He looked at her oddly. “That’s the king of Rohm, where I live.”
“Has he been king since before your parents died?”
Tal pursed his lips and shook his head. “No. His father, King Edward, ruled until I was about thirty. But Reginald’s had the throne ever since.”
She wasn’t really speaking to Tal, but her words reached air anyway, instead of just appearing in her mind. “Then why would he want to mutilate you?”
Now Tal pulled his arm away and looked at it, as though searching for whatever she was seeing. “What are you talking about?”
She let out a deep breath and tapped the side of her mouth as she thought. “When you went to get the scrolls at Viktor’s, he told me that he knew your parents and that the guild was thrilled when you were born because they had high hopes for you. But then Prince Reginald
mutilated
you and everyone was sad. Have you ever noticed the skin feels different where your mark is really faint?”
Now he was staring at it, too, and touching it lightly with a curious look on his face. “I
have
noticed that, but never thought much about it. I can’t imagine why the king would do something like that. I’m not in line for the throne, and none of my family has even a drop of royal blood. Reginald’s family has reigned over the mages since the world was new, and became ruler of Rohm when Agathia was created. As far as I know, there’s never been an attempt to overthrow him, nor any scandals that might make him see me as any sort of threat. But—” He, too, was now musing out loud. “It
would
explain why I’m so long lived. Nobody has been able to adequately explain why a mage of my limited ability has existed for centuries. Normally, long life is reserved for the powerful born.”
That gave her an idea. “Well, Viktor suggested that I’d do your people a great service if I could heal you. But I haven’t a clue
how.
I would have thought that’d happen when I healed you earlier. But when I gazed you, I didn’t notice that area as
needing
healing.”
He shrugged. “I can do magic just fine. I’m not a particularly powerful caster, but I’m above most.”
“Still, if we
could
bring you up to full power, we’d have a better chance against Vegre and Sela. Right?” She shook her head, her thoughts growing muddy. “But my brain isn’t working right now, so let’s sleep on it and try a healing again in the morning.” She yawned again and this time it was catching. Tal’s mouth opened wide enough that she heard his jaw pop lightly.
He winced and rubbed the area. “Falling face first to the pavement didn’t help my physical condition. I may take you up on the offer of a healing in the morning. But for now—” He reached out his hand and wiggled his fingers, so she slipped hers into his waiting grasp. “I want to feel your skin against mine while I fall asleep.”
She couldn’t think of anything she wanted more, either. All they had to do was follow the trail of gray fur that ended with the fluffy lump on her bed. She doubted Mr. Whiskers had moved all day—he’d even slept through the security company invading every room in the house with noisy power tools. She’d swear he was dead except for the content rumbling that made the fur rise and fall. But he was soon interrupted by Tal picking him up gently and setting him on the floor. “I fear there won’t be room for you tonight.”
The cat looked at both of them indignantly before baring white fangs in a yawn and walking out the door to begin his nightly patrols. She’d put food down for him when she fed herself, and he’d find it when he was hungry.
“We should probably leave the door open so we can hear …
things.
”
Tal nodded. “I placed spells of security, alarm, and attacking on the door. Since they already defeated the wards Alexy cast, they’d be expecting new ones on the
room.
I’m hoping they won’t notice them on the door. The alarm of clarion trumpets should wake us and we should be able to get to them before they can stop the door from assaulting them.”
“Can you guys get through a dead bolt? I wasn’t sure what all to do to the door.”
He shook his head. “We can
create
physical items, but can’t really affect those that already exist, except by sheer destruction. Guilders can’t manipulate a lock without picks, but someone could
craft
the picks and then use them, which is why putting a block on magic in the room seemed prudent.”
A movement of light caught her eye as the red digital numbers of the clock changed to one A.M. She couldn’t even
remember
the last time she’d been up this late—and after waking in Vril at three. Sheesh!
Tal closed the door until there was just a crack showing, about the width of the cat and then shrugged at her raised brows. “We might need some small measure of privacy, after all.” He walked toward her, pulling his shirt over his head as he did. She’d never gotten the chance to really
look
at him last time, since she’d been too busy
feeling
his body to bother looking. Her body tightened just watching all those muscles flex. When he reached out his bare arm toward her, she noticed a small design on his upper arm—a stylized sun. She couldn’t help but touch it and he let out an appreciative sigh as she stroked her fingers over the mark. It wasn’t raised like the one on his forearm, but didn’t look like a tattoo, either.
She planned to ignore it, wanted to, but her mind switched tracks, moved from fun back to work. “Is this a birthmark, too? Does it glow when you craft?”
He looked at it and gave a small shrug that moved her hand. “No, it’s just a tattoo. It’s the symbol of the mage guild, given to me when I entered the academy. Everyone got one, so the instructors would know at a glance that a student had been tested and what sort of magic they could craft. I don’t really know whether it glows. I can’t say that I’ve looked. Normally, I’m crafting with clothing on … or at least not in front of a mirror.”
“Do some magic, then.” She pointed to her dresser. “Light those candles.” This time he did magic without a word. He simply flicked a finger, the opal glowed, and flames appeared inside the cobalt glass holder. But she saw all that from the corner of her eye, because she was watching the mark. “Yeah, it glowed a little.” A smile pulled at her lips. “Perfect.”
He shook his head. “What? What have you thought of?”
There was no time to explain, and she really didn’t think she
could
explain it. She patted him on the arm and moved past him. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”
Her studio was on the ground floor, near the kitchen so she could wash up in the sink and not get dye all over everything. She lifted the light switch and started eyeing her jars of dye. She couldn’t get her mind off the memory of her foot heating up when the water in the well was sucking her down, or the bubbles that rose
from
her foot to give her air. The designs above her toes had never disappeared, even though they’d just been painted on. “Let’s see—” she muttered softly, remembering that pretty rhyme from long ago, when Baba painted them. “Blue for the water where life was born, yellow for the sun that keeps us warm, green for the leaves that fill the air, and black for the earth that’s never bare.” She reached for the yellow dye bottle as well as the slender pointed paintbrush she kept around for touch-ups. Then, almost as an afterthought, she added the bottle of red dye to the pile. It was the color on her foot of the fifth design, the meander road … the symbol of the Parask. A road with no end, eternity—from where evil could never escape to harm.
Burdens in hand, she started back up the stairs.
Time to see if I can make a little magic.
M
ila walked in the room, carrying a pair of bottles of colored liquid, and a paintbrush sticking out of the front pocket of her pants. “Wouldn’t it have been easier for me to go downstairs than for you to drag all that up here?” He looked at her askance, wondering what she was up to. “Are those
egg
dyes?”
She swept a hand across the dresser, pushing small bottles and knickknacks to one side so she could put the jars down. “Room’s too small for two. I barely fit in there myself with the bench and shelves. And yes, they’re dyes.” She started to unscrew the tops and pointed at an elegant chair in the corner of the room, heaped with clothing. “Bring that over here and have a seat. You can just dump the clothes on the floor. I forgot to bring the laundry basket upstairs last time I did a wash load.”
Her voice had changed from warm and soft to commanding, businesslike. He crossed his arms over his chest and didn’t move toward the chair. “First tell me what you’re planning.”
She let out a harsh, frustrated breath as if every moment he took to understand was wasting time. But when he didn’t move except to raise his brows purposefully, she leaned one arm on the dresser and regarded him. “I’m going to fix that birthmark. The same way Baba did my foot. So if you could
please
sit down? I’m tired and trying hard not to sound as cranky as I feel.”
Seeing her like this was a valuable insight, for it said she was willing to show less than her optimum personality to him. Kris had once told him that a woman has to feel very comfortable with a man to show her …
aggressive
side if it’s not her normal state. But it raised his own, because he refused to be bullied. He wondered how she’d react to having her own words thrown back at her. “No. Not another step until you explain what you’re intending.”
If she recognized the reference to when she was at the Tree, she gave no sign. “It’s not rocket science, Tal. I thought you could figure this out. Baba
painted
my foot. Paint that stuck and has remained unchanged for over twenty years.” She pulled the paintbrush from her pocket. “I dip this in the dye and darken the line of your birthmark. Although, maybe it would work better if I first outline it in hot wax, like a pysanka. Not sure about that part yet. Anyway, I do it
with purpose,
like you said. If it works, you should go up to full strength. If it doesn’t work, you have a little dye to scrub off in the shower. No big deal.”
If his face revealed any of the outrage or fear that filled him, he must look horrified indeed. “Yes, big deal.
Not sure? Should? Maybe?
You are a magicwielder, Mila. Those aren’t words you dare use to begin a crafting, and certainly not on
my
body. What if instead of just rinsing off dye, I’m no longer able to craft at all? What if it kills us both?” He shook his head and took a step backward, almost involuntarily. “No. It’s not important enough to me to risk it.”
She sighed and lowered her head with a small shake. “Would you please just
trust me?
”
“The last time I trusted you, you stole my faith.” He didn’t intend for the words to slip out, but once in the air he couldn’t take them back. They were bitter, accusatory, and made a great tightness in his chest form. He thought he’d gotten past it, but apparently he hadn’t.
She looked up then, her mouth wide with shock. “What?”
He turned away from her to stare at the door, unable to look at that expression—so surprised, so completely unaware of the effect she’d had … the damage she’d done. “For centuries we’ve believed the Trees are sacred, born fully formed of the earth itself and possessed of a pure spirit that guides us. They called us
home
from the overworld to begin a new life underground. They led us away from the corruption of mankind, to where we wouldn’t have to hide our crafting from view or bury it amongst the
science
that humans favored.”
He threw up his hands in frustration and turned around to find her sitting on the bed, a look on her face that was close to tears. But he wouldn’t hide from this nor shy away because of a little discomfort. “But then along you came, with no knowledge at all of our ways, took our truths and spit them back as lies. The Trees are just trees, magic we felt was Tree-given is just pretty eggs made by other Guilders and stuffed inside the branches. Our guiding spirit is nothing more than smoke. So you tell me—why should I trust you in this …
painting
session that could end everything
else
I know?”
Tears were now rolling freely down Mila’s face. Her voice came out in a whisper. “Oh, Tal—” She cleared her throat and then stood. Her hand touched his and while he didn’t pull away, he wasn’t sure he welcomed her touch. “I had no idea. This is all so new to me that I never gave your history a second thought.”
He nodded and couldn’t help the bitter laugh. “And that’s the hardest part to bear—
knowing
it was all an accident for you. The scroll from the garden could have been any other fairy tale, until it came true.”
Now she let out a little sniff that carried a similar bitter humor. “Or
geeders
who live in burrows like squelk coming to life and stepping out of a glowing gate in my spare room? In that, I
do
know how you feel.” But then her face filled with something close to wonder and she squeezed his hand. “But don’t you see, Tal? You’re taking the bits of what you know that have just been altered as proof positive that the whole story, the whole belief system, is false. It’s throwing the baby out with the bathwater. There’s nothing in that scroll that said the Parask
planted
the trees. I read it again, so I
know.
I mean, who ever heard of underground trees that give off magic instead of oxygen? And illusion aside, what trees can live in darkness and still produce green leaves and fruit?”