“What do you say, Sylas? Shall we keep him?” Mira grabbed Sy by the shoulders and steered him to face Anya. “You see? I can be generous. Would that open you up to me?” Her voice curdled as she spoke sourly in his ear. “Would that finally make you happy?”
Anya’s breath tightened; Sy’s gaze never left her.
With apparent effort, he turned his gaze back to Mira. “Nothing would make me happier than to see you get your rightful due, Your Ladyship.”
Mira was startled, and, evidently, pleased. With a wave, she released her grip on Anya, who exhaled sharply as her body relaxed.
“That is my only motive,” Anya said quickly, rubbing her throat. “On behalf of those who have wronged you. Not to take the phoenix, but to bring you what you deserve. To see justice served.” She paused, heart hammering against her ribs. It was a risk; oh, it was a risk. “Knowledge should never be hoarded like a dragon’s gold.”
Now Sy’s eyes snapped to hers. Her heart hammered harder. Did he know? Did it matter?
“Itisthe least I deserve,” Mira conceded, oblivious. “But I have lived too long to trust the word of kings or men – and I’ll never trust a scribe. Familiar.” The way she spoke to him sent a ripple of flaming hatred up Anya’s spine. “Confiscate his pen.”
After a moment’s hesitation – too short, really, to discern as hesitation – he approached Anya. As he rummaged through her satchel – his – did he recognize it? – she kept her gaze, genial and even, on Mira.
He found the golden pen and took it, laying it upon the table beside the witch.
Alright; it wasn’t a death sentence. She had prepared for this. She kept her face placid, her posture straight.
“Now,” said Mira, “lay a curse upon him.”
This time, Anya did not have to feign her fear.
And Sy hesitated – again, brief enough that it was barely detectable. “A curse, Your Ladyship?”
“Don’t make me repeat myself, Sylas. It’s tedious. And do try to remember what we discussed upstairs. It seems you’ve already forgotten.”
Briefly, his eyes fluttered closed. Dutifully, he approached Anya. Lifted a hand over her chest.
And held it. Her heart lifted. Hewashesitating.
But hesitating would only make things worse for both of them.
“Go on,” she whispered, quiet as she could. “I trust you.”
He laid his hand upon her chest. Felt her hammering heart. “I hold you to your oath as a spellscribe.” He paused. “You may do no harm to her Ladyship in this house, so long as you live.”
There was no outward sign of the curse, but Anya felt the magic lay upon her like an itch.
Fuck.That did complicate things abit, but, fortunately, she had spent the past two weeks arguing the finer points of said oath with David, Sabina, and Bertrand – whose opinions on what constituted harm, having had his right hand crushed by scribes, were appreciatively nuanced. Nothing had changed.
“Very gallant of you, my sweet,” Mira cooed. “Not very interesting, though, is it?”
With barely suppressed alarm, he turned to her. “My lady?”
“You want to keep him? Impress me.”
Already, Anya had lost what fragile footing she’d gained. “I dare say, there’s really no need for all this, Your Ladyship. I’ve only come to deliver your license, and I’ll be on my way–”
“Impress me enough,” Mira said over her, “and we may renegotiate what we discussed before our guest interrupted.”
Sy darted a fearful glance at Anya, one that stopped her heart. Having seen him face down monsters and magic, she could not imagine what he was threatened with to put that look in his eye.
She did not have her weapons or the golden pen, but she did have Sy’s ink pen, in his kit on her shoulder. But if she reached for it now, Mira would turn her hands to hooves or her fingers to worms.
His face had gone pale and shining with the strain of resisting. “Please, my lady. I do not want–”
“Do not mistake my grace with you for caring one mote what you want.” Her tone changed; no longer wheedling, threatening, but issuing a command. “Take away his tongue.”
