Page 37 of The Coven of Ruin
TheycongregatedinZyana’sroom after she had caught up to them inside the halls.
“The officiants didn’t think to take the dulling spell off our blades when they noticed the multitude of menacing and masked mages surrounding us,” Zyana ground out. “But whatever they were there to do, it wasn’t to kill us. I think”—she glanced at Demurielle—“they just wanted to scare us.”
Trista nodded absent-mindedly. Standing beside the seated mountain witch, she dabbed a healing salve on her cut cheek. Just as she called on her magic and was going to offer to heal it outright, Zyana slapped her hand away.
“I don’t need your magic to mend. Your life is more important than healing a scratch. Besides, Dem would never forgive me and we would have to find someone to replace you.”
“That would be impossible,” Demurielle murmured without turning to look at them. Her usual brightness was dimmed by the events of the tournament. The sun witch sat in an armchair near the fire with her knees hugged to her chest. But it was her uncharacteristic silence that indicated how shaken up she was.
“I doubt I would experience the loss just to heal a scratch,” Trista finally said through a smile, but Zyana’s pursed lips had her pulling her hand away.
If Trista could, she would help heal Demurielle too. As it were, she was already aware of just how hopeless that endeavor was. The cuts and bruises would heal and fade, but the memories would remain.
Royal advisors and Prince Roan made their way around to reassure the covens. Though they attempted to explain what was being done to bring the culprits to justice, they spent most of the time being harassed by coven leaders for answers. Their common responses were that no one could get into the castle, they had dispatched more guards and increased security both in and outside of the walls, and they also captured two mages that had been so injured they couldn’t use whatever magic they had to disappear. The only reason there wasn’t more panic from the covens was that no one had been killed, though several guards were in critical condition.
It was hours later when they had fallen into a comfortable silence, each lost within their own minds, that Demurielle unfurled herself from the armchair.
“I’m going to bathe and then sleep,” she said softly. Her eyes seemed duller and she rubbed at them sleepily before pulling them both into a hug. Trista and Zyana released identical groans of pain from their respective aches.
“Glad the Triune is safe,” she whispered as she squeezed them tighter.
After they all had said goodnight with plans to meet for breakfast in the morning, Trista entered her own room. But the feeling of being unsettled only intensified. Zyana had said the attackers were dressed the same way as the group who had blocked the road when they were on their way to Spellspire.
“Exactly the same,” Zyana had said, “I’d know those creepy masks anywhere. But what does ‘she wakes’evenmean? Is someone trying to usurp the throne? They better have some answers for us tomorrow.”
Trista wanted to know the same thing and knew the one person who could give her the answers she sought. Resolved, she exited her room. She left the dagger tucked away in her trunk this time, though.
“You need to be in your rooms, by order of the King.” The guard stopped her, stepping out from his post in the shadows, where she hadn’t seen him.
Doing her best to channel Demurielle’s imperial nature, she lifted her head to look the guard in the eyes. “I am a healer and have been called to do my job, sir.”
He studied her, then took a step back, motioning with his hand. “Carry on, healer.”
She dipped her chin and continued at a moderate pace until she was out of sight of him. No one else stopped her.
Knowing how many stairs there were in the western tower did not make climbing them any easier. All the doors were shut in the hallway, allowing her to stop and catch her breath without being witnessed. Taking one last deep and settling inhale, she rapped on the door three times.
Be fearless.
“What do you want, witch?”
How did he know it was her? “It isn’t polite to keep a guest in the hall,” she said between gritted teeth.
The door swung open, revealing Ares. Without a tunic on. Her gaze roamed down the expanse of his chest before she could catch herself. His torso was all etched hardness and flexing muscles. Deep chiseled lines disappeared into his pants.
The blush crept up her neck and filled her cheeks. She could not meet the god’s eyes, so she changed her attention to his injury. The wound was still there and appeared even more grim and unhealed than it had just several nights before. Skin glistening with sweat, the firelight danced off him, making him appear golden.
“Well, I wouldn’t want to be impolite.” A smirk formed on his face as his gaze did a quick survey of her before he moved out of the way to let her enter.
A sudden realization came to mind. “Was I interrupting something?” she asked slowly, gesturing to Ares’ sweaty and topless form as she passed, careful to not brush up against him.
The door closed behind her with a soft thud. “What do you think you were interrupting?” His eyes gleamed with amusement.
Heat burned deeper in her cheeks, and she refused to answer him, instead glancing around his chamber to ensure no one else was there. Taking a deep breath, she turned back to him, forcing herself to meet his golden gaze. “I want answers, and you have them.”
“Is that so?” As he stepped by her, he motioned for her to sit in one of the chairs before the fire. His back held a tableau of jagged and faded scars, more than were even on his front. It gave her the vision of men who were too cowardly to go face to face, stabbing him in the back. His shoulders were broad, the muscles there rippling as he lifted a tunic slung over the armchair.
She dropped her gaze as he faced her again, absently straightening her skirts under his focus. Clearing her throat, she started, “Who were those mages in the masks?”
