Page 117 of Burn Her They Said
“I don’t recall Havenfield, Your Majesty.”
“Of course you don’t. You were only seven.”
“May I have more clues to what I did to make proper amends?”
“When we arrived in Havenfield, you stepped away from me and your sworn duty, to help a young witch without my permission.”
The Emperor’s eyes glaze over while I try to remember ever having left his side, especially not with my old Guards watching over me. With little-to-no ability to take unsanctioned actions, I have existed under the watchful eyes of his spies ever since he first stole me away from my magical school.
“I’m sorry, I don’t?—”
“You failed to report rebels among our servants.”
My brow furrows, and I scramble to understand his meaning. “The laundresses who were gossiping?” I ask, and his expression settles, clearly affected by the amount of wine he has imbibed, moving between such drastically different events without having resolved the questions of the former. “The first you required me to execute?”
Varic’s mood shifts to one of enraged fury—only slightly more alarming than the rage he felt a moment before—with the reminder of what I was made to do half our lifetime ago.
“Yes.”
“I am sincerely sorry I did not come to you first,” I lie.
“You told your Guard without ever reporting what you overheard to me.”
Drusilla sighs, having been the one to divulge the information to His Majesty in my failure to do so. My naivety in thinking I could merely mention something I knew to be forbidden without dire consequences.
“I am sorry I did not report it to you immediately,” I try, hoping it works.
He leans in, gray eyes piercing. “I do not believe you are being sincere, my little witch.”
I swallow hard, trying my best to hide my body’s reaction to the stench of his sulphur and wine breath filling my lungs.
“You are a disappointment. Just like your brother.”
My heart plummets and rage courses through my veins, with the urge to reach up and grab hold of the fucking snatcher who dares speak of my brother this way, when Varic suddenly rushes forward so fast he kicks the lip of the black marble tub, pulling me back to my senses.
“My brother was dead before he took his first breath,” I snarl.
“No,” His Majesty intones, and my breath ceases when he shakes his head and lunges for me. I wince with the blast of pain shooting up my spine once it smacks against the tub wall and gasp for breath as his fingers dig into my throat.
Fear encroaches, until Malin’s purple magic swirls around his wrist to let me know he sees me, and he’s here, until he makes a sprig of it solid and taps Varic’s ankle with a specific pattern.
The Emperor’s fist scrabbles for purchase around the water sluicing up the force-shield protecting my throat, giving up and settling for bracing my chin instead. He tilts my head back when warmth of a different sort imbues my chest—made up of adoration, or something similar—oddly mixed with fear and loss, tinged deeper red within a pinkish amber.
Whatever it is, it must come from Varic. Which means he’s influencing me.
But no. He’s not imbuing me. This is different. He’s sharing his own feelings. Distracting me from my own terror.
Then a soothing, cooling sensation flows into my body—tinged with Varic’s yellow amber—and my cheeks heat with concern. Because Varic cannot keep doing this. He cannot get away with sending me his healing forever, and no matter what he says, my comfort is not worth the risk.
“He’s doing it again, Your Majesty,” Danor says. “Imperial Lead Guard Varic is?—”
“Enough!” The Emperor yells.
“Your Majesty,” Varic says, bending next to the Emperor’s crouched frame.
The Emperor ignores him and brings my face so close to his he barely has to lean over to press the chilled tip of his nose to my cheek. His gray eyes darken and narrow, and my chest practically caves in from the fear of what he’s about to do next when sky blue magic filters in.
My Guards communicated without notice, because Varic has parted the shield for Cirrin’s magic to permeate.
