Her fingers clenched around my lamp as she muttered under her breath, “If only I had my own magic—”
She cut off as her eyes lit with an intensity that almost distracted me from my own plans. She raised the lamp toward me. “Can you restore my magic?”
I nodded. “Most likely.”
“Speak plainly,” she hissed. “What would prevent you from restoring my magic?”
I tamped down the chuckle that tried to escape me when she used my words. “I need more information. I do not know if your magic is blocked or removed.”
Vulnerability flashed across her confident anger, but it disappeared quickly. “Can you find out?”
I lifted a hand toward her forehead. “May I?”
She eyed my hand warily, but dipped her head and stepped closer to me.
I settled my hand across the top of her head and spread my mind, looking for any pulses of magic, any signs that the powers flowing in the lands around us reached for her. My brows drew together as I studied her. A deep well of magic and a large capacity to wield it were not what I’d expected to find tucked inside her soul. It was rooted in her and tied off at the cavern she’d been in.
And then she had another well of power, like a spring full of life, but it was fenced off—blocked by a lattice of magic as structured as a sheet of crystalline ice.
She drew her chin up and planted her hands on her hips. “What?”
I clasped my hands behind my back. “The magic you want is not blocked nor destroyed, but it is tied to the cave you were trapped in. I obliterated the cave, but your magic remains tethered to that space.” I hesitated. Her question had been vague enough that my answer didn’t need to include the unusual hidden source of magic as well.
“And can you break that tether?”
I nodded, slower this time. “Yes, but Master, I would—”
“And would I then have access to the magic I had before it backfired into that prison?”
Backfired into a prison? I wanted to study this more, but every second that passed made her more frantic.
“Answer my question, Slave. Will it restore my magic?”
“Yes, Master. You—”
“Stop calling me ‘Master,’” she hissed through gritted teeth.
I raised a brow. I should call her Trouble. Too bossy. Too impulsive. And yet—that frantic impulsivity could be the key to my freedom.
“I don’t like the condescension in your voice,” she ground out.
Ah. That… made sense. It wasn’t personal—I treated everyone the same way. But I needed her to not resent me if I had any hope of using her to gain my own freedom. I dipped my head in as humble a posture as I could manage. “What would you have me call you?” I asked, trying to sound contrite.
Her eyes narrowed. “Your Majesty,” she said in a clipped, icy voice.
Curious. What had she been queen of?
It didn’t matter. All that mattered now was getting her to be willing to help me. “Very well, Your Majesty. I apologize for my insolence. It has been a long time since I have had practice speakingwith anyone besides myself.”
She ran her fingers across the leather fabric on her thighs, as if smoothing a dress that wasn’t there. “Perhaps I was too abrupt as well. I would like to call you something besides ‘Slave.’”
A hint of vulnerability tipped her voice up, though her posture remained as regal as ever. She needed this—needed a connection with another person. Not as a slave and master, but as a queen and a devoted subject.
And if I let her imagine a connection with me she would be easier to manipulate into freeing me.
I hated the idea of manipulating someone so obviously needing connection, but I could not see another path to my freedom.
And she’d asked for my name.
