A gust of cold air greeted Lorlen as he opened the door to his office. The draft picked up a number of messages that had been slipped under the door for him and blew them out into the corridor. Seeing the number of them, he sighed and swept them inside again with a little magic.
Closing the door, he stomped across the room to his desk.
"You're not in the best mood today."
Jumping at the voice, Lorlen cast around for the owner. Akkarin was sitting in one of the chairs, his dark eyes reflecting the light diffused by the window screens.
How did he get in here? Lorlen stared at Akkarin, tempted to demand an explanation. But the temptation faded as the High Lord returned his stare, his steady, dark gaze unwavering. Looking away, Lorlen sent the messages fluttering across the room and into his hand.
"Just overworked. Jerrik is on my case again about assistants to help run and record the exams. The head chef wants me to hire four junior cooks for the Midwinter Meet. Sarrin needs a list of Alchemic supplies as long as my arm for the illusions at the Meet – "
"All perfectly within your ability," the High Lord interrupted, raising one eyebrow. "What's the real problem?"
Lorlen scowled and tried to hide his face by reshuffling the papers on his desk. "Don't you know through this ring of yours?"
Akkarin's mouth twitched. "It doesn't quite work like that, my friend. It relays the conscious thoughts and mood of the wearer, but it can't sift through a wearer's own state of confusion."
Lorlen sat behind his desk, trying not to squeeze his hands into fists. "Well, is it any surprise if I'm confused, friend," he said, emphasising the last word with venom.
The hint of a smile playing around the High Lord's lips vanished, and his face slipped back into its cool, aloof mask.
"I'll get straight to the point, then," he said icily, the touch of fondness that had lingered in his tone earlier chased away by Lorlen's response. He crossed one black-robed leg over the other elegantly and rested his elbows on the armrests of the guest chair. "Has Captain Barran discussed security on the night of the Midwinter Meet with you yet?"
Lorlen frowned at the unexpected topic. "What, for the Guild? Why would he? We are responsible for our own security, him for the city's."
"I meant the city, yes," Akkarin replied smoothly, giving nothing away. "On any given night, there are magicians visiting or staying with family in the Inner Circle. But almost all magicians and novices will be in the Guild grounds that night, and more than likely inebriated. Captain Barran should assume no magician may be able to help quickly should an incident in the city occur."
Akkarin tapped his fingers on the armrest thoughtfully. "Some might even say it would be the perfect window of opportunity for anyone with ill intent."
"An opportunity for what?" Lorlen felt suspicion rise in him and he narrowed his eyes at the High Lord. Does he intend to do something? But why would Akkarin be bringing this to my attention, if he himself has something evil planned while we are all at the Meet? Then he had a thought. "Is this about the murders that have been happening around the city?"
Akkarin's black eyes held his steadily. "The city guard should not be complacent, that's all. We cannot expect them to know our social calendar, so I'm sure Barran would appreciate a note that allows him to prepare accordingly. Perhaps more men on duty, and the like."
Lorlen looked at him warily, certain he knew more than he was letting on. "If you suspect a security threat, I would rather cancel the Midwinter Meet altogether."
Akkarin waved a hand dismissively. "I suspect nothing. Can the leader of our Guild not bring forth a minor reminder to his Administrator?" His lips curled up at one corner into a half-smile. "Besides, if we cancelled, we would never hear the end of it from the mamas of the Houses. Some secretly call it the Matrimonial Meet, I hear. If you want to be the Administrator who snatched away their chance to make good matches for their children, be my guest."
The Administrator couldn't help but shudder at the thought of how many indignant letters he would need to face in that eventuality. "I'll mention it to Barran, though I'm sure he knows what he is doing. Like any other night shift, his more experienced men will be on duty."
The High Lord inclined his head thoughtfully. "Like any other night shift," he echoed quietly, ominously. Lorlen could not shake the feeling Akkarin knew something he didn't.
But then again, what else is new? He thought to himself irritably as he watched his former best friend rise from his guest chair and glide out of his office in a billow of black silk.
—-
"And the body?"
"To be disposed of by our associate, as usual," the High Lord murmured, accepting the clean, damp cloth his servant held out for him.
Takan's eyes were concerned, but also guilt-stricken. "Forgive me, master. I should have offered you my power this morning…"
"You couldn't have known. Neither could I. Taking it last night was enough for what needed to be accomplished tonight," Akkarin said, making stern eye contact with the wide, amber gaze of the Sachakan man. "We're both burdened with enough guilt as it is, Takan."
His servant nodded and busied himself with emptying the murky, bloody water in the small basin. Akkarin sat down on the edge of his bed with a sigh of exhaustion, inspecting his hands to check that he had washed off any trace of blood.
It hadn't been a prolonged confrontation tonight. Soon after he had left Lorlen's office, his associate in the city, the Thief by the name of Ceryni, had contacted Takan to alert them to the location of the latest Sachakan assassin's whereabouts. This one had newly arrived, and hadn't had time to go on a killing spree in the slums.
But when Akkarin arrived in the bolhouse room to confront the assassin, like an angel of death himself in a heavy black cloak, he was dismayed to find two, not one man. This one was obviously a slave prized for his skill and intelligence – enough to have a lesser slave serve him on the mission to Imardin. Akkarin had met the like back in Sachaka. They often became overseers of a sort, brutalising their fellow slaves on the orders of their Ichani master. All for the meagre benefits of being higher in the pecking order.
Like being sent off to Kyralia as fodder for the High Lord. And he had been, in the end.
His slave had cowered, and killing him was the harder part. As Akkarin had immobilised then cut and drained to death the scrawny, desperate thing that had a few cooking utensils in one corner – he was no doubt responsible for his leader's survival and comfort – the assassin himself had not yet returned to his rented room.
When he entered, death awaited him, too, in the form of a dark shadow. But a minute of struggle had resulted in a more gruesome end than Akkarin would have preferred: his strikes had smashed some furniture and the slave had picked up a jagged piece of wood and come at his face with it. He had shielded his face and torso as he sent a forcestrike to the slave's head and prized the wood out of his strong grip while he swayed, half-stunned. A quick slash across the throat had ended it, but cutting the jugular had released a spray of blood onto Akkarin's hands.
His bedroom swayed in his vision for a moment as his now clean hands, held in front of his eyes, seemed suddenly to be covered in blood. He blinked and the vision fled.
The High Lord scoffed quietly. He did not need to read too deep into the hallucination to know he had the blood of tens of people on his hands, and his conscience knew it.
He scowled and stood up, leaving the top half of his black robes crumpled on the floor at the foot of his bed. There were small flakes of blood on it, so it couldn't be reworn before Takan had dealt with it.
In the silk black trousers of his robes and a black vest, he walked down the corridor and towards the staircase to the ground floor, making for the decanter of strong spirit in his study. Sonea's room was dark and empty as he passed it, as expected.
It was only an hour or two past dinnertime in the University dining hall. She had taken to studying late into the night at the Novice's Library. She practiced for her exams there, Akkarin knew, because she interrupted his thoughts with the little bursts of magic that accompanied her revision. She repeated magical tasks she would be marked on.
There it is. A distracting flare of power, like a little light in the near distance, assaulted the High Lord's fine senses.
A smile played about his lips as he recalled those months of hunting for Sonea, during which her attempts at magic would interrupt his sleep. They had had an erratic, fearful, uncontrolled quality to them back then. Now, what he sensed was much more refined and controlled. It had now developed its own signature "tone". At least, that is what Akkarin called it in his head. He had never met anyone with his ability to sense the use of magic at a distance, and at the same time know who wielded it by the uniqueness of their power.
The "tone" of Sonea's power was… Akkarin paused with his hand on the bottle of spirit on his desk, considering. Something… water-like, yet strangely grounded, too. What was sensed through magic could rarely be put into words.
But as another burst glowed in his mind, now from somewhere between the library and the residence, Akkarin captured it. If he had to describe it, it was clean yet dense, with a rolling, building undertone. The sea.
He poured himself some of the amber spirit and leaned against his desk with his pale arms crossed over his chest, his lean muscles screaming their soreness at him. He had needed to remain motionless and hidden for an hour before he could ambush the Sachakans, and he had not dared used magic to heal away the discomfort.
Another burst of Sonea's magic seared his senses like a wave breaking against a pier.
The High Lord's brows lowered and he felt like a predator whose prey was playing with him. He knew she was oblivious to the effect her surges of power had on his fine-tuned senses. But he felt like she was mocking him. Mocking his darkness, his isolation and his self-loathing – carefully concealed as contempt for others – with her clean, calm, expansive sea-bursts of power.
Perhaps it was the memory of her recent disobedience, or the toll this night of murder had taken on him. But the High Lord suddenly wished to grasp Sonea's power and taste some of it, until its qualities blended into his own colder, more sophisticated tone of magic, changing, strengthening and elevating it.
Akkarin tilted his head back and drank the first glass quickly, enjoying the pleasantly warm fire now comforting his insides. He poured his second one just as he heard the front door swing open. The High Lord remained relaxed, leaning against his desk. He didn't need to walk into the entrance hall to sense who had arrived. Relief filled him at the fact that, as harrowing as tonight had been, at least the Eye had taken some pity on him and timed everything well. It would not do to have her see him weakened and bloodied.
Though he had not revealed this to Sonea – as satisfying as frightening a little of that pride out of her would have been – he knew she had been snooping around the residence the night Lorlen last came around. Her sight shield was well done. Quite advanced for a third year, really. If she hadn't chosen to wear scent that morning, she'd have been invisible to everyone.
Almost everyone, Akkarin thought, the corner of his mouth curling up as he poured himself a second glass of the amber spirit. His magical senses had known she was there: he hadn't even needed that maddening aroma of gan-gan to confirm it. But he didn't want his less conventional powers becoming common knowledge.
The High Lord stilled when he realised that he hadn't yet heard Sonea's light, quick footsteps to confirm she had gone up to her bedroom. He chuckled quietly as he sensed she was standing outside the door of his study. Her surface thoughts were grappling with whether or not she should knock on it.
Akkarin composed his face into its customary mask of aloof neutrality and saved her the decision by swinging open his study door with magic. Sonea stood on the threshold with one fist raised up; no doubt she had been on the verge of knocking. Her black eyes widened with surprise and her left arm clutched her the handle of her bag of books.
"Good evening, Sonea," the High Lord said, still leaning on his desk. He had one bare arm across his chest and rested the elbow of his other arm on it, his glass poised in mid air. "Did today's examinations go well?"
Her black hair was tied up in that practical bun as usual, exposing her slim, pale neck. He could see her throat move as she swallowed nervously. Her brown robes looked a little rumpled from hours seated in the library.
But it was her facial expression that was most interesting. Was that a faint rush of colour in her pale cheeks? Her glassy black eyes were almost unblinking, and still wide with surprise.
Akkarin raised an eyebrow imposingly.
"They went w-well, High Lord. I mean. Good evening to you, too."
The High Lord raised his drink to his lips to hide the half-smile that played about his lips. Witnessing black magic had shaken her less than a vest, Akkarin thought, thoroughly enjoying her discomfort.
"Good. I expect no less from your final exam tomorrow, even if it is a Warrior Skills practical," he said and meant it, looking her sternly in the eye.
Still faintly pink, Sonea swallowed and looked down at the carpet as though fascinated by it. "Yes, High Lord." She didn't move, and silence ensured.
"There's no need to look terrified," Akkarin finally said, coolly.
Her gaze snapped up to his. "I'm not – " she began indignantly, then checked herself. "I can come later, High Lord…" she murmured, her gaze dropping quickly to his arms then back at the floor.
Akkarin sighed and pushed himself away from the desk, setting down his glass on it then walking around to sit in his desk chair behind it. He draped one leg over the other and placed his elbows on the armrests, then brought the tips of his fingers together, looking at his novice over the triangle they formed.
"I am having a late supper with the Administrator imminently, so if there is nothing else…" he said. But his mind, amused, noted exactly why she seemed to be caught off-guard.
Sonea's cheeks and the bridge of her nose were still slightly flushed. "I would like permission to attend the Midwinter Meet," she blurted.
Akkarin was, he had to admit, pleasantly surprised. He had assumed he would need to command her to go, to keep up appearances. That she wished to go of her own volition relieved Akkarin of another burdensome task.
But it also darkened his mood soon thereafter. Was her decision related to Rothen's boy? Magicians posted away from Imardin often got leave to return in time for the Midwinter Meet and the subsequent winter holiday period.
"Granted," the High Lord replied, probing his novice's surface thoughts to see if his suspicions were true.
Don't think about it… Don't think about it Don'tthinkaboutit…
Akkarin caught himself before he winced, and withdrew his senses from Sonea's mind. What turmoil! Whatever she was so adamant not to think about, it was clearly causing her some anxiety. Perhaps she did intend to see Dorrien at the Meet, and feared he would find out. Either way, that kind of hyper-vigilant mental state was difficult for him to penetrate without discomfort.
He glanced at her rumpled novice's robes. "The Guild's treasury has a sum set aside for the High Lord's discretionary spending. Books, entertainment, and the like," Akkarin drawled, careful to sound quite unruffled by his unsuccessful foray into Sonea's mind.
"I will borrow a dress…." Sonea protested, her lips thinning into a stubborn line. Akkarin had expected nothing less – working with the Thieves had given him an understanding of the dwell attitude. Accepting charity was an absolute last resort in their books, and even then accepted with much reluctance.
He opened a drawer and pulled out a small, leather pouch. He placed it at the end of his desk and gestured for Sonea to take it. She looked at it as if it were a faren.
Akkarin scoffed impatiently. "Most novices tend to wear their family colours. It would only invite unnecessary commentary if you appeared to be staking a claim to a House."
Sonea's eyes narrowed in indignation. "I belong to no House. Nor do I wish to."
Ah, there's that pride there, Akkarin thought, the corner of his mouth curling up slightly.
"Then take it and get something made for yourself. I would recommend black, to avoid speculation. No one can say it isn't proper for the High Lord's novice to wear the colour of the High Lord's office," Akkarin said.
Sonea's eyes went from indignant to resigned as she went over his argument in her head and clearly reached the same conclusion. She stepped towards the desk, stopping as far away as possible while still being able to reach out and take the pouch with tiny, pale hands.
Her eyes widened as she felt its weight. "This is too much, High Lord," she said.
"I assumed you had no adornments and added funds enough for it," Akkarin said, reaching for his drink and savouring a sip. When Sonea looked like she was about to protest, he locked his dark gaze on hers and pre-empted her complaint. He knew he could wield her pride against her.
"It matters not to me whether or not you attend. The question is, do you wish to give the others reason to doubt you now belong here?" He asked, his black eyes flashing with fire. "And indeed, that you earned it by your own labours, which is more than can be said for some of them?" He added quietly.
Sonea stilled then, and was able to look the High Lord right in the eye for the first time all evening. His compliment – for it undoubtedly was, she now knew, as close to a compliment as Akkarin got – settled her earlier shock at seeing her captor in a state of undress.
"I shall attend, High Lord. Thank you for the allowance – I will return the remainder," she murmured.
Akkarin waved a hand dismissively towards the shelves opposite his desk. "Use what remains for books, if you wish."
Sonea's black eyes glittered eagerly at that prospect, and she bowed her way out of the study.
Akkarin sat still, swirling the amber-coloured, fiery drink in his hand. Little by little but surely, the High Lord was beginning to understand what he must do to ensure Sonea's loyalty and obedience. Threat and fear only stiffened her resolve, like a blade strengthened under the hammer. No, she would have to come to him.
The High Lord tilted back the contents in his second glass and got up, dousing the fire in his study with magic. He stood still for a moment in the darkness, his eyes slowly adjusting. The weak Winter moonlight spilling in from the windows were enough to see by.
Her pride and independence had her bearing it all quietly: from Regin's torments, to the insults about her origins, to the solitude that came with greater power. She would surrender to him, because only he would be able to offer her respite from these burdens. The secrets she needed to keep and the self-restraint she lived by could only be relaxed around him. The secrets she kept were his, and the solitude she suffered was meant to protect others from him, after all. Sonea hadn't realised this yet, but she would. He would lead her to it, like a headstrong but thirsty horse to water.
Akkarin smiled to himself as he glided upstairs to get dressed for a late supper with Lorlen. If her reaction tonight was any indication, this may be easier than I anticipated, the High Lord contemplated. He would begin at the Midwinter Meet.