Page 24 of Burn Her They Said
Purple smoke unfurls around him in Malin’s way of letting me know he sees what’s happening, though I need to warn him off. I will not allow him to take action in saving me, as it could trigger the Emperor’s contingency of punishing innocent children for my insolence.
The deep gray of the Emperor’s force magic forms a smoke-like curl around my throat as it solidifies, tightening with more strength than any fist as it conforms to the walls of my throat, chastising me in a way every telekinetic sorcerer in the area can sense.
My throat bobs as I swallow, desperate to relieve the pressure as it drops lower, filling my chest until my heart slams hard against my ribs. A new sort of heat rises from between my breasts, while a different sort of panic spirals down and through my stomach, knuckles smarting as I press them into my legs, needing something to keep me from shaking in view of the dining hall full of guests.
Varic’s chair screeches over the marble as he stands and glares at the Emperor, while bringing the room’s attention to himself and away from how our ruler is punishing me.
Stars invade my vision, closing in as I gasp for air. Then something shifts and confusion swirls around the kernel of hope igniting with the sight of amber—the color of Varic’s magical signature—faintly glowing as it casts across the table. A thrumming heat, like Varic’s skin with his pulse pounding underneath, sluices up from my collarbone to slip between the Emperor’s magic and my skin, feeling smooth—like a rivulet of water casting upward.
But it must be my imagination, because no magic I know of can meld to one’s skin like this. Force-shields merely form a giant orb or a thin sheet. And he isn’t blasting or obliterating.
Yet its warmth continues to pulse with the beat of a worried heart, feeling familiar and safe. The same way I felt when the sorcerer I was sent to rehabilitate all those years prior held me in his arms. As if Varic continued to hone his magic long after my lessons on helping him focus. As if he can control his ability in a way no other sorcerer before him has been known to be capable of.
I stare at the Emperor, seeking any sign he’s noticed my breathing change before I exhale as covertly as possible. A cooling sensation spreads up my back as Cirrin’s healing magic repairs any damage, while Varic’s magic radiates a subtle heat where it covers me, imbuing my body with a sense of calm, which I gather and send into the Emperor.
Tendrils penetrate the hardened exterior of his rage before I pause, not wanting to alert him. My head feels so heavy. I drop back in the chair when the pressure in my throat relents even more, despite the Emperor’s magic still being wound around it.
I hazard a glance at Varic, who continues to stare down our captor as the relief from the pain proves this is no hallucination. Then I peer around the room, judging the expressions on every telekinetic sorcerer’s face, ensuring what Varic claims is true—that they are able to detect his blasting but never his shields.
Emperor Aldritch stirs beside me, growing bored with his punishment, while I pretend to be in pain, secretly marveling at Varic for creating the most sophisticated force-shield—undetectable by the sorcerers sensitive enough to recognize all forms of magic.
Relief floods me the moment His Majesty retracts his magic with a sneer, tapping the table to summon an Imperial server to refill his wine goblet.
The air feels especially chilled as the warmth of Varic’s magic lowers to tenderly caress my skin as it leaves me.
His chair scrapes across the floor once more, and my eyes fill with tears as I stare after his retreating form.
Dimitri Royce no longer occupies his seat beside me, and I don’t dare ask anyone around us when he left, as he does not seem like the kind of sorcerer to sit idly by when another is being actively harmed, and I do not care to think of what might have occurred had he intervened instead.
I resume eating, tasting nothing, with my gaze flitting over to the doorway where Varic left. Mourning his absence, despite the impact of his presence.
Chapter Ten
Dungeons
“Stay,” Emperor Aldritch commands, and I barely bend into a bow since he pays me no attention. Instead, he turns to Wyrth, as he gestures for the Philosopher and their collective Guards to follow wherever he leads them through the dungeons. He leaves me and my Guards to stand against the wall again in the former-prison-turned-ballroom, with his tiny spy spinning over his shoulder to stare at me until they’re fully absorbed within the black uniforms crowded around us.
“What do you suspect they’re colluding on this time?” Fray asks, eyes narrowed.
“Something they apparently do not want any of us to be aware of,” Malin says.
“Meaning it can’t be anything good,” Cirrin says.
“Godsdamned snatchers,” Lars says.
“Lars,” Hendry warns, shifting his gaze to glare back at him.
Fear roils in my stomach with the urge to follow closely behind and modify His Majesty’s mood, as necessary. With the incessant pressure of responsibility, I need to prevent the tyrant from acting as one, no matter how much I must conserve my magic. The absence of knowledge of his well-being and the impact on the rest of us is sickening. I would prefer to overuse what is left of me to protect our citizens from whatever consequence these sorcerers’ mysterious scheming may bring upon us.
Cirrin reads my need, and I roll my shoulders under the cool touch of his healing, easing the pressure in my skull while soothing the muscles fatigued from the Emperor’s assault. Yet the sense of relief only lasts so long, as grief takes its place and his magic fades, having given me all he is able to without endangering his health. Despair descends, matching all the fervency the grief brought with it, as even the most powerful healer is incapable of removing the level of fatigue and lethargy crowding inside me.
I scan the room, desperate to catch sight of Varic before his presence takes me by surprise. My veins prickle with anticipation of the moment he will slink from the shadows to siphon any semblance of peace I might experience, simply by existing in close proximity.
“Perhaps he left after dinner,” Hendry says, refusing to look in my direction as I pivot. Shrugging his shoulders, he adds, “He has done so before, explaining that he needed to supervise his unit, escaping the Palace with the Emperor’s approval.”
The level of envy infused in the last sentence draws tears to my lashes as I try unsuccessfully to draw on my mental wards.
I cannot possibly make it through the night without being able to block the emotions of others. Panic scrabbles for purchase, as the need for more healing is apparent; a need I refuse to voice, since Varic’s presence will disarm me regardless. A momentary reprieve not worth the cost to my healer when all it takes is one look—one momentary glance—from Varic to topple any ward I manage to form.
