Page 17 of War Mage

Urim folds his muscular arms over his chest, a frown on his lips. “You were brought to Adrik when you were six summers old, the daughter of merchant parents. They took sick when they reached these shores and died. The captain of their ship dumped you in West Portsmouth after confiscating your parents' wares. You lived on the streets for a season, begging to survive. But when your Affinity manifested, you were taken by the town guards to the Tower, where they named you Flameborn because you couldn’t remember your family name, if they even have family names in your parents’ culture.”

I feel small as he speaks, laid bare and vulnerable. I know nothing about his past, while he has extensive knowledge of mine. Was there a record of me at the Tower or did he interview those still alive who knew me? Where did he get all his information?

Still, I don’t want him to know how his knowledge of my past affects me, even if he may have felt something through the mate bond. “I suppose you do know it all,” I say sarcastically, burying my discomfort.

“I know much. But I don’t understand why you stayed at the Tower when you reached adulthood. Didn’t you ever want to discover your roots once you came of age?” Urim surprises me by asking. “Who your parents were and where you come from?”

“What, don’t you already know that too?” I mock, even though a longing for answers echoes in the pit of my stomach. Once I reached the age of adulthood my service to the Tower began and I couldn’t leave without risking losing its protection and the only place I knew as home. I was never able to travel anywhere that my parents may have gone, to search for information about them. I didn’t have anything to go on, my only memories being those of a small child. But maybe, being an insufferable, all-knowing spymaster, the orcdoesknow about my parents, where they came from. What their names were. I wait with bated breath for his answer.

He shakes his head, shattering my hope. “My investigation didn’t go beyond your years at the Tower once we realized that you weren’t a part of the Cabal. It would have been a waste of resources to send agents outside of Adrik for a neutralized threat.”

My fingers twitch at the “neutralized threat” comment, but obviously, no fire summons, blocked by the shackling spell. Still, it irks me and I wish that I could snap a little flame at him for his conceit.

Urim surprises me again by not letting go of his previous question. “But truly, do you not want to know where you came from? What your history is?” He still sounds emotionless but there’s something almost . . . soft about it. Like he cares about the answer.

That’s a shockingly gentle and personal question coming from the emotionless orc. I find myself in the bond again, trying to ascertain his motivations in asking. There is that same steady calm as usual, but I catch a hint of genuine curiosity and sadness that surprises me before they disappear, the orc trying to hide them from me.

“I have nothing to go off of,” I find myself answering honestly, without sarcasm. “From the color of my skin and hair, it is likely they were from Ustreya or Briacor originally, but those are big countries. I don’t even know if I have other family to find. All I remember is being on their ship. Climbing up the rigging like I was born to it. Little flashes of stopping in different ports. Nothing substantial. I don’t even know my parents’ names. I just remember calling them Yada and Ima, but those aren’t names.”

“Briacor,” Urim says softly. “That’s mother and father in Briacori.”

I feel like someone has punched me in the stomach. After all this time, the answer is so simple? “How do you know that?” I demand, my voice smaller and more vulnerable than I would like.

“I am the spymaster of Orik. I speak every language in Teurilia, at least conversationally.” It’s not a brag. He’s back to speaking in that even, stoic way of his, like he is just relaying information, not something of vital importance to me.

Briacor. My parents were originally from Briacor. I try to think of what I know about that country, but frustratingly come up with little. We learned geography at the Tower, but it wasn’t the focus of many studies. Briacor has a desert in it that goes over the border into Ustreya. Its capital is Al Zuhrus, a thriving city due to its spice and silk production and exports. They are known for having some of the best musicians in Anar’i and have produced many successful wandering bards. What was it that my parents were selling? Spices? Silk? Or was it something else? It was too long ago, I was too small to really remember. I remember the brightly colored cloth that covered our stalls at the markets. The chatter of customers while I ate a sweet plum my Ima gave me. A basket under a table that was big enough for me to hide in, but beyond that, nothing.

I feel vulnerable, standing before my handler and laying my oldest wound bare, especially knowing that he can feel my surface emotions in our bond. “It doesn't matter,” I say harshly, turning away from the orc. I need to shut this conversation down. “They’re dead and, like I said, Briacor is a big country. There’s no way that I could find my ‘roots,’ as you call them.”

There’s silence behind me, and I feel my hackles rising the longer it stretches. I feel like he’s analyzing me, judging me for my answer. That same, damn, almost-emotionless calm is in my chest, giving away no hint of his true emotions. I almost spit out something sarcastic or belligerent, when he breaks the silence for me.

“As you say. It’s just as well, I suppose. No one is left to mourn you should this mission fail.”

His words slide like a knife into my heart.No one left to mourn me.No one left who loves me is what he means.What a bleak thought. But I can’t let him know how much his words affect me, so I bury my hurt quickly under bitterness. At least he’s back to being an asshole. “I could die while succeeding, you know.” I remind him, somewhat bitterly.

“True. Such is the way of life for an agent of the Crown. Better to not have connections.”

“I am no agent of the Crown,” I reply hotly, turning back to the orc.

“You are, whether you like it or not.” I swear if he says one more thing in that aggravating, even way of his, I’ll blast him with fire, shackling tattoo or no shackling tattoo.

“Is that how you live?” I challenge.

“Of course,” he says, like the answer is obvious. “Like I told you before, loved ones are not a reality of my life. I cannot be the Shield to the Crown if I am bogged down in personal matters.”

Shield to the Crown? What does that mean? Some sort of title? It’s not the first time he’s mentioned it, but I don’t ask about that, though, instead challenging him on his assertion. “Not one person? Not a place that holds nostalgia? A pet? Nothing?”

Urim stares at me for a second. Finally, he says, “I may have given you my mate bite, Adara, but do not expect me to confide in you. We are still strangers, you and I.”

I feel outraged and do nothing to stop that feeling from traveling along our mate bond. How dare he, when he already knows of my past? The imbalance chafes at me. I glare at him, challenging him with my eyes, sending rage across the bond, wanting to scorch him with my emotions, since I cannot with my fire.

This time, Urim breaks our shared gaze first, looking unreadable. “We should get below deck. We’re in the way up here.”

“Speak for yourself,” I retort, some venom in my voice. “I’m not a hulking brute like you; I’m small enough to stay well out of the way. And I’ll not be going below into the dark with the rats and the stagnant air when I could be above deck and feeling the wind in my hair.”

He regards me impassively for a time, then says, “Fine. But don’t get in the way of the crew. We are guests here.”

“I know enough about sea travel to stay out of the way,” I tell him hotly. “Do not tell me what to do. We are not on our mission yet.”

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