Flamecaster (Shattered Realms, #1)(91)

“He does, Your Majesty,” Ash said. “I am happy to oblige.” He picked up the bottle, uncorked it, tipped back his head, and sipped. His lips were silvered when he lowered the bottle. They all stared as he pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and blotted it away. “I don’t recommend drinking it, as it’s not the best use of a precious element. But, as you can see, it is perfectly safe.”

The king smiled. “I am convinced, healer. And therefore, I will keep the empress’s gift for myself.”

“As you wish.” Ash bowed. “Careful,” he warned, “it’s heavier than you think.” He put the bottle into the king of Arden’s hands.





32


A LITTLE BAD JUDGMENT


Jenna dreamed she was back at the Lady of Grace, in her Lyle Truthteller guise, with the scent of coal fires and mutton stew in her nose and the laments of a mediocre minstrel in her ears. Behind the bar, her father stood, alive again. She felt the pressure of his anxious eyes, always waiting for her to disappear.

Across the table, in the client chair, sat Adam Wolf, his hair an honest red.

Jenna shuffled and reshuffled the cards, once losing hold of them so that they scattered across the battered wood like rose petals. She and the healer both reached for the cards, and their hands collided. They yanked their hands back like they’d been burned.

Jenna scooped up the cards, stacked them, and slapped them down on the table in rows. One by one, she turned them over, arranging them like puzzle pieces.

“You will meet a girl,” she said, “who will bring heartbreak and trouble into your life. A thousand times, you will curse the day you met her.”

“No.” The healer raked the cards from the table and onto the floor. “I won’t accept that.” He reached across the table and took her hands. “We have a future. I know we do. Now tell me a different truth.”

The scene dissolved, and she was looking into a pair of golden eyes, eyes just like her own. Fierce, hypnotic eyes in a jeweled setting, but the light in them was going out. There was a pain in her shoulders as if she carried a weight too heavy to lift. The stench of rotten meat filled her nostrils and burned her eyes. The floor rocked gently under her.

Flamecaster. We are trapped in a dark place, and we cannot see the sky.

The back of her neck prickled and burned. She extended her arms, and saw glittering scales where her skin had been, her nails growing into claws. She breathed in the scent of prey, then realized that something furry was crawling across her knee. Swearing, she sent the creature flying into the darkness, burning like a shooting star. It squealed once as it hit the wall, then went silent. She hunted for it, her wings hitting the walls on all sides, following her nose to fresh meat. She was starving and yet she could not find food. She screamed in frustration.

Light blinded her. It must be the Skins who had imprisoned her. She gathered herself, found her flame, roared a challenge. She might be weak, but she could still make a kill. Then she caught a familiar scent and knew.

It was the wolf.

She heard shouts outside the door, banging, someone fumbling with the latch. The scent of burning fur and flesh slowly faded, along with the remnants of the dream as she remembered where she was.

She was no longer in the dungeon. She was in new quarters, high in the king of Arden’s tower, with a window overlooking the river.

The door burst open, and the wolf was across the room in a few long strides, kneeling next to her so that he could look into her face and take her hand in his. “Jenna? What is it? What’s wrong?”

His voice and his scent, more than anything, anchored her back in her body.

“It was nothing. A dream.” She took a deep breath, then let it out. The wind from the river stirred her hair, bringing with it a memory of fish and salt water and the not-too-distant sea. She’d fallen asleep reading in the chair by the window, the one place where she could see the sky.

Adam drove off the blackbirds who had swarmed through the door on his heels, saying, “It was just a dream.” When they’d left, he turned back to her. “You’re shaking.” He pressed the back of his hand against her forehead. “No fever.” He stood, and ignited a lamp on the table with the tips of his fingers.

While his back was turned, Jenna examined her hands and arms in the moonlight. They looked perfectly normal—no claws, no scales. She breathed a sigh of relief, then thought, Are you losing your mind?

“I dreamed I was back in the dungeon and there was a rat and—and I was going to eat it,” she blurted.

He turned, hands on hips, and raised an eyebrow. “I know you’re always hungry, but that’s setting the bar pretty low. I’d have brought you some more food, but they told me you’d just had supper.”

She shook her head, her cheeks heating with embarrassment. “No, no, it’s not that. You know how you just . . . have stupid dreams sometimes.”

“You’re right,” he said, his face clouding. “Sometimes we do have stupid dreams.”

He pulled a chair in close and sat, so they were almost knee to knee. “I’m glad to see that Lieutenant Karn came through. I didn’t realize that you had moved upstairs until I went to the dungeon and you weren’t there.” He looked around. “This is much better.”

And it was. The room was small, being high in the tower, with curved walls. The furnishings were plain—a bed with a thick straw mattress and plenty of quilts and coverlets. A stand with a pitcher and washbasin. Two chairs. A screen in the corner to hide the chamber pot. A hearth with a crackling fire, and a window—a barred window, of course, but a window nonetheless.