The Magician's Land (The Magicians, #3)(22)

The giant inclined his huge head toward Eliot, gravely. Their kind played a deep game.

It was a funny feeling, coming back to real time after having watched the world in slow motion for half an hour. Everything looked wildly accelerated: plants waving, clouds moving, people talking. It was a beautiful clear morning, the air an icy coolant washing across his overheated brain. He decided he would just keep on walking—he would walk the whole mile back to the Fillorian encampment by himself. Why the hell not? A lot of people tried to fuss at him about his punctured shoulder, which was probably still leaking some blood, and now that the excitement was wearing off it had started to sting pretty furiously.

But he didn’t want to be fussed over. Not quite yet. All in good time.

The war with Loria was over. Life was good. It was funny how just when you thought you knew yourself through and through, you stumbled on a new kind of strength, a fresh reserve of power inside you that you never knew you had, and all at once you found yourself burning a little brighter and hotter than you ever had before.

Eliot thought Quentin would have understood.

—

“Honey! I’m home!”

He threw open the tent flap.

“Keep saying that.” Janet didn’t look up. “One day it might grow up to be funny.”

Janet was bent over a big trestle table covered with the enormous maps of Fillorian terrain that they’d used to keep track of their brief but glorious anti-Lorian campaign. They were littered with miniature figurines—Eliot had had them made up specially to represent both sides of the action. Not strictly necessary, since there were only two armies, and only one front—it wasn’t exactly Axis and Allies here—but they’d had a lot of fun pushing them around the maps with long-handled wooden paddles.

The tent was full of pink light, strained through its red silk walls. Eliot dropped into an armchair. It was hot in the tent, even at this altitude: Fillorian seasons were irregular and unpredictable, and they’d been on a streak of summer months for he didn’t know how long now. It had been rather splendid at first, but it was getting to be a bit much.

“Did you take care of our daddy issues?”

“I did,” Eliot said.

“My hero.” She came around the table and kissed him on the cheek. “Did you kill him?”

“I did not kill him. Knocked his ass out though.”

“I would have killed him.”

“Well, next time you can go.”

“I will.”

“But there won’t be a next time.”

“Sad face.” Janet sat down in the other armchair. “In anticipation of your inevitable victory I summoned a couple of pegasi to take us back to Whitespire. They’ll be here in a few minutes.”

“Want to see my war wound?”

“Show.”

Eliot swiveled around as far as he could without getting up, far enough that she could see the divot Vile Father had gouged out of his deltoid or trapezius or whatever that muscle was.

“Nice,” she said. “It’s ruining the upholstery on that chair.”

“That’s it? ‘It’s ruining the upholstery’?”

“I would ask if you wanted a medal but I already know you want a medal.”

“And I shall have one.” Eliot closed his eyes, suddenly weary even though it was only 9:30 in the morning. The rush was gone, and he was shaking a little. He kept having flashbacks to Vile Father pressed up in his grill, crushing his ribcage. “I’ll give it to myself. Maybe I’ll start an order, the Order of the Broken Spear. It will be for people who are exceptionally valiant. Like me.”

“Congratulations. Are you OK to fly?”

“Yes. I’m OK to fly.”

He and Janet talked like this all the time. The Fillorians didn’t really get it, they thought High King Eliot and Queen Janet hated each other, but the truth was that in Quentin’s absence Janet had become his principal confidante. Eliot supposed it was partly because they both found real romantic intimacy elusive and kind of uninteresting, so usually neither of them had a serious boyfriend, and they had to turn to each other for intelligent companionship. Eliot used to worry that his lack of a long-term life partner meant that he was psychologically unhealthy—emotionally arrested, maybe, or commitment-phobic, or something. But he worried about that less and less. He didn’t feel arrested, or phobic. He just felt like being single.

Not like Josh and Poppy. Six weeks after they took the thrones they were a couple, and after six months they were engaged. No one saw it coming, but now looking back it was hard to remember that they’d ever been apart. Eliot wondered if it was the crowns themselves—if there was some kind of ancient magic at work, that caused any royals who weren’t actually related to couple up and produce heirs to the thrones. Having exhausted itself trying and failing to shove Eliot and Janet together, the spell had turned its attention to Josh and Poppy and had more luck.

Maybe it was true. But Josh and Poppy really did seem to love each other. Eliot thought it spoke well of Poppy that she saw the point of Josh, which not everybody could. He wasn’t handsome, and although he was as clever as any of them he didn’t walk around making sure everybody knew it all the time. No, the point of Josh was that he had a big and noble heart. It had taken Eliot literally years to figure that out. Poppy was a quicker study.