by J. A. Comley
She shook her head automatically, and he sighed. “I would have thought watching him kill someone would have loosened his hold a bit. Surely, after spending a day with him, you cannot have missed the reputation he holds. Or do you think everyone in this city is somehow wrong about him?”
Starla bit her lip, unsure of how to describe her foggy memory without sounding like she was making an accusation.
His eyes followed the movement for a moment before he forcibly ripped them away, hands balling into fists.
That happens a lot. “Are you all right?” she asked out loud as his face seemed to become lined in pain.
He stood abruptly. “I am fine. I cannot help you if you chose to side with that monster, but heed my warning. This nice act he has going on with you is only so that he can get what he wants. He'll find some way to buy you. And once he has it, your life will be meaningless to him, the same if you refuse him.”
Starla stood as well, trying to keep on equal footing with him. “You didn't really answer my question.”
He seemed to swallow a glare. “Yes, I spoke to you. I asked you about Larkel to try and see if he'd messed with your mind yet. If you can't remember that, then I guess one of his cronies must have erased your memory afterwards, or made it seem threatening.” He looked her over and turned away. “Remember, I want to help. If you change your mind or realise you actually value your life, ask the innkeeper to send for me.”
She watched him leave and felt her mind breathe easier even as her hopes not to make an enemy of the Baron plummeted.
“At least I hadn't ordered anything more substantial yet,” the Makhi said, downing her drink and rising as Starla moved away from the table.
Starla gave the woman an apologetic grin. “I don't mind waiting if you want to eat.”
The lady raised her eyebrows. “Nah, I've already eaten, but it is nice of you to offer. Come on, let's get back to the inn, and I'll have the kitchens send something up for you.”
“Thank you.”
Starla closed her room door behind her and hoped the kitchen would send her dinner up soon.
Maybe the Baron was right. She didn’t understand the magic. How could she determine if all the mind-links she’d shared were safe, the information she'd gained genuine? Or maybe Larkel was right, and she needed to let him remove the magic blocking her memory. The Baron's social standing seemed to be better than the High Lord's, but he, perhaps, had never had to publicly make hard choices where there was no good outcome. She rubbed her eyes, remembering her time with Larkel and trying to get Raoul's voice out of her head as the High Lord repeated his words.
Don't leave without me.
Starla shook her head. There was no sense to this. She couldn't keep feeling guilty about something she didn't choose to do. The only thing she was guilty of was giving Raoul false hope. She should have been firmer. But that night, hurt and confused, she just hadn't been able to find her will. He had been the only true thing in a night of betrayal. She had also believed that the kind of man she would choose for herself didn't exist.
Until I arrived here and met the High Lord.
Distractedly, she started opening her parcels, laying out the tunics and nightdresses across her bed. She needed to be sure that she wasn't letting her heart lead without a solid foundation in fact. It was true that, thanks to their mental links, she felt she knew far more about the High Lord than their single day together would have otherwise allowed, but it had only been one day. Surely not enough time to be able to truly know if Larkel was the good and just man he seemed.
A sharp knock at the door made her stomach growl in anticipation.
“Good evening, miss,” said the yellow-clad servant, entering and closing the door behind her, “I am Mrs Fla'ik Lanteg. Here is your dinner.”
“Thank you, Mrs Lanteg,” Starla said, gratefully taking the tray. Larkel had said, during their tour of the refugee camp, that felwy stew was similar to lamb stew. Starla hoped he knew what he was talking about, though he had refused to tell her how he knew what lamb was.
She half smiled, remembering his mischievous grin.
“May I help you store those in the wardrobe?” Mrs Lanteg asked, noticing the mess of tunics and nightdresses covering the bed.
“Oh, thank you,” Starla said, setting down the tray and lifting the sky-blue tunic from the bed.
“These are lovely. Savianna's designs?”
“Yes,” Starla smiled, enjoying the opportunity for friendly chit-chat. She missed Pierre. He would have been a good, open-minded source to bounce theories off until this place, her relationships with the High Lord and Baron, started to make more sense.
“And with silk ribbons, too,” the servant whistled softly through her teeth. “You're the first foreigner here in a long time to have so much money.”
Starla felt her cheeks burn red. Surely the King hadn’t given her that big an allowance. Why would he buy me such expensive things? Had he meant them as gifts?
The Baron's parting comments echoed in her head, warning her that the High Lord was only play-acting, trying to buy her, or rather, her secret.
“Ah, I see,” Mrs Lanteg said, hanging the cream tunic between the light rose and the lilac. “They were … gifts?” She echoed Starla’s thought, the words laden with hidden meaning.
She dropped her voice and gave the door a cursory glance, as if she could see the Makhi beyond it. “From the High Lord?”
Starla shrugged uncomfortably. “The King wanted me to have proper Galatian clothing, and the High Lord was charged with carrying it out.”
Mrs Lanteg smiled sadly, shaking her head. She turned back to the wardrobe.
“What?” Starla demanded, not liking the funeral cast to the woman's actions as she hung up the sea-green tunic.
“Oh, nothing, miss,” she bowed, heading for the door.
“Please, Mrs Lanteg, what is it?” Starla said, stepping in front of the servant. She wanted to know what this woman had thought. She was an outside party. Her opinion could be useful.
Mistress Lanteg sighed, looking distressed. “If I speak, please don't tell him.” Her eyes darted fearfully to the door again.
“You mean the High Lord? Very well,” Starla agreed, dropping her voice to a whisper, too.
“It's just, well, I have a friend who works in the palace, and she said that the King didn't order any of the things you are saying,” she whispered in a rush, wringing her hands. “My friend was there in the Hall of Justice. She heard the King. He asked the High Lord to speak to Makhi Horato over at the refugee camp to place you in a tent near where the Makhi Healers sleep. You were to be given the rough, brown tunics they wear.”
Starla looked down at her hands, still clutching the sky-blue tunic. She remembered the King speaking to the High Lord and shaking his head as the High Lord had gestured to himself. Was this the cause? Had he truly chosen to defy the King's request? She felt the old worry rise inside her. Perhaps he was just a very good liar after all, using his magic to aid him.
Images from the refugee camp replaced that thought, and she felt her heart strengthen. No, she couldn't be completely wrong about him. Sharing minds felt too intimate for him to be able to lie so perfectly.
“I thought you had petitioned the King because you had your own money. That's how you ended up here at this inn. But now … the High Lord must have contrived all this, himself. He must also be paying your bill.” She darted her eyes around the room as if expecting a hidden spy to jump from behind the partition. “I would stop accepting his gifts if I were you, miss. His motives can't be good. He must want something from you. Apart from the obvious, of course.”
Starla blushed crimson. He did want something from her. Just not what the servant was hinting at. Yet what tightened around her heart was that fact that the servant had come to the same conclusion as the Baron.
“What makes you say so?”
The servant eyed her, seeming to read her previous thoughts. “Because that is what he is.
He'll threaten you or he'll buy you.”
Starla sighed. It wasn't really an answer, just more conjecture, perhaps as misplaced as the fear that followed him.
“Mark my words, young miss, he'll have another gift for you, soon. An even more expensive one. Now, please, I should go,” the servant said, looking genuinely terrified.
Starla nodded, unable to speak, and sank down on the bed as Mrs Lanteg shut the door behind her. Her mind was in chaos. She had learned on that night back on Earth not to believe everything she heard, but the Sacrileons didn't trust him, either. Everyone seemed both fearful of, and angry at, the man, mostly afraid. But everything she had seen for herself showed that fear and hate to be undeserved, thrust on him instead of Kyron.
Sighing, Starla began to eat her food. It did, indeed, taste a bit like lamb.
Why wouldn't he tell me how he knew that?
Frustrated, she ended her meal and began to prepare for bed. There was a knock at the door as she slipped her silk nightdress over her head, the material stopping halfway down her thigh. Securing her night robe tightly over the indecent garment, Starla answered the door. Her thoughts on the High Lord were no less chaotic. Everything she thought she knew for sure about him made the course her heart wanted seem perfect. She was also angry at herself for letting the servant's words, the Baron's words, take root so easily. She knew nothing about either of them.
I need to access that memory. It will prove once and for all who is right, but I can’t ask Larkel, or it would invalidate the test.
“Mrs Lanteg!” Starla said, surprised to see the servant again so soon.
“Sorry to bother you, Miss. The High Lord requested I bring this up to you immediately,” she said formally, bowing and holding out a long box.
Hesitantly, Starla took the box from Mrs Lanteg and opened it. Inside were five Galatian-style hair clips, each bearing a jewel to match each of her new tunics. They were delicate things, with the gold intricately crafted into flowering vines. Having seen much of the Delacorte’s fine jewellery back on Earth, during Anotnio’s courtship of Elise, Starla guessed that these were each worth a small fortune.
Shutting the box firmly, Starla looked down at the dark-haired servant. Her eyes looked back at Starla knowingly. Starla stilled her thoughts. The High Lord had said the enemy worked by sowing chaos. Perhaps this woman was one of Kyron’s spies. Or perhaps she really was just a friendly servant trying to help out a stranger being beguiled by the terrifying High Lord. She would know what the High Lord was like better than Starla did. Or maybe not, if the mind-sharing was all it seemed.
Starla shook her head as the circular loop threatened to continue again. Those thoughts were all “ifs”. Her decision would have to be based on something she knew for a fact. She glanced down at the clips again. They certainly looked expensive. If she was back home, where things made a lot more sense than here, she would have turned the gift down. She would not have felt comfortable accepting a gift like this from any man she barely knew, regardless of what anyone said of him. There were very few reasons to offer a gift like this, and while her heart leapt, her mind still prescribed caution.
“Could you please tell the High Lo—” Starla stopped as utter terror flooded the plump servant's eyes. Even the Makhi guarding the door looked up from her book. “Could you please bring me some writing supplies?” she finished, moving back to the partition and taking the red tunic over to her bed, intending to fold it.
As she did, she noticed it was also a Savianna design but with no ribbon, an older fashion. On a whim, Starla ran her fingers over the hemline of the sky-blue tunic still on her bed. The ribbon didn't appear to be sewn in place, but rather, threaded through the vine-like embroidery with only a few stitches holding the ends together. She moved quickly back to the door.
“And a pair of fabric scissors,” she called to Mrs Lanteg's retreating back before shutting it.
While she waited for the servant to return, Starla took out the other four tunics and laid them neatly on the bed. The ribbons would make perfectly decent hair ties if all she wanted was to keep her hair out of the way. The half-up, half-down fashion favoured here would be impractical for working at the refugee camp, anyway. Nodding to herself, she carefully folded the loaned tunic and placed the box of hair clips on top of it.
“Come in,” she called at the knock on the door, impressed by how quickly Mrs Lanteg had found the items.
“Hello, Starla. I just wanted to see if you got the hair clips. The servant I gave it to said she'd given it to one of her colleagues.” Larkel stopped talking as Starla spun to face him, shock and poorly concealed agitation on her face. “I'm sorry. You did say come in,” he said, holding up his hands in apology.
Starla shut her eyes and counted to ten. There it was again, the sincerity in his voice, the peaceful feeling that seemed to surround her when he was near, despite the electrical charge his magic left in the air, the magnetic pull he seemed to exert. And he had said something else, too. He hadn't given the clips to Mrs Lanteg, but to another servant. So that had been a lie from Mrs Lanteg.
Taking a deep breath, she opened her eyes and scooped up the box. She reminded herself that, whatever the case, she didn't feel comfortable accepting such a gift from a man she barely knew. Even if she badly wanted to.
“I did receive them,” she began, watching his eyes. “However, I'm not sure I can accept them.”
“Why not? You accepted the brooch and the tunics. What is the difference?”
Starla’s moment of surprise fled as her eyes hardened, and she squared her shoulders. “I thought you were carrying out the King's orders, but he didn't ask you to do any of the things you did today, did he?”
Larkel's eyes widened momentarily and then shuttered. “Who have you been speaking to?”
“Oh! Forgive me,” squeaked a timid voice from the doorway. “I brought the things you requested, miss.” Keeping her eyes downcast, the unknown servant quickly placed everything on the bedside table, bowed, and scurried from the room like a frightened mouse.
Starla didn't blame her. The High Lord looked terrifying. His face was a mask of stone, indigo eyes cold as the first time she had seen them, muscles tensed.
“Does it matter if it is true?”
“Is this because of him?”
“Who?” Starla asked, her thoughts jumping to the Baron, but unwilling to name him knowing it would only make Larkel angry.
“Raoul.”
She felt her shock give way to a small simmering of anger. She had never spoken about Raoul. “You have no right to try and use my memories to decide how I will react.”
Larkel stiffened, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.
She held the box of clips out, feeling tears beginning to burn her eyes. “They are beautiful and I appreciate the gesture, but—”
“I understand.” His fingers tapped the box, and it vanished, leaving a tingling in her palm. “I won't bother you again.” Ice closed over his eyes, cold and dark, but before it sealed him away from her, Starla had seen genuine pain fill his eyes. Without a word, the High Lord strode out of the room, shutting the door none-too-gently behind him.
Starla sank down on the bed, tears threatening to pour over. The pain in his eyes had been so deep and terrible, echoing her own. It made her realise that it was already far too late. Somewhere over the course of the day sharing his mind, emotions, and memories, she had fallen in love with him.
5
Secrets and Silence
Larkel took the rune-covered spyglass away from his eye. The image of Starla in the refugee camp vanished. Sighing, he turned to the stairs that led back down into his office within the dark tower along the Tower Wall.
It had been a week since the day he and Starla had spent together, a week since he had let her share his mind, making their bond stronger, making him sure she wanted the same thing he did. Every morning, he would send Redkin to meet her in the inn's common room, and they would spend breakfast together
as she learned the Pareon alphabet. In this way, he had been able to keep his promise to teach her without having to confront the awkwardness and embarrassment caused by his behaviour. She learned fast and soon wouldn't need Redkin any more. After the lesson was finished, Redkin would escort her to the camp, where other Makhi would keep an eye on her as she worked, as per the king's command. Redkin would return here, and Larkel would immediately request a mind-link to replay that morning's memories.
He had been pleased to see the flicker of sadness in her eyes on that first day, when Redkin showed up instead of him, but she had never once asked for an explanation from the old Makhi. They, in turn, were growing closer every morning. Laughing and talking like old friends. It hurt to watch.
A stab of jealously flared up in his chest, and Larkel quickly squashed it. It was his own fault they weren't spending time together. He had let his guard down too quickly, let his sense of her personality draw him into a vulnerable position. He didn't know how to explain his feelings to her properly. She had rejected his foolish advance, anyway. Groaning, he collapsed into his chair. This morning he had decided to go up to her room, unable to stay away any longer. Closing his eyes, he remembered.
“High Lord,” Starla said, bowing and ever-formal, even as surprise tinged her words. She hadn't used his name since that first night, not even on the few brief occasions they had crossed paths in the camp, “I am nearly ready.”
She looked resplendent in her light-pink tunic, a ribbon of the same colour holding her hair in a neat plait trailing to her waist. Her starla pin had been clipped to the left side of the tunic like a name tag. She had stopped wearing the shawl altogether after the second day at the camp and no longer looked uncomfortable in the form-fitting Galatian wear.
