“And your arm,” Lucien points out, from necessity and the desire to annoy Kazia alike.
“You can touch my back and my right upper arm,” Kazia grates out, aggravation bringing his voice to life.
“Thanks, Your Highness,” Lucien says, with a cheerfulness he knows Kazia will hate. “I’m starting at your left shoulder.”
The raised welt is warmer than the skin beside it. Warmer than Lucien’s hallabark-slick fingers, despite his care, and Kazia flinches at the first touch. The second touch, too. Lucien continues massaging the ointment in. Starting with the lighter injuries will hopefully prepare Kazia for the worse ones.
“These look half-healed,” Lucien says, not expecting an answer.
But Kazia is full of surprises today. “Aliza’s doing. She was too tired to finish the job.”
Lucien exhales. The list of potential culprits is small. Who else would dare raise a hand against the king’s spoiled son?
“Was this all Aliza’s doing?” Lucien asks, moving to the next welt.
Beneath Lucien’s touch, Kazia’s ribs rise, then fall. “Imrik holds the whip. Aliza thinks that makes her better than him.”
The clarity of analysis is disconcerting. It isn’t the thought process of shock. Kazia is a tangle of nerves, but his terror stems from Lucien’s witnessing. He doesn’t want to be discovered.There’s no confusion or betrayal over the injuries themselves. As if Kazia is used to this.
“Do they hurt you often?” Lucien asks.
Kazia’s resignation is disconcerting too. “Does it matter?”
“Yeah, it fucking matters.”
“They have their reasons.” Kazia shrugs, then flinches at his own movement. “It’s none of your business.”
“Whatever they’ve told you, it isn’t true.” Lucien keeps working gently. “No reason justifies this.”
Kazia laughs. “Would you believe I agree with you? But we’re in Ostomar, Commander. Our opinions don’t matter here.”
Lucien can’t imagine either of his parents hurting him. If Da ever raised a hand against him, Ma would have shoved that hand into the oven fire. Da wouldn’t have stood for that either. The time Lucien lost control lighting a candle, Da never even shouted. He just took the curtains down and taught Lucien how to mend them.
Then Ma walked in and scolded them for wasting thread on charred curtains. They had to cut the better parts into rags instead.
Remembering Ma and Da and candle lighting is a mistake. Brings up too much smoke and shadow of past years, stinging Lucien’s lungs. When he rubs hallabark into an angry welt at Kazia’s waist, his magic flares. A tiny feather of white-hot fire demands attention.
Lucien jerks away as Kazia flinches. Control. He shoves the magic down. Control. Kazia can’t know the earring doesn’t work.
Kazia twists around, his glare sharp as broken ice. Like he suspects something, even though it should be impossible. Silence slices through the room.
“Sorry.” Lucien forces a frown of concern. Anything besides fear of discovery. “Did I hurt you?”
“Did you…” Kazia crumples inward, lost. “You’re taking too long.”
“Sorry,” Lucien repeats, which is true. The next part isn’t: “I’m almost done.”
Kazia doesn’t call him on it. Just turns away again, and he’s motionless until Lucien resumes treating him. He flinches beneath Lucien’s touch—
As Lucien’s magic strains again at his control.
Lucien’s ready this time, and he extinguishes the fire before it can detach from the furnace of his soul. Most of Lucien’s training was during the Long Summer War, when he was an eighteen-year-old recruit thrust onto the battlefield. No, not thrust. Eager to scorch blood from Draskoran veins, Lucien demanded that battlefield. He was the same age Kazia is now, when he learned control in the jaws of chaos.
Controlling himself now is easy. He can concentrate on discerning the pattern by Kazia’s third flinch.
When Lucien touches a particularly dark welt, his magic pulses again. Pushes against his walls, yearning for—
The well of magic waiting beyond. The pile of oil-soaked kindling waiting to ignite.
