Warmth spreading across my back as Varic drapes his arm around?—
“Did you notice his nose? He looked like he could be Annovian to me.”
His nose was straight. His skin was white. Annovians are as diverse as any of the lands surrounding us. There isn’t a general look denoting an Annovian citizen.
The Imperial servant pours more wine into the Emperor’s goblet, which is promptly snatched up and tilted back upon his dry lips.
“I have full faith in our Imperial Army’s ability to determine his origins in their investigation,” Varic suggests.
Every muscle in my body stiffens. Hendry would have never spoken up like this, though he had never served in our military and understood he was to be seen and not heard. Whereas Varic comes by his confidence in speaking on these matters from years of leading large units of soldiers, making countless split-second life-or-death decisions.
Emperor Aldritch sets his goblet on the table and leans forward. “Are you assuming I ordered an investigation into the infiltrator’s identity? Or is this a veiled suggestion?”
“Merely making an observation, acknowledging the strength of your leadership and the sorcerers you appoint to protect and defend our Empire, Your Majesty.” Varic bows, and I hide my knowing smirk behind the lip of the crystal goblet, acting as if I am taking a long pull.
“Hmm.” The Emperor narrows his eyes as he leans back, plucking his wine glass from the table and emptying it in a single gulp.
“I will invite the Annovian queen for a meeting,” His Majesty states.
“What are the odds she will accept your invitation?” Varic asks, and the Emperor’s expression rises in a sinister smile.
“I expect her to refuse.” He raps his middle finger over the table, ordering an Imperial servant to rush forward and empty the bottle into His Majesty’s goblet before turning to retrieve another as the Emperor downs this pour in record time.
“Once she refuses my generous invitation to visit our Empire on our coin, we will execute our original intention.” He sits back as the Imperial servant produces a second decanter of wine and refills the Emperor’s goblet. His Majesty grasps the stem, lifting the red liquid in the air for emphasis. “Which is to go to her, as our seer predicted.”
A shiver rolls down my spine, and I shift uncomfortably in my seat. Varic’s expression remains neutral, while the Emperor’s morphs into one of haughty satisfaction.
Unease begins to take over me, and I wish to be able to spare some magic so I might convince him this is a terrible idea. Because he would divulge what the seer said if it wasn’t to do with his beloved experiments. And with the recent increase in attacks on the Palace, traveling to another land in carriages has to be one of the least safe decisions he could make.
His Majesty stares back, raising the hairs along the back of my neck before he nods down to my goblet. I swallow and force the rest of the wine down my throat. He continues speaking, and I wonder what he sees, since he has never seen me. Not truly. He merely peers straight through anything of substance to project whatever his mind decides I am onto my being—including any insolence for which he wishes to provide a consequence—regardless of whether or not I committed an offense. His eyes lose their luster, then shift up to study Varic.
“Take my little witch back to her chambers. I need her well rested in preparation for tomorrow.” The prickly sensation running down my skin from his nickname is eclipsed by the relief washing over my weary muscles and overtired mind, needing nothing more than to melt into the mattress once Drusilla finishes the nightly routine.
Shame stabs my stomach and digs its claws in as the monster it is scales the length of my ribs, expanding and contracting with my lungs every time I pull in a breath to sustain my life after having just taken another. I will my legs to keep moving and for my spine to remain as straight as I can maintain in front of His Majesty, whose piercing gray eyes closely observe my receding form. Grief rolls in like a boulder and slams into the throb of guilt, its hardened surface a container for every wailing phantom once belonging to every being I’ve had to kill as I pass by the spot on the floor where so many have died by my magic. Selfishness being my default, I avert my eyes to avoid another glimpse of the damned drain.
My shoulders drop the second we round the corner into the flame-lit hall, lungs burning from neglect now that I am finally able to take a full breath.
“Fuck, I’m so sorry, Tasch,” Varic says the moment we’re safe for him to do so.
A resigned sigh is all I can offer him as he reaches for me, then stops midway, retracting his hand to drop by his side before mimicking my heavy release of breath.
“Let’s get you to bed.” His voice is low, defeated, but firm.
I nod, and he casts his eyes ahead of him.
Fatigue and lethargy pull on me, urging me to collapse upon the stones and give up on everything. To give in. To forfeit and let them win.
Never.
That spiteful part of me will not allow it, not fully. Oh, how I wish I could silence that force, that stubborn need to push forward, to ram my way into the next day, no matter how torturous. How I wish for the ability to stop caring, altogether.
Instead, I allow the tears to fall as I force my next step forward. The ghost of a witch made to repeat the same patterns and routines. A dreariness possesses me as weariness is a constant. I’m too tired. Too weak. Too frail. I don’t want to do any of this.
And yet, I persist.
Nausea churns in my gut as the juxtaposition of coolness running up my back and down my limbs from Cirrin’s healing magic mixes with the heat of Varic’s attention. I swallow against the bile rising in my throat while I try to accept the healing, try to take in the concern for my being. But I don’t deserve it. I do not deserve to be taken care of.
Not after I just killed someone.
