At Any Cost (2 page)

“I’m so glad you could come.” She mentally pinched herself. The conversation felt stilted. Awkward. She waited for him to turn it toward what really interested him, but he just smiled.

“Did you…” She set her empty glass down and waved off the servant who offered to re-fill it. “Did you enjoy your time at the school?”

“Oh, of course. Top marks in everything but history. Never had much of a mind for dates, I’m afraid.”

“I adore history.” In fact, her own bookshelves were lined with dusty tomes that even the most dedicated students never hunted down in the library. What others found dry, she could drown herself in. Great lives. Great people. The past seemed so full of them.

“It can be interesting,” she added. “If you ignore the dates and imagine the stories. It’s all how you look at things, isn’t it?”

He tilted his head to one side. “It may be.”

“Would you excuse me for a moment?” she asked. “Maybe I will take that dance after all. I just need a moment.”

“I look forward to it.”

She gathered her skirts and hurried to the nearest powder room to freshen up. She ran a finger under her eyes, tidying the smear of black makeup that lined her lashes for the evening.
He’s quite nice.
She smiled at her reflection in the mirror. The young woman reflected there was not perfect. Not ethereal. But tonight, she felt beautiful.

Maybe I’ll offer to tutor him in all that history he missed out on. See what happens.

She glided down the empty hallway, surprised at how certain she felt on her feet after more drinks than she was accustomed to. Rashel, she decided, was right. She could find someone who wanted her for herself. She would not be overlooked anymore.
I’m attractive. I’m smart. I’m interesting. I’m useful.

Her feet picked up speed as she circled the corridors outside the great hall, hoping to catch a glimpse of Jensen from another angle before she approached, to see whether he was watching for her as Rashel’s new friend had for her.

Voices drifted from a small study room, rarely used except by students who wished for privacy for reasons other than school work. Male voices, and the door was open. She slowed her pace, not wanting to draw attention as she passed.

“Think you’re in there?” a deep voice asked.

A sigh. “Might be. I don’t think she’s interested in marrying for money or power.”

Maggie stopped just outside the door.

The first voice chuckled. “Power is all you offer. It’s the money you’re lacking in.”

“I’ll offer her something else.”
Jensen,
she realized, and her breath stopped. “Take an interest in whatever it is regular people like. Not play up the magic to try to impress her.”

The “regular people” dig stung.
Maybe he didn’t mean it like that.

Jensen sighed. “Gods, but she seems dull. Not a breath of magic in her. It must be a burden for her father. He’ll probably thank whoever steps in and takes her away.”

His friend chuckled. “And I’m sure Miss Albion will be well supported.”

Maggie’s throat tightened.
Don’t do it.

She stepped into the room.

“How wonderful that you’d be willing to take the burden on yourself,” she said, glaring daggers at Jensen. “Poor thing. At least you’d be able marry me, have children worth spending time with, and find someone you care about after I die and leave you this fortune you seem so certain I’ll come into.” She held her chin high, but couldn’t help the tremble of anger and hurt in her voice. “Or would you offer me the consideration of waiting that long?”

She didn’t pause to wait for an answer, or to enjoy the horror in the two men’s eyes. She spun on her heel and stalked from the room before either could answer. Once free of them, she ran until she reached her little room on the top floor of the school, set apart from the students. She locked the door behind her and collapsed onto the bed, tears streaming down her face.

Don’t cry over those idiots.

She scrubbed at her eyes with the heels of her hands, pressing until the tears retreated. A few minutes later, the beautiful red dress hung in her closet, and she wore her most comfortable cotton sleep pants and a sleeveless undershirt, though her hair remained in its elaborate knot at the back of her neck.

She took a leather-bound history book from the shelf at random and flipped through the pages. Great people with great magic and great purpose filled the pages, achieving impossible things or suffering horrid defeat.

Either way, they were remembered. Special. In control of their fates, on their own terms.

As I will be,
she decided as she laid her head down, book clutched to her chest.
Somehow.

“
D
on’t gawk
, now,” Emalda said softly.

Maggie forced her jaw closed and turned her eyes to the road ahead, narrowly avoiding a collision with the empty cart her stepmother pulled. She’d had her eyes on a market stall dripping with glittering glass baubles, and a pair of men standing behind it who seemed about to break into a fistfight.

“Sorry,” she muttered, and quickened her pace to match Emalda’s.

They’d travelled two days to reach this market, crossing the narrow bridge that spanned the waters between Belleisle and Tyrea. It was Maggie’s first visit to a land she knew well from her history books. She’d read everything she could about it, from the battles deep in history when Tyrea attacked Belleisle’s shores, to the lengthy negotiations and treaties that even she found dull. She’d imagined Tyrea to be a terrifying place. Her father despised the king here, and believed that Ulric wouldn’t maintain the peace between the two nations forever. The governor of Belleisle agreed with him, and though nothing had been said to the people of the island that might cause panic, Ernis Albion and a few other powerful Sorcerers had been hard at work shoring up the country’s defenses. He’d assured Maggie and the students that there was nothing to worry about, but she’d seen his exhaustion after weeks of hard work and how the challenge of such magic drained him. His expression clouded over at the mere mention of Tyrea.

Still, he’d allowed his daughter to join his wife on this excursion to her homeland to purchase supplies that weren’t available in Belleisle. The suggestion that Maggie should accompany Emalda had been a pleasant surprise, and Maggie had jumped at the chance to see beyond the borders of the island.

Not exactly what I meant when I decided I should get away,
she thought as she watched a farmer herding curly-horned sheep through the market,
but it’s something.

Given her father’s opinions on Tyrea’s ruler and the country as a whole, she had expected the land to be more barren, the people harder, the economy poorer. Instead, she found it thriving. Even more surprisingly, the people didn’t seem strange at all. Maggie decided she needed to move on from history and find information on more recent events in Tyrea and the lands beyond. She could see no excuse for ignorance and wished she’d thought to learn more about recent history as well as the distant past.

Emalda moved out of the flow of foot traffic to stand next to a squat, stone building. She pulled out a long list.

“Are you familiar with any of this?” she asked, and handed it over.

Maggie looked the list over, and her stomach clenched. “I know what most of these look like. Mother had me assist her sometimes. But I don’t have a feel for things like you do. She never let me go to market, and I only carried the baskets when she foraged.”

Emalda sighed. “At least you’re honest about your limitations, which puts you ahead of my latest apprentice. Would you like to try? Maybe you’ve picked up more than you realize.”

Maggie brightened. “Of course.” A year after their marriage, Maggie still felt she was finding her way with her father’s new wife. Maggie wasn’t young enough to be embraced as a child, yet she couldn’t address Emalda as an equal. Still, they’d made progress, and Maggie was glad to have a chance to spend more time with her stepmother.

They’d spent the previous night with Emalda’s sister Dorin, who had welcomed Maggie as family. Dorin was a Sorceress, but had none of the arrogance that so often came with power. The three women had spent far too much of the night awake and laughing, with Maggie included in every conversation. For the first time, she had felt completely at ease with greatness.

Emalda scanned the list again. “You know what grappling hook vine looks like?”

“The one with the little barbs at the end of its leaves? Mother always complained she had to come out here for it.”

“Exactly.” Emalda held out three bronze coins. “Whatever you can get for that.”

Maggie hesitated, then took the money. “I’ll do my best.”

“That’s all I ask,” Emalda said, but her attention had already shifted across the marketplace to a dark corner from which purple smoke floated in a thin plume. “Meet me back here.”

Maggie wandered around the market, passing by carts and stalls overflowing with plants and shouldering her way through the narrow, bustling corridors. It seemed as if the marketplace’s population must outnumber that of all of Belleisle, and this was just one major city in one province of Tyrea. A new appreciation for her people’s ability to hold their land against such forces came over her, and she felt a warm sense of pride.

She ignored the fat man in his bright red vest calling out for her to taste his roasted game hens, though her stomach protested. In the next row of stalls she found a merchant in a straw hat and a white apron, a friendly and honest-looking woman who would have looked right at home at the marketplaces of Belleisle. More importantly, her table was not covered in potatoes and onions, but plants Maggie had seen her mother gather in the woods many times.
Elderbatch, florian blossom, werdenweed.
Maggie identified the plants as she spotted them, gathering her confidence.

The stranger smiled and waved a hand over the greens. “Fine time of year to visit my stall,” she said. “The loveliest plants the summer has to offer, gathered from the deepest woods, available here for the most convenient trading experience.”

Maggie smiled at the string of superlatives. It seemed Tyrea might be similar to Belleisle after all, at least in trading. The woman’s accent was warm and her words friendly enough that Maggie decided she’d need to be careful and not trust her too easily.

“I’m afraid I don’t need the loveliest,” she said, and scrutinized the plants as though they meant something to her. A Potioner would feel the power in them, sense their potential as ingredients. To Maggie they were nothing but weeds she might pass on a walk in the woods. Nothing unusual. Nothing brilliant. “I need grappling hooks.”

“How many?” The gatherer reached under her table and pulled out a covered box, then slipped thick gloves onto her hands. “I keep these hidden so passing children don’t reach out and get a nasty surprise.”

“Of course.” Maggie realized that she had no idea what a plant might go for, or how much Emalda would expect. “I’ll tell you what. I’m nearly done for the day. Why don’t you tell me what I can get for three…” She struggled to remember the proper name of the bronze Tyrean coins, then opened her palm to reveal them instead. The woman would already have pegged her as a foreigner based on her speech. A little confusion in this wouldn’t matter.

She looked over the plants. Deep green vines covered in hook-ended leaves with a starburst pattern in white on each, just as she remembered.
Good enough.

The gatherer’s lips twitched. “I can give you three for that.”

Maggie frowned. Negotiations would be expected, but her ignorance left her without any idea of what to ask. “Give me four and throw in a bag that won’t let them hook on my skirts, and we’ll call it a deal.”

Without another word, the transaction was finished. Maggie hurried back to the warehouse where Emalda waited.

“Well?” Maggie asked as her stepmother looked over the bag’s contents.

Emalda’s smile looked forced, and Maggie’s heart sank.

“It’s fine,” the older woman assured her. “You got a good deal for the amount you paid. It’s just the quality. Where did you find this?”

“There’s a gatherer two aisles over. They looked fine to me.”

Emalda glanced in the direction Maggie had indicated. “You’re right, they look fine.” She sighed. “I’m sorry. I do forget how finicky these things can be. The magic in these is less than one might hope, that’s all.” She slipped the burlap sack into the cart and handed Maggie another pair of coins.

“You want me to try again?”

Emalda’s smile softened. “I think that’s fine. You’ve been helpful, but you should enjoy yourself now. Find something to eat, explore a little. Just don’t wander too far or leave the market.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry, I’m treating you like a child. Meet me back here mid-afternoon.”

Maggie swallowed back a lump in her throat. Emalda’s kind words didn’t cover the fact that she’d failed. No magic, no sense for plants. Nothing remarkable. “Thank you,” she said, and pocketed the money. “Happy hunting.”

Emalda disappeared on her mission before Maggie had a chance to ask how far would be too far to wander.

Maggie wandered the aisles of open stalls, pushed through an alley, and emerged onto a broad street. Carts rushed past, clattering over the cobblestones, and people bustled past on walkways that were completely uncluttered by merchants and their wares.

Too far.

She was about to turn back when a flash of green caught her eye, bright against the dull browns and grays that most of the people wore. Another flash, weaving in and out of the crowd. She stepped closer.

Soldiers. The hairs at the back of her neck stood on end as she watched the group move closer. The evergreen hued uniforms had changed little since the hundred-year-old paintings of the king’s coronation she’d seen in her books. Of course the colors hadn’t changed. The king himself hadn’t. She wondered what it would be like to live out one’s entire life under one king, to have generations of families knowing a single ruler. The governor of Belleisle might serve for fifty years if he pleased the people, but nothing like the century that Ulric of Tyrea had ruled.

She wondered whether Ulric was as well preserved as her father, and decided that being a cruel tyrant probably took more of a toll on one’s appearance than a quiet life of teaching.
A wretched, hunched old thing, I’d say. Malice and evil glittering in his eyes…

The soldiers stopped on a corner and the crowd moved away from them, giving Maggie a clearer view. Middle-aged men, mostly, each with a golden crown embroidered onto his shoulder. One wore a patch over one eye, and another bore a thick scar that ran from cheekbone to chin, cutting a path through his thick beard. Battle-hardened men, these, the kind who would throw themselves in front of an attacker.

The kind who would guard the king himself.

Maggie stepped closer, trying not to look too interested.

A broad-shouldered soldier turned to face her, and her breath caught as his gaze met hers. Cold eyes, dark and hard, searched her face. He scowled. Maggie wanted to run, and found she couldn’t. Couldn’t even look away. She stood frozen in the street like a mouse entranced by a barn cat, unsure of how to move or escape.

To call the soldier handsome would have done him a disservice. In spite of his keen glare, she couldn’t help appreciating the strength of his clean-shaven jaw, the way his straight nose balanced the curve of his lips, the grace with which he finally turned away and released her from his stare. His thick, dark hair was tied behind his neck in a vain attempt at restraint, and she wondered whether the others with their thinning manes teased him for it.

The group moved on, and she followed. Fear battled with excitement, setting her heart racing in a way that was far more thrilling than she’d felt in years. This was something interesting, something she’d barely even read about. Something forbidden. She glanced back to mark the path to the market in her mind, then slipped through the crowd.

The king’s men moved with purpose, not stopping to speak with anyone outside their group. When they stopped again at a corner, cart traffic paused to allow them to pass. At the far side, the handsome soldier looked back again. She caught a breath and backed away.

“Watch it,” an old man grumbled as she bumped into him.

“Sorry,” she whispered, but he was gone. She looked back to the guards to see if any of them might be watching, and found that the group had moved on again. She squinted, but couldn’t see the striking one among them.
The frightening one,
she added, and felt warm with relief at having lost his attention. Perhaps this was why Emalda had warned her not to wander too far. No one needed trouble with those men, especially if the king were in town. To see where they were headed might have been interesting, but getting caught would lead to trouble she couldn’t afford—and more importantly, trouble that her father and Belleisle couldn’t afford.

As she made her way to the alley that led back to the market, a hand closed around her upper arm. Before she could scream, another hand spun her to face a green-clad chest. Her throat closed as she looked up into those piercing eyes. Brown, she saw now, but with no warmth in them.

“Who are you?” he demanded as he steered her toward an alley. Not the busy one she’d passed through, but one that was empty and dark.

Maggie glanced around, but found no sympathetic glances or anyone who seemed at all inclined toward helping her. Everyone looked away. They wouldn’t interfere with one of the king’s men.

He squeezed her arm firmly, demanding she turn her attention back to him. “Your name, girl.”

“Gloria Graphook,” she stammered, grabbing for anything but her own name. Anything that would not lead back to her father. “What do you want?”

He glanced back over his shoulder and drew her into the shadows of the alley. He released her arm, but she couldn’t run. Not when he was watching.
He’ll have me down before I take two steps,
she thought, eyeing the short sword he wore at his side.

“You’re from Belleisle.” Not a question. Maggie bit her lip and wished she’d thought to muddle her accent while she lied about her name.

“Um. I’m… No?” Her heart slammed in her chest.
Idiot.

One heavy eyebrow lifted. “As a courtesy to an obvious visitor, allow me to offer you some advice on the way things go in Tyrea. It doesn’t pay to watch the king or his men too closely if you don’t want to be marked as a threat. And if you are stopped or detained, it’s best not to lie to a soldier. Especially not to me.” He took a step back and leaned against the wall. “And especially if you’re terrible at it.”

She sucked in a deep breath. “You’re not going to kill me?”

One corner of his lips lifted. “That depends on why you’re following us.”