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She closed her mouth with a snap, glaring at him, then sipped her wine. “Consider the subject dropped.”
As much as he looked forward to a break from her ceaseless needling, he wished she’d chosen to talk to him. They would get there—and he’d start wearing her down now. Water eroded even the strongest rock eventually. Never mind that her stubborn will was granite.
“In return,” she added, “can we not discuss my pregnancy?”
He regarded her thoughtfully, very much wanting to point out that not talking about it wouldn’t make it disappear. Unless she’d miscarried and didn’t want to say so. “It’s a bargain.” He patted the bed. “Why don’t you sit? We can talk of other things.”
“Congenial conversation?” she queried wryly. But was that a hint of a smile?
“I’ve heard it can be enjoyable,” he replied lightly.
With a shrug, she went around to the other side of the bed and crawled onto it, balancing her wineglass deftly and surprising him by perching cross-legged in the middle of the bed. At least this way she was no longer so temptingly outlined by the firelight. That she had no intention of resuming amorous activities with him came as no surprise—not that he was up to it tonight anyway—but he still harbored regret.This is what you get for playing the Convocation game, he reminded himself.You didn’t go into this to please yourself, but out of duty to House Phel.
Veronica regarded him with a carefully neutral expression, her lady-of-the-house demeanor—though she didn’t pull it off quite so well with her unbound hair cascading over her white gown, drying into curls that seemed to stir with their own life. Only the hideous collar marred her beauty—that and the shadows under her eyes. She looked young, even waifish. Only the mature intelligence in her glinting green eyes showed otherwise. He ate his delicious chicken, considering what tack to take with her. Once again, she’d had a chance to run, to escape him during the hours he’d been unconscious. He barely recalled arriving at the inn, much less anything after. But she hadn’t run. Instead, she was here, in the room with him, apparently for the night. At least she didn’t hate him enough to avoid him entirely.
“The collar is chafing your skin,” he said, noting the angry skin bleeding in places over her winged collarbones.
She grimaced, lifting it and running her fingers beneath. “I’ve always been sensitive to any metal but gold, and this is particularly poor quality. Apparently, the hunters aren’t that well funded. Or they don’t care.”
Likely they didn’t care. “Maybe we can wrap it in cloth until we get it off of you.”
“Not a bad idea,” she conceded. “I had a hot bath while you slept, and it helped to wash and oil my skin. Wrapping it would be good.”
He studied the thing. “If nothing else, we can detach the leash.”
“Please. Though it won’t change anything about the—” She pressed her lips shut over the words.
The invisible chains that restrained her, he supposed she’d stopped herself from saying. At least she was honoring the agreement. “So, this Inytta,” he said, trying for a neutral topic, “she is a healer, but not a wizard of House Refoel?”
“Right. There’s not much magic in Wartson, besides imports like the lanterns and other simple conveniences. I met Inytta when I arrived in Port Anatole. I fixed her pitcher, which cleanses any fluid she puts inside. Handy tool for a healer. Otherwise, she’s limited to nonmagical skills, but she does quite well, all things considered.”
“The pitcher is enchanted?” He recalled Veronica telling him that he shouldn’t have made his enchanted silver blade. Thinking of it, he groaned. He’d put it away covered in gore more than a day and night ago. It would be corroded.
Veronica followed his thought with uncanny insight. “Like your silver dagger? I cleaned it for you, by the way, along with the rest of your gear. And I tried it on this Iblis lock, with no luck. Maybe you can do better—I don’t know what all you did to make it.”
“Let’s try now.”
“Finish your meal first. You need sustenance, and I’ve had it on this long. Anyway, the pitcher is occupied by a water elemental, trained by an Elal wizard. It just needed a bit of upkeep. Elementals can get sulky, particularly the water ones.”
Interesting. This conversation was probably the most she’d ever said to him. She might be a little tipsy, which could only aid him in breaking through her walls. “So you can manipulate elementals like the wizards in your family?” He still wasn’t entirely clear on the difference between wizards and familiars, except that he’d thought that familiars couldn’t actively wield magic.
She cocked her head in curiosity. “You’re quite the puzzle, Lord Phel—what you do and don’t know.”
“Easier to assume I don’t know,” he offered with grim amusement. He’d read every legible book in the House Phel library, but they focused on magic rather than Convocation laws, and were two hundred years out of date on top of that. He’d idealistically hoped winning a familiar and lady for House Phel would help remedy the holes in his knowledge.
“Hmm.” Veronica clearly didn’t think much of his ignorance, and he didn’t blame her. “No, I can’t manipulate elementals like I could if I were a wizard.” A sigh escaped her, and he tasted the bitter grief in it. “An Elal wizard can summon spirits, tame and bind them to a task. The more powerful the wizard, the more powerful the spirits they can command. But anyone with Elal magic has an affinity for spirits. They… adore us, for want of a better term. That’s just how the magic works—they’re attracted to it in us, wizard or familiar. Elementals are pretty simple, so it’s fairly easy for me to know what will please them, and so I can coax them to do what I want—especially if it’s what they’ve already been tasked to do.”
“That’s why you’re so good with Vale.”
“Vale is a horse, not a spirit,” she corrected with some asperity.
He knew that, but he didn’t know how to frame his actual question. Veronica watched him with some amusement, swirling the wine in her nearly empty glass. “I’m getting more. You?”
“Sure.” He handed her his empty glass—she hadn’t given him much—and he couldn’t help watching as she uncoiled to knee-walk off the bed. She wore nothing beneath the sleeping gown, and he caught a flash of slim thighs and dark nether hair when she unfolded her legs. The sight sent a bolt of longing through him, which he sternly doused in mental cold water. He wanted nothing more than to bury himself in her fire, to recover something of that intimacy they’d shared.
Or that he’d enjoyed and she’d endured. There. That thought sufficed to cool his desire.
“See, you’re thinking that an animal spirit is like an elemental,” she said as she walked around the bed, oblivious to his turbulent thoughts. “And you’re not entirely wrong. Dealing with a spirit isn’t entirely unlike working with an animal. Really, though, any talent I have that way comes from the Ariel side of the family. My father’s mother was House Ariel.”
