and his own dogged determination (and spite) had transformed his stutter into choppy sentences, if he took his time. High Aetherial was still beyond him, so his magic was useless.
“Isn’t it obvious? It’s sweltering in here. I’m not capable of thought much less looting the rooms again until I cool off.” Her gaze narrowed. “Unless you want me to swoon. Eager to get me in your arms again, are you? What a rake you are, sir.”
The apprentice’s cheeks ignited.
It was so easy to tease him. And tease him she must, because he made her life nearly intolerable every morning with his training. Not that she’d ever admit that either.
“I am g-going. To swim.”
The smirk vanished from her lips. Half the color drained from her face, too, lightening the tomato-like splotches of her overheated cheeks to dusky rose.
H-he was joining her in the spring?
Up until this very moment, Millie had been successful at forgetting that fiasco in the bathtub.
Now those memories returned in a rush, particularly that one where he’d spun her around and trapped her against his chest. She felt the wiry strength of his arms and the heat of his breath against her ear all over again, the hard press of his thighs against her backside.
In hindsight, it was scandalously titillating, but the apprentice’s sour personality destroyed whatever inklings of arousal his handsome features inspired. Especially in the face of what truly had transpired between them.
Millie had been entirely at his mercy. It wasn’t a fact she was remotely comfortable with, yet it served as a reminder of what other, more dishonorable men were willing to do to Amberly if she did not learn to hold her own. Become the One in Ten.
She would not be swayed off course. Propriety and Bradley’s preferences could go suck a pound of peach pits.
Millie lifted her chin. “Despite being raised a princess, I know how to share.”
“Jubilations,” Dirk cried. “Group swim!”
The apprentice didn’t move.
“One side, Mr. Donmarin, or I’ll be twisting your nipple again.”
That got him jerking out of the way, arm clamping protectively across his chest.
As she began her second descent of the stairs that day, she realized that the Millie of seven days ago would’ve asked Dirk to steady her with a wind. Now, the guide rope was enough.
Mutineer Millie grinned. She was getting stronger.