Page 31 of The Rebel's Prize

She looked up at Lucien. "You sent word that you had found me." She didn't ask how. He may have used a sanctii or the Imperial mail. Jinkara was large enough to have a mail stop, and if he'd marked it "urgent," it would have been hurried to the nearest portal. And then on to Lumia, forthwith.

"I wasn't the only one concerned for your well-being. Of course I sent word," Lucien said. "I'm sure your family will be writing in due course, too."

She went slightly red at that, hoping she hadn't worried them too much. Though if it had been Martius who'd helped find her, then her father would have been able to reassure her mother fairly quickly. But it was too late to change what she'd done.

She turned her attention to Imogene's letter, scanning the contents quickly.

Though the phrasing was circumspect, it was obvious Imogene was delighted that Chloe was safe. She reported that the emperor continued to be well, and that the capital had been relatively peaceful. The last two paragraphs, however, were something of a scolding, a sternly worded suggestion that she accept Lucien's help and not to be stubborn. Which made her smile.

Imogene was one to talk about being stubborn. But then, Chloe wasn't sure Imogene had ever done to Jean-Paul what Chloe had done to Lucien. For one thing, Jean-Paul and Imogene were a love match, not the odd pairing she and Lucien were. No doubt they had butted heads over the years of their marriage, but Imogene had never had cause to flee her husband. Nor had they ever shared a magical bond.

The final postscript was two lines adding that Irina and Valentin seemed to be settling into married life, and Irina was continuing her studies at the temple.

The mention of the temple made Chloe's stomach tighten again. The healers must have been busy in the wake of the attack on the palace. And Valentin, most likely, would also have been working with the Andalyssians to identify the asphenyet. But clearly if there had been any further developments in relation to that, Imogene hadn't seen fit to include them.

Chloe scanned the short letter again. No hint of anything more, no sign of any of the ciphers the diplomatic corps used. She folded the paper up, vaguely frustrated, and slipped it back into the envelope.

"What does she have to say?" Lucien asked. He'd taken a seat in one of the armchairs closest to the fireplace while she read.

"Nothing too important," she replied. "She's happy that you have found me and suggests I—"

"Behave yourself?" Lucien interjected, mouth quirking slightly.

"Very funny. No, she said I should tell you that the emperor is well."

Lucien nodded. "Yes, the dispatch I received said much the same."

"She doesn't, however, say anything about any progress with the Andalyssians or otherwise." She looked at Lucien. "Did yours tell you anything?"

His mouth flattened for a moment. "No," he said. "So, it seems our journey will continue." Outside, the temple bell started to toll, and he glanced toward the window. "Which means, wife, we must eat quickly so I have time to build our disguises before we have to be at the theater."

* * *

The illusion Lucien had cast on Chloe was beautiful, but he preferred her true face. With her eyes charmed to bright blue and the brown she'd dyed her hair warmed to a honey shade, she looked like a stranger. He had known her face so well for so long that he was somewhat startled every time he glanced at her. Which didn't help the distance between them. His fingers itched with the urge to dissolve the illusion, just so he could reassure himself that it was really her.

At the same time, part of him felt oddly guilty, almost as though he were being unfaithful.

Not that he'd touched her any more than necessary with the illusion or without. Without the bond, he had no way of knowing how she truly felt about their situation.

Perhaps she felt just as strange looking at him. Seeing his own reflection in one of the mirrors in the foyer of Fallea's theater was also startling. Brown eyes and hair and deeper skin made him blend into the crowd.

Though if Chloe found the effect unsettling, she was good at hiding her discomposure.

But if he couldn't see any traces of her beneath the illusion, no one else would be able to either. That was one thing to cling to—that he was keeping her safe, at least, even though holding both illusions made him feel like he was trying to juggle mist and fog, sorting and sustaining the dual strands of magic.

The strain of it was building but so far still mild. They would be safely back at the inn in a few hours, well before it should grow too difficult to maintain.

At least Silya had decided against accompanying them. He doubted he could hold three illusions at once—not that he'd told the seer they were planning to use the disguises after she declined the invitation—and even if Deandra had no idea who Silya was, she was clearly Andalyssian. Enough of an anomaly here in Miseneia to perhaps make Deandra wary.

Silya had told him to send for her if he found trouble, and he'd left it at that. The heat and the journey seemed to be taking a toll on her. It would be easier on her as they moved farther north and the weather cooled. Better that she rest and be ready to intervene when she was truly needed. Chloe had Octarus, and with a sanctii at their back, they should be able to handle whatever troubles they might encounter for one evening. Not that he expected there tobetrouble. The likelihood of stumbling over Deandra in Fallea was vanishingly small.

Chloe smiled up at him as they took their seats in the lower stalls. He couldn't remember how long it had been since he'd attended a theater without sitting in a box. Perhaps back to his Academe days, when he and his friends would take cheap seats in venues featuring plays or shows that aristo society wouldn't entirely approve of. But since he had come of age and then discovered he was a Truth Seeker, he'd had to play by the rules. These days he watched operas and plays seated in one of his family's boxes or those of his friends' equally aristocratic families.

This theater was possibly one of the smallest he had ever been in, but it was well kept. The velvet curtain hanging across the stage looked relatively new, the woodwork gleamed with polish, and the seats were padded cloth, not mere wooden benches.

Chloe looked around curiously and then glanced down at the program. "This would be more useful if either of us read Miseneian." She cocked her head, blue eyes curious. "Or do you?"

He shook his head. "No. I can speak a little, but it's not a language I've had need to learn to read."

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