Page 21 of Burn Her They Said
Yet my sense of triumph is dashed when a familiar heat begins to spread across my chest, and my eyes frantically cast around the room, needing to see the one whose presence is enough to humble me, as a reminder of just how weak my magic is.
Chapter Nine
Generals
Pressure fills my ears from the voice of every General filling the expanse of the dining hall while I scan the room as inconspicuously as possible, needing to know if Varic has followed us in here after failing to catch sight of him in the War Room. I need to prepare myself to hide our connection as well as I can, especially with how depleted my magic is feeling. I become so lost in seeking him out, my whole body shudders when Fray leans in to whisper over my shoulder.
“What do you think the Emperor and Wyrth are discussing”?
“Shh,” Hendry warns, almost loud enough for others to hear.
“I don’t know,” Malin whispers. “But they’ve been doing this far too often for my liking.”
“Is anything ever to your liking?” Lars asks.
Malin’s magic winds around my front to poke Lars in the side as he yelps.
“Quiet,” Hendry says, rounding on him in the absence of our ruler.
My palms itch with the frustration of being forced to wait for our ruler to finish his conversation, made to stand along the same wall as the other Imperial witches, whose only purpose here is to modify the mood of the sorcerer for which they are responsible. Those select few who earned their title and privilege by the strength of their magic, and nothing of merit.
Despite the heat I felt in the War Room having disappeared since, my eyes cannot stop scanning every guest in search of Varic. Wishing he had accepted the appointment of an Imperial witch, so that I might seek her out, as well. But as none exists, in his refusal to allow any other than me to attend him following his rehabilitation, I have no choice but to seek his form alone.
“They’re getting bolder,” General Astos says, pulling my attention.
“More strategic,” General Sal says, with a quick glance in my direction.
“And the Emperor refuses to acknowledge any of our reports,” General Astos says, lowering his voice. “Even when we bring him compelling evidence of coordinated efforts between the bordering lands.”
General Sal waves to me before speeding around the sorcerers until he arrives by my side with not a graying hair out of place and a playful smirk rising on one side of his face.
“Finally, someone worth speaking to,” he says, playfully.
“Careful, or those you’ve been conversing with will be offended to know you value a witch’s word over their own.”
General Sal’s hazel eyes catch the light as he leans in to whisper, “I have something for you.” He chuckles when my brows rise in question, shoulders quaking as he straightens.
“I cannot hand it over with such a large audience.” He turns to the crowd forming. “However, if you were to meet me on the balcony after dinner, we might have enough privacy.”
I nod as he returns to his conversation partners before the whole room turns to bow as the Emperor’s cough announces his arrival. He covers his mouth with a fist while his healer sends magic into his chest—which is seemingly ineffective, as the severity of each exhalation our ruler takes is brutal. Yet the tyrant plays it off as well as he can, stalking in with his trusty spy sitting on his shoulder, flanked by his Guards, cape rippling behind him.
He tosses the silky black fabric back and sits upon the dining throne, gesturing for the rest of us to follow his lead and take our own seats. Raki skitters across his shoulders, settling at the edge closest to me, swaying its tail as it stares in my direction.
“Your Majesty, allow me to advise you to drink more water than wine this evening,” Wyrth leans closer to speak in a low tone. “Per my research, it will aid in our efforts for longevity.”
The Emperor waves him off, coughing into his hand before reaching for the full goblet.
I send my magic to tether his mood while Hendry pulls my chair out for me, keeping a constant read on him while we share a room. General Sal is seated too far away for us to speak, so I focus on the meal before me, decreasing the likelihood I’ll catch the eyes of a certain sorcerer whenever he deigns to join us.
Scraping sounds arise beside me, and I turn to find Dimitri Royce taking the seat, striking a thrill through me, as it is so unlike the Emperor to allow a diplomat to sit next to his pet.
“Glory to the Dragons, to whom we owe everything,” the room chants as one before any of us dare eat a morsel in the company of others.
“Would you please pass the butter?” Dimitri asks with a deep, accented voice—pronouncing the ‘w’ as a ‘v’—with a bemused expression which appears out of place within his otherwise severe countenance as he awaits my response.
Forbidden from touching anything aside from my own utensils and drinking vessels, I reflect on his sentiment, as no one from Ampara Deicra would dare ask me to pass them anything—especially not something as basic as a butter dish.
Yet this outsider does not seem to know nor care about following our decorum.
