Page 7 of Aubade Rising
“You will need to remain here. Under supervision,” the Captain continues, oblivious to my growing distress.
The King interrupts, “It seems I’m in need of another Concord member.” Dervla twists towards him in surprise but his eyes are fixed on me.
“Would you consider becoming my Alchemist?”
Concern remains etched onto Dervla’s forehead. She looks at me, desperately trying to communicate something with her eyes, a warning?The King’s face is carefully neutral, the expression of a polished politician but I catch his eyes flicking to the wounds on my wrists from the manacles which are slowly dripping blood onto the floor.
Reeling from the Captain’s words, I take a moment to think. My life was at the Academy, everything I owned was in that apartment. I need somewhere to live, somewhere to work and clearly some protection if the rebels are targeting me. I don’t know if I can bear to live in this palace, above the dungeons that is, but my options are extremely limited.
Tucking my bleeding wrists behind me, I ask, “I can resign at any point? You won’t force me to stay in the city.”
His smile is unexpectedly warm, as if he knows what’s running through my mind and I’m struck by how much younger and lighter he looks. He’s the same age as Dervla and I, but a year of ruling has already written fine lines around his eyes. “Yes, you can resign at any time, although I’ll do my best to make sure you don’t want to.”
His eyes twinkle at that last comment. Evidently, he is used to getting his way. As he holds my gaze, the reasons I resisted coming back to Pentargon feel distant.
“I accept.”
Dervla’s shoulders sink, resigned.
“Welcome to my Concord then, Alchemist,” the King announces smugly.
Chapter 5
“You can both leave us now.” The King’s tone switches, the clear command ringing out across the empty Concord chamber to Dervla and the Captain and I startle when I realise, he intends for me to remain.
Dervla’s eyebrow rises at his tone, displeased with his blunt dismissal. Their gazes lock together in a battle of wills before she concedes defeat and sweeps out of the room, silently followed by the Captain.
“I want to know why you think the rebels are targeting you, Sage? Why have you caught their interest?”
“I have no idea.” The lie feels heavy on my tongue but he doesn’t call me out on it.
“What does Dervla need you for that caused her to save you from a burning city, even when her magic was so depleted?”
I stay mute and our gazes battle it out. Amber sparks in his eyes flash and I feel the air grow hot with magic. My body shudders under his command. His kindness has limits: he will not stop until he has an answer. I glance at the reflection pool, buying time while it churns impatiently.
“You’d have to ask Dervla.”
“I plan to. Now, I have one more thing to ask of you.” The King’s voice is softer now, coaxing.
Instinctively my arms cross and I take a step towards the door.
“I would very much like to see your magic, if you’d be willing to show me?”
Whatever I thought I was going to be asked, it wasn’t this. Breaking the Difan law, in front of the King, is tantamount to a death sentence. My magic is forbidden for a reason.
“You won’t be punished for it,” the King whispers, and patches of red appear high on his cheekbones. We both know his family is the reason my magic is unsanctioned. The Mordros claimed Trevesiga as their own years ago, wiping away any resistance with their vast oceans of water magic. The Aubades that remain are disparate, scattered across Trevesiga and not permitted to practise our magic. The Mordros claim our paltry magic is dangerous, uncontrollable and chaotic, the antithesis of their superior abilities, whereas, wind-channelling Zephyrs were banned because they posed a threat. The majority of us live with our magic hidden, constantly battling the temptation to let it break free.
My mind recoils against the King’s request, even as my magic rises to the surface, begging and pleading for a chance to be released. Demonstrating my magic feels personal, intrusive, after a lifetime of cloaking it. Until our escape, I’d never used it in front of anyone.
I take a steadying breath – the turmoil of the last few days has me on edge, my control brittle. Magic may escape whether I choose it to or not.
Misinterpreting my struggle, the King approaches me as if I were a wounded animal, hands raised in placation. He thinks I’m worried about the ramifications of letting my magic free. The irony of punishment after the torture I’ve endured extracts a half-crazed laugh from my throat. I’m not worried; I’m angry. I don’t want to share something so personal with someone I should hate – the cause of mine and my people’s suffering, long before I was subjected to a torture chamber. I lost my family to the Mordros’ negligence long ago but the prospect of sharing my magic with him is what breaks me.
My hands clench and burn hot, magic ripping through me, my anger turning to ecstasy when I let go. Magic sings and hums through my body and bright, white sunlight erupts, unrestrainedfrom my fingertips. This isn’t the meagre ball of light I produced in the tunnels under Athnavar, or the beam of magic I used in my research that caused the explosion. This is a release unlike any I’ve felt before. I’ve never loosened control and relished in it. But it ends. All too soon. The light sputters out.
My hands tingle, fried from the release of energy and I clasp them to my chest and feel myself slumping towards the floor.
The King darts forward, catching me, cradling the back of my head to his chest.
