"Hus - Husband?" Daine croaked, desperation flooding her features.
Numair bowed politely. "I had heard that the WildMage had extraordinary talents. I had not heard that her beauty was also extraordinary," he said, gallantly, causing his wife's expression to sour as though she had just tasted lemon. "Jonathon of Conté, you say? Perchance a relation of the present King of Tortall by the same name?" he asked, turning to Jon.
Jon was scowling at Numair for his flirtatious manner. "Yes, I was." He left it at that, daring Numair to continue the conversation. Eyebrows soared, but the mage didn't take the challenge. Instead, his attention flew back to Daine. His eyes crinkled, as if he was reaching for knowledge but didn't know how to obtain it.
Daine threw her hair defiantly out of her face and back over her shoulders, fixing Numair with an intent, penetrating look. "You didn't merely hear that I had extraordinary powers, Numair. You sought them yourself."
Numair's eyes questioned hers, puzzled and not understanding. Jon gripped Daine's hand; she nearly fell into his embrace. She looked as if all her hopes were drowning slowly.
Varice's face sparked with anger. "Arram," she commanded, shattering his almost entranced state. "Supper's nearly ready. Get our guests something to drink."
Numair tore his gaze away from Daine's and obeyed. "Yes. Yes, quite right, dear. Quite right. Drink."
Jon pulled Daine closer to him, not possessively, just urgently. "Follow him," he whispered into her ear. Even though he had given her the idea, the grateful look she gave him as she left to follow her old lover tore at the former King's heart. He knew that Numair would always be a part of Daine, no matter how much anyone else loved her. It was just hard to take.
*
Arram pulled the wine out of the cupboard and closed the door to it. When he stood, Veralidaine Sarrasri's beautiful, accusing face met his.
"You remember me," she said softly.
It was such a curious thing to say, such an out of the blue comment. But it was true. He felt like every fibre of his body knew every inch of hers, that some, if not most of, his thirty-one years had been spent with her. He knew this, but couldn't explain why. He couldn't remember a single one of their meetings. So, naturally, he replied, "No, I don't."
Immediately, he wished that he had replied differently, found words to express the twist of emotions with in him. But it was done. Her face creased up, in confusion, or concentration. "I couldn't believe he'd left. I told him not to go. It felt wrong. Them Stormwings could of waited until Alanna returned, at least. Course, they were killin' people. But he didn't have to go by himself. Too soft for his own good, Numair was. See, he wouldn't let me come with him. 'Look after Kit,' he said. 'She needs you more than I do.' Only, she doesn't. Lindhall looks after her just fine. And, besides, he needed me. He did. He just wouldn't admit it. And then he vanished."
He placed the bottle on the floor and an arm around the sobbing woman. Her speech was lightly tainted with a Gallan accent, more obvious now she was upset than it had been upstairs. She was obviously a commoner, apart from her grammar, her name told him so. She pushed her hair behind her ears and looked up to him. "You miss him," he said, congratulating himself for stating the downright obvious.
"No," she said desperately, "not him, you! I miss you! Why did you go?"
She was obviously extremely mixed-up. Arram eased his arm from around her shoulders, ignoring the rush his stomach had taken when their skin had brushed, and collected his bottle. "We should get back to them," he decided, reasoning that her companion would know how to deal with her better than he did.
Her face worked a bit, as if she was wrestling with herself. Too suddenly to predict, her eyes flew up and caught his. Her gaze smouldered with fire. "Onua Chamtong? Thayet of Conté, George of Pirate's Swoop?" She carried on, shooting names at him. "Lindhall Reed? Buriam Tomahauk?" He stood there helplessly, unaware of her purpose.
"Fine names, m'lady."
She scowled, frustration clear on her face. "Raoul of Goldenlake. Knight Commander of the King's Own. Alanna of Olau. Lioness, King's Champion. Ozorne Muhassin Tasikhe, Emperor Mage. Arram Draper. Street performer." She stamped on the floor, in a petulant outburst, defeat getting the better of her. "I give UP!"
Arram didn't hear her. He was focusing on the picture in his mind.
Numair bowed politely. "I had heard that the WildMage had extraordinary talents. I had not heard that her beauty was also extraordinary," he said, gallantly, causing his wife's expression to sour as though she had just tasted lemon. "Jonathon of Conté, you say? Perchance a relation of the present King of Tortall by the same name?" he asked, turning to Jon.
Jon was scowling at Numair for his flirtatious manner. "Yes, I was." He left it at that, daring Numair to continue the conversation. Eyebrows soared, but the mage didn't take the challenge. Instead, his attention flew back to Daine. His eyes crinkled, as if he was reaching for knowledge but didn't know how to obtain it.
Daine threw her hair defiantly out of her face and back over her shoulders, fixing Numair with an intent, penetrating look. "You didn't merely hear that I had extraordinary powers, Numair. You sought them yourself."
Numair's eyes questioned hers, puzzled and not understanding. Jon gripped Daine's hand; she nearly fell into his embrace. She looked as if all her hopes were drowning slowly.
Varice's face sparked with anger. "Arram," she commanded, shattering his almost entranced state. "Supper's nearly ready. Get our guests something to drink."
Numair tore his gaze away from Daine's and obeyed. "Yes. Yes, quite right, dear. Quite right. Drink."
Jon pulled Daine closer to him, not possessively, just urgently. "Follow him," he whispered into her ear. Even though he had given her the idea, the grateful look she gave him as she left to follow her old lover tore at the former King's heart. He knew that Numair would always be a part of Daine, no matter how much anyone else loved her. It was just hard to take.
*
Arram pulled the wine out of the cupboard and closed the door to it. When he stood, Veralidaine Sarrasri's beautiful, accusing face met his.
"You remember me," she said softly.
It was such a curious thing to say, such an out of the blue comment. But it was true. He felt like every fibre of his body knew every inch of hers, that some, if not most of, his thirty-one years had been spent with her. He knew this, but couldn't explain why. He couldn't remember a single one of their meetings. So, naturally, he replied, "No, I don't."
Immediately, he wished that he had replied differently, found words to express the twist of emotions with in him. But it was done. Her face creased up, in confusion, or concentration. "I couldn't believe he'd left. I told him not to go. It felt wrong. Them Stormwings could of waited until Alanna returned, at least. Course, they were killin' people. But he didn't have to go by himself. Too soft for his own good, Numair was. See, he wouldn't let me come with him. 'Look after Kit,' he said. 'She needs you more than I do.' Only, she doesn't. Lindhall looks after her just fine. And, besides, he needed me. He did. He just wouldn't admit it. And then he vanished."
He placed the bottle on the floor and an arm around the sobbing woman. Her speech was lightly tainted with a Gallan accent, more obvious now she was upset than it had been upstairs. She was obviously a commoner, apart from her grammar, her name told him so. She pushed her hair behind her ears and looked up to him. "You miss him," he said, congratulating himself for stating the downright obvious.
"No," she said desperately, "not him, you! I miss you! Why did you go?"
She was obviously extremely mixed-up. Arram eased his arm from around her shoulders, ignoring the rush his stomach had taken when their skin had brushed, and collected his bottle. "We should get back to them," he decided, reasoning that her companion would know how to deal with her better than he did.
Her face worked a bit, as if she was wrestling with herself. Too suddenly to predict, her eyes flew up and caught his. Her gaze smouldered with fire. "Onua Chamtong? Thayet of Conté, George of Pirate's Swoop?" She carried on, shooting names at him. "Lindhall Reed? Buriam Tomahauk?" He stood there helplessly, unaware of her purpose.
"Fine names, m'lady."
She scowled, frustration clear on her face. "Raoul of Goldenlake. Knight Commander of the King's Own. Alanna of Olau. Lioness, King's Champion. Ozorne Muhassin Tasikhe, Emperor Mage. Arram Draper. Street performer." She stamped on the floor, in a petulant outburst, defeat getting the better of her. "I give UP!"
Arram didn't hear her. He was focusing on the picture in his mind.