“Oh, soyou’rethe one who put this spell on me?” I say. My heart trills a strange rhythm of excitement that feels a bit too much like fear, but I keep my voice light and eager. “I assumed it was old Wistari or that young idiot he keeps in tow, Mage Klaern.”
Artoris’s hard mouth twists in a none-too-pleasant smile. “Wistari could never begin to dream of magic like this.” He rests his hands on my shoulders, runs them down my arms. Not a sensual gesture, not exactly. More exploratory. Like he’s testing the effectiveness of his spellwork. It feels strangely invasive.
“Artoris,” I say sharply, surprised at my own tone.
He freezes, his hands still on me. His gaze flicks to meet mine. Another smile turns up the corners of his mouth, but it never reaches his eyes. “Forgive me,” he says, his voice lower and rougher than before. “I am eager to know that my craft is working correctly, and you are spared any unnecessary pain.”
“I’m in no pain,” I assure him, and it’s not quite a lie. Though weak, drooping, exhausted, and numb, I cannot say that anything hurts. “What are you doing here?” I ask, trying to reclaim some of the eagerness that first sight of his face had inspired. “I never expected to see you back in Beldroth.”
He sits on his heels, studying me from under his brow. His hands slide down my arms to rest atop mine. “It’s rather a long story. Do you remember the letter you wrote me?”
“Letter?” My brow puckers.
Artoris reaches into the front of his jerkin and pulls out a neatly folded parchment. He hands it to me, and I’m surprised to see the inscription, written in my own hand. I open the missive.
Another flush roars up my cheeks as my eyes skim over the impassioned words scrawled there with such feeling. So this is what I was trying to recall. Ididattempt to escape my marriage to the Shadow King, wantonly propositioning this man, offering myself on a silver platter in hopes that he would carry me away from my troubles.
“Oh gods,” I murmur. My fingers knot, crumpling the paper into a tight wad. I don’t want to meet Artoris’s gaze. “Oh gods, what a little idiot.”
“But such an adorable little idiot.” Artoris chuckles and takes my chin in his hand, turning my face toward him. I don’t like that; I feel vulnerable and foolish enough as it is.
“I’m so embarrassed, Artoris,” I say, forcing myself to meet his eyes.
“Why?” He tilts his head to one side, his expression wry. “Did you think I’d forgotten you after all these years? I remember everything that passed between us, Ilsevel.Everything.”He takes the letter from my reluctant fingers and smooths the creases I’ve made. “Obviously I hastened from Evisar with all speed. Is that not answer enough for your tenderly-expressed queries?” His features harden slightly. “And a good thing I did. I was only just in time to save you from those fae raiders when they attacked the temple.”
Oh. Is that what happened? I close my eyes, giving my head a little shake as I try to pull some semblance of memory together. An almost-impression lingers in my mind, an image of Artoris and the temple and . . . and flames. Fear. Fear, darkness, and a flare of red magic, drawn from a spellbook. Screams. Death.
I lift my head, my eyes flaring open, catching and holding his gaze. “What happened that night, Artoris?”
He shakes his head. “It’s best if you do not remember. It might compromise your healing.”
That strikes me as altogether too convenient an excuse for stripping me of my memories. “Did you see what happened to Aurae?” I persist.
Here a fresh expression flashes through his eyes. Is it guilt? Or is he simply trying to look remorseful? Remorse doesn’t sit well on his proud, handsome features. I’m not certain I believe it anyway. “I don’t know,” he admits. “My focus was entirely wrapped up in keeping you alive. It was a terrible night, and I’m sorry for the loss of your sister. But,” he adds, leaning toward me earnestly, “I will not apologize for prioritizing your wellbeing. You are everything to me, Ilsevel. Do you understand that? I could not lose you.”
How romantic. How perfectly in keeping with every cherished dream of my girlish heart. This is everything I once longed to hear this man say throughout the lonely years since my father parted us so cruelly. My more recent memories may be obscured, but I recall that horrible day with exquisite clarity—the heat andexcitement, swiftly transforming into fear. Guards bursting into my room at the sound of my screams. Artoris dragged to the pillory, his back bared. Only his master, Mage Morthiel, stood between him and my father’s desire to castrate the boy on the spot. Morthiel may have spared Artoris his manhood, but not the flagellation.
And I was made to stand by and watch. Every scream torn from Artoris’s throat was like a lash to my own flesh.
I gaze into his eyes now, see that same memory deep in the black depths of his pupils. For a moment, I glimpse beyond the surface image he tries to project to the truth buried just beneath. Not love . . . no, something deeper. Anger. Revenge. Does he hold me responsible for my father’s cruelty? Shivering, I pull back from him a little. But I can only retreat so far into this chair. Nothing about this situation feels right. That stupid,stupidletter. Why did I send it? Was I really so desperate to be rid of the Shadow King?
“I am . . .” I hesitate, struggling to make sense of my own thoughts. “I am grateful. Grateful that you were there, that you saved my life. And I am grateful for this spellwork of yours. I’m not sure what I would do without it.”
“I will do so much more for you,” Artoris replies. “This is only the beginning.” He clasps one of my hands in both of his, his grip firmer than I like. “When we are wed, I intend to devote every moment of our life together making up for the time we have lost.”
His words blow through me like a cold wind. I stare into hishandsome face, hardly comprehending what I’ve just heard. “When we are . . . wed?”
Artoris smiles like a beautiful blade drawn sharply from its sheath. “Indeed, my sweet. As reward for the great service of saving your life, the king has graciously agreed to give you to me as my wife.”
Everything in my body goes very still. I know how I ought to feel. I ought to be thrilled. Delighted, elated. Isn’t this the fulfillment of all the long-cherished fantasies of my girlish heart? My last clear memory of the night of my betrothal, it was Artoris’s face which had seemed to haunt me when I looked into the Shadow King’s eyes. After everything, all this hurt and pain and suffering, I am to get exactly what I wanted. The dream of the girl who penned that desperate letter, come true before her very eyes.
But there’s something in the way he says it:“Give you to me.”
At least the Shadow King had pretended to offer me a choice. He extended me that courtesy, however shallow it may have been. There is no such courtesy in Artoris’s face. Only possession.
“So,” I say softly, “you won your prize then.”
“I did. And such a prize!” He lunges suddenly, gathering me into his arms.
