Flamecaster (Shattered Realms #1)(87)

“What?” Jenna leaned forward so she could look into his face.

“Would it be all right if I took a look at your magemark?”

“Why not?” she said with a sigh. “Everyone else has.” She turned half sideways, scooping her hair up and arching her neck so he could see. He sat next to her on the bed and leaned in close to look, brushing his fingers over the symbol, raising instant gooseflesh.

“Can you feel that?” he asked.

She nodded. “Maybe I’m just used to it, but it feels like my own skin.”

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” he said. “Like . . . like metal and jewels set into the skin. Did you have an injury there in the past?”

“It’s been there as long as I can remember,” Jenna said. “I’ve tried to—to pry it off, but it’s as permanent as any other part of me.”

“Do you know what the symbol means?”

“Everybody keeps asking me, and I don’t know. Based on what’s happened so far, I’d say it means trouble and bad luck.”

“And you were born with this?”

“So I’m told.”

The healer was studying her, eyes narrowed, rubbing his chin, as if she was a puzzle that he couldn’t work out.

“What?” she said, brushing at herself, thinking maybe she’d dropped something.

“Why are you telling me all this?” he asked bluntly. “You don’t know me. Why should you trust me?”

Jenna could tell that he was asking himself the same question—if he should trust her. He’s a wary wolf. As well as lonely. I wonder why.

She reached out and took one of his hands in both of hers, feeling the buzz of connection between them. “You’re wrong. I saw you yesterday. I saw the red-haired boy and the man lying dead in the snow and the gray wolves.” When he said nothing, doubt trickled in. “Are you saying that you didn’t see me?”

When he stiffened and shifted his eyes away, she knew that he had.

So she pressed him. “What did you see?”

He breathed in, then released the words bottled up inside. “Too much,” he said. “Enough.” He paused. “Those—those images I saw.” He stopped, cleared his throat. “The little girl, and the boy, and the king of Arden . . . were they true?”

“They were true,” she said, a catch in her voice. “The boy—his name was Riley. He was fifteen, and I was twelve.”

“I’m sorry, Jenna,” Adam said softly. “I’m sorry that happened.”

She turned to face him. “I punched the king in the nose,” she said, fierce tears leaking from her eyes. “He bled, and bled, and bled . . .” She trailed off. “That was the beginning. I’ve been fighting back ever since.”

“Since twelve?”

“Do you think I wasn’t a grown-up, after that?”

“I see your point.”

“You’ve had losses, too,” Jenna said. There was a question buried in there, but he didn’t take the bait.

“Yes,” he said. “I suppose I’m still walking that line between life and death, trying to choose which side I’m on.”

“I want you on my side, healer,” Jenna said.

“And . . . I want to be,” he said. “It’s just . . .” He searched her face. “How do you ever really know a person?”

Jenna ran her fingertips over the back of his hand, tracing the veins. “Not everything is a lie, Wolf,” she said. “Sometimes you have to believe what you see.”

His head came up, as if she’d startled him. Leaning forward, she slid her arms around his neck and kissed him on the lips. For a moment, he resisted, then surrendered. It was a long time before they broke apart.





31


THE EMPRESS’S GIFT


It was becoming an ordeal—getting in to see the king. After only three days away in Baston Bay, the change in procedure was striking. Lila and Destin submitted to the pat down, the interrogation, the magery—all before they even entered the small council chamber. The mage on duty, Marc DeJardin, scowled as he rooted through the crates full of flashcraft.

“More chains for the enslaved, Barrowhill?” he said when he’d finished.

“You may not approve, but it’s a living,” Lila said. “Somebody has to do it, so it might as well be me.”

DeJardin didn’t seem impressed by that logic.

The blackbirds hoisted the crates and carried them into the hall, Lila and Karn following behind.

The usual suspects were ranged around the conference table—Marin Karn, Michel Botetort, and Gerard Montaigne. They all wore grim expressions, and the tension was thick as thistle and just as prickly. Whatever they were discussing, it seemed to be bad news, and General Karn was the one in the hot seat. They had no intention of sharing, though, because they quit talking as soon as Lila and Destin walked in.

Destin seemed to pick up on the mood in the room as well. His gaze flicked from face to face, resting on his father’s the longest.

Well, Lila thought, as she and Destin took a knee, at least we’ve brought some show-and-tell.

“Your Majesty,” Destin said “Barrowhill and I are pleased to report that our operation in Baston Bay was a success. In fact, the results have exceeded our wildest dreams.”