by M. J. Scott
Mari pinned the curl she had been working on into place with a satisfied sort of noise and then stepped back and turned away to place the tongs over the tiny brazier she was using to heat them. Sophie tilted her head to get a better view of her hair and then froze. There. Just below her right temple where the hair usually hidden from view was exposed by the elaborate curls. Was that a patch of...black?
She leaned closer, not quite daring to touch the spot in question in case she ruined Mari's work. But, no, it wasn't a trick of the light. There was definitely a darker patch of hair, the color beginning to flare from the roots.
Her heart began to pound. But why?
She'd seen Chloe de Montesse's hair. She'd seen Imogene's. She knew what happened to the hair of men and women who wielded water magic.
She'd known this would happen to her eventually. Silly to be surprised.
But, as she analyzed the emotion coursing through her, she recognized not surprise, but fear. Apparently she was still Anglion at heart. Because her instinctive reaction to seeing the signs of water magic—something that would see an Anglion woman exiled or worse—beginning to stamp themselves on her body made her tremble.
There was no hiding what she had done. No hiding the choice she had made. Like the red glow from her earth magic, once that black streak lengthened and was joined by others, no one could mistake her for anything other than what she was. She shivered, then tried to ignore the fear. It didn't matter if people knew she was a water mage here in Illvya. Illvyans didn't care.
"Are you cold, my lady?" Mari asked, turning back with newly heated tongs in hand. "I'll be finished in a minute and we will get you into your beautiful dress, but I can fetch you a shawl if you need one now."
Sophie took a breath. Nothing to be afraid of. She had chosen this. Become a water mage to keep herself safe. She would use that same magic to get herself away from Aristides’s grand plans. She had to be what she had chosen. "I'm fine, thank you," she said firmly. "Finish your work."
Cameron paused as they reached the door to the parlor where one of the servants had ushered them. Sophie, at his side, stopped beside him. She tipped her head up to him carefully—not wanting to dislodge her artfully arranged hair he imagined—one eyebrow lifting as though she was asking him why he'd hesitated. The truth was, he wasn't entirely sure.
He'd been looking forward to dinner; the ride and the time outdoors had left him starving. And the tea they'd found waiting for them back in their suite hadn't really done much to fill the hole in his stomach. The time on horseback had left his still healing ribs twinging, and Sophie had insisted on trying some of the earth magic healing she'd been learning on him while they'd had a hurried discussion. It had mostly eased them, but then the damned maid and valet had appeared and their preparations for dinner had turned into an elaborate ritual, which didn't give him enough time to think.
He'd bathed and shaved and been fussed over as the valet helped him into clothes the man had selected, all while he'd been trying to think how he could get to see more of the estate. Find their route out. The best he could come up with would be to try and charm Jean-Paul into taking him on a tour in the morning. Hopefully the man was a hands-on sort of landowner rather than one who sent his stewards out with orders.
By the time Sophie had reappeared, gowned in green with her hair piled high, he'd been ready to gnaw one of his arms off, his gut churning with both hunger and nerves.
Though the sight of her had been a distraction, a different kind of hunger roaring through him to temporarily quell his stomach.
Helene Designy deserved every penny of whatever the emperor had paid her to produce Sophie's wardrobe practically overnight. The green satin dress was the color of the deepest heart of an unfurling leaf. A secret, subtle, shade that made Sophie glow.
Her skin gleamed golden, the arch of her neck bared by the way her hair had been piled into curls coiling around her head. The gown plunged low, hugging her torso and emphasizing her breasts. She wore a simple fine gold chain and the bronzed pearl earrings he'd given her on their wedding night.
Beautiful. Beautiful enough that he'd wanted to tell Imogene and Jean-Paul that dinner could wait and haul her off to bed.
But he'd controlled the urge. Limited himself to one hard, fast kiss, careful not to spoil the effort she had made in dressing. He'd seen her dressed in court finery more times than he could count, but tonight she seemed to have reached a new level of beauty. Maybe it was the touch of sun on her skin or the shade of the dress. Or maybe it was knowing that this could be one of the last times he'd see her in such a gown. They wouldn't be consorting with nobility if they left. They would find a quiet, backwater sort of town and live simply.
But to get there, they had to get through this dinner. He had to build a connection with Jean-Paul. Imogene was one thing, but her husband was another entirely. The man was an unknown quantity. Powerful. Rich. Ambitious. A man who was, perhaps, not entirely unlike Cameron's father.
So, maybe not completely unknown after all. Though, it was to be hoped that Jean-Paul had some of the redeeming qualities Cameron's father had lacked. But still, Cameron was the son of an erl and now brother to one. He knew better than to keep a powerful host waiting. Too many of them would take it as an insult.
He hoped that Jean-Paul might prove to be different, but his aim was to make the man like him, not antagonize him. So why was he hesitating in the doorway now like a raw recruit called in front of his commander?
In truth, he had no idea. Maybe it was reluctance, after the afternoon of freedom, to step back into the fray, and focus on protocol and position while trying to understand yet another unknown Illvyan who could prove to be friend or foe.
Of course, when he had been a raw recruit back in the Red Guard, his squad leaders, sergeants, and everyone else at each step up the chain of command had relentlessly drilled one thing into their skulls.
That information could keep you alive.
That informed decisions were often better decisions.
That yes, sometimes there was no way or no time to get good intelligence before you could act, and in those moments, you just had to throw your dice and hope the goddess smiled.
But at all other bloody times, the soldier who was prepared—the one who took a moment to think things through and gathered intelligence where he could—was more likely to live. Of course, they also spent a lot of time teaching him to obey orders without hesitation. The two things hadn't always gone hand in hand, but he'd learned both lessons. There was no one here to give him an order, which left him with using his head. Starting with walking into this room and trying to get to know Jean-Paul du Laq.
"What shall we toast to?" Jean-Paul said more than an hour later as Sophie settled herself into a chair at the vast dining table in the du Laq's lavish dining room.
So lavish they were actually outnumbered by the servants—four footmen and Barteau himself—who were moving soundlessly around the room, filling water glasses and wine goblets with precise and practiced movements. The dining room was not mirrored like the ballroom, but there was enough gold and gilt and silver to glitter in the lamplight and reflect the images of the men in their blue livery onto unexpected surfaces. Sophie looked up from where she'd been caught by one of the reflections in the gold-filigreed candlesticks in front of her to smile politely at Jean-Paul.
"The emperor is the usual way of it, my dear," Imogene said from across the table. She was seated next to Cameron and across from Sophie who was on Jean-Paul's right.
"What the emperor doesn't know won't hurt him," Jean-Paul said with a smile.
It seemed a jest. But Sophie didn't know the man well enough to know for sure. She hoped it was. The last thing they needed was to land themselves in the middle of some wrangle between Jean-Paul and Aristides.
"Behave or I'll have Barteau cut off your wine," Imogene said, lifting her glass. "You don't want the Scardales to think you were raised by wolves."
Jean-Paul laughed at
that. "Not many would argue that my father didn't have a touch of the wolf about him. Scary when he showed his teeth. But, all right, wife. I'll behave." He raised his own glass, the delicate goblet looking small in his huge hand. "To Aristides. Long may he reign."
"To Aristides," they all echoed. Sophie took a cautious mouthful of the straw-colored wine. Imogene had already pressed several glasses of campenois on them while they had waited to go in to dinner. There had been small tidbits of food to go with the wine but not enough to soak it up. She needed to eat before she drank much more if she was to keep her wits about her.
She'd no sooner had the thought than a footman appeared on her right and placed a small plate in front of her. It held an array of exquisitely arranged vegetables. Not exactly the sort of food to soak up excess wine, but no doubt it would be the first course of many if the du Laqs ate the same way the emperor did.
She selected the correct fork and began to eat. Several courses followed in rapid succession. Soup. Then fish. Then lamb with an unfamiliar red berry sauce. Then a tartly herbal sorbet. She managed to avoid drinking more than a sip or two of wine with any of them.
When the next course was placed in front of her, she had no idea what the food on it actually was.
"Have you not had periven before, Sophie?" Imogene enquired as Sophie regarded the pale green china set before her dubiously.
The shape of the...object...on it looked something like a large quail or small pigeon. If one had removed their legs and wings. But quail or pigeon didn't come coated in a hard, red shell like the kind that coated the kessil crabs fished along the southern coast of Anglion. Though crabs had legs and segments in their shell that offered some sort of access. She raised her gaze to Imogene. "No, I haven't. I don't think we have it in Anglion."
"You're in for a treat, then," Imogene said. "It's a delicacy. They're found only on certain parts of the eastern coasts. It takes a long time for them to grow big enough to catch. Luckily they can be transported live or we'd never get to taste them here. They're something like a lobster but even better." She picked up the large knife by her right hand. "There's a trick to getting into them, though." Her head bent as she studied the creature as though mentally dissecting it.
"Or there's the easy way," Jean-Paul said.
Sophie turned her head to him. "And what would that be, Your Grace?"
"Simple. You just have to be ruthless, Lady Sophia." He grinned at her, picked up the periven, and tore it in two with one determined wrench of his hands. The pieces hit the plate again with a thud. The scent that rose from the gently steaming white flesh revealed in the shell was not that different to crab.
"It smells delicious, does it not?" Jean-Paul said, dipping his hands into the finger bowl immediately presented by the closest footman and then drying them off.
"Really, Jean-Paul," Imogene said, pointing her knife at him and wagging it disapprovingly. "You're not in a barracks now. I'm sure Sophie wasn't raised to eat like a soldier."
Jean-Paul shrugged. "Maybe she should try it. If Aristides wants to put her on a throne, she's going to need to learn that ruthless has its place."
Sophie's jaw tightened. They'd come to Sanct de Sangre to avoid this conversation. "The emperor has no need to interfere with Anglion. I don't think I'll be wearing a crown any time soon."
Jean-Paul shrugged. "My lady, I hope for your sake—for all our sakes, as it would avoid a war—that is true. But Aristides is the living definition of ruthless when he sets his mind to something. If he sets his mind to your country and its throne, you would be wise to learn from him.
"Does power always have to be ruthless?" Sophie asked, curious as to what the duq would say despite her dislike of the topic. Though, pursuing it in this direction at least led away from Aristides’s ridiculous proposal. And the fact that she wouldn't be taking any part in it. Jean-Paul was a soldier. A nobleman. He'd grown up in an empire, not a small island country. He had a wider perspective than hers.
Jean-Paul's expression turned contemplative with a hint of approval. As though he appreciated the question. "I think power has to be prepared to be ruthless, to maintain its hold. To make those who wield the power believe in it. It can't be ruthless all the time or ruthless only to serve the interests of those who hold it, or it descends to tyranny and madness. But sometimes a ruler must make decisions that will inevitably harm some while benefitting others. They have to ensure those decisions are accepted. In peace, perhaps this is a quality rarely called upon, but I don't think we're talking about peace here, are we, Lady Sophia? If Aristides acts, it will be war. It might be short. But war, nonetheless. War is about survival."
She didn't want war. She didn't want any of it. Perhaps Jean-Paul was right. She needed to be ruthless to get what she wanted. "This war would be about greed, it seems to me. Illvya and the empire don't need Anglion. And, it's Sophie, not Lady Sophia."
He tilted his head. "Is it now? But I agree, we don't. Which makes me wonder exactly what game Aristides is playing. My emperor is not a stupid man, my lady. If he does this, he will have good reason to think it is the right path to pursue."
"I'm sure there are those who would call him a tyrant. Him and his family." She saw Cameron frown slightly but lifted her chin, even as she wondered why she was baiting Jean-Paul. "They have taken what belongs to others."
"But they rule fairly," Jean-Paul countered. "And your queen's family did the same. Took the crown. Cut your country off from the rest of the world because of a belief—or fear—perhaps. That takes a large dose of ruthless in itself." He considered her over his glass, the deep red of the wine casting splashes of red light over his face, the shade too close to blood for comfort. "You have some of that blood in your veins. So perhaps you won't need to work very hard to find some ruthlessness if you need it."
Across the table from her, Cameron had gone still, one hand resting on the knife beside his place, eyes fixed on Jean-Paul. Her husband, she knew, could be ruthless when he wanted to be. When he was protecting what was his.
But right now was not the best time to demonstrate that fact.
Right now, they were supposed to building an alliance of sorts, if they could. Cameron wanted more information out of Jean-Paul. Information they needed. She put down the fork she hadn't realized she was still holding and picked up the periven. With one quick twist, she dismembered the poor thing, much as Jean-Paul had. "I'm generally considered to be a quick study, Your Grace," she said with a smile, letting it fall back to her plate precisely as he had. She smiled, not turning her head as the footman offered her a bowl and towel for her hands.
The laugh that echoed across the room as she wiped her hands clean, broke whatever tension there had been floating over the table between the two men. Cameron blinked and eased back in his chair, looking down at his own periven. Beside him, Imogene lifted her glass in a small toast, tilting it in Sophie's direction.
Sophie's head was pleasantly fuzzy from the wine and the excellent food. The dinner, after Jean-Paul had decided to drop politics as a topic of conversation, had been delicious and, she thought, successful. Cameron and Jean-Paul had gotten along, diving deep into a discussion about the estate and what was farmed there. She'd listened with half an ear but also talked with Imogene about the local families and the gardens.
Now, standing by the open windows, looking down at the darkened grounds and breathing in the cool scent of night-damp grass and flowers, sleep seemed impossible. She should be tired after the long carriage journey and the tour of the grounds and riding. It had been quite the day.
But instead she felt a distinct urge to try for yet more physical exertion. There were no other guests. They had virtually the whole of the wing where their suite was located to themselves. The occasional servant might pass by, but there was no one else within earshot. No one next door as there was at the Academe where, despite their aural wards, it was sometimes hard not to be aware of all the other people living under the same roof.
The Academe was
similar to the palace at Kingswell in that regard. True privacy had been in short supply.
But not here. Here was the closest that she and Cameron had been to being truly alone at any time other than those few hunted days they'd spent hiding in the countryside after the attack on the palace. They hadn't known each other at the beginning of that time. They had come together in an accident of magic and passion during it. They married after it, still not knowing each other.
But she felt she knew him now. Knew the depth of the man, solid down to the bones of the earth. Rooted like the tree of the goddess. Offering his strength to her when she needed it even though she still wasn't sure why he had chosen to do so. Other than the undeniable fact that there was still magic and passion between them. And from that beginning, their marriage was starting to grow roots of its own, giving them a solid place beneath them forged by everything they had been through.
For everything they were yet to navigate.
Cameron. Her husband. Who would have stabbed a duq without blinking earlier today if he'd decided that was the best way to keep her safe. The girl she'd been back in Kingswell probably would have found that thought horrifying. But now, she found it...reassuring. And very attractive, goddess help her.
Cameron, who would turn his world upside down once again for her when they left.
Cameron, who she loved.
So. It seemed to her that the best use of their time alone, and this perhaps final interlude of luxury and safety, involved the two of them, the ridiculously large bed in their bedroom, and far fewer clothes than either of them were wearing now. She turned away from the window, one hand stroking the chain at her neck.
Cameron sat by a small table where a selection of liqueurs and more campenois had been laid out for them when they'd returned to the room. He hadn't poured himself a glass. Instead he was watching her.
The weight of his gaze across her skin was headier than any of Imogene's wines.
