The door flew open. “At all?”
I bit my lip.
“No Gift, yet Merram thinks… Fine. I’ll clean it up.” Shamino slammed the door behind him as he stepped into the hallway.
“No! I can do it, just not with magic. With a mop, or I can ask—” No. Asking Maolmuire to use his fire-breath would only invite more trouble. “I’ll have to deal with it when you’re not around.”
“You’re joking.” Shamino strode down the hallway and I struggled to keep up. “You’re not staying.”
“I told you, it’s not my fault! And you’re the one who gave me the worst job with the nastiest dragon in the Kyer! On my first day!”
He missed a step. “Yes, well, you needed to know what you’re getting into. It’s not like home, all nice and clean with mommy and daddy fixing your slightest problem. We work here. I can’t believe your parents convinced Merram to saddle you on me.”
I halted. Cool, white anger seeped into my heart.
It only took Shamino a few steps—or maybe my silence—to realize I wasn’t following. He turned. Raised his hands. “What? Please don’t tell me you’re going to cry.”
I stared at him until he mussed his hair. When he opened his mouth, I cut him off. “You sheep-brained, arrogant asshole. I didn’t ask the Dragonmaster for the honor of working with you. As for meddling parents, I don’t have any. My mother is dead and my father—” Warning shot through my mind, barely slicing through the angry haze. “Give my thanks to Maolmuire for being kinder than his Seneschal, and don’t bother writing the Dragonmaster. I’ll write him myself.”
I took in Shamino’s slapped expression with satisfaction before walking away.
Chapter Ten
I was an idiot to think I’d find a place in this rain-forsaken, dark hole of a Kyer.
I’d cleaned up—the cuts burning like dragon flame—and I’d devoured some bread. My mood didn’t improve, and in my living room I paced with fury. Fury at myself. For thinking I could do anything a noble could do without a Gift. I can’t lift oil drums, I can’t burn oil, I can’t—
Shamino in dreamy disdain flashed in my mind. At least the disdain took the dreaminess down a notch. Two notches.
I’d told him I’d write Merram myself. But what would I say? Oh, hello. Failure here. Seneschal hates me. Am I your daughter?
But I had to write something.
I went to begin it, then froze. In the center of my desk sat a white box tied with a silver bow. Someone had been in my rooms.
A chill went down my spine. Had the present been there at noon while I’d changed my clothes for the Quarters? Had a person been in my rooms this evening while I bathed?
I did a quick check of my other room—nothing. Just the box. Which… maybe it wasn’t creepy? But surely a messenger wouldn’t have entered my rooms if I hadn’t answered the door. He would have returned later.
And who? Who would give me a gift? Merram could have handed me the box during our meeting. Orrik? Not Shamino.
Seriously, Adara. Enough about Shamino.
“Merram,” I decided without confidence. Though saying the name aloud made me recall our conversation. He wanted to know if anyone contacted me.
Stomach in my throat, I took the box to my sofa. A quick tug and the ribbon fell away. I lifted the stiff paper lid. Inside, I found a letter. As I unfolded it, a slim vial of liquid tumbled into my lap.
My palm throbbing, I smoothed the paper. Unfamiliar writing, severe and slanted, covered the sheet. Ink blobbed in the peaks of the letters, as if the writer had pressed down too hard as he or she wrote. A small splatter of ink may have been where a quill had broken.
I eyed the vial of amber liquid. Poison? Medicine? I read the letter:
Dear Adara,
The Dragonmaster lies. Instead of honoring you as he should, instead of giving you the truth so you can rise, he blankets you in obscurity. You are but a tool to him, a blue mage and nothing more.
Come to me and I will give you your heritage. Adara, you are more than the dirt you grew up plowing. You are more than the pitiful house to which the Dragonmaster has assigned you. Come to me and I will give you the truth. I will give you power to change the world.
There was no signature. On the back of the sheet, it said: Meet my liaison in three days at the following location, and he will bring you to me. A rough map showed a crossroads perhaps a day’s travel from the Kyer.
My hands shook as I lowered the note. Thorkel—it had to be Thorkel. Merram had warned me that he still sought me, and Thorkel knew where inside the Kyer I lived.
Nausea welled up in my throat. Tonight, I needed to go tonight and tell the Dragonmaster. I needed to—
As I shot to my feet, a flash of amber distracted me. The vial tumbled to the faded blue rug.
I picked it up. Held it between the thumb and forefinger of my bad hand. Uncorked it.
A scent wafted out of the vial, and my heart sobbed, Mommy.
Memories slammed into me, clear as today—Mother cuddling me under endless stars, all nights of the year, whispering stories of Daranathon the Father Dragon and how the First One sent him to save us. In most of the memories I had been four or five, warm and loved. I felt her arms, the way her long, straight hair tickled my cheek, and oh, the way she smelled, the sweetest flower grown far away, mingling with spice.
It’s perfume, she had laughed one night as we got our things for stargazing. She showed me the mostly empty bottle she’d hidden in the wall. There’s not much left, so it’s just for our special times.
Special times, long gone, brought to the present.
I don’t know how
