Or at least, she tried to. He shrugged her off. “You need to leave.”
She dropped his arm, lips parting. “What?”
He wiped his palms down the front of his robes. “It isn’t safe, Storm Crow.”
Thia swallowed a sigh. “I’m not the Storm Crow.”
Lord Sagan sagged backward until he could grip the edge of the table. “You don’t know.” He expelled a breath. “You don’t know.” Relief was palpable in his tone.
“Know what?” Thia stepped forward. The Magician eyed her warily, like she might try to shake the information out of him. “How did you know my mother?”
Lord Sagan shook his head. “No, no. No, I can’t. It’s no use, not safe.” He trembled. “He’ll know, he always knows, and she’ll end up just the same.” He clutched his long beard with white knuckles.
Thia had no idea what he was talking about, but she thought he might be about to have a panic attack. Behind him, the hearth flared, sparks jumping onto the floor before winking out. She frowned, and the Magician yelped.
“CAN’T YOU SEE?” he hollered, with surprising strength. “You must flee at once.”
“You should sit,” Thia replied, noticing the tremor in his frail legs where they stuck out from the hem of his robe.
The fireplace flared again, brighter than it should have, and Thia blinked spots out of her vision. The room was suddenly freezing, despite the roar of flame, and she shivered.
“Sothis,” Lord Sagan exclaimed, hands falling to his sides as the blood drained from his face. “He’s here.”
“Who?” Thia asked.
Thran stood and caught the lord just as he started to fall.
Lord Sagan gaped at her, Thran’s arms the only thing holding him upright. His face was gray. “King Caradoc,” he said weakly. “The Mage King.”
THIRTEEN
THE FIRE RETURNED TO ITS REGULAR SIZE,BUT IT WAS A STRANGEcolor, the yellow tinted green, its shadows longer than they should have been. Thia nervously smoothed her hair, and something in the action seemed to return Lord Sagan to himself. He straightened. “You must hide.”
Thia frowned. She needed to speak with the king. If he was here, then maybe her journey could be that much shorter.
But Lord Sagan surged forward and gripped her bicep with a strength that surprised her. “If you don’t want to end up like your mother,hide.”
Thia continued to stall, uncertain, until Dess shot up from his chair and yanked her forward. “Hide where?” he asked, attention flying to the door.
Lord Sagan followed the line of his sight. “There’s no time. To either side of the hearth, quickly.”
Thia allowed Dess to drag her to one side, where they pressed themselves flat against the wall. Thran and Oskaren took the other, leaving Lord Sagan to face the hearth alone. He straightened his robes, wobbling knees the only sign of his continued terror.
Closer to the hearth was somehow colder, and Thia rubbed her arms against the chill. The room was eerily quiet. She could still see the flicker of firelight on the wooden floorboards in front of her, but it was silent, no longer crackling. Then a voice filled the room.
“Riltun. You’re trembling.” It was male, dark and slithering. It curled around Thia’s ears like a burrowing insect.
Lord Sagan bowed to the hearth. She guessed he saw some image of the king within. “Your Majesty.”
The voice sounded again, a low, almost humorous whisper. “Why have you summoned me?”
Beside her, Dess shifted against the wall.
Lord Sagan said nothing. His hands continued to run soothing strokes down the breast of his robes. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again.
“I grow impatient,” the king said, voice still dangerously calm.
Lord Sagan cleared his throat. “Your Majesty,” he tried, “I—” He broke off, attention flicking to Thia. There was an apology in his watery expression, and her belly dropped into her boots. But then he said to the fire, “My apprentice took ill. I love the boy like my own son, and my fear for his life got the better of me. Forgive me, my liege.”
