by Jasmine Walt
His eyes twinkled wickedly. “Yes, and much more,” he said, giving her a slow once-over that made her skin warm.
“You sound like you are homesick,” she said casually, trying to steer the conversation in a more productive direction. “Do you plan to return to the Empire before the eastern passage freezes over?”
Itolas sighed wistfully, his smile turning sad. “My ship’s crew is eager to depart, but alas, I cannot indulge them. I have been condemned to this chilly exile, and must live my days out here, away from my homeland.”
“That’s terrible,” Tariel said, feeling a wave of sympathy. “Is there nothing you can do to convince them to let you return?”
“I’m afraid not,” he said, shifting forward. Suddenly, he was mere inches away, and her heart beat faster as his spicy, exotic scent filled her senses. “But perhaps you could help make it more bearable?” His voice was a bare whisper.
“I—” Tariel began, but then he was lifting her chin. His mouth slanted over hers, soft and persuasive, and heat flooded her body. Her arms lifted instinctively, wanting to twine around his shoulders, but instead she flattened her hands against his chest and pushed him away.
“I’m sorry,” she said, yanking a mask of composure over her features. “But I am a respectable woman. I cannot offer myself to you merely for your amusement.”
His gaze shuttered. “Very well,” he said, sketching a bow. “I shall find my amusement elsewhere, then.”
Tariel’s cheeks burned with shame as she returned to Riann, who waited across the room. Her blood was still pounding with desire, and she knew that Riann could feel it through the bond, probably Calrain as well, though he was not here to see the cause.
“I-I’m sorry,” she stammered, forcing herself to meet Riann’s glittering gaze. His jaw was tight. “I don’t know what’s come over me.”
“I do.” He nodded to Itolas, who was already engaged with another woman. But his gaze softened, and he put an arm around Tariel’s waist. “But I suppose if you had sent me to flirt with an attractive woman for information and she had kissed me, I would have a similar reaction,” he admitted. “I do not hold it against you.”
Tariel let out a breath of relief. “Thank you,” she said, leaning against him. She soaked up Riann’s warmth and silent strength, steadying herself. “I don’t wish for you to be angry with me.”
“I’m not.” He kissed the top of her head. “Now, what did he have to say?”
“He is an exile,” she said, “and has no plans to return to the Empire.” She sighed dejectedly. “I don’t think he is going to be of any help to us, especially now that I’ve rejected him.”
“Hmm.” Riann stroked his jaw as he considered the problem. “It seems a shame to give up so soon, since he is our only option. Perhaps I should talk to him.”
Tariel raised an eyebrow. “Do you think you’ll be any better at charming him than I was?”
Riann laughed. “Feminine wiles are not the only way to get a man’s attention,” he said. He pulled two coins from his pocket and rubbed them together, the metal glinting in the light, then hid them from sight. “Let’s see if I can get him to talk business.”
Tariel hung back as Riann approached. Itolas greeted him politely enough, but as Tariel watched them converse, his expression turned sour. Abruptly, he cut off the exchange, then turned away, heading straight for the count and his wife.
Riann returned to her, his expression grim. “We’d better leave now,” he said, looping his arm through Tariel’s.
“Why?” she asked, hurrying to keep up. They moved just fast enough to disappear into the crowd without drawing attention to themselves. “What did he say?”
“He said that he was not for hire, and that he came to this ball for entertainment, not to discuss business,” Riann said in a clipped voice. “I believe that he has gone to ask the count and his wife who we are. It would be best to leave, before they become too interested in us.”
Tariel nodded, her heart sinking into her slippered feet as they retrieved their coats and asked the valet to call their carriage. This avenue was truly closed off to them, then. They had no choice but to slip out of the city, and hope Sir Jerrold and the royal guard did not catch them on the way out.
23
“Is there nothing better to be had than this bland fare?” Yarim asked aloud as he poked at his breakfast with a fork. He did not expect an answer, of course—there were no servants in the breakfast room to hear him as he spoke. Sighing, he brought another bite of plain fish and potatoes to his mouth, and sent up a silent prayer to Mother Earth that one day the Fjordlanders would relinquish their stubborn ways and incorporate real seasonings into their cuisine. There was so much more one could do with dishes if one was willing to venture beyond salt and pepper.
“Sir.” His butler came into the room and gave a shallow bow. “You have a visitor at the door this morning.”
“Send him away,” Yarim said with an irritable wave of his hand. Normally he was not so grumpy in the mornings, but he was nursing quite a hangover from last night. The blonde he had spoken to at the masquerade ball had dredged up feelings of homesickness for the Empire, and he had unsuccessfully tried to drown his sorrows in copious amounts of his host’s wine. Even the strong coffee he’d imbibed did nothing to help his headache.
“I’m afraid this man will not take kindly to such treatment,” the butler said. “It is Sir Jerrold the Relentless.”
“The witch hunter?” Yarim frowned, his curiosity piqued. What did such a man want with him? He had heard of his fearsome reputation, but had never had the chance to meet the man in person; nor had he particularly wanted to, considering what he did with women who were suspected of having magic.
“Yes. He has some questions for you.”
“Very well,” Yarim said reluctantly. “I’ll meet him in the study.”
Yarim pushed back his half-eaten breakfast and rose from the table. Plush carpet sank beneath his feet as he walked down the hall and up the stairs toward his study—the mansion he was renting had been quite austere when he’d first moved in, but Yarim had brought his creature comforts from home, and had quickly embellished it with plush furnishings, colorful drapes, and several priceless pieces of artwork he had managed to carry with him. He had been forced to leave many of his belongings when he had fled the Empire, but he was thankful he could at least surround himself with the illusion of home.
Yarim sat behind the large, cedar desk and took in a deep breath. The study was one of his favorite rooms in the house—the scent of parchment and ink mixed with the clear, fragrant combination of the wood always calmed him. The headache hammering at his temples receded a bit, and by the time Sir Jerrold came in, he felt considerably better.
“Good morning,” Yarim said, standing. He held out his hand for Sir Jerrold. “Welcome to my home.”
“Thank you.” Sir Jerrold briefly clasped his hand in an iron grip. He was a mountain of a man, with close-cropped blond hair and harsh features, and he seemed to fill the entire space with a menacing presence even though he didn’t look particularly angry. The lines bracketing the man’s mouth showed something displeased him—Yarim wondered if it was simple frustration with how his witch hunt was going, or if he was unhappy about coming into a foreigner’s home and being surrounded by things he might consider sinful.
Barbarians. If wealth is such a sin, then why does their king live in a grand castle rather than a stone hut?
“Please, sit,” Yarim said, gesturing to the chair in front of him. “Would you care for a drink?”
Sir Jerrold waved an armored hand. “No, thank you. I do not imbibe while I am on a hunt. Alcohol makes the mind weak.” His eyes glittered as they rested upon the small liquor cabinet in the room, almost as if he were suggesting Yarim was weak simply because he had spirits in the room.
Yarim held back a wolfish smile. Let the man think what he wanted. He didn’t mind being underestimated.
“I’ll cut straight
to the point,” Sir Jerrold said, pinning him with his icy blue gaze. “I spoke with Countess Larkinspur this morning, and she told me that a man was harassing you at her masquerade last night. Is it true that he was trying to hire your ship to take him to the Empire?”
“Yes,” Yarim said, his skin prickling with awareness. Had there been more to the man’s request than it had seemed? The countess had told him that the man was Lord Poltan of Sansmere, a province far to the north, and that the woman he had flirted with earlier was his wife. Could it be that these two were Sir Jerrold’s targets? He’d heard rumors that the witch was not traveling alone, some of them claiming that she’d bewitched an army of men to protect her.
“His request didn’t seem particularly sinister,” Yarim went on, not liking the direction this conversation was going. He certainly wasn’t inclined to help Sir Jerrold catch a witch, especially if she had real magic. “He said his uncle had run off to the Empire seeking adventure a few years ago, and that he wanted to find him and bring him back to Fjordland.”
“I’ll be the judge of what is and isn’t sinister,” Sir Jerrold said. “Was this man accompanied by a woman?”
“I believe he was with one at the party,” Yarim said, “but Lord and Lady Sansmere look nothing like the description your men have been passing around.”
Sir Jerrold snorted. “For a man from the Empire, you seem woefully ignorant about magic. Witches can disguise themselves, and I have reason to believe I have encountered her posing as both a man and a woman.” His thin lips curled in disgust, as if the idea of a woman daring to pretend to be a man was the highest form of sin. “Besides, I know for a fact that the Sansmeres are at their home, and not here in the capital.”
Yarim’s pulse jumped, and he curled his hands beneath the desk. So, it was true then—the woman he had met last night was an imposter. The annoyance he had felt toward her last night vanished, replaced by sympathy and concern. Clearly, she had come to the capital seeking the fastest path to the Empire. But what was she doing in Fjordland in the first place? According to her physical description, she was a foreigner, not a native.
“Is it possible you might be wrong about the Sansmeres?” Yarim asked, more to needle the witch hunter than anything else. His morning had suddenly become much more interesting, and he hoped the man might give up more information.
“Impossible.” A muscle flexed in Sir Jerrold’s jaw. “The lady is a Tyrook by marriage, and I was just at Castle Tyrook, where the witch was brought up from infancy.” His eyes narrowed. “If you know anything about the quarry I hunt, it would be best to speak up now. It is a crime to withhold relevant information from a witch hunter.”
Yarim shrugged. “I know no more than what you have just told me,” he said. “The man I spoke to wanted passage to the Empire, but after I told him I was not interested, he disappeared quickly enough. I imagine he and his wife are looking at other options.”
“They will have no choice but to flee the capital,” Sir Jerrold sneered, rising from his chair. He towered over Yarim, who instinctively rose as well, not liking the idea of this man standing over him. He was quite handy with a blade when need be, but the dagger he wore at his waist was not sufficient protection from this giant. “I will double the guard on all entrances, and start widening my search parameters. Clearly, they are smart enough to avoid brothels and inns.”
“That sounds like an excellent plan,” Yarim said blandly, even as his heart raced. How would the witch and her entourage get out of this? “Now, is there anything else I can do for you?”
“I doubt it.” Sir Jerrold raked him with a sneer. Yarim knew that many of the Fjordland men considered him effeminate with his flamboyant clothing and mannerisms, and he imagined the fanatical witch hunter was no different. “Enjoy the rest of your day, Sir Yarim. I’ll see myself out.”
He opened the door, then brushed past the butler waiting outside. Yarim gave the man a subtle nod, and the butler followed Sir Jerrold. He did not want the witch hunter prowling about his house without an escort, poking and prodding into his things. He was not a witch, but zealots like him needed very little provocation to arrest and execute someone they did not like. Everyone knew that men could not wield magic, which protected Yarim from his wrath, but if Sir Jerrold found anything of a magical nature in his home, all bets were off.
“Good riddance,” he said when the front door shut behind Sir Jerrold. He crossed over to the window to watch the witch hunter stalk away.
Such an interesting development! He had learned much from Sir Jerrold this morning. This witch…Tariel, he thought her name was, was not a foreigner, but born and raised on Fjordland soil. How could that possibly be? Clearly, she had Maroyan blood in her. He wondered who her parents might have been—perhaps she had a father in the Maroyan Empire who had tangled with a Fjordland woman out of wedlock? It seemed strange, because magical bloodlines were very tightly controlled, and Maroyans did not so carelessly lose track of their talented children.
Either way, Yarim knew he had to help her. His honor demanded it, and he could not stomach the thought of Sir Jerrold getting his claws on a real mage, who deserved to be cherished like a rare treasure. He summoned his secretary and crossed off all engagements from his list. This had just become his top priority.
24
The next morning, Tariel quietly slipped out of the mansion, disguised as a messenger boy, complete with a tidy little uniform and satchel. Fatigue dragged at her mind, but she tilted her face to the wind, the cool air clearing her head.
After the abject failure of last night, she, Calrain, and Riann had sat up until the wee hours of the morning, weighing their options. In the end, they had whittled them down to two—steal Itolas’s ship and try to make it to the Empire on their own, or leave Kalsing and race for the Carlissian border.
The first option was quite out of the question, as none of them had sailing experience, and Tariel doubted her ability to bewitch the entire crew into doing her bidding. It was one thing to make them fall asleep and toss them overboard—another thing entirely to bend their minds to her will. Zolotais had told her very few mages ever fully mastered mind control—most could do it on a weak mind, but to control an entire group of people was very powerful magic indeed, and required an iron will of her own.
The second option did not have a high likelihood of success with Sir Jerrold on high alert, but if they stayed in the capital, they would surely be caught. To that end, Tariel and her men had decided to leave tonight, slipping past the gates under the cover of darkness.
But for now, while Calrain and Riann slept, exhausted from a long night of planning, she walked the cobblestone streets, memorizing the sturdy houses and winding lanes. She passed by the market, where she bought a meat pie from a street vendor, and as she continued walking, munching on the flaky crust and ground meat, she found herself looking toward Castle Kalsing, perched on a hill above the rest of the city, its spires jutting into the clear blue sky.
The queen was behind one of those paned windows. The woman who had sent her to Lady Tyrook for upbringing, and who had denied her the chance to be married to a respectable man, was up there, likely confined to her sickbed.
Anger burned in Tariel as she stared at the castle, but in her heart, there was also a fierce longing. The queen had to have a reason for sending her away; here in the capital, as a woman with Maroyan coloring, she would be a target. Had the queen known she had magic? Was she trying to protect her? Was that the reason she had refused to have her married off, so that a husband would not find out about this deadly secret?
As these thoughts chased each other in her head, Tariel moved closer and closer to the castle. Soon, she was walking up the winding road on the hill, past fancy houses and manicured gardens even grander than the mansion district she had squatted in. The castle gates loomed up ahead, the thick stone and wrought iron stern and imposing, warning outsiders to stay away.
And yet, Tariel felt an undeniable pull in her chest. There was
no question in her mind—she had to go in there. She had to see the queen.
“Stop right there,” the guard said when she tried to pass through the entrance. “What is your business here?”
“I’ve a message for the Finance Minister, straight from Hoflar Bank,” Tariel lied, thinking quickly. With a flick of her hand, she created the illusion of her satchel flipping open, and the guards saw several letters sitting within.
“On with you then,” the guard said impatiently, waving her through. Tariel knew they would not bother to check the letters, as they could not read. Hiding a smile, she hurried through the bailey, then straight up the steps and through the large wooden doors that marked the castle entrance.
No one paid Tariel any mind as she scampered through the foyer and into the Great Hall, a large room with soaring ceilings that boasted impressive wooden beams. The upper half of the walls had large, arched windows that allowed in plenty of light, while the lower half boasted tapestries depicting various battle scenes, mostly involving the Western sea lords. There were also a few religious ones depicting Roisen and his acolytes. In one of them, the storm god stood atop a mountain, a lightning bolt clutched menacingly in his fist as he battled Serapos, the fearsome water dragon the sea lords worshipped. Fjordlanders considered Serapos to be a heathen god, just as they considered all other gods who were not Roisen to be false idols. The more Tariel stared at the tapestry, the more ridiculous she found it, and she moved on before she drew too much attention.
Since she was unfamiliar with the castle, she made a few wrong turns before she figured out the way to the Great Chamber, where the royal family slept. In the east wing, it was a kind of communal chamber where the family could dine and spend time together, and only one guard stood outside.
“I’ve a message for the queen,” Tariel said, pulling an illusionary letter from her satchel. “Could you take it to her for me, please?”
