Diamond in the Rough: a Fantasy Romance (Daughter of Fortune Book 3)

by Vivienne Savage

  Please.

  Her concentration was disrupted by the numbing, abyssal cold, so potent it all but robbed her of the ability to form coherent thought. Were her lips not frozen together, her teeth would have chattered. She reached inside herself and searched for the wisp of magic she’d felt that day dancing before an audience of one with only Xavier’s faith in her as guidance.

  Heat churned in her belly and warmed her chest, starting a fire that thawed the layer of ice encapsulating her body. Gasping, Rosalia burst from the frozen facsimile of herself and stumbled forward. Steam rose from her skin, followed by swirling waves of heat billowing from her. The silks ignited, and for one terrifying moment, she waited to burn alive. It didn’t happen, but the flames wouldn’t stop and continued to twist and spiral, raising above her.

  Rosalia willed her body to move. For the safety of those at the marketplace, she fought to rein in the awesome power stirring within her, only to find it resistant—a life force of its own awakening from long slumber. She’d been wrong to assume they were all gone. Spectators in windows watched, their faces barely visible behind fogged glass. Now people screamed for another reason entirely, in terror of the woman wreathed in flame. It spread faster than wildfire. Her blaze was a wick dipped in kerosene.

  A feline hiss preceded the next blast of cold air, frigid winds cutting through the flames rapidly restored as quickly as her assailant could extinguish them. She pushed forward, physically and magically, heaving her flames and body at the icy apparition. They collided, cold and fire, frost and unbelievable heat. Rosalia didn’t know which of them screamed the loudest.

  Within moments the solid shape of animated ice melted into slush and water, leaving Rosalia lying facedown on the dirty street with only the ashen scraps of what had been a fine dress. She didn’t dare to move. Her body refused to allow it even as white light washed over her.

  “There, there,” a woman said, her soothing tone accompanied by the blanketing of fabric over her shoulders. “Be still and rest your soul. Rest just a moment, for a moment is all that we have.”

  Who?

  “Breathe, child. Breathe.”

  Whatever covered her was warm and luxurious, softer than silk and light as a cloud. She huddled within it, did as beckoned, and drew herself into a sitting position. Her eyes opened to see the weathered features of Enchantress Elora, the white-haired wizard greeting her with a maternal smile. She held her staff in one hand, its gemstone tip emitting a gentle amber light. Rosalia wore her robe, leaving the mage elder in only an elegant, lace-trimmed blue frock of the deepest sapphire and ornate gold.

  “Elora,” she rasped. “Y-you—how?”

  “Let’s just say a little bird told me you were in need of aid.”

  Aid didn’t begin to describe what she needed as her awareness returned and she realized she was crouched naked in the middle of a street in the market square. Around them, what remained of her flames threatened to burn out, nothing more than soft embers and wisps of smoke. In the distance, the shriek of guard whistles sounded.

  Elora rose to her feet and beckoned for her do the same. “Come now. This place isn’t safe, and our time has run short.”

  Stumbling to her feet pitched her forward into the older woman’s arms. Her legs became jelly, and she still couldn’t feel her toes. Instead of crashing to the ground and taking Elora with her, the guild mistress supported her with surprising strength.

  “I have you. Come. Come. We have not a moment to spare.”

  That much Rosalia knew, but where they were going and how they’d get there when she could barely walk was a conundrum she couldn’t wrap her mind around, until they stepped backwards and the world around them warped. Light shimmered around them as the rapid thunder of city watchmen steps pounded against cobblestone. They burst into view around the corner, and then Gold Valley faded.

  Plush carpet spread beneath her bare feet and the fragrance of rich, spicy incense invaded her nose. A riot of smells replaced the market stall odors of smoke and a hundred shoppers. Gold Valley vanished as the spacious mage tower sitting room materialized.

  Elora guided her to the settee and closed the robe around her body. Within seconds of securing its fastenings, she reached within the pocket of her frock and removed a narrow vial with a shimmering orange substance, its glow as bright as liquid fire. “You’re safe for now. Drink this and let it warm you from within to replenish what was spent.”

  Rosalia didn’t think twice about upending the vial and downing its contents. Cinnamon and heat raced down her throat. Agony arose from what had been numbing cold, sensation arising in explosions of raw pain flying down her nerves. Magic did not come without a cost, and healing could not be done without pain.

  A lifetime seemed to pass before she could move her fingers and toes without discomfort. She shuddered within the robe and raised her gaze to find Elora studying her closely.

  “What was that thing in the market?” Rosalia managed to ask once she had control of her speech. Weakness had settled in her body, exhaustion weighing her limbs down until all she wanted was to collapse and hibernate until the next season.

  “A wraith—a fell creature crafted by an immoral madman,” Elora answered. The enchantress trapped Rosalia’s fingers between her hands, uttered a word, and blew on them. Invigorating heat seeped into her cold fingers.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s necromancy, an act of the black art that captures and enslaves the soul of the recently deceased.”

  “Did I kill it?”

  Elora’s sad smile provided all the answer she needed. “How can one kill what is already dead, Rosalia?”

  “But I saw it melt. It became ice and slush.”

  “You dispersed it. You defeated it—for now. Soon it will assemble anew and it will search for you once more. It will search tirelessly, for it needs no sleep and rest, no nourishment to sustain it but the hatred that brought it to this realm. It will chase you again and again.”

  “Then how do I stop it?”

  “There is only one way to destroy a wraith of vengeance. You must destroy the binding stone held by its creator. I’m afraid facing my former student won’t be an easy task. The thing reeked of his magic.”

  Rosalia shivered within the robe and drew it tighter, wishing she could shrink in upon herself. Now she was cold for an entirely different reason that had nothing to do with the bitter wind and pelting ice. She felt like a rag wrung empty of water and discarded, missing something vital. “Tell me more about it then. If it’s going to pursue me, I need to know everything about it.”

  “As you wish.” Elora’s mouth flattened into a tight, grim smile. “Due the very nature of their creation and required components, wraiths are a forbidden practice within the tower. A wraith may only be summoned from the recently dead. They are tormented spirits tethered by magic, doomed to wander this plane until they are either set free or have fulfilled the conditions of their slavery. The latter happens more often than not.”

  Rosalia sighed. Of course, it couldn’t be easy. Nothing had been since the evening she’d accepted the first contract from Hadrian that set everything in motion. “I guess eternal suffering and slavery is a great motivator for completing tasks.”

  “You guess correctly. For that reason and many others, we consider them to be the world’s most terrifying assassins. History tells us stories of ancient wizard kings once summoning them to do their evil bidding. They feel no pain, and they have no emotion save their rage. They are without pity and cannot be reasoned with.”

  “Help me to destroy it then, Enchantress Elora. Please. Help me.”

  “I’m afraid that I cannot assist in this. Not this time.”

  “Why not?” tumbled from Rosalia’s lips before she could help herself. “Isn’t this the mage guild’s purpose? To teach others and to neutralize magical threats to the kingdom?”

  The old woman sighed and pushed a cup into Rosalia’s hands, steam billowing from the top with
the strong scent of herbs and spicy heat. “Drink this. It will replenish your dimmed humors and rejuvenate you.”

  Unhappily, Rosalia sipped the bitter yet potent concoction. She grimaced. The taste lingered on her tongue and tickled her gag reflex. Rather than seem ungrateful, she chugged what remained.

  “Foul, I know, but good medicine nonetheless,” Elora said, taking the empty vessel from her and setting it aside. “As for why I am unable to help, there are many reasons. The most important is that I am needed here. Were I able to involve myself further, I would. It is not with pleasure that I leave you to fight this thing alone with Master Bane. But my arrival to whisk you away did not go unseen. It is a matter of time before those questions bring trouble to our doors.”

  “But the guild of magic isn’t beholden to the same laws—”

  “These are different times, and the enemy is as aware as you are of the treasure we protect. Teaching is our secondary purpose; this guild was founded to protect the Soul of Avarae, and once word returns to Gregarus that I was present to assist you, he will be justified in sending his army to face us. His generals will listen.”

  Rosalia slumped into the seat and let her shoulders fall, head sliding back against the cushion. She sighed. “How did you even know that I needed you?”

  “I felt the change in the spiritual plane and knew someone had summoned those things.” The woman flattened her mouth. “Caius has grown desperate. And now, it is far too dangerous for you to return to the city. The wraiths will be waiting.”

  “Then where can I go?”

  “The desert. The Moritta are who you must seek next, and I’m afraid it’s no small task to find them.”

  “Xavier mentioned as much.”

  The old woman smiled. “Then you already know the path before you. I can do nothing more than arm and prepare you for the journey. I may not be able to walk alongside you through the desert, but I will provide the tools for your success—and of course, there is the Soul of Avarae.”

  “What of it?”

  “It is yours to take. I sense purpose for it that lies beyond this tower.”

  Elora swept from the room and into the next one, her footfalls silent against the rugged floor. She returned with a wrapped bundle in her arms that smelled of dust and old leather, the spice of magic perfuming the air when Rosalia set the heavy parcel upon her lap and unfolded it. Metal buckles gleamed against dark leather, the armor masterfully made. She smoothed a hand over the supple leather and traced the contours while a magical aura hummed across her fingertips. Each tingle told a story, every subtle buzz made a promise.

  None of it was ordinary, and the value exceeded anything she’d ever held in her hands before, surpassing even the elvish anellan.

  “This is beautiful, but I wouldn’t call it appropriate for subtle work.”

  “Look again,” Elora said, placing a hand on the same leather. A tingle traveled over Rosalia’s hand and the leather sang—musical chimes a gentle whisper within her thoughts. The dark leather and its golden trim darkened to a smooth, velvet matte black.

  “Perfect. Thank you. Could you do one more thing for me? Can you…pass a message to a dear friend of mine? I need for you to send for Captain Adriano Anamesco.”

  Elora glanced to the side, gazed at something Rosalia couldn’t perceive. She smiled. “That won’t be necessary, Rosalia. No need to send for your friend.”

  “What? Why not?”

  “Because he’s already here.”

  5

  Aiding and Abetting

  While the guard legally ransacked his home and business, Moiranna kept him occupied with cardamom and rose-sugar dusted cookies, elvish grey tea, and conversation for the duration of the search. But he knew without a doubt hours later when the scowling watch sergeant returned his keys, face smudged with dirt and eyes filled with irritation, that they’d found nothing. He also knew what to expect from the pettiness of human men and didn’t count on finding either his home, storefront, or store rooms to be in immaculate condition.

  “I’ll go with you,” Moiranna volunteered at once. A woman of her height should not have been either so bold or brave. Her gnomish heritage placed her at just above his waist and made Xavier feel positively giant by comparison. The small people were quite tiny indeed, and their halfbreeds were rarely much larger.

  He couldn’t bear to inconvenience her. Worse, he didn’t want to bear the guilt of what would happen if the guard mistook her for an accomplice. “That won’t be necess—”

  “Come.” The younger woman strode forward and crossed the narrow distance between their storefronts, not to be dissuaded. He knew what she planned at once, to be a witness to crimes committed by the guard so that he might file the appropriate report, though he knew already that he was powerless to address their behavior.

  As expected, he found shelves toppled and creations tipped onto the floor. Sunlight streamed through the window, gilded beams glinting over scattered gears and exposed metal springs. He sighed as Moiranna ran forward to the middle of the aisle, her brown eyes large with surprise. Her small feet didn’t disturb the mess as she moved amidst it all and began righting objects that appeared undamaged.

  “Master Bane, whatever did you do to anger the guard this way? Surely you can’t have deserved all of this!” She gestured toward a clock with its innards torn out. Metal bits and ruin sparkled over the floor, the waste of a week’s difficult work. “Is it…a woman?”

  “A woman?” Xavier asked dumbly.

  Moiranna stared up at him, pity and curiosity warring for prominence in her expression. “You’ve slept with the watch captain’s wife, haven’t you?” she finally accused at the end of the long and tense silence.

  It took several moments for it to sink in. Finally, Xavier blinked. “What? No! Of course not.” He’d never touched a married woman. Of course, there was only one woman for him, and before her, there had been no woman at all, not for quite a long time.

  “Oh.” Her inquisitive gaze turned sheepish. “I saw her visiting you only last month, visiting over and over each day. We all wondered at the number of times. And…”

  They’d speculated. Nothing new. The shopkeepers of their wealthy merchant row often had nothing else to do when business was slow and the days were long. Unlike Gold Valley where the wares were cheaper and often mass-produced, each of them sold their creations at a higher value.

  One purchase was enough that he could shut his store for a day. Such was doubly true for Moiranna, who sold fine jewels and crafted trinkets of such great quality noblemen frequented her storefront to purchase gifts for their mistresses and lovers. Xavier did not often dabble in jewelry, but he would have been tempted to visit Moiranna, if not for his vow to fashion Rosalia a gift with his own hands.

  “I’ve no interest in married women, Moiranna. The woman came to commission a gift for her husband.” At her dubious gaze, he sighed and dropped his chin. “And to flirt,” he confessed.

  “I knew it!”

  “However, I set her straight, and she has not yet returned.”

  “Then this was vengeance on her behalf. Perhaps she fibbed and wove a tale worthy of this.”

  Xavier shook his head.

  “No? I cannot imagine you doing anything to…” Her voice trailed. “Ohhhh! I know what happened.”

  Surely, she couldn’t.

  “It’s about the girl, isn’t it?”

  “Huh?”

  “The dancer assassin.”

  With great restraint, Xavier managed to maintain a straight face. “Why would you ask that?”

  “I saw her enter your store, and Perry said afterward that he saw the two of you wandering hand in hand in the Twilight Gardens.”

  Ignoring that she and her husband had come frightfully close to the truth, Xavier shook his head. “It’s a shame what happened to her, but I haven’t seen her. Whatever mischief and misdeeds she may be up to, we are no longer in acquaintance.”

  Her stare didn’t ease. “You�
��re lying.”

  Any longer in her presence and he’d begin to actually sweat. For a creature barely over four feet, her stare was unnerving. “Now, wait—”

  “Something isn’t right here. I’m not a fool, and I’m not blind. Whenever news of a sighting from her appears in the paper, you are conveniently absent from the city.”

  Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, began the internal mantra dominating Xavier’s thoughts.

  While he panicked, she righted his shop, already stooping down to sweep bits of machinery from the floor and gather sprockets and gears spilling from a shattered clock.

  “I hope you realize you have friends in this community who would do anything to help you, Master Bane. We’re on the same side. We’re outsiders in this kingdom.” She stood on tiptoe to set her bounty of damaged goods on the ground, but she didn’t question him again.

  Many things came to mind when Xavier looked upon Moiranna and studied her—really looked at her—and took stock of the earnest expression comprised of genuine outrage on his behalf, and hurt that so much had been spoiled.

  In her features, he saw the capacity for a friend and yet another person to trust. The recent days had not afforded them many of the latter, and they were rapidly running out of time. Each day was one day that the crown moved closer to acquiring the jewels, and yet another day that they plotted against him. Their scheming wouldn’t end with the death of the dragon slayers.

  What do I have to lose?

  The half-gnome would either prove dependable or betray them the moment he turned his back. “How comfortable are you with explosions?” Xavier asked.

  Her arched brow provided all the answer he needed. “I’m half-gnome, Master Bane. Explosions are what we do.”

  Moiranna crafted a better plan in ten minutes than Xavier could have put together with several days’ time. Due to the infrequency of his interactions with gnomes, Xavier had not realized the sheer magnitude of their potential for mischief until she peered up at him with her dark eyes gleaming. If there was anything gnomes did well, it was explosions. The small folk weren’t to be underestimated.