She had readied herself for sleep and directed him to do the same, and now she sat in the bed, listening, thinking. He appeared to be trying to go to sleep, but from his breathing, he was awake. Intentionally or unintentionally, she wasn’t sure.
She’d been furious after the encounter with the drunken villager, but really, she had been angry at herself. She’d just taken it out on him. She had known that there could be a problem, and sure enough, there had been. Her instincts had told her not to go into the room, but she’d done it anyway. Out of hunger or a longing for mere comfort, she’d endangered her mission.
And, of course, it was safer to take his voice, but there was no finesse to it at all. So heavy-handed on her part. Of course, the day she tried it, that would be the day someone would talk to him and make a scene. She could have gone with a more complex spell, restricting the things he could say. Perhaps to only yes, no, or maybe. That could work for tomorrow. There were so many other ways; she just hadn’t thought about it very hard. She could have given one of them some kind of grotesque disguise that scared people away. Or transformed him into her pet dog, perhaps, although that would take more energy, and he probably wouldn’t be too happy. And she wouldn’t be able to sustain it overnight or indefinitely, and then folks would wonder where the mysterious man in dirty silk robes had come from. If she were a stronger mage or had a shorter road ahead of her, she could easily dominate his thoughts with a barrage of commands, especially with his lack of training. But beyond the fact that that would be exhausting, she had no desire to use such horrible tactics. It was the kind of thing the mages in the Dark Days had done, the kind of unbalanced use of magic that had gotten them all into this mess.
How could she even try to keep any semblance of honor when she was kidnapping a man and probably dragging him to his death? But there were so many things she had no choice about. When she did have a choice, she was going to make the right one.
And now she sat, waiting. She was sure the drunk, or someone like him, would make some kind of move tonight. The question was when. She was ready for them now. Let it be soon, she thought, exhausted. She would pass the time by thinking of a way not to kill any attackers—and how to get some sleep if they waited till the wee hours of the morning to make the attempt.
Aven was still awake. She listened to his breathing again, then returned to her planning. Her options for sprouting defenses were pretty limited by the cleanliness of the inn and the room’s position on the second floor. Many animals and plants would draw far too much attention. The most peaceful option would be to transform the two of them into something tiny when the villagers came so that they’d be too confused to even realize what had happened. Still, there was risk in that, too. Vanishing from the room would be a confirmation that they were mages, and the villagers might spot their tiny transformed selves and kill them more easily with the squash of a boot, especially Aven, who would likely be too inexperienced as another type of being to successfully run and hide. As a creature mage, she had few weapons in her arsenal now that the villagers had seen their faces and knew where they were.
Footsteps out in the hallway. She tensed and tightened her grip on the handle of her dagger, but the footsteps kept going. A door up the hall opened and shut.
That left smaller, more common animals as her only allies. Hearing no one nearby, she swept the house with her senses. A few mice and rats—as most inns had—many people with no magical talent whatsoever, and then finally in the kitchen, she found a cat.
Perfect.
She whispered to it, musical bits of thought, greeting, warming it to her presence. It was curious. It liked the attention. Ah, cats could always be counted on for both of those traits. She reached out to it more and discovered it was a big orange tomcat, relatively neglected but very proud of his dominion over the tavern. Then, ever so politely, she asked him to check if the drunk was still drinking in the tavern room.
Sharing his eyes for a few moments, the tom strode proudly into the tavern room. He dodged a few feet as he skirted the room, scouting. When he found their corner, the drunk was still there.
Will you watch this man for me? she whispered to the cat. She used images and thoughts more than words because they were what the cat himself used. Follow him to see if he goes anywhere? Warn me if he moves? Do this, and I’ll tell you where the mice are hiding.
The cat curled up in the corner of the tavern room, standing guard. She was sure he would have done it without the offer of mice, as he was quite the curious and bored little beast. But that just didn’t feel right. It was not the Way to simply bend him to her will without offering something in exchange.
Settling back into her own eyes, she opened them and turned toward the prince.
He appeared to be sleeping now. He lay on his back, arms over his head where she had chained them. He didn’t look much like most of the mages she had always known. His muscled body was stocky and hardened from effort. A warrior more than a mage. What was this Code he spoke of? Did he really know anything about fighting, if he knew nothing about magic? He sure looked like he could fight. The only mages she knew that looked like that were the ones who worked on farms or in the smithy.
His bargaining and threats were only logical; she should have expected them. What was far more surprising was how unafraid he appeared and how comfortable around her. He was always at ease. That made him seem more royal and princely than anything else, even that kingly face of his. He knew his strength, and he owned the air around him, perhaps too much so. It was refreshing. Of course, he was impetuous and had the magical skills of a three-year-old, but her annoyance at that was wearing off and fading back into pity.
He offered her an interesting proposition. Teaching him some ability to control his magic did seem useful. Of course, it was probably the opposite of what the Masters would want her to do, but that made it all the more enticing. Especially because her brand did not burn and her thoughts did not tremble at the idea. It seemed to know that he was right, and teaching him truly would help her on the mission. His wild magic was a danger and made stealth in any populated area much more difficult.
If the brand would let her, and if they made it through the night, she’d teach him something in the morning. What was the first magic her father had taught her, before the Devoted Knights had come, before they’d become slaves? Where should she start?
She reached back to the tomcat. The drunk was still there, getting drunker. But he was talking to two friends now. The tom could not hear what they were saying.
She’d been furious after the encounter with the drunken villager, but really, she had been angry at herself. She’d just taken it out on him. She had known that there could be a problem, and sure enough, there had been. Her instincts had told her not to go into the room, but she’d done it anyway. Out of hunger or a longing for mere comfort, she’d endangered her mission.
And, of course, it was safer to take his voice, but there was no finesse to it at all. So heavy-handed on her part. Of course, the day she tried it, that would be the day someone would talk to him and make a scene. She could have gone with a more complex spell, restricting the things he could say. Perhaps to only yes, no, or maybe. That could work for tomorrow. There were so many other ways; she just hadn’t thought about it very hard. She could have given one of them some kind of grotesque disguise that scared people away. Or transformed him into her pet dog, perhaps, although that would take more energy, and he probably wouldn’t be too happy. And she wouldn’t be able to sustain it overnight or indefinitely, and then folks would wonder where the mysterious man in dirty silk robes had come from. If she were a stronger mage or had a shorter road ahead of her, she could easily dominate his thoughts with a barrage of commands, especially with his lack of training. But beyond the fact that that would be exhausting, she had no desire to use such horrible tactics. It was the kind of thing the mages in the Dark Days had done, the kind of unbalanced use of magic that had gotten them all into this mess.
How could she even try to keep any semblance of honor when she was kidnapping a man and probably dragging him to his death? But there were so many things she had no choice about. When she did have a choice, she was going to make the right one.
And now she sat, waiting. She was sure the drunk, or someone like him, would make some kind of move tonight. The question was when. She was ready for them now. Let it be soon, she thought, exhausted. She would pass the time by thinking of a way not to kill any attackers—and how to get some sleep if they waited till the wee hours of the morning to make the attempt.
Aven was still awake. She listened to his breathing again, then returned to her planning. Her options for sprouting defenses were pretty limited by the cleanliness of the inn and the room’s position on the second floor. Many animals and plants would draw far too much attention. The most peaceful option would be to transform the two of them into something tiny when the villagers came so that they’d be too confused to even realize what had happened. Still, there was risk in that, too. Vanishing from the room would be a confirmation that they were mages, and the villagers might spot their tiny transformed selves and kill them more easily with the squash of a boot, especially Aven, who would likely be too inexperienced as another type of being to successfully run and hide. As a creature mage, she had few weapons in her arsenal now that the villagers had seen their faces and knew where they were.
Footsteps out in the hallway. She tensed and tightened her grip on the handle of her dagger, but the footsteps kept going. A door up the hall opened and shut.
That left smaller, more common animals as her only allies. Hearing no one nearby, she swept the house with her senses. A few mice and rats—as most inns had—many people with no magical talent whatsoever, and then finally in the kitchen, she found a cat.
Perfect.
She whispered to it, musical bits of thought, greeting, warming it to her presence. It was curious. It liked the attention. Ah, cats could always be counted on for both of those traits. She reached out to it more and discovered it was a big orange tomcat, relatively neglected but very proud of his dominion over the tavern. Then, ever so politely, she asked him to check if the drunk was still drinking in the tavern room.
Sharing his eyes for a few moments, the tom strode proudly into the tavern room. He dodged a few feet as he skirted the room, scouting. When he found their corner, the drunk was still there.
Will you watch this man for me? she whispered to the cat. She used images and thoughts more than words because they were what the cat himself used. Follow him to see if he goes anywhere? Warn me if he moves? Do this, and I’ll tell you where the mice are hiding.
The cat curled up in the corner of the tavern room, standing guard. She was sure he would have done it without the offer of mice, as he was quite the curious and bored little beast. But that just didn’t feel right. It was not the Way to simply bend him to her will without offering something in exchange.
Settling back into her own eyes, she opened them and turned toward the prince.
He appeared to be sleeping now. He lay on his back, arms over his head where she had chained them. He didn’t look much like most of the mages she had always known. His muscled body was stocky and hardened from effort. A warrior more than a mage. What was this Code he spoke of? Did he really know anything about fighting, if he knew nothing about magic? He sure looked like he could fight. The only mages she knew that looked like that were the ones who worked on farms or in the smithy.
His bargaining and threats were only logical; she should have expected them. What was far more surprising was how unafraid he appeared and how comfortable around her. He was always at ease. That made him seem more royal and princely than anything else, even that kingly face of his. He knew his strength, and he owned the air around him, perhaps too much so. It was refreshing. Of course, he was impetuous and had the magical skills of a three-year-old, but her annoyance at that was wearing off and fading back into pity.
He offered her an interesting proposition. Teaching him some ability to control his magic did seem useful. Of course, it was probably the opposite of what the Masters would want her to do, but that made it all the more enticing. Especially because her brand did not burn and her thoughts did not tremble at the idea. It seemed to know that he was right, and teaching him truly would help her on the mission. His wild magic was a danger and made stealth in any populated area much more difficult.
If the brand would let her, and if they made it through the night, she’d teach him something in the morning. What was the first magic her father had taught her, before the Devoted Knights had come, before they’d become slaves? Where should she start?
She reached back to the tomcat. The drunk was still there, getting drunker. But he was talking to two friends now. The tom could not hear what they were saying.
