Flamecaster (27 page)

“Not unless it is married with other metals,” Ash said. “But that would be a waste. It is most valued for its magical qualities. When burned or heated, it releases white magic.”

The king was extending his hand toward it, but now he
drew back. “White magic?”

“Bear in mind, I'm no expert,” Ash said. “All I know is what I've read in the old manuscripts. In the Northern Islands, it is used as a kind of talisman. Its vapors protect against evil. It is particularly abhorrent to snakes, assassins, and other malevolent creatures.”

Fosnaught made the sign of Malthus. “Your Majesty,” he said. “It is the grace of God that protects us against evil. I can't imagine that the use of such agents would be consistent with—”

“Where was the grace of God when some villain put a viper in my bed?” Montaigne said. He turned back to Ash. “How is it used?”

“Some sprinkle a few drops on a pomander and carry it with them. Others use a small lamp or diffuser and let it burn all night so that the vapors accumulate during sleep. When used in that way, it has been known to cause some irritation to the eyes and throat, but most sources say that it is relatively minor, and well worth it, given the protection it affords.”

Lila had never heard of liquid silver or white magic, but then she didn't run in magical circles. “Have you heard of that?” she murmured to Destin. He shook his head, frowning.

“Why should we trust you, healer?” General Karn glared at the silver puddle suspiciously. “How do we know that's not some kind of poison, or black magic?”

“The general is right,” Fosnaught said, looking thrilled to have an ally. “Here in Arden, we have used sorcery in very careful, tightly controlled ways to the glory and in the service of the great saint. It is best not to proceed too quickly down this road lest we go astray.”

“I understand, Father Fosnaught. These days one can't be too careful.” Ash carefully scooped the living silver back into the bottle, restoppered it, and slid it inside his carry bag. “Is there anything else you wanted me to clear, Your Majesty?”

“Not so fast,” Montaigne said, putting up a hand and giving Ash a narrow-eyed look. “You want the living silver for yourself—admit it, Freeman.”

Ash wet his lips. “I only thought that, since you would rather not risk it, that I would—”

“Do you think I'm a fool?”

Ash hastily dug out the bottle and held it out to the king. “Please. Take it. I never meant to presume that—”

“If you think it's safe, then why don't you demonstrate for all of us,” General Karn said.

Blood and bones, Lila thought. Now the princeling has backed himself into a corner, and there's no way to get him out. But she had to try, even if it meant taking her life in her hands.

“Your Majesty,” Lila said, hoping to change the subject. “I'm sorry to interrupt, but before Lieutenant Karn and I go, I wondered if you might want to choose a new
talisman from this old flash collection.”

Irritation flickered across the king's face. “Why would I want to do that?”

“Well, since people say that old flash is the best, so—”

“I'm happy with what I have,” Montaigne said, waving her away and turning back to Ash. “Well, healer? The general makes a good point.”

“He does, Your Majesty,” Ash said. “I am happy to oblige.” He picked up the bottle, uncorked it, tipped back his head, and sipped. His lips were silvered when he lowered the bottle. They all stared as he pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and blotted it away. “I don't recommend drinking it, as it's not the best use of a precious element. But, as you can see, it is perfectly safe.”

The king smiled. “I am convinced, healer. And therefore, I will keep the empress's gift for myself.”

“As you wish.” Ash bowed. “Careful,” he warned, “it's heavier than you think.” He put the bottle into the king of Arden's hands.

Jenna dreamed she was back at the Lady of Grace, in her Lyle Truthteller guise, with the scent of coal fires and mutton stew in her nose and the laments of a mediocre minstrel in her ears. Behind the bar, her father stood, alive again. She felt the pressure of his anxious eyes, always waiting for her to disappear.

Across the table, in the client chair, sat Adam Wolf, his hair an honest red.

Jenna shuffled and reshuffled the cards, once losing hold of them so that they scattered across the battered wood like rose petals. She and the healer both reached for the cards, and their hands collided. They yanked their hands back like they'd been burned.

Jenna scooped up the cards, stacked them, and slapped them down on the table in rows. One by one, she turned them over, arranging them like puzzle pieces.

“You will meet a girl,” she said, “who will bring heartbreak and trouble into your life. A thousand times, you will curse the day you met her.”

“No.” The healer raked the cards from the table and onto the floor. “I won't accept that.” He reached across the table and took her hands. “We have a future. I know we do. Now tell me a different truth.”

The scene dissolved, and she was looking into a pair of golden eyes, eyes just like her own. Fierce, hypnotic eyes in a jeweled setting, but the light in them was going out. There was a pain in her shoulders as if she carried a weight too heavy to lift. The stench of rotten meat filled her nostrils and burned her eyes. The floor rocked gently under her.

Flamecaster. We are trapped in a dark place, and we cannot see the sky.

The back of her neck prickled and burned. She extended her arms, and saw glittering scales where her skin had been, her nails growing into claws. She breathed in the scent of prey, then realized that something furry was crawling across her knee. Swearing, she sent the creature flying into the darkness, burning like a shooting star. It squealed once as it hit the wall, then went silent. She hunted for it, her wings hitting the walls on all sides, following her nose to
fresh meat. She was starving and yet she could not find food. She screamed in frustration.

Light blinded her. It must be the Skins who had imprisoned her. She gathered herself, found her flame, roared a challenge. She might be weak, but she could still make a kill. Then she caught a familiar scent and knew.

It was the wolf.

She heard shouts outside the door, banging, someone fumbling with the latch. The scent of burning fur and flesh slowly faded, along with the remnants of the dream as she remembered where she was.

She was no longer in the dungeon. She was in new quarters, high in the king of Arden's tower, with a window overlooking the river.

The door burst open, and the wolf was across the room in a few long strides, kneeling next to her so that he could look into her face and take her hand in his. “Jenna? What is it? What's wrong?”

His voice and his scent, more than anything, anchored her back in her body.

“It was nothing. A dream.” She took a deep breath, then let it out. The wind from the river stirred her hair, bringing with it a memory of fish and salt water and the not-too-distant sea. She'd fallen asleep reading in the chair by the window, the one place where she could see the sky.

Adam drove off the blackbirds who had swarmed through the door on his heels, saying, “It was just a dream.”
When they'd left, he turned back to her. “You're shaking.” He pressed the back of his hand against her forehead. “No fever.” He stood, and ignited a lamp on the table with the tips of his fingers.

While his back was turned, Jenna examined her hands and arms in the moonlight. They looked perfectly normal—no claws, no scales. She breathed a sigh of relief, then thought, Are you losing your mind?

“I dreamed I was back in the dungeon and there was a rat and—and I was going to eat it,” she blurted.

He turned, hands on hips, and raised an eyebrow. “I know you're always hungry, but that's setting the bar pretty low. I'd have brought you some more food, but they told me you'd just had supper.”

She shook her head, her cheeks heating with embarrassment. “No, no, it's not that. You know how you just . . . have stupid dreams sometimes.”

“You're right,” he said, his face clouding. “Sometimes we do have stupid dreams.”

He pulled a chair in close and sat, so they were almost knee to knee. “I'm glad to see that Lieutenant Karn came through. I didn't realize that you had moved upstairs until I went to the dungeon and you weren't there.” He looked around. “This is much better.”

And it was. The room was small, being high in the tower, with curved walls. The furnishings were plain—a bed with a thick straw mattress and plenty of quilts and
coverlets. A stand with a pitcher and washbasin. Two chairs. A screen in the corner to hide the chamber pot. A hearth with a crackling fire, and a window—a barred window, of course, but a window nonetheless.

“It will do, I suppose,” she said, mimicking some of the finer guests at the Lady. “The servants are surly and the food marginal. But there is a view of the harbor.”

He laughed. “I'm guessing this is where King Gerard keeps some of his more valuable political prisoners.”

To be fair, it was larger and finer than the rooms at the Lady of Grace. Still, it seemed crowded with Adam in the room, especially now that she no longer wore the armor of filth and illness. At every moment, she was acutely aware of his position and the distance between them.

He was looking at her expectantly, and she realized that he was waiting for her to say something. “Ah . . . as you can probably tell, Karn made good on his promise of a bath and a change of clothes.”

“You do look different,” he said, studying her through narrowed eyes. “I'm not used to seeing you in a dress.”

She tugged at her bodice self-consciously. “This one's a little tight across the—it's a little tight, but the seamstress said she'd bring something made-to-measure tomorrow.” Sucking in a quick breath, she stumbled on. “I'm not used to dresses. I've been playing a boy for four years, nearly all the time, so it feels odd not to be wearing breeches.”

“I had no idea your hair was so many colors,” Adam
said. “Copper and gold and silver and amethyst. It's almost . . . metallic. I've never seen anything like it.” He reached out and fingered it, and gooseflesh rose on her back and shoulders.

“Now you know how dirty it was. My da always said that when I was a baby it looked like I stood on my head on a painter's palette and spun around.”

Gaaah. Shut your mouth. She'd never learned to flirt—she'd had no practice at it. Besides, flirting seemed too lightweight a term to fit what was happening between them.

A prickling heat crept up from her shoulders and into her face. The memory of their kiss hung between them like forbidden fruit. Everything they said or did seemed charged with meaning. Desire crouched in the room with them like an awkward guest.

Now what? Where do we go from here? Do we back away or go forward? Maybe Adam felt the same pressure, because he seemed to be groping for something else to talk about.

“What are you reading?” He reached for the book on her lap, picked it up, and leafed through it. “
Alencon's History of the Realms
? We read that at school. Highly subversive.” He cocked his head. “Karn brought this?”

He's stalling, she thought. There's something he doesn't want to tell me.

When he handed the book back, she set it aside. After another siege of silence, Jenna reached out and took both
his hands, looking for a clue. The only image that came to her was that of a ship, hazy-looking, shrouded in mist, more like somebody's idea of a ship.

“I dreamed I read the cards for you,” she said.

“And?”

“And I predicted I would bring heartbreak and trouble into your life,” she said.

“Too late,” he said, staring down at their joined hands. “Heartbreak and trouble got there ahead of you.”

“You may as well tell me what's on your mind,” she said, releasing his hands. “What's the news? Am I to be executed? Sold into slavery?”

The look on the healer's face said she wasn't far off the mark. “An emissary has come from the Empress Celestine,” he said. “She's the one Lieutenant Karn was asking you about. Apparently, she's offering to trade a sack of diamonds, a mysterious weapon, and an army for you.” He paused, looking around the room again. “That might explain the sudden hospitality. Montaigne doesn't want to be accused of trading in damaged goods.”

“Then he's damned lucky you're so good at what you do.” Unable to sit still, Jenna stood, crossed to the hearth, and poked at the fire with a stick. “Why would somebody I don't even know be offering that kind of swag for me?”

“There's to be a meeting in two days,” Adam said to her back. “Maybe we'll find out then. I wanted to warn you ahead of time.”

“Good,” Jenna said, staring into the flames. “We'll get it sorted out before this goes much further.”

When he didn't reply, she turned back to face him. Adam was chewing his lower lip, his face all-over dread, as if trying to decide whether to keep delivering bad news or leave her in the dark.

“You're wondering if I'm stupid or naive or both,” Jenna said. “I'm neither.” Settling down on the thick rug in front of the hearth, she patted the space beside her. “Sit with me, Wolf.”

Just for a heartbeat, she thought he wouldn't come. But then he did, crossing the room and dropping to the floor beside her. He sat, his thigh pressing against hers, one knee up, the other leg extended straight out in front of him.

She arched her back, wriggling a little, enjoying the heat and the crackle of flames while she tried to work out what to say.

“This is an argument I used to have with my da all the time. He was the kind who saw disaster waiting around every corner.”

“See? He was right,” Adam said, fussing with his collar, as if it pinched.

“He was right . . . after sixteen years,” she said. “We spend so much of our lives waiting to be ambushed by heartbreak. Why couldn't we be ambushed by joy? Anything's possible, right?”

“Anything's possible,” Adam said, staring up at the
ceiling, a muscle working in his jaw.

“Take a wolf, for example,” she persisted. “If he's got a thorn in his foot, he's miserable and snappish, like a person would be. Once you take it out, does he worry it's going to get infected, or he's going to step on another thorn?”

“No.” Adam shifted his body, the friction between them sending her heart into a gallop.

“Does he cut off his paw to make sure it doesn't happen again?”

Adam snorted, his lips twitching. “No.”

“Does he beat up on himself because he was careless, or he took the shortcut through the bramble?” She shook her head. “No. He moves on. He enjoys the fact that he's not in pain. He doesn't know what's coming—whether he'll bring down a fellsdeer or break his leg and freeze to death, but he recognizes that he doesn't know. But people—we act like we do. We write that bad ending before we even get there.”

“Isn't that what makes us human? The ability to look at the present and predict what's likely to happen?”

“But we're really not all that good at it, are we?”

“No,” he said.

Jenna rested her hand on his thigh and heard his startled intake of breath. They both looked at it, a pale starfish against his dark breeches.

“Take me, for instance.”

Startled, he looked up. “Excuse me?” he said hoarsely.

“By most standards, I've had a miserable life. Orphan, raised in Delphi, forced into the mines at a young age. Marked for death since birth.”

He eyed her, his brow furrowed, as if waiting for the punch line. “So? How does that—?”

“And yet, dozens of times, I've been ambushed by joy and beauty in the most unlikely places. Things I would have missed if I'd been preoccupied by pain. A sunrise over a slag heap. Ham for breakfast when I didn't expect it. A song that goes straight to the heart.” She ran her fingers along his thigh, feeling his muscles tighten under her hand. “Maybe it's primitive, to live in the moment, but there are advantages. For instance, I never expected to be ambushed by love in a dungeon.”

Jenna turned toward him, coming up onto her knees so they were at eye level. She looked into his face, reading the heat and hunger in his eyes.

“Me, neither,” he whispered. Sliding his arms around her, pulling her in close, he kissed her.

It was even more intoxicating the second time, and the third. Then she lost count as his fingers tangled in her hair and he pressed his body against hers. It was all lean, hard muscle, and it fit in against hers just right.

Then he kissed her throat, and her mouth again, long and sweet. It hit her like a gulp of stingo, running down into her middle and kindling a flame there. She caught his lip between her teeth, nibbling it gently, then tipped him backward so that they were lying flat on the rug.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and devoured him with kisses—his lips, his neck above the silver collar, that place just behind his ear. She slid her hands under his tunic, walking her fingers down his spine to the hollow at the base. He kissed her lips, her throat, the tops of her breasts, then crushed her to him, cradling her backside with his large hands. His fingers set off little explosions when they touched her skin that had nothing to do with magery.

She sat up then, one knee to either side of him, and fumbled with the laces on her bodice. She had no skill at it, though, and before she got far, he caught her wrists, pulling her hands away.

“Jenna,” he said, looking dazed, like he'd stood too close when a deep mine charge went off. Despite the desire in his voice, there was a “no” there, too.