Pegasus acknowledged her suggestion with another swish of his tail. His footfalls were loud on the wood floor, and it only took a bump from his muzzle to throw open the door to Stil’sworkshop.
(Angelique didn’t want to think abouthowthe constellation knew where Stil’s workroom was. It made her even more aware that Pegasus was probably far more powerful than she realized, something she wasn’t too keen on knowing given that she seemed to be forever asking him for ponyrides.)
Stil’s workshop was a great deal smaller than the one Angelique and Evariste shared—both in room size and infeeling.
Every surface—whether it was a wall, mantle, or table—was covered with an assortment ofitems.
One table was home to an assortment of glass vials and pots positioned over lit candles, sending chortling puffs of steam into the air. His workroom was lit by starfires—glowing prisms junior craftmages produced for practice by the bucketloads when first starting their training—that dangled from the ceiling. The walls were lined with pegs from which all manners of cloth and clothes were draped. Priceless gems leaked out of a wooden barrel in one corner, and when Pegasus bumped an end table as he passed through, he sent no less than three brass spyglasses rolling offit.
Angelique winced at the sound the spyglasses made when they hit the wooden floor and scrunched her eyes shut. “Stil can’t ever find out you were in here, or he’ll throw afit.”
Pegasus snorted, clearly communicating he didn’t care what the craftmage did, then stopped by a table that was heaped with belt pouches, satchels, and leatherbags.
Angelique quickly patted down the table to look for anything especially valuable or breakable, then pushed everythingoff.
Between Pegasus’ maneuverings and Angelique tugging on Stil, they were able to pull him onto the table without smacking him or jamming the arrow farther into hisshoulder.
Angelique absently rubbed her nose as she turned away from Stil and instead studied a shelf filled with vials of brightly colored potions. Stil’s workshop smelled markedly different from Evariste’s—which usually held the faint scent of paper and warm wax. The craftmage’s room instead held the scent of dried fruits with a whiff of wood andleather.
“Thank you, Pegasus,” Angelique called over her shoulder as she swiped up several vials that held emerald green- and topaz-colored potions she recognized as healingdraughts.
She hurried back to Stil’s side, relaxing minutely when she could see her healing spell start to work, stabilizing the mage so his breathing was no longer quite solabored.
But it’s only a temporary measure at best—I have to get that arrowout.
Pegasus pressed his velvet muzzle to her temple, then made his way out, knocking over a footstool before he made it to thedoor.
Angelique barely noticed. She was already threading her magic through her fingers, twisting it into a spell as fine as a spiderweb. She took a deep breath, then reached for the arrow embedded in Stil’sshoulder.
* * *
In the late morning hours,Stil’s eyes finally fluttered open, and Angelique breathed a sigh ofrelief.
“Stil? How do you feel?” She set her hand against his forehead, but though his skin was perhaps a little warm, it wasn’t as hot and clammy as it had been during the late-nighthours.
“Angelique?” Stil moaned, his eyebrows wriggling as he scrunched his eyes shut, then forced them open again. “You got mymessage?”
“Yes,” Angelique said. “Though I can’t say I enjoyed the deliverymethod.”
“It was all I could manage at the time,” Stil mumbled into the table—he was still face down on it as Angelique didn’t want him putting weight on the injuredshoulder.
She was particularly grateful it took him so long to stir. She hadn’t set many serious injures before, and as a result wasn’t able to extract the arrow as cleanly as she would have liked. But between the potent potions Stil had and the powerful cloud of her own magic, Stil’s injury was clean and well on its way tomending.
Or at least it was, until Stil snapped to a sitting position and tried to roll off the table, only to fall on the ground in aheap.
Angelique rushed to help him stand, steadying him by grasping his elbow. “Whatare youdoing?”
“I have to help Gemma,” Stil groaned. “King Torgen’s troops caught up with us. The little fool gave herself up instead of running like I told her to. She was worried about me after therider…”
He took a few staggering steps toward the door and would have collapsed again if not for Angelique’s grasp on hiselbow.
“You’re not going anywhere until you explain what happened!” Angelique forcibly dragged him back to the table and leaned him against theedge.
Stil hung his head, and his eyes seemed a darker blue than usual in his anguish. “You don’t understand. She sacrificed herself…forme!”
With a little more prodding, eventually the whole tale spilled from Stil’slips.
Angelique hadn’t managed to scare the nightmare and rider enough, for he had lured Stil and Gemma across the border and then attackedthem.
