Handing over a Silaisan prince would be excellent leverage to solve his own legal troubles. Whatever those are.
Except—
Everyone knows about Sandry magic. But Bellamy’s other talent, while rare, isn’t historically unique. Very few people know he holds it. Bellamy’s gift for seeing magic comes from the depths of his biological ancestry, whether from his mother Claude or his late, unlamented father Tesson Rue. A gift, curse, and strategic asset Queen Margot decided was best hidden, just in case.
“I can see magic,” Bellamy says. It’s worth the risk. It has to be.
“Excuse me?”
“Not the flames or earth or water being manipulated, but the magic itself.” Bellamy points to the sky and takes another risk. “That storm was out of season, and it was over too quickly given how strong it was, right? That’s because there was magic in the clouds, driving it.”
Bellamy doesn’t actually know how long storms usually last on the Draskoran coast. But by the way Rakos pales, he’s right.
“House Dire,” Rakos says, and Bellamy nods.
Just like Mother granted Sandry magic to Audric, Julien, and Bellamy, even though they aren’t her children by birth, the Draskoran king granted his bloodline’s storm magic to his adopted sons.
Rakos rubs his face. “Fuck. I need to think. Wait—at the waystation, outside the cell. What did you see when I was fighting with the fire mage?”
“I saw the flames. I also saw the golden glow preceding them. There was something a little weird about her magic, though. It wasn’t working right. But I was a little preoccupied at the time.” Bellamy hesitates. “I’m telling the truth. I don’t know how to prove it right now, but—”
“I believe you.” Rakos tips his head back against the tree. Sunlight traces the powerful column of his throat. “Seeing magic would be really fucking useful where I’m going.”
Relief floods through Bellamy. “So, do we have a deal? I’ll help you find your sister in Parsk, then you’ll take me to the Silaisan border?”
“Not useful enough,” Rakos says. “I’ll take you to Orthin, because I’m too fucking nice. But we part ways there. Deal?”
He offers his hand.
Bellamy tries forcing back his disappointment. Of course, he’s too useless a burden to throw on this perfect stranger. Bellamy should be grateful to get an escort out of the forest at least. Surely he’s not too incompetent to find a caravan on his own.
Plus, as soon as he separates from Rakos, he can come up with a better disguise than a wandering minstrel.
Bellamy swallows back his distress and clasps Rakos’s arm. “It’s a deal. Thank you. Um, we should probably…”
“Yeah.” Rakos frowns up at the sky. “We won’t reach town before sunset, so I hope you’re used to camping. Shout if you see any magic in the distance.”
He tramps off through the clearing, leaving a trail of bent wildflowers in his wake. Bellamy rubs his neck and directs a tendril of Sandry magic into the clearing. His hands cool as the warmth of magic leaves them. As he follows Rakos, the flowers straighten in his wake.
“Are you coming, Bastard?”
The blinkmink rolls around in the flowers, ignoring him.
“Fine. Be that way.”
A soft weight appears on his shoulder, and a cold nose invades his ear.
***
Rakos is right; they don’t reach town before sunset. As night falls, cold sets in through Bellamy’s damp clothes. His limbs feel like cotton. Aching, stabby cotton. He wishes he could curl up in a cozy fur-lined pouch like Bastard.
“When are we going to stop?” Bellamy asks.
Rakos glances over his shoulder. “Fuck, you’re so quiet. I almost forgot you were there. We’ll stop when we stop.” He waves his hand. “Shout if you see any shelter.”
Wet mulch squelches beneath Bellamy’s boots. Rakos is right, they need some sort of shelter, but Bellamy can’t walk much farther.
If this was a novel, Bellamy would happen upon a convenient abandoned shack. Maybe a cave. But so far, adventure is far less convenient than he always thought it would be. Less excitement and romance, more terror and damp. Bellamy will have to find his own solutions.
