Martin Hengst - The Last Swordmage

“Your grace,” Faxon put in quickly, “Adamon and I must return to the Academy immediately. If the Xarundi have returned, or plan to return, we must notify the Head Master tonight. There isn’t a moment to waste.”

The king nodded. “Agreed. Please bring my regards to Maera. In the meantime, we all need some rest. We’re not going to be able to do anything tonight. I believe we should all try to get what sleep we can. Valyn, if you’d be so good as to send a few extra patrols?”

“Yes, your grace. Without hesitation.”

Valyn saluted and, turning on his heel, stomped off. Faxon and Adamon followed, leaving Tiadaria with Royce, Torus, and the king.

“Royce,” the king said quietly. “You’ve given so much of your life to your king and country that I hesitate to ask you to put your life on the line yet again.”

“But you will anyway.” Royce smiled.

“Yes.” The king seemed his full age now, bent with the years and the weight of the duties he must now delegate.

“It is my honor to serve.” Royce crossed his arm over his chest in a soldier’s salute.

Torus stepped forward, following Royce’s lead, and saluted.

“It is my honor to serve, your grace.”

Royce was startled, but not really surprised, when Tiadaria stepped forward, her salute as crisp as either of the soldiers.

“It is my honor to serve the One True King.” There was a ring of defiance in her voice and Royce wondered what exactly she was rebelling against at this moment. Her capture? Her slavery? The threat to the Imperium? It could be any, all, or something entirely different.

Others would have wilted under the shrewd measuring look that Heron Greymalkin, fourteenth of his line and sovereign lord, now leveled on Tiadaria. Royce noted with approval that her gaze never wavered. In fact, the only indication that she was aware of the king’s scrutiny came from the tips of her ears, which had started to turn red in embarrassment.

“You are an odd slave, girl.” The king waggled a finger at her. “Most slaves have their rightful place beaten into them.”

“With respect, your grace, my rightful place is at the Captain’s right hand. Where he goes, I follow. His field of battle is my training room, his home is my refuge. His honor is repaid by my loyalty.”

Heron turned to Royce. “She sounds like you did, when your father was alive. Scant wonder she carries your blade.”

“So you noticed.”

“Of course I noticed,” the king snapped. “I’m old, not daft. But being old means I need my sleep. Get out, the lot of you. Be back at midday for the war council.”

* * *

It was well past midnight when they left the castle. The air was cold and Tia was sorry that she no longer had the scarf wrapped around her neck to protect her from the biting chill. Torus had excused himself just beyond the mouth of the cavern, claiming other business he had to attend to before he slept. That left Tia and the Captain to make their way down deserted streets under the black, moonless sky.

They walked in silence for a long time. Had the Captain not been beside her, Tia had to admit that she would have been a little afraid. The stillness of the night and the echo of their footsteps made it sound eerily as if they were being stalked from every side. In the back of her mind, the beast attacking the young Quintessentialist played over and over.

Every time she thought it had passed, it would pop up again. The blood. The sickening wet thud of the body against the wall. Those blue eyes. The eyes would be what stayed with her the longest. If she closed hers, she could still see those blue eyes, burning with malevolent fire.

Tia resolutely put it out of her mind, yet again. She was being sullen and she knew it. She wished that the Captain would just yell at her, scream at her, hit her, do something other than just walking inexorably toward the inn with his lips pressed together in that disapproving frown.

She knew she had disappointed him. She could feel it, hanging like a veil between them. She hated disappointing him. She hated even more that he wouldn’t let her do anything about it. If she bothered to say anything, he’d just nod and carry on as if nothing had happened. It was infuriating.

At length they reached the inn and crossed the deserted common room to the stairs. In short order they were in their room, the door locked behind them. Tiadaria had never been happier to see a bed in her whole life. She felt like she could sleep for a week.

Now the reprimand would come. They were in private and the Captain had no appearances to maintain. Now he would tell her how disappointed he was in her, that she didn’t follow his orders and ended up in the middle of something that could have gotten her killed. She climbed into bed, kicking off her boots and waiting for the harangue to start.

The Captain undressed, folded his clothes neatly and laid them in a pile on the table. He leaned over the glass globe that protected the candle and with a single puff, blew it out. The room was plunged into blackness. No moon hung in the sky to impart any light and the lanterns on the street were all far below the level of their window. Tiadaria heard him get into bed and the rustling of his covers. The room was quiet and still. His breathing grew slower and more regular.

Tiadaria lay there for a long time after he fell asleep. The fact that he couldn’t even talk to her wounded her more deeply than the fact that she had disappointed him. It was true that she had disobeyed. There was no getting around that, but hadn’t she also provided valuable information to the realm? To the king? Surely the knowledge that there was a Xarundi running around inside the Imperium’s capital city was worth something. A tear, born out of anger and frustration, slipped from the corner of her eye. She brushed it away with a knuckle, determined not to wallow. She couldn’t control the Captain’s silence, but she could control how she reacted to it.

“I’m not angry with you.”

With an inarticulate cry, Tiadaria sat bolt upright. She had been certain that he was asleep. His voice sent her heart thundering in her chest in a reaction that wasn’t entirely fright. The silence had lowered again. She tried to feel him across the darkness. Tried to feel what he was feeling, what he needed to say.

“I’m not angry with you,” he repeated and Tia heard the waver in his voice. “I was worried for you. I know what the Quints do to rogue mages, and I don’t want that for you.”

“What would they have done, Sir?”

“Censure,” he replied, his voice flat. “They’d take away the things that make you, you. That can’t happen. I need you. Solendrea needs you.”

Tiadaria felt the sudden weight of all his hopes and expectations on her shoulders. Her chest was tight and the darkness was no longer a thin silk shift, it was a smothering blanket that pressed down on her from all sides and threatened to drag her away with it. She wanted to be held, and comforted, and told that everything was going to be alright. That this man who she had come to love wasn’t going to leave her and expect her to carry on his legacy.

“It’s coming, isn’t it,” she asked, inwardly begging him to deny it. “The day when I will be the last.”

“Yes.”

Her fragile composure cracked and she began to sob. Hot tears streamed down her cheeks, burning rivulets of fear and sorrow. He was preparing her for his death, she thought bitterly. His silence a macabre portent of things to come. Consumed by her grief, she didn’t hear him climb out of his bed, or into hers. He wrapped her in his arms, the bond-shock dancing like lightning across their skin. She turned her head into his chest, the weeping sweeping over her like a wave that threatened to carry her away.