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Some of the familiars she’d schooled with had gone for over a year before quickening. The guys had an easier time of it, as they didn’t need to be sequestered for their Trials. The female familiars, however, had to stay locked in their tower rooms under guard, to ensure any child conceived belonged to the wizard who’d paid for the opportunity to acquire a familiar and brood mare to powerful children in one swoop. Or to the male designated as stud by a female wizard.
Infamously, Lady Sarai Byssan had gone over three years without conceiving before she’d exhausted the wizards of the High Housesandthe tier-two houses. House Byssan had offered her for bonding to the lady wizards, but none wanted a familiar who couldn’t be bred. She’d then faced the choice of trying suitors from lower-tier houses—or, worse, unlanded wizards—or dedicating herself to the Convocation.
Sarai had chosen a life of service to the Convocation and whoever had the wherewithal to hire her. Most of the familiars at Convocation Academy had agreed they’d rather continue with the Trials rather than serve as a Convocation familiar, but Sarai hadn’t been able to face the Trials any longer. A sentiment Nic understood much better now.
But, face them she must. She couldn’t back out of the Betrothal Trials now, much as she didn’t look forward to bedding Lord Phel.
All right, in the privacy of her own head, she could admit that she was dreading it. And look at her—hiding behind the curtains like they might save her from the night ahead. Even without the metal shutters to discourage any attempts at an ill-conceived escape, the fall from her tower would kill her.
Nic was far too stubborn, too determined to make the best of her bad fate, to succumb now. She’d survived discovering she’d never be a wizard. She’d even held her head high through the subsequent, possibly even more painful blows when her younger sister and brother, Alise and Nander, manifested as wizards. One of them would succeed Papa as head of House Elal, while Nic would become the property of another house. The cold metal bit into her fingers, she gripped the slats so hard.
Making herself leave her limited view behind, she paced past the little table holding the wine and delicacies between the companionably placed chairs before the cheerful fire, and eyed the small vial of House Aratron potion she could add to her own wine. Many of the familiars used it, male or female, so it was said. Arrogance and casual cruelty came naturally to wizards, lord and lady alike. The potion wasn’t an aphrodisiac—contrary to the exaggerated tales circulated at school—but it did make being willing a bit easier.
Tempting, with the dread whittling at her insides.
Still, her pride might be a failing, as her mother so often warned, but Nic wouldn’t resort to an Aratron apothecary’s mind-clouding to see this through. She’d agreed to the Betrothal Trials, so she’d face the wizard clear-headed and with a brave heart. She’d gone through this three times before and—unless Phel managed to plant his seed—she would again. The trick would be extracting her own brand of triumph from it.
Lord Phel was desperate, she reminded herself—she and Maman had gone through everything the Elal spirit spies could dig up on the wizard who’d emerged from the unlikely swamps of Meresin—and a desperate man could be led in the direction a clever woman wanted him to go. House Phel had once been a High House, long since removed from the Convocation roster when they stopped producing progeny with any measurable magical potential. A disaster for any house, let alone a High House. But their catastrophe could be her opportunity, especially since, two generations later, they’d unexpectedly produced a wizard with astonishingly high MP scores.
Perhaps he’d be her ticket to, if not actual freedom, then the ability to control her own destiny. Nic had the fire and drive to be lady of her own house. Due to an accident of birth, she couldn’t do that as a wizard, so she’d find another way. She was an Elal, first and foremost, and that meant something.
There, that was better. She was stronger than a hapless wizard from a fallen house.
A knock at the door had her whirling as if a snake had rattled a warning. Her heart skipped a beat. Her gut clenched.
So much for her newfound bravery.
She snatched up the potion vial and slipped it into a pocket of her skirts. Just in case. She could always drink it straight, bitter though it might be. If she needed it, she wouldn’t mind a bit of foul flavor. Composing herself, Nic folded her hands and lifted her chin. A picture of elegance and poise even Maman would praise.
“Enter,” she called, keenly aware that it was more than her chambers she invited entry into.
The lock clicked, and the door swung open. Nic steeled herself for the first glimpse of the man she’d soon be taking between her thighs—likely within moments, if he was anything like Sammael. Maybe he’d be the last.Come on, lucky number four.
Lord Phel stepped in, draped in a dark-green cloak, deeply cowled hood drawn around his face. A shine of power radiated from him, cool and pale as moonlight on still water, and palpably shimmering with danger. Tall and broad-shouldered, he ducked slightly and turned a bit sideways to pass through the doorway of the ancient tower, which was admittedly on the small side. Still, no one else had had trouble with it.
He turned and closed the door, cocking his head at the click as the guard locked it from the outside.
She refused to acknowledge the sinking sensation of being trapped. That was cowardice sneaking in. He was as trapped as she was, since they’d be sealed in together until the guard let them out. The Convocation proctor wouldn’t allow him to spend less than the entire night, and the Betrothal Trial rules wouldn’t allow him to harm her. Not physically, anyway. Not much. She was letting her imagination run away with her.
He stayed there for a long moment, back turned to her, shoulders making a tense line in the cloak. If he weren’t a wizard with staggeringly high MP scores, Nic would’ve guessed him to be nervous. Lord Phel turned, tipping back his cowl, and Nic stared.
His hair was entirely white, silver as moonlight, save for a black streak that ran from the right side of his forehead, weaving with the long strands that fell to his shoulders. It should’ve made him look ancient, but his dusky skin was smooth as a young man’s. His wizard-black eyes, opaque and depthless, glittered in his sharp cheekboned face. Though his strong jaw was set in a determined line, his lips were well-formed, surprisingly soft-looking.
Nic couldn’t seem to look away. She’d never felt so… drawn to a wizard. Sure, familiars were attracted to wizard power, that was their nature, but this felt far more potent. Like a kind of… Fascination.
No!With a burst of panic, Nic tried to shake herself from her rapt stare—and found herself unable to wrench her gaze from his. It couldn’t be Fascination. That would be a bad, bad sign.
Lord Phel still stood by the door, returning the examination, until he quirked a brow in sardonic question. Thankfully, that small movement broke the spell holding her rapt. Chagrined, shaken, and determined not to be further rattled by a mild attraction to an admittedly handsome man—that was surely all it was, as Fascination was a myth, wasn’t it?—she lifted a hand to gesture to the empty chairs. It shook slightly, so she buried it in a fold of her skirts.Get ahold of yourself, Lady Elal, she instructed herself firmly.
“Welcome, Lord Phel,” she said. There. She sounded perfectly composed. “There’s a hook there, for your cloak. Will you sit? There is wine, and a fire to warm you after your journey.”Please sit and don’t go at me right away.
She held her breath as his opaque gaze fell to the elegant wine decanter, the pair of crystal glasses, the tray of rich delicacies—and her heart fell as his lip curled. Nic braced for the command.Turn around and bend over. Lie down and spread your legs.She pressed her thighs together to assure herself that plenty of unguent remained to grease his way. She didn’t know why tradition demanded the pretense of courtship when every suitor ateafterhe’d planted his seed—leaving nothing for her to eat—before falling asleep to snore until dawn when they could be released.
She’d learned to eat a hearty meal at midday and have a snack at midafternoon, to stave off hunger until morning.Morning.In the morning he’d be gone, and she could be left alone for a few blessed weeks. Something to cling to.
He lifted his hands, the draping sleeves falling back to reveal long fingers and pale moon nails. He slipped the pin from the brooch fastening his cloak, the polished metal flashing as he stowed it in a pocket, before hanging the cloak on the hook. Then he strode purposefully toward her. Leaner than she’d first thought him, lanky and long-legged, he moved like a cat, graceful and predatory—and she found herself shrinking back, despite all her prideful resolve.
But he surprised her by shifting his penetrating gaze from her to the chairs. Bypassing the closer one, he sat—leaving her usual chair for her. Had he noticed the faint indications of use that revealed the one to be her favorite chair? It seemed unlikely. Raising that expressive brow at her, he pointed at the other chair. “Won’tyousit, Lady Veronica?”
