She nearly jumped out of her skin at the sudden knock on her bedroom door, even though it was a soft and quiet one that told her it was Takan.
"Come in," Sonea said after taking a moment to compose herself. She had been reading – well, trying to read – by the light of a globelight at her desk.
The day had disappointed Dorrien, she knew. After the tense encounter in the University dining hall, they had bid farewell to Rothen and made their way into the centre of Imardin, as planned. The market was already full of people of all ages, some briskly doing their shopping, others like Sonea and Dorrien clearly here for a pleasant afternoon of idle browsing. Because it was a Freeday, there were quite a number of brown, green, purple and red magicians' robes in the crowd too. That had gone some way in helping Sonea feel more at ease.
But she just could not stop her thoughts straying to the expression in Akkarin's eyes when he had seen her talking Rothen and Dorrien. Or stop thinking about what would happen tonight back in his residence. And so Sonea had gotten more and more withdrawn as the afternoon wore on, and even Dorrien, well versed as a Healer in small talk, grew irritated with Sonea's reserve. If he had been expecting another kiss at some point, he was sorely disappointed.
Instead, they had trudged back to the Guild well before dinnertime, even though Freeday evenings were hers to do with what she will. Dorrien's resentment was palpable, so Sonea had excused herself as soon as they crossed the main gates, saying she had an assignment to finish for the next morning. In truth, the more she had allowed the silences between them to stretch on, the guiltier she had felt.
Takan stood in the dark hallway, a step away from the threshold. His amber eyes quickly flickered to Sonea's desk, where he immediately noticed the vase holding a bunch of Sonea's favourite flower, gan-gan, purchased from a market stall earlier.
"Master expects you in his study," he said quietly.
Sonea's heart started beating wildly. "N-Now?" She whispered, hating how frightened she sounded.
Takan looked up at her for the briefest of glances; his eyes were filled with apology. "Now," he replied.
Sonea nodded because she didn't trust herself to speak. Takan turned and headed back down the stairs silently, leaving her door open.
Her legs felt like they would give out if she stood up, but she breathed deeply and willed herself to be steady. A little bit of magic took away some of the tiredness of the day.
As she walked down the stairs and towards the High Lord's private study on the ground floor, Sonea's heart was beating so loudly in her ears that she was surprised the sound wasn't echoing throughout the landing. Her stomach clenched in anticipation and fear.
The study door was open and a warm, flickering light was emanating from beyond it. Sonea stood at the doorway, recognising the drinks cabinet she had seen that night she had snuck downstairs and overheard him and Lorlen. But she couldn't see much else from this vantage point. Just as she raised a fist to knock on the door, she heard the High Lord's deep, collected voice from inside the room.
"Come in, Sonea. Shut the door."
She walked in and saw he was seated in an armchair by the fire, a few books lying open on the side table. A large, darkwood desk took up the left side of the room. There was a half-empty decanter of wine on the mantelpiece, and he held a nearly empty glass with an elegantly light touch between his long, pale fingers. The fire danced on his face, which was cold and aloof.
Sonea stood, transfixed, as being in his presence brought her back to that momentary, vicious look he had thrown her in the dining hall earlier.
Akkarin raised an eyebrow. "Forgotten your manners again, I see. Bowing to magicians should be second nature to novices by the end of their first year. Here you are in your third, Sonea, and ever the rogue who stabbed a magician." His black eyes glittered in the firelight and he raised the last drop of wine to his lips.
Was that a little half-smile on his face? Sonea thought. If it was, he sought to hide it behind his glass. So. The memory of her desperation, as she had almost lost control of her magic, amused him.
Sonea gave him the shallowest of bows. His comment eased away her fear and anger bubbled up in its place. As she remembered those dark, terrifying months of hiding away from the Guild while losing control of her magic, she looked daggers into Akkarin's eyes. Yes, she had stabbed Ambassador Dannyl that night. She had only the fondest feelings for Dannyl now, but she would do it again if she thought, like that time, the magician was after her life.
Akkarin noticed the change. His dark eyes narrowed and the half-smile fled from his lips. He placed his empty wine glass on the side table and gestured to the decanter on the mantlepiece. "Serve me," he said quietly, threateningly.
Sonea clenched her hands into fists to stop them from trembling and took deep breaths to steady herself. Does he think I am his servant?
Akkarin watched her intensely like a predator locking onto its prey. "I said, serve me," his voice got deeper.
Tears of rage threatened to fill Sonea's eyes. If the Guild only knew what a prison they had thrown her into! How could they have just allowed the High Lord to claim her guardianship, then left her alone to her fate? Weren't there any rules by which the Guild checked that guardians were treating their novices well? Maybe I should tell someone, Sonea thought. Not of his black magic, but enough to get me away. Mistreatment? Neglect?
Akkarin's black eyes narrowed. Sonea remembered all too late that he seemed, impossibly, to have a knack for guessing what people were thinking. The slight shift in his demeanour suggested he had heard her, or understood enough of her sentiment from her posture and face.
The High Lord stood up elegantly in a swish of black robes and walked over to the mantlepiece. He lifted the exquisite looking crystal decanter and refilled his glass with dark red wine. Holding his glass poised in one hand, Akkarin strode towards Sonea silently and slowly.
The faintest click of the door locking with magic reached her ears. Sonea's heart sank and she stood still. Her legs felt like the rippling power dome of the Arena, erratic and wobbly. Something seemed to make her stand still. Maybe he is working some sort of compulsion magic on me! Sonea thought in panic.
Akkarin now stood one stride away from her, his tall figure towering above her. "You seem to have forgotten you are my hostage," he said in a low voice. "Your little daydream about running to inform on me is futile." His lips then curled up at one corner into a humourless smile. Sonea stared, hypnotised, at the red-orange glint of firelight reflecting back at her from his black eyes. "Lorlen is bound to me. I have the King's ear. Do you think they would force my hand on the word of a novice?"
Sonea knew she should soften her expression, or bow her head down and keep her gaze on the floor. But her blood was pounding in her ears, and the tension of being caught between rage and fear was, she knew, plain to see in her lowered brow and narrowed eyes.
Akkarin closed the remaining distance between them with an agile step. Sonea's breath hitched in her throat. He was close enough that the folds of his black robes, which billowed out from the black sash at his waist, brushed agains her own novice's robes. He was so close that, she realised that she could smell him. It was the same smell that hit her the night she hid herself outside this room with an illusion spell. Well-oiled leather and spicy wine.
The High Lord took a languid sip from the glass of wine in his hand, looking down at the dark eyes and tight-set lips in the pale, delicate face that only came up to his chest. Then he suddenly flung out his arm to throw his glass of wine into the grate.
Sonea, who had been distracted for a moment by his smell, yelped in surprise, instinctively covering her face at this unexpected violence. The wine glass smashed loudly into the fireplace and shattered, tinkling. The flames hissed and flared when the wine spilled onto the hot logs.
Sonea slowly lowered her hands from her face, trying to hide their tremble by clasping them into fists at her side. The High Lord's face was now etched with a chilly fury. Before Sonea could react, he grasped Sonea's chin between thumb and forefinger, jerking up her face.
Feeling numb with shock at what was happening, all Sonea could do was stare at him with wide, dark eyes.
"I asked you a question. Who do you think would dare confront me for doing what I will with what is mine?" Akkarin murmured, the spicy wine on his breath brushing against Sonea's face.
Sonea's brows knitted together as a wave of confusion arose in her amidst her anger and indignation. She was suddenly very aware that he had never dared touch her before.
"I am no one's," she whispered back in a voice that trembled. Her courage hung by a thread, but it held.
The High Lord's gaze changed subtly. Those smooth, high cheekbones and forehead were impassive as ever, but his nostrils flared ever so slightly as he drew in a deep breath. The hard glint in his black eyes seemed to transform into something else, something more… alive.
Sonea was wracked with a cacophony of emotions. From hatred for her captor, to the rage against her fate that she finally allowed herself to feel, to whatever this strange, clenching feeling of anticipation in her stomach was. His cold fingers still held her chin in an unyielding grip. It felt like heat was spreading across her jaw from that point of contact.
Akkarin's gaze suddenly snapped away from Sonea's and he jerked away his hand, straightening. He looked, unseeing, at the bookshelves behind her, and Sonea recognised the tell-tale signs of a mental communication taking place. Who was he talking to? Mental communication went out to all magicians at first, then everyone but those contacted withdrew their presence. But she had not heard anyone call mentally for the High Lord.
Nevertheless, he was certainly having a conversation unheard by her. He took one step back and turned around, his broad shoulders tense as he gazed towards the fireplace. Sonea felt like the use of her limbs slowly returned to her. She felt dizzy from the intensity of what had just happened.
A moment later, the High Lord turned around in one smooth, lithe movement to face her, his attention now fully back in the room.
Sonea waited, her chest heaving in quick, shallow breaths. That strange fierceness she had momentarily seen in his eyes was gone. The impassive, calculated High Lord had returned.
He finally stopped, and looked down at her with cold indifference. "If you disobey me again, I will be forced to incentivise your silence more… effectively. You are now forbidden from talking not only to Rothen, but his son, too. Consider this your final warning – or I shall pay your aunt and uncle a visit," he said softly, dangerously.
Sonea felt like her blood was turning to ice. She stared at him, dismayed. Ranel was limp. They had an infant in the house. Would he go that far?
"You are dismissed," he muttered abruptly, turning around to face the fireplace.
The click of the door told her that he had removed the magical lock.
Still somewhat in shock, Sonea barely remembered bowing stiffly. As she ascended to her own bedroom, the residence was utterly dark and quiet.
—
Back in his study, the High Lord leaned one hand on the edge of the mantelpiece, his head bent. His eyes stared unblinkingly at the fire and his shoulders rose and fall with deep breaths.
A wave of self-hatred rose like bile in his throat. Threatening to overwhelm that familiar feeling, however, was something else.
"I am no one's."
The hatred in those dark eyes stoked the fire of his temper. But the defiance in her words doused it, soothing something in his chest.
Her pride reached out to him – a pride tempered and evened out by the maturity that difficult life experiences had equipped her with. He understood both well. That is why she could hold her own like that. By now, Akkarin knew living with Sonea would test the limits of his patience and desire for control, but that she would never step into outright recklessness, petulance or disrespect.
No, this one treaded carefully. Akkarin had read Sonea's surface thoughts as soon as she walked in, and knew that she told Rothen's boy nothing. And yet she flexed her own will, even when cornered. This infuriating combination was beginning to sorely try the High Lord's indifferent, composed and dispassionate manner.
To seek to dominate that will of hers brought out the darkest side of him. The side of him that could coldly threaten to harm her family, even though he secretly knew he could never go through with it.
The High Lord healed away his headache for the second time and stoppered the decanter on the mantelpiece. Absentmindedly, he looked down as his right hand, which glinted in the firelight. He wore Takan's blood gem and a silver family Delvon signet ring on it. He watched dispassionately as his hand curled into a tight fist, knuckles white. He shielded his palm a moment before his nails drew blood.