Reynold dug the tip of his knife into the table. “How can you say your spell is still there when the girl has run away?”
Meeshmaltok remained intent on something out the window and thankfully didn’t look at him. He wanted to be angry–needed to be angry–with the wizard, and he couldn’t maintain his frustration when the man’s chilling gaze was on him. Two days on the south-east road and already he wanted to kill something. Curse his mother for sending him back to the desert. She should rot. Oh, wait, soon enough she would. That thought made the inadequately small estate house he’d commandeered slightly more comfortable.
“The spell still holds, your Majesty.”
“And yet she’s run away.”
“Perhaps you should take the matter up with your brother.”
With his brother. There was a fool he’d rather not be related to.
Reynold slammed the knife down, embedding the blade in the soft-wood tabletop. “Harcourt is a waste of time. Tell me you know where she is?”
“I have an eye on her.”
“I should have had her killed when I had a chance.”
“That, your Majesty, would have created more problems than this.”
“And if she remembers what she overheard and tells Wyndham?”
Meeshmaltok spun to face him, his robes hissing against the floor. He leveled his white stare on Reynold, sending shivers racing up his spine.
“She will not remember.”
“It doesn’t look like–” Buzzing ate at his thoughts. His words jumbled, twisting into nonsense before reaching his tongue.
“My spells do not fail. You need the merchant barons.”
“She’s miss– I– I need the merchant barons.”
The buzzing eased. Of course he needed the merchant barons. If he didn’t have their support when Adelicia died the kingdom could fall into chaos. And Kaelyn Wintherford’s father controlled the Merchant Barons’ Guild. In truth, she was Wintherford’s problem. They had a pact and he should be willing to do whatever it took to keep it.
“Wintherford’s oldest son is under General Uthmar’s command in Vitreah?” he asked more to say something than receive an answer he already knew.
Meeshmaltok nodded and brought the writing tray to the table.
If Kaelyn Wintherford was a merchant baron problem, who better to take care of her than family? Renyold dipped the pen into the ink and wrote. He didn’t care how she was taken care of, but for ease of mind, he had a strong suggestion. Women were sacrificed on the altar of political marriages all the time. Why not just a sacrifice? The life of one daughter to solidify the deal seemed more than reasonable.
#
Talar vomited into the underbrush, bile burning the back of his throat. It had been a whole day and the after-effect of the vision-root still plagued him. Some good that had been. He hadn’t even been granted a vision.
Crawling the remaining few feet to the stream’s edge, he dunked his head under the water. After leaving the Duchess he’d traveled south, aimless, not caring where he went. But the heat in his tattoos that had flared during their fight hadn’t subsided. His Goddess called to him relentlessly, day and night, until he couldn’t think of anything else. But when he’d meditated, She hadn’t answered him, hadn’t revealed why She plagued him. He’d thought finding the vision-root was a gift, the answer, that it would enhance his connection with her. Perhaps She hadn’t responded to his meditation because he was out of practice. He didn’t really think that was the cause, but a little help from the narcotic plant wouldn’t hurt.
At least he hadn’t thought it would hurt.
His stomach cramped. He pressed his forehead to the ground, letting the water in his hair stream over his face. Vision-root had never affected him this way, and he’d been careful to take a moderate dose.
It was more likely that She was playing with him. There were many faces to the Goddess and trickster was one of them, although one rarely seen. And now, to top it off, the heat in his tattoos was gone. She’d called and he’d tried to answer but She’d turned away from him, again. Not surprising.
He rolled onto his back and sucked in slow, deep breaths. Strangely though, as bad as he felt, the yearning to die wasn’t there. He still had nothing to live for, and surely death would end the pain in his gut. Yet all he wanted was for it to pass. A part of him felt he was betraying his wife, Delwyn. And the other part, the part that had left the Duchess, knew Delwyn would wait. She was with the Eternal Mother, time meant nothing with her embrace.
Of course, now the question was, what would he do? He’d shed the trappings of a minstrel by leaving his lute behind, but that wasn’t to say he couldn’t carry on as one. He had a pleasing enough voice that he wouldn’t want for a meal or a place to stay once he found civilization again. However, as a clansman, he had no need to seek out a village or a city. He could survive just fine off the land.
A breeze swept through the canopy above him and pricks of sunlight danced across his face. He closed his eyes, watching the play of black and gold on the back of his lids. The stream gurgled and birds chattered and called to each other. At the moment, lying here would suit him just fine.
His stomach churned and heaved.
He cursed his Goddess, rolled over, and threw up again.
