“It’s a spell. See the marks?”
Whatever humming threads of pleasure are still curling through my body go quiet as I stare down at the fire’s base. The flames are hoveringabovethe rock. There are thin lines drawn on the stone in something that glimmers; oil, I think. The shapes it forms are similar to the Empire’s enchantments, the lines a little more curved, like the same words spoken on another’s tongue.
Witchcraft.
“I thought your power was air,” I say, my throat tight. “But you can do thisandhealing?”
Roiven looks up from the fish, his knife still buried in its gut as he splits it open.
“Storm, nor air. And spells and powers are different. Power comes naturally. Spells use marks.”
Just like enchantment, but I don’t point that out. Roiven bends his head down and finishes sawing the fish open. “Like your power, you cast spellmarks from your familiar bond. And you can learn spells for most things. But the further from your power a type of spell is, the weaker your ability with those spells will be. I don’t do well with earth-based spells, for instance.”
I nod, my jaw tight, and stare at the glistening marks of the oil. The fire burns steadily, a bright flame dancing just above the surface of the stone.
“You could try, you know,” Roiven says quietly. “I could show you…”
My breath catches, and I can feel the wordyeson my tongue. The fire is beautiful, and my heart nearly buzzes at the thought ofbeing able to make it myself. But I swallow the word down. This isn’t for me. No matter how curious I am, it’s a step too far.
“No.”
The Witch King shrugs.
“Suit yourself.” He carefully flips the fish up on its back and lifts it in his arms, standing lithely. No wonder he didn’t change yet; his clothes are going to be filthy now. He’ll probably need another soak. “I’m going to wash out the entrails.”
“Alright,” I say quietly. My throat feels tight.ShouldI have said yes? But if I change my mind now, I’ll look like a fool. And I’d give him the wrong idea.
“There are two bedrolls in the bag. You could make yourself helpful and set them out.”
He strides away from the fire and into the darkness.
“A please would have been nice,” I mutter under my breath, but it’s a reasonable request, and I do as Roiven asked without further complaint. I set them up a ways off from where he gutted the fish.
As I expected, he rinses off and then changes while the fish cooks. I find my eyelids growing heavy as I stare at the fire. It’s a pleasant surprise that he packed wooden plates in the traveling bag. We eat in silence. When I nearly nod off on top of my plate, Roiven reaches over and grabs my shoulder before I can fall on top of it. I jerk back upright.
“Are you alright?”
“Just tired.”
“Took a lot out of you, didn’t I?” he asks, sounding as smug as I’ve ever heard him. “If you’re done eating, get some rest.”
“I can clean.”
“It’s fine. It won’t take long. I’m still awake anyways.”
There’s no protest left in me. My legs wobble like jellyfish as I crawl into the sleeping roll he brought. I’m out so fast I don’t remember anything else.
It’s another nightmare night. Or perhaps they all are, and I just only realize it when one’s bad enough to wake me up.
This time it’s Roiven that wakes me, not the dream itself. I thrash awake as he grabs my shoulder. It’s entirely dark out, no moon, no fire. His golden eyes glow down at me as I shiver and pant beneath his hand.
“You’re having a nightmare,” the Witch King says, and sits back.
I raise my left arm up to my cheek, using my face to feel for the freshly tattooed enchantment lines I’m sure are there. Harfor was holding me down while the War-Father wielded the needle himself. But there’s no inflamed skin, no raised lines. I can’t even feel the bond marks that I knowarethere.
“Did I scream?” I rasp.
“No. The bond woke me. What did you dream this time? The skin-peeling again?”
