The room was silent for so long that Thia wondered if the king had departed. Blood pounded in her ears. She could see her breath in the air, so cold had the room become.
Then that whispering voice slithered again. “A lovely ring.”
Lord Sagan’s weathered fingers clutched a rather large jewel on his left hand, obscuring it from view. “Th-thank you,” he said, nearly whimpering.
“I have to wonder,” the king said slowly, “why you claimed House Griffon could not offer its full tribute at the last moon, when its lord possesses such finery.”
Lord Sagan examined the floorboards. “A f-family heirloom—” he tried, but the king cut him off.
“You are weak, Riltun, and that is why your blood calls to me. An old conjurer obsessed with books and charts, scrambling after what will only ever be a pale imitation of real power.” He paused. “You know what real power is, do you not?”
The fire surged brighter for a moment, and Lord Sagan cried out. But then it was over, and the old man bent with his hands on his knees, shaking so hard the tassels on his sleeves fluttered.
The king laughed. It was a melodic sound, but horrible, like that burrowing insect had found a way in and was wriggling holes in Thia’s brain. She bit back a scream as the king spat, “Go back to your mutterings, old man.”
There was a popping sound, and the room flared with life again. Fire crackled, and warmth surged over Thia as Lord Sagan dropped to the floor.
Oskaren, of all people, moved first. She rushed to the Magician and scooped him up more gently than Thia would have thought possible, depositing him on a chair.
Thia could feel the king’s departure in the fire’s heat, but she couldn’t make herself move. Because that man had been truly terrifying.
Beside her, Dess strode forward. “Summoned?” he bellowed, halting in front of the Magician with his arms crossed over his chest.
“Please,” Lord Sagan said weakly. “Let me explain.”
“You’d better,” Dess started, anger dripping from every word. “Or—”
“Or what?” the lord said bleakly. “You’ll kill me?Betrâ,” he breathed, and Dess’s arms fell to his sides where they remained, stuck.
“Let me go,” the boy growled.
The Magician waved his hand. “Ábetra,” he breathed. It was a great display of what had given him his title, but he didn’t seem proud, only weary.
Dess flexed his hands as though their brief immobility had stiffened the joints. “Talk.”
“Should we send for some wyrtwala?” Thran asked, inspecting the older man’s pale complexion and still-shaking hands.
It was a nice suggestion, but it made Thia angry. He was the one who had advised them to enter nÿgen territory, then abandoned her to their attack. Now was the time he decided to have some human decency?
The Magician waved him off. “It sets me on edge. Can’t drink the stuff.” His eyes found Thia’s. “I’m sorry,” he said softly, and he looked like he meant it. His voice dropped even lower. “I’m bound to his majesty. I did not mean to bring him here.”
At the intrigue, the puzzle, Thia finally pushed herself off the wall. “Bound how?”
“My father was lord of this House before me,” Lord Sagan said. “In the years of the Mage King’s conquest. He was tricked. He believed allegiance would save his people, so he swore an oath of fealty in blood. Now that curse has passed to me.”
“So you’re forced to obey him?” Thia pressed, wondering why he hadn’t immediately announced her as the Storm Crow.
Lord Sagan smoothed his long beard. “It is not quite so simple as that. He is…in my mind.” He swallowed. “Most of the time, he pays me no mind, and I can shut him out. But he knows what I feel, can sense when something is not right. And so he appears to me, in my times of terror.”
Thia shuddered, recalling the sensation of the king’s voice around her own mind. “Tell me how you knew my mother.”
The Magician pressed himself slowly to his feet, using the table for support. Instead of answering, he snapped his fingers, and a servant appeared. “If you will not value your life, then I will do it for you,” he said. “Eat. Rest. But you will leave this house at first light and never return.”
At the Magician’s direction, the servant left, then returned with food, at which time the lord himself departed. Thia waited for him to return, frustration growing with each passing minute he did not, and then it bloomed into anger. Anger and—panic.
They finished the meal, and a servant came to take them back to their rooms. Thia couldn’t stop hearing that slithering voice, and with it every warning that had been given to her.
He’ll sooner kill you than help you.
