* * *
“She’s awake.”
Vale’s sour tone intrudes on my memories. His eyes are honed tight on me, and I feel his fire briefly shudder through me before he looks away.
Fain scoffs at this. “She’s delirious, is what she is. She’ll be in and out for a good while yet. Mage Aniliese says she should come around sometime tomorrow morning.” Fain’s tone softens, and his eyes are gentle as he sets them on me. “I do hope they find someone worthy of her.”
Vale huffs impatiently at this. “Why don’t you fast to her, Fain, if you’re so taken with her?”
“Who might Fain be fasting to?” a woman’s voice asks. The voice is soft and melodious, like the trickle of water. A young woman pushes the tent flap back and sweeps inside, smiling at Fain and Vale.
She’s impossibly lovely, absolutely dimming the beauty of the Upper River girls in both appearance and dress. A perfect, oval face with full lips and riveting emerald-green eyes, her black hair cascading over her shoulders and down her back. Rubies hang from her perfect ears, and her black tunic and long underskirt are exquisite, the silk embroidered with threads of a deeper black than the silk, covering her garb in repeating designs of branching trees.
“Vyvian! You glorious creature!” Fain gets up and warmly kisses her on both cheeks, beaming. She beams back at him.
She pulls off her black silk gloves and folds them neatly with slender, graceful hands, swirling wandfasting marks decorating them.
“Vyvian.” Vale’s greeting is guarded, but there’s a trace of amusement there.
“No, really, Vale. Don’t get up on my account,” she teases snarkily. She turns back toward Fain. “My brother overwhelms me with his affection.”
Violin music lifts into the night air, winding into the tent. A heartbreakingly mournful, yet lovely song.
“To what do we owe this immense pleasure?” Vale inquires, though with considerable disinterest.
Vyvian takes the seat Fain offers her and settles in. “I’m here to see Mother, of course.”
“You may have to wait a day or two,” Vale idly comments. “She’s busy laying waste to the world.”
I remember the dragons. The terrible fear. The river of fire. How can Vale sound so blasé? How can he remember that night and speak of it with such cool composure?
Fain fusses over Vyvian, pouring her a drink, then takes a seat once more. He
raises his glass in a toast. “To our beloved Great Mage.”
Vyvian lifts her own glass, her eyes misting over. “Yes. To Mother.” She takes a sip, contemplative for a moment, then gives Fain a look heavy with import. “The Kelts just ceded their entire northwestern territory to us. The border war is essentially over.”
Fain nods, a calculating glint in his gaze. “She’s taken out their entire dragon horde, then?”
Vyvian huffs a sound of contempt. “Their entire horde, or at least most of it. Any surviving dragons won’t be in their hands for long.” Vyvian smiles. “They’re calling Mother the ‘Black Witch.’ Did you know that?”
Fain smirks, lounging back. “I rather like that! Your dear mother has a flair for the dramatic, I’ll give her that. She certainly deserves an equally dramatic name. Her attack...” He pauses, shaking his head as if momentarily overcome. “Well timed, I say. And well played.”
Vyvian gives Fain a significant look. “By the Ancient One’s power, Fain.”
Fain dips his head in assent. “By the Ancient One’s power, indeed.”
Vale rolls his eyes at the two of them and gives a disdainful sigh.
Vyvian swivels her head and narrows her eyes to peer closely at her brother. “You look dreadful, Vale.”
“He was saving a damsel in distress,” Fain informs her, giving Vyvian a look ripe with suggestion.
Vyvian glances sidelong toward me with obvious distaste. Then she looks to Fain and her expression lightens, her drink resting prettily in her lap. “Enough talk of war. Who is it you’re fasting to, Fain?” She’s delighted by the prospect. I can see it.
Vale is studying his sister, his expression wary and unreadable, one eyebrow slightly cocked. They don’t resemble each other much, except, perhaps, in their aristocratic features. But it’s Vale who looks more like his powerful mother.
“To absolutely no one,” Fain insists, stressing each word, looking to Vyvian with theatrical devotion. “You know my heart belongs to you, Vyvian. And that you broke it when you so callously fasted to that glorious clod you’re so enamored of.” He gestures toward me with his glass. “We were speaking of Vale and Mage Tessla Harrow. Don’t you think she deserves a Level Five Mage for all her trouble?”
Vyvian gapes at Fain. “Fast her? To... Vale? To the son of the Black Witch?” Her voice has gone shrill. “As a reward? Is that what you’re suggesting?” She shakes her head decidedly. “Absolutely not. The girl’s brave, to be sure, but there’s talk she ran off with a Kelt.” Vyvian takes a sip of her drink and shoots Fain a poignant look, full of dark meaning. She leans in toward him. “She might not be able to fast at all.”
Fain gapes at Vyvian, his face a mask of bewilderment. “They’re spreading rumors about her? Already?”
Vyvian purses her lips at him. “It’s more than a rumor.”
“I’m astonished. Truly.” Fain jabs his finger at me. “This girl should be given a parade through the streets of Valgard. With roses thrown at her feet. A lot of roses.” He shakes his head and crosses his legs gracefully, then lets out a long sigh. “But if you truly want to punish her, then by all means, fast her to Vale. With his legendary charm and extraordinary tact...”
Vale’s head gives a slight bob of amusement, his mouth tilting into a grin.
Vyvian eyes Fain with shock. “Vale has a legion of young women champing at the bit to fast to him.”
Vale gives her an arch look. “True love, all of it, I’m sure.”
She rounds on him. “You could put in some small effort to be pleasant.”
They spar for a while longer, and I grow weary, their voices harder and harder to follow.
The violin music turns to a piece I know. “Winter’s Dark.” It’s achingly beautiful. Played masterfully.
Fain is lost in the music as well, his glass tipped precariously to one side, tears filling his eyes.
“Ancient One, Edwin,” Fain calls outside, his mouth lifting into a wavering, melancholy smile. “If you keep playing like that, I’ll fast to you.”
It’s the last thing I remember before the fatigue pulls me under.
* * *
It’s fully dark outside when I wake again.
Vyvian and Edwin are gone. Vale’s and Fain’s low voices rouse me from a deep, heavy slumber.
“The way Malkyn killed that Kelt girl. I can’t get it out of my mind.” Fain’s expression is dark and troubled. “I dreamed of it. A terrible nightmare.” He shakes his head, as if trying to clear the memory. “That poor girl, huddled in the dirt. I didn’t see her until...” Fain takes a deep breath, collecting himself. “It’s like he goes out of his way to be just like the Urisk. The Kelts. It’s...it’s not right. We’re supposed to be the Righteous Ones. The Beacon of Hope for a dark world.”
“Spoken with the idealism of a man who has studied far too much scripture and exactly no history whatsoever,” Vale says, leveling a piercing gaze at Fain. “Gardnerians with overwhelming power will do exactly what any race does with overwhelming power. Abuse it.”
Fain narrows his eyes at Vale. “Your cynicism borders on blasphemy.”
Vale drops his forehead in his hand and massages it, shaking his head. “For the life of me, Fain, I cannot understand your attachment to this inflexible religion of ours. Frankly, it makes me question your intelligence.” He straightens and gestures toward Fain’s drink, perched neatly in his elegant fingers. “You�
��re a walking contradiction.”
“A reclining contradiction,” Fain tartly replies.
“Waxing poetic about being the Righteous Ones with a glass of illegal Keltic spirits perched on your knee.” He shoots him a significant, knowing look. “I could go on.”
“I’m complicated,” Fain snipes back.
“You’re intellectually deluded,” Vale puts in flatly.
Fain waves him away. “Your disdain won’t work on me, Vale. I actually enjoy your unabashed elitism.”
Vale is implacable. “I do not enjoy your romanticized ignorance.”
Fain laughs. “You know, Vale, your absolute conviction that you are superior to me is sometimes...overwhelming. Contrary to what you think, I best you in many areas.”
“And they would be?”
“Hospitality. Charm. Water Magic.” Fain shoots him a meaningful look. “Tact.”
Vale eyes him slyly. “Don’t forget historical delusions.”
Fain glowers at him. “Don’t meddle with my fantasies of reality. Your strident cynicism is one of your worst traits.”
“So I should join the ignorant, deluded and falsely pious masses, according to you?”
Fain laughs and mock-toasts him. “You’d be much happier.”
“Would I be, Fain?” Vale sweeps his drink in an all-encompassing gesture. “Does all this lead to a happy ending?”
A shadow passes over Fain’s expression. Then his face lightens with resignation. He holds his glass high. “For tonight, we will pretend that it will, and we will toast to our new champion, the exquisite Tessla Harrow.”
Vale considers this with a tilt of his head, then nods, raising his glass a fraction, his eyes calmly taking me in, but I can feel the wild heat simmering beneath the calm.
“To Mage Tessla Harrow,” Fain declares, chin high. “Champion of the unappreciative, deluded masses.” Fain downs his glass, takes a deep, satisfied breath and lets it out. “Fast to her, Vale. And quickly. Before you lose your chance.”
Chapter 13: Lower River Girl
The next morning, I’m awake before everyone else in the tent. A plump, gray-haired woman, who I assume is the apothecary, slumbers in the chair next to my cot, her breath a rhythmic whisper, and Fain is nowhere in sight. Vale is sprawled out on a floor cushion, a thin blanket fitfully wrapped around him like a messy binding.
My blood turns hot at the sight of him, a black hurt mingling with the fire inside me, fierce as a lowering thundercloud.
Lower River Girl.
He spat it like I’m nothing but silt beneath his feet.
Vale tosses and turns, his dreams seemingly troubled, his brow tensed tight as he murmurs to himself unintelligibly. A few times his face loses its angry sharpness and softens, his lips slightly parted as if he’s about to speak, his expression becoming vulnerable and edged with sorrow.
It twists something deep inside me and I rail against it, tears biting at my eyes. Seeing him like this, I feel unguarded and exposed—and deeply rattled.
But his hurtful dismissal of me echoes through my mind, spearing through me like ice.
* * *
By the time the gray light of an overcast dawn filters through the gap in the tent flap, I’m utterly furious. Inwardly seething as Mage Aniliese methodically tends to me with practiced hands, checking my pulse and reflexes, rubbing salve into my hands and feet. She places a warm mug of tonic into my hands, the steam wafting up to moisten my chin and my nose with its minty, metallic scent.
I glare at Vale, resentful of the sight of his sharp shoulder blade jutting out against the disheveled silk of his tunic. His back to me, he’s still asleep on the rolled out floor mat. There all night long in case his fire was needed—to help me.
I should be thankful.
His warm fire restarted my affinity, gave it fully back to me.
But I’m not thankful. I’m lost in a wilderness of intense emotion.
I hate that I feel this intense pull toward him. That our affinities line up so exactly. That I can’t forget the feel of his lips on mine.
She’s a Lower River Girl.
She’s tolerable. In a rustic sort of way.
Hurt pierces through me, then an anger so raw I could spit fire right into his intimidating face.
* * *
“There, good. Rest a bit more.”
Mage Aniliese is oblivious to my dark thoughts, smiling to herself as she pats my arm with an efficient hand, her silver Erthia orb bobbing restlessly on its chain alongside her golden apothecary guildmaster pendant.
I’m weak, but whole.
And so upset I don’t want to spend another minute here.
And I feel humiliated. Humiliated that both Vale and Fain saw me half-naked. At the time, I was so desperate to breathe, so sickened with my own magic that I barely noticed my nudity. But now, my health returning, I’m completely aware of what happened. How exposed I was.
And I don’t want to see Vale Gardner or Fain Quillen ever again. I want to forget that any of this ever happened.
Vale is sipping some tea, both hands tight around the mug. His uniform is wrinkled and disheveled, and the shadow of a sparse beard edges his chin. The dark circles under his eyes have deepened, and his hair is uncombed. I can sense his heated awareness of me, his brow drawn tight, but he keeps his gaze resolutely fixed on his tea.
The tent flap pulls back, the gray light momentarily washing out the riot of tapestry color surrounding us. Fain sails in, whistling to himself, looking well rested and polished as a shiny guilder. His uniform is clean and pressed, with his cloak jauntily flowing out behind him and his exquisitely carved wand resting in his wandbelt at a rakish angle.
He’s the epitome of a handsome, well-to-do, elegant Gardnerian.
And this makes me angry, too.
Fain beams a dazzling smile at me as he enters. “Ah, the lovely Mage Harrow awakens.” He reaches into his cloak pocket and pulls out a scarlet pomegranate and a small, fat coin purse, setting them down on the table beside me.
Mage Aniliese quirks a smile and cocks one eyebrow at him. She flicks her finger toward the pomegranate. “And where ever did you find this, Mage Quillen? At this time of ration and communal sacrifice?”
He kisses her on the top of her head, and she bats him away with mock annoyance. “Where I found it does not matter,” he says, with great import. “What does matter is that you are brilliant and should be given a lake full of gems for everything you do for us.”
Mage Aniliese chuckles, her moss-green eyes dancing merrily. She scoops up the pomegranate and the coin purse and drops them both into her tunic pocket, then gathers up her supplies—stoppered vials, small sacks of dried herbs, a stone mortar and pestle.
“Well,” she says to Fain as she stows her tools, “Ancient One knows I’ve pulled you out of a scrape or two.” She shoots him a poignant, amused glance. “How many times have you been Magedrunk?”
Fain thrusts his lip out, thinking. “Oh...a few.” He smiles mischievously at her.
“Hmm,” she says, nodding at him with jaded good humor. “Never like this, though.” She turns to me. “Young lady, repeat after me. I will not layer spells.”
I’ll do whatever I need to do to protect and take care of my family.
“I will be careful,” I tell her flatly, meeting her level gaze with my own restored wall of fire.
“Hmm,” she repeats, frowning as if she sees me more clearly now and doesn’t quite approve. “Well then,” she says, taking a deep, resigned breath. “I’ll be off.”
I attempt a polite smile at Mage Aniliese, but I know my anger makes it appear strained. “Thank you,” I tell her tightly. “I am in your debt.”
Mage Aniliese nods at this, then gives Fain an affectionate pat on the arm and takes her
leave.
“Well,” Fain says pleasantly, turning to me. “I want you, Mage Harrow, to rest here as long as you like. My home is your home.” He gracefully places one arm over his chest and gives me a slight deferential bow.
My irrational anger rises even higher along with the irrational urge to smack both Fain and Vale, so insulated by their money and their fancy cloaks and their fine wands.
Panic rears its ugly head.
Where will my family and I go? What are we going to do?
I might be able to find an apprenticeship in Verpacia, but I have no way to get there. No money. No horses. Nothing.
We’re all alone.
Lower River, low-class peasants.
Fain is still smiling wide at me, smug as a contented cat. There’s an anticipatory gleam in his eye, and I realize that he’s waiting for my thanks.
“I’m leaving,” I tell him succinctly. “Thank you for your assistance, but I need to find my family.” I pin Fain with a polite but level stare, my heart pounding out my hurt. “And I wouldn’t want to sully your tent further with my rustic, peasant ways.”
Fain steps back in surprise, like he’s been slapped, then swallows audibly.
“You were awake.”
“Yes.” I bite off the word, my tone gone hard. “I heard quite a bit of what you said. You and...him.” I turn and spear Vale with my stare.
Vale’s eyes have gone a fraction too wide, his intense gaze locked on to mine. I can’t decide if he looks troubled or filled with furious contempt, which only makes my anger burn hotter.
Fain’s voice is tremulous. “Tessla, I never...”
“Stop.” I cut Fain off, my cursed voice wavering. “I know how it is. My family and I were low-class and looked down on in Doveshire, and we’ll be low-class and looked down on in Gardneria. Because I didn’t grow up with money like you.” I glare at Vale. “Or you.” I turn back to Fain. “We were so poor that we usually didn’t have decent food. That’s how rustic we are. Lower than peasants, actually.” I shrug with feigned nonchalance, fiercely willing back the tears. “The farmers ate better than us most of the time.”
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