by Gwen Perkins
“The man—”
“It’s fine, Asahel. Just stay still until you can think straight.” He could smell the burn in the air now. Quentin realized that they wouldn’t be able to use the cottage again. There was too much risk to it. He shook himself, startled that he was already thinking in terms of the next time. Asahel could have killed himself and you with him. But then the other thought slipped into his mind, unbidden. Catharine.
“I can think straight,” Asahel protested quietly. “It’s walking I’d have the trouble with.”
Quentin laughed unevenly, the jagged notes betraying his worry.
“What happened?” The injured man pressed. Asahel’s hand reached up, batting away Quentin’s fingers. He slowly pushed himself off the wall, his eyes unfocused.
“You… I don’t know. You called the magic through you—through him. He sat up for a moment.” Quentin frowned. “But it wasn’t life. He was animate and I can’t determine if that was through you or through him. I didn’t feel anything when I made my attempt.” He noticed that Asahel was shivering and stood, unbuttoning the coat that he wore. He draped it over the other man’s shoulders. It was a poor fit for a man who was much broader than he, but Quent had nothing else to warm him.
“Thank you,” Asahel said, his voice barely audible as he tried to close the coat around himself. The effort failed, but Quentin pretended not to notice.
“It’s…” he shook his head, unable to express what he was feeling. Disappointment at himself for being unable to accomplish anything was mingled with regret for having dragged Asahel into the venture.
“…the first time.” The completion of the sentence by his friend made Quentin sit up. Asahel smiled weakly. “Why do you want to do it, Quent? Be honest, aye?”
“Catharine,” was all he said before he twisted his face away.
“That’s what I thought.” There was a hitch in Asahel’s voice. “What if… we can’t do what you want? Healing her—that’s what you’ve a want to do, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” It was a hard thing to admit.
“Aye, well, what if you can’t? What if we can’t?” He tilted his head, watching Quentin curiously. “It’ll not—there’s no guarantee, not when we’ve no way of knowing how. We could spend our whole lives going about it, trying to fix people. And perhaps it’s not even possible.”
“It is,” Quentin said.
“You don’t know that.”
“It is,” he repeated.
Asahel shivered again. “Then we haven’t got much choice about it. There’s a fair bit of good we could do in the world.” His face became dreamy as he stared into the corner. “I’d like that, I reason. For all that magic we learned in university… it was all about ourselves, wasn’t it? Doing things to make lives simple—how to light a candle or how to shut a door. How to lift an object. But never anything important. Never anything that helped anyone but yourself.”
“No.” Quentin thought that Asahel might have attributed his desire to heal Catharine to selfish motive but there was nothing in his face or voice that hinted at it. “If anything, the Magister was more concerned that we not use the magic at all.”
“I remember. I’d always a problem with that.” Quentin smiled as Asahel spoke, remembering that as well. “I wonder why that was.”
“Ours is not to question,” he said with a grin. Asahel laughed at that, remaining seated against the wall as Quentin stood. The room was darkened again, the last remnants of magic casting a hazy glow only around the old man’s body. The man seemed more desiccated than he had been before Asahel had touched him, his skin cracking around his jaw and around his neck. The veins just under his skin were darker than they had been before as shadow flickered on pale flesh, casting strange shapes against his chest.
Quentin’s eyes caught sight of the box that the trio had brought, noticing that there was a crack in the wood. He took a step towards it, then stopped. He didn’t know what Taggart could have brought as a gift, but he suspected it wasn’t good.
“Do you think I ought to open that?” He turned on his back heel, glancing over at Asahel.
“I’m not right sure. Do you think that you ought to leave it there?” Again, a faint grin teased Asahel’s mouth.
“You’ve got a point.” Quentin opened the box, recoiling as he saw the contents. It was a severed hand, the fingers clenched into a fist. Wax had melted into the lines of the palm, crusting against the skin, and he quickly slammed the lid back down. “It’s a hand—what do they think we’re doing with these bodies? A gift? What kind of present is this?”
Asahel had gone pale again but he answered, “The sort that men who buy corpses want, I reason.”
“What do we do with it, is the question.”
“Bury it?” Asahel struggled to his feet, his hand pressed against the wall to steady his frame. “We’ve got to think of something, any road. For… for the other, too.”
“You can’t bury anything. You can barely stand.” Quentin sighed.
“We’ve still that letter to worry about. I’m not leaving you to this with that hanging over both our heads.” The other man staggered over to the table, drawing the shroud back over the corpse with shaking hands. “Have you… do you have any ideas of who it might be?”
“Felix,” Quentin said without hesitation. He reached out to assist Asahel, draping fabric over the dead man’s face. “You don’t look like you approve.”
“I… I don’t think it’s him.”
“Why not? He’s got every reason to, and you nearly handed him the proof of what we’re doing.” He fought to keep his words from trying to cut, knowing that Asahel had only done what he thought necessary.
“What reason has he got, Quentin?” Asahel stopped, his jaw set stubbornly as he looked at the redhead.
“All that rivalry.” It sounded foolish the moment it came from his mouth and he wished he hadn’t said it.
“That’s no reason. We’d barely spoke to him—at least, I hadn’t—before that night.” The dark-haired man bit his lip, tugging Quentin’s coat away from his shoulders. “Catharine’s got more reason, hasn’t she?”
“You think my wife wrote that letter?” Startled, he barely caught the coat handed to him.
“She’s got more reason than Felix has.” Asahel picked up the rope, winding it over the shroud and around the dead man’s feet. It pulled tight, twining in a thick knot as his fingers looped it over and around.
“They both hate me, I suppose,” he said lightly, ignoring the sharp look that Asahel gave him. “Either way, we need to find out what they know.” Quentin reached out, struggling to lift the weight of the body on the table. It fell to the ground with a resounding thump, his companion giving him an apologetic look as Quentin reached down, grabbing the feet and dragging it towards the door. He looked at Asahel to avoid noticing the trail that they were leaving on the dirt floor, a slight trail of moisture marring the evenness of the earth.
“And then what?” Asahel asked as he opened.
“Then… we deal with it.” He huffed as he let the body drop against the step.
“Before the next time?” Brown eyes were silent as they searched Quentin’s.
“Yes,” Quentin’s face bore no hope, but neither did it now wear doubt. “Before the next time.”
Chapter 13
“Soames?” Felix’s eyebrow arched as he opened the door. “You have to got to stop dropping by in the middle of the night.” He yawned as he opened the door to Asahel, closing it slowly after the other man. His slender body was hidden by the bulky robe, causing Asahel to flush as he realized that he’d woken Felix. “Is it the same sort of mysterious trouble as before? I’m not sure that I’m quite up for another rescue. Particularly if it involves the same party.”
“It’s not that at all,” Asahel said lamely. Felix’s eyes flickered in interest as he wandered back into the sitting room.
“What is it, then?” Felix settled himself on the couch, head resting against its arm
as his gaze studied Asahel. It unnerved him. Asahel found himself moving across the embroidered rug rather than to the open chair, pacing from nervous habit.
“I wanted to thank you,” he blurted out. It was the only thing he could think of to say that wouldn’t betray his true reason. I know he didn’t write the letter, whatever Quentin says of him.
“Thank me? In the middle of the night?” Asahel hadn’t known it was possible for Felix to look shocked. There was no other word for the way that the other man’s eyebrows shot up, so high that they seemed to threaten his hairline.
“Aye, well, you’d not have let me in during the day, I reason.” He didn’t understand the shift in Felix’s expression—the way that his eyebrows suddenly fell, then furrowed. The frown on the older man’s face brought out the lines under his eyes.
“I don’t know why you think that,” Felix said after a moment’s silence. Then he hesitated, amending with, “I could guess, but I’d hoped things might change. That you no longer thought me the fool I was at university.”
“I don’t understand.” Asahel stopped pacing, too confused by Felix’s words to do anything but watch him.
“I didn’t bother with you then, nor anyone who didn’t fit the neat patterns that my family cut for me. What good was that?” The room felt smaller as Felix’s words filled it. “Why shouldn’t I ask you into my house during the day, Soames?”
The question was clearly a dare. Asahel refused to take it.
“You know why.”
“Do I? I want to hear you say it.”
“Why?” Asahel’s shoulders hunched. “So you can feel superior? Like Donat and all the others from the colleges? Is it those days that you’ve a want to remember?” The words came from his mouth before he could stop them. Once they were said, however, he didn’t take them back. There was a part of him that was glad Felix had asked the question despite the way that it made him feel, low as the ground on which he was standing. Quentin never brought it up despite the fact that it was clear the difference in their status governed his best friend’s actions. That was what truly ached—that it was Felix who dared to ask, not the man that he’d spent years following.
“I’m tired of pretending that your occupation makes you less of a man. I don’t feel that it does, but you do.” Felix’s spine went rigid for a moment as he sat up, then leaned forward, elbows to knees. “It used to matter to me, and Donat influenced me, yes, but not in the way that you believe.” Felix’s gray eyes were catching fire, pale flecks in their ash depths illuminating.
“I don’t want to know what you think I believe, aye? You want me to say I forgive you when I never thought of you as a bad man.” He spoke slowly but honestly, not able to focus on Felix’s intent expression. “I’d not come here for that. I came to tell you my thanks and…” Asahel hesitated, the space in his words almost unbearable for them both. The truth was impossible, not when he himself didn’t believe it.
“And?”
Asahel’s mind blanked, unable to think of anything suitable to respond. The pressure of Felix’s gaze was too much for him and he stammered out, “I don’t know.”
Felix sighed, falling back into the cushions, his legs kicking up, then flopping back down. The motion surprised Asahel and he stumbled back, knocking into a table. The book that was on it fell to the floor, the pages drifting open. Asahel quickly scooped it up and replaced it, his hands slamming the covers shut.
“I shouldn’t have come here. I don’t know what I’m doing here,” Asahel said, his words as clumsy as his feet. Why did I listen to Quentin? There’s nothing to do here but cause trouble. “I don’t know why I came.”
“You’ve already said that.” Felix rested his hand against the back of his neck.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you, aye, I mean I really am sor—” He took another step backwards, again almost overturning the same small table as his foot caught the base.
“Stop apologizing.” Felix’s mouth quirked into a grin. “Also, please have a seat before I throttle you for breaking more of the furniture.” Not certain of what else to do, Asahel followed the direction, taking a chair next to the couch. It creaked as he settled into it, causing his face to pinch as he cast Felix a worried look. He had every sense that an interrogation was coming, despite the smile that still lingered on the other man’s face.
The room itself had changed little since Asahel had last seen it. A small pot of violets rested on the mantel now, giving color to a place that otherwise felt lifeless. It was Felix that provided the warmth in his home. The lack of clutter and noise was disarming, no matter how hard he fought to remain steady.
“Winter will be over soon,” Felix commented, following Asahel’s gaze. “With any luck, the court will move on. They always do in spring, and they take the noble houses with them.”
“Why is that?” Curiosity drew Asahel into the conversation.
“The cost of living, I imagine. My father served as steward to the Geographer once—did you know that?” Asahel’s head shook in denial. The Geographer was the head of the council, and to serve as the man’s steward meant that Felix’s father had been highly placed. While the house of Carnicus bore an old name, Asahel knew little of it. His body leaned forward, encouraging Felix wordlessly, as he wondered what else he didn’t know about the man.
“One of his diaries mentioned that the council bled resources dry after a time—it’s not so bad in the capital, but for the outlying cities? That lifestyle bankrupts any place that must support it for any period of time. It’s an honor, though, to all nobles who feel compelled to accept.” Felix’s mouth twisted up on the word “compelled”—it was apparent that there was no true choice involved.
“Is there any purpose to where they go?” Asahel asked.
“There is. At least I believe so. Dissidents make brilliant hosts if the last few years have been any indication.” Felix reclined but there was still a wary look in his face. “As far as I can tell. Father never speculated on that.” He spoke of his father as a stranger, casually and with no visible emotion on his face. Catching Asahel’s eye, he added, “I never knew my parents.”
“I—”
“Hush.” Felix held a finger to his lips. “No apologies.” Asahel stifled a laugh at the scowl on the other man’s face, resting his head against the back of his chair. “It’s likely boring when I drone on like that.”
“No, not really.” Asahel answered with a honest tongue. “I don’t know anything of how court works, that’s all. I don’t go to it.”
“Just the once,” the other man murmured.
“You remember that?”
“You came out of nowhere and you danced with Catharine.” There was a distant look in his eyes. “It was all anyone talked of for days. Half of Pallo is still convinced you’re her lover.” The older man paused. “You aren’t, are you?”
“No!” Asahel went immediately pink at the comment, ducking his head to hide the flush. Felix laughed.
“I hadn’t thought you were, but it bore asking. Court lives by the little details, true or not. And to be quite honest, they prefer the falsehoods.”
“What do you prefer?” Asahel hadn’t meant to ask—it simply came from his mouth before he had a chance to think it over. The word “falsehood” had again reminded him why he’d come to Felix, not to strike up friendship but to eliminate him as a blackmailer.
“That should be obvious by now.” His eyes rolled as he stretched out his legs, bumping Asahel’s foot with his own. Felix cracked his knuckles as he sank back into the cushions, falling again into a reclining position. “You, I’m not sure about, Soames. You seem the type who’s incapable of lying but you’ve been admirably good at holding a secret.”
No, I haven’t, Asahel thought. The fact that I’ve got one and you can tell is proof of that. You’ve already seen too much. But why did you care enough to notice, Felix? It struck him then that Quentin was right about this man presenting a danger to them. The only thing of whic
h Asahel was uncertain now was of what that danger would consist.
He willed Felix to turn away, to stop watching him with dark gray eyes that reminded him of storm-driven tides. It did no good—Asahel’s silent stare only made the answering gaze more intent. A faint rush of energy pulsed just beneath the floor, taunting Asahel with its power, tingling just enough to cause the skin on the back of his arms to prickle. The two conditions of magic were present—chaos and emotion, this situation sang to them both.
Asahel wondered why Felix hadn’t yet asked him about Quentin.
Say something, he willed Felix again, despite knowing that the other man couldn’t read his thoughts. Anything. The silence persisted until Asahel finally ducked his head, giving in long enough to mutter, “I ought to be going. It’ll be dawn soon enough.”
“Let me walk you home,” was Felix’s response as he stood.
“What?” Home was Sailors’ Row, an area just off the docks. The few homes that lined the row looked more like lighthouses than manors, thin, tall and narrow. It was common for seafarers’ wives and mothers to keep a candle burning in the uppermost window for each of their loved ones. Asahel knew that, despite his landlocked status, one flickered yet for him.
“I’ll just get my sword.” There was no time to answer the statement. When Felix decided on a course of physical action, his response was always swift. It served in this case to prevent Asahel from responding, other than to stand and walk over to the door. Any thoughts he’d had of disappearing into the night were squelched by the loud creaking of the hinges as the door rocked open.
“I heard that—” came drifting down the hallway. Asahel bit his lower lip but waited.
Felix strode out from a small passage off to the left, leading the other man to wonder exactly how many doors and rooms this manor had. The house seemed modest with its lack of furniture and furnishings, but the vaulted ceilings and winding corridors implied many more rooms than its entrance betrayed. It struck Asahel as he stepped outside that the Carnicus residence was one of the only noble houses that he had ever been inside.
