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She grabbed for it before she could stop herself, hand catching on one of the dangling chains.
“I’m surprised you want it back, given what it is.”
She was too raw, and her confusion showed for a split-second before she smothered it.
“So you don’t know what it is, then.” Amusement dripped from his voice. “Walk with me.”
She was growing tired of walking places with Alaric. She never liked where the paths he chose led. Today’s led back inside, to a room just off the palace’s grand foyer. The hall of royal portraits. It wasn’t an area she’d been interested in exploring before. Paintings, most of them of dead people, weren’t to her taste.
She passed Brennan Tolvannen’s and suppressed a shudder, remembering the manic desperation in his eyes. Remembering that he was still there, in that same room, in that same state.
“Here we are.” Alaric drew her in front of him, pointing her at a painting of a woman. She recognized the eyes, the lift of the eyebrows, even before she saw the name written beneath it: Evaleen Tolvannen. Didn’t need Alaric reaching around her, holding the pendant up to the painting, where its likeness was draped around Evaleen’s neck, to understand why he’d brought her here. Why he’d been so amused that she didn’t know what it was.
Numair hadn’t given her any necklace—he’d given her his mother’s. The rest of it fell into place easily enough. His discomfort when she’d asked if she could buy one, how he’d told her they were always custom made. The fact that only the women in the village had worn them. Nissa’s brief It’s...from Arlan when Clare had pointed out hers.
Alaric’s other arm reached around her, tapping his way down the symbols on the pendant. “Honesty. Loyalty. Sacrifice. Hope. Tell me, little songbird, has he kept any of those vows to you?”
She didn’t answer. Her body shook with rage, and she didn’t know if it was at Alaric, Numair, or herself.
“I would have thought,” he said, his voice almost tender, “that you would have known better than to let a man hold sway over you again. Men are such weak creatures.”
“And what are you?”
“A god. Self-created, in my own image. And you could be one, too.” He took her hand and turned it over, dropping the pendant into it so the chain spilled over the edges of her palm. “You simply need to let this go.” He left. She remained, until she felt the weight of his power pass beyond the door, then she too went to leave.
She stopped abruptly at the room’s threshold. The palace foyer was crowded, everyone who usually passed time in the solariums or other rooms now filling this space. She and Alaric had been in the portrait hall how long? Five minutes? Certainly not long enough for everyone to congregate here naturally, where they never did. They were here for a reason, and it was her misfortune to be exiting a room just after Alaric.
She felt the open speculation, the whispers. Her face, ordinarily so compliant to her wishes, refused to smooth back into neutrality. She felt it like a whip-crack through the air, the moment Numair saw her. The moment he recognized where she’d come from, his face going ashen as his gaze dropped to the broken chains dangling from her clenched fist.
His eyes darted to hers and he started to shove off the wall he was leaning against. Then he froze and she watched him take hold of himself, as she herself had done so many times in her life, and relax once more. She was tempted to do something unforgivably foolish. Like walk across this room and drag him out of here, when she suspected he would refuse to go.
It was a good thing, then, that she didn’t get the chance. The palace doors opened, and Clare immediately knew why everyone was here. She wouldn’t have to wait, it seemed, to find out why Madame Aria had looked so happy so short a time ago. The woman strode in, four Hounds at her back, along with six mages in black—the guild’s internal enforcers.
Madame Aria took stock of the room before landing on Clare. She smiled smugly, addressing her loudly in the now-silent room. “Clare Brighton. You are hereby accused of illegal use of magic on the following counts: use of magic against the nobility of Veralna without their consent. Use of that magic in ways that can be considered harmful and disruptive, and which shows a blatant disregard for the laws of the Mages Guild, which are designed to ensure the safety of both the magical and non-magical citizens of this kingdom. You will be remanded into the custody of the Mages Guild, until such time as a trial can be set.”
Across the room, Alys took an angry step forward. Clare gave her a subtle shake of her head—this was not a situation Alys could fix, and for Clare to fix it, she needed to appear as unruffled as possible. She arched her eyebrows at Madame Aria. “Permission for that use—dare I say encouragement of it—was given to me by the king. Whose authority, unless I am very much mistaken about the nature of kings, supersedes the guild’s.”
Madame Aria nodded, as if having expected this rebuttal. “Yet if the Mages Guild has reason to believe a mage poses a danger to the king himself, or that his permission for your activities was not freely given, we do not have to honor that permission. From the moment you stepped into these halls, you have held an unnatural sway over the ruling family.” She slid a scroll from her inside cloak pocket. “I have here a document signed by no less than twenty of Veralna’s most influential nobles attesting to the unusual behavior of both the king and the second prince since your arrival here.”
Clare laughed. “Well, it certainly sounds as if I have been busy.” It wasn’t a terrible plan. By publicly casting doubt on the freedom of the king’s behavior, any appeal she made for him to intervene would be met with suspicion. That wouldn’t stop his word from overruling the guild’s, but only if he bothered to intervene, which Madame Aria no doubt knew he wouldn’t.
Not without proper motivation.
“Will you come willingly, or must you be made to comply?”
“Oh, I don’t believe either will be necessary. We can clear up this little misunderstanding directly.” She could feel the weight of Alaric’s power on the mezzanine floor above her, still within hearing range. She raised her voice and called, with emphasis on each syllable, “Alaric.”
The Hounds shifted, trading glances, but there had been no magic in her call for them to detect. The only pull that had the king answering her command lay in her finally using the informal address to which he had once invited her, and using it so publicly. His name was a lie on her tongue that said, You see you’ve rattled me, Your Majesty, and I am considering your offer.
He appeared above them, leaning against the railing that lined the mezzanine. “Yes, little songbird?”
She finally determined what it was about that nickname she so despised—the adjective coupled with something most people already considered small and harmless. An address meant to remind her, constantly, of how small she was. Mere minutes ago, he had suggested she become a god at his side. She was, presumably, not supposed to recognize, or at least not to care, that if she did he would always view her as a lesser one.
It served her purposes well enough in the moment. Though she had no doubt he’d overheard Madame Aria’s accusations, they had been related in a way that made Clare appear brilliantly manipulative, as opposed to making him look weak and gullible. Put in the former light, he would certainly let her rot in the custody of the Mages Guild. If she directly asked for his help, he would probably take it as an excellent time to remind her that he had made her an offer she had yet to accept.
If she wanted him to allow her the demonstration she needed to make, she needed to prick his pride. Gods, from what the legends would have a person believe, were easily insulted creatures.
“I’m embarrassed on your behalf, Your Majesty. Your own Mages Guild seems to think me capable of ensorcelling you beyond reason.”
