A Muddle of Magic. Alexandra Rushe
waved a paw, and the rowan turned to look at the Storm. Even at a distance, the Finlaran king exuded disapproval. Raine was suddenly cold to the bone. She was the political equivalent of naphtha. What if the rowan handed her over to Glonoff, or tossed her in a dungeon and threw away the key? What would become of Chaz and Flame?
Mauric strolled up carrying an armload of dragon skin. Setting down his burden, he produced a length of twine and began to wrap it around the bundle. “Why so woebegone, lass?”
“I’ve never been to court,” Raine said, drawing her cloak closer around her shoulders. “We don’t have lords and ladies where I come from. I don’t even know how to curtsy.”
“Eh, you’ll do fine. Lulu and m’ mother will soon have you up to scratch. Depend upon it.”
She looked around. “Where’s Chaz?”
“In the galley with cook. He and Dodd are thick as thieves.”
“Again? He had breakfast.”
“The lad has a hollow leg,” Mauric said. “Worked up an appetite running after Gurnst, I expect.”
“Oh, dear. I hope he’s not being a pest.”
“Nah. The boy has a way with him.”
Raine nodded absently, her gaze following the party on the wharf. The rowan said something to Gertie and raised his arm. The sleeve of his black and silver tunic fell back, exposing the Mark of Finn that scarred his brawny left arm from elbow to fingertips.
Raine blinked in surprise. “The rowan’s mark is red.”
“The blood mark,” Mauric said. “Every Rowan has had it, starting with Finn. There are portraits in the Great Hall to prove it. I’ll take you to see them when we reach the Citadel, if you like.”
“I’d like that very much,” Raine murmured, though her mind was elsewhere. Squaring her shoulders, she whirled and strode quickly toward the gangplank.
“Here, now, lass, slow down,” Mauric said. “Give me a moment to tie this knot, and I’ll come with you.”
Raine paid him no heed. She brushed past Raven, who was issuing orders to the crew. He broke off in midsentence and called her name, but Raine kept going. If she hesitated, she would lose her nerve.
She crossed the narrow wooden bridge, and the crowd of warriors on the stone quay melted before her. Glory stood beside Gertie. The elvish seer’s beautiful face was set in an expression of icy detachment. Raine winced inwardly. She owed Glory an apology, but amends would have to wait.
Brefreton and Gertie were deep in conversation with the rowan. Though physically dwarfed by the burly Finlars around him and the hulking troll, the red-haired wizard did not seem the least diminished.
“Here she is now,” Brefreton said, motioning to Raine. “Come, child. Allow me to present you.”
Raine ignored Brefreton’s outstretched hand and marched up to the rowan. Kneeling, she threw back the hood of her cloak, sending her black curls tumbling in wild disarray. The warriors gathered round inhaled sharply and muttered in surprise. Seizing the rowan’s left hand, Raine pressed her forehead to the Mark of Finn, her heart in her throat.
“Sanctuary, my lord king.” The words tumbled past Raine’s lips in a breathless rush. “By the Mark, I ask for sanctuary for me and my companions.”
There was a flash of blinding light, and Raine’s brow burned where her skin touched the mark. A shocked hush settled over the quay, unbroken save for the jingle of harness when one of the horses stirred.
Disconcerted by the unnatural quiet, Raine peeped at the rowan through her lashes. She cringed. His blue eyes, so like Mauric’s, were hard, and the red marks on his hand and arm glowed. The rowan was livid.
“Your request for sanctuary is granted,” he said, helping her to her feet. “Henceforth, you and your companions are under my protection.” He turned his wrathful gaze on Brefreton. “I suppose I have you to thank for this debacle?”
“Certainly not.” Sparks of fury buzzed around Brefreton. “I hope you’re proud of yourself, young lady. You’ve started a war.”
“Started a—” Raine felt the blood drain from her face. “I didn’t mean—I never intended to—”
“That’s what sanctuary means, stupid girl. You’ve forced the rowan’s hand.”
“I-I don’t understand.”
“Of course, you don’t understand. If you had the brains of a pin cushion, you’d think before you went off halfcocked.”
“Easy, Bree,” Gertie said, patting Raine on the arm. “Gorne—that is, the rowan—received a parchment from Glonoff a fortnight ago, demanding that he surrender you to the Dark Wizard immediately.”
“I knew it,” Raine cried. “That’s why I asked for sanctuary.”
“You misjudge us, milady,” the rowan said. “Finlara does not answer to Shad Amar.”
“We never intended to remain at the Citadel, pet,” Gertie said. “Bree and I planned to grab some supplies and keep moving, knowing Glonoff was sure to give chase. We were to be the rabbit, see? To buy time.”
“Time for what?” Raine asked, with a trickle of unease.
“Tandara has been at peace for more than five hundred years,” Brefreton said. “The Rowen’s troops are scattered among the various kingdoms doing mercenary work, and Tannenbol has no standing army. Our ruse would have allowed the rowan and Balzora to make the necessary preparations, but you’ve thrust a spoke in our wheel.”
“I didn’t know,” Raine protested, stricken. “You should have told me.”
“I don’t make it a habit to consult foolish chits about my affairs.”
“They’re my affairs, too, Bree, and I’m tired of being pushed around. I’m not your pawn, no matter what you think.”
Brefreton’s gray eyes widened in comprehension. “So, that’s what this is about? I hurt your feelings, so you blow up the world. I’ve got news for you, young lady. Gertie and I have other things to worry about besides you. Like, oh, I don’t know—saving Tandara from the Dark Wizard. How did you know to ask for sanctuary, anyway?”
“Roon, the poet mage,” Raine said, her cheeks burning. “I read about him in the book you gave me.”
Brefreton let out a string of expletives. “Vaculis Vacillis. I might have known.”
Raven strode up. “I saw the light. What’s afoot?”
“Aye, it lit up the lake,” said Mauric, trotting at his heels, a thick bundle of dragon skin dangling from one shoulder.
“The rowan has granted Raine sanctuary,” Brefreton said. “Apparently, she got the idea from a book I found on the ship.”
“A book on the Storm?” Raven’s brows rose. “Which one?”
“Mastering the Glow,” Brefreton said. “Damn that drab Vaculis and his scribblings to the fires of skelf.”
“Oh, that,” said Raven. “It was a gift from a Valdarian merchant. Haven’t read it.”
“Don’t bother,” Brefreton said. “Total rubbish, for the most part. I gave it to Raine in hopes she’d learn a little caution.” He scowled at her. “Forgot about that hack odist.”
“Odist?” Mauric asked.
“Roon the Rhymer,” Glory said. “The darling of the Valdarian court, thanks to a certain flair for verse.”
“A pretentious fribble, more like,” Gertie said. “Fond of using rhymes in his incantations, and the silly drabs loved it. He was waxing poetic about Sonia Thill Ayew, the queen of Valdaria, and