“They look old.” She traced the edge of one of the burned stripes. “How did you get them?”
Ethenn shrugged half-heartedly. “Working in my uncle’s forge.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“Well, hunting was just my primary job. I worked with my uncle when I was in town for extended periods.”
“No, not that.” Ilain propped herself on her elbow to look down into his face. “You’re not clumsy, Ethenn. In fact, you’re decidedly known for being the opposite. How did you accidentally burn yourself dozens of times?”
Though Ethenn had said nothing about the scars being accidental, he didn’t bother to correct her. “I’m not a very good smith,” he deflected.
She rolled her eyes at the noncommittal answer. “Fine,” she said, sinking into the mattress again. “I’ll let you keep your secrets for now. But know this, Ethenn Loxley: I’m your wife, and that means I’m entitled to know every last detail about your life, even if I have to pry the information out of you.”
Closing his eyes, Ethenn forced himself to relax. “I’ll look forward to your interrogation,” he said.
There was a moment of silence before Ilain nudged him.
His neck turned, peering over at her through half-closed lids.
“Aren’t you going to kiss me goodnight?” she asked.
Ethenn smirked, turning back to the canopy. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Goodnight, Ilain.”
After several seconds, she laid her head next to his, grumbling, “Goodnight, you bloody prude.”
Part II: From the Heavens to the Terrae
When I look to the Heavens,I see the complete complexity of the resourcesspread like a canvas above me.
Excerpt fromComprehending the Vast Expanse of Infinity
by Highlord Hyraum Grenwoode, Magister of the Order of the Heavens
It is exceptionally difficult to train a man in magic. Once the wonder and pliability of youth have gone from him, the man gets in his own way. We liken the magic of an adult Mage to the sprout of a tree through rock; the magic will make its emergence, but it will fracture the man in the process.
Highlord Althur Elgur, Magister of the Order of the Age, circa 441
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
39TH OF CHRONOS, 1574
The wan morning light drifted over the rooftops, pale in Deckard’s eyes as he stared out the window at the overcast sky. He pressed against the band of his new ring with the pad of his thumb. Ever since the ceremony’s end and Ilain’s declaration, he’d wanted to remove the talisman. The cold metal stung his skin, irritating him with the reminder that he wasn’t just a soldier anymore; he was a Mage. And worse, it meant that they’d been manipulated once again.
Despite his better judgment, Deckard believed Archminister Fishere’s sincerity when he said their appointment in the government was a choice of their own. It had been plain in the old man’s stern gaze that Ilain had chosen to add that final pronouncement of her own accord at the last second. But that didn’t mean he trusted the aims of the Alliance either.
Time and again, the Alliance had twisted and exploited the Ephrian soldiers’ dedication. They’d used them. They’d lied to them. And their troop continued to go along with it because they believed that a future free of Blount and Ephren was a better one for their people.
But would the Alliance prove to truly be any better?
After waking an hour earlier, Deckard had risen, his mind too full to remain still. In the darkness, he’d dressed and begun to repack their saddlebags. Now, the bags waited by the door, an outfit sat folded and ready for Evylin on the settee, the room was set to rights, and a pot of tea was steeping on the table.
And through all his tasks, Deckard ruminated.
It wasn’t right. This wasn’t how things were supposed to be.
