Clearly.
“Tabuvar?” Jibbs called through the doorway. “I brought you visitors. Are you… alive?”
The legs twitched, and an angry, muffled voice spoke—or tried to speak.
Fel walked in first, checking the various work areas and cabinets and nooks for threats. Despite the late hour, a furnace and kiln in the back of the spacious front room burned, putting out heat that spread throughout the building. Syla sensed magic about the place and hoped Tibby would find the tools she needed to start work.
Once Fel waved that it was safe, Syla went to the fallen man, a sturdy white-haired fellow that she recognized once she saw his weathered face. He’d visited the castle a few times whenshe’d been a girl, installing the chandelier in the dining hall and beautiful blown-glass lanterns in the library.
“Are you injured, Tabuvar?” Syla touched his shoulder and used her magic to check for wounds.
“More angry than injured,” he said, though blood oozed from an abrasion on his jaw, and he touched a lump on the back of his head. “But that surly thug was rough. I thought the stormers were invading at first, but he was an enforcer, no doubt. He…” Tabuvar paused as his gaze settled on Vorik.
“I’m not rough,” Vorik offered. “My touch is practiced, precise, and adequate to a task.”
“You’re Captain Vorik,” Tabuvar said.
Syla didn’t know if the glassmaker had recognizedheryet, so his identification of Vorik surprised her.
“That’s right,” Vorik said.
“You and your brother sank the last ship I served on when I was in the fleet.” The man’s gaze slid to Syla, his brows drawing together before he seemed to realize, “You’re Princess Syla.”
She almost corrected him, but she hadn’t held the title of queen for more than a few weeks before Fograth had usurped the throne. She wasn’t much of anything right now. Not until she could get it back.
“Yes, and we need your glassworks, please. My aunt is going to make a new shielder for Harvest Island.”
Tabuvar blinked and looked at Tibby. “Lady Tibaytha? It’s been a while since we spoke, but isn’t your field… agricultural equipment?”
“Yes, it is. When I’m done with the new shielder, it may have an integrated plow, tiller, and hydraulic lift system.”
“I… Is that a joke? I forgot your side of the family is known for quirky humor.”
“Just quirk in general, yes. May I look around?” Tibby waved toward shelves and pegboards full of tools, many of them having magical signatures.
“Anything to help the Kingdom. And Syla. Little Syla. You’ve grown up so.” Tabuvar gripped her arm. “We need to keep you alive. Fograth took the castle, and he’s arresting everyone with a moon-mark.”
“I know. We’re going to stop him.”
“Thank the moon god.”
A stormer approaches,Wreylith told Syla.
She looked toward the door, but Vorik had disappeared. Had he gone back outside?
Is it Lieutenant Wise?
The man has white hair and lacks magical power. It is only by the scent of his leathers and the dragon he rides that I noticed and identified him. Your mate is approaching him now.
Syla stood up, tempted to hurry out and join the conversation—or spy on it. But it wasn’t as if she could sneak up on Vorik. Besides, Wreylith’s words about not scurrying about like a rat came to mind. If she went out there, it would be openly and regally. But should she? Or should she let Vorik meet with his old colleague without interference? She trusted him fully, didn’t she? She bit her lip.
Tabuvar tried to push himself to his feet but had to steady himself on the workbench. Wincing, he touched the back of his head again.
“If you’ll let me use my magic, I can heal you,” Syla said, nodding to herself. This was her duty. She would trust that Vorik was on her side and would tell her if anything relevant came out of his meeting with the lieutenant.
“That sounds wonderful.” Tabuvar slumped down on a stool. “I’ll make you a new chandelier for the castle once you reclaim your throne.”
“People don’t usually promise to do things for me untilafterI heal them.”
