The writer sounds insane. But maybe he is just, I don’t know, excited? Or really offended. Because he thinks me…
More than an ignorant peasant who couldn’t use her Gift?
The vial rested innocent and still in my palm. More than a peasant. More than dirt. I rolled the vial around until I held it up between my thumb and forefinger. It was a clue, but not a key.
I hold a slender shard of deep blue, deep as my eyes. A sapphire. A flick of my fingers and it tumbles downward, suspended on a silver chain...
I squeezed my eyes shut against the vision, and when I opened them, I held a vial once more. I tucked it back into the box and less than elegantly shoved the note on top.
Whatever my ‘heritage’ contains, it includes a bit of crazy.
What next? I jumped to my feet and began to pace, ignoring how my abused muscles protested after the bliss of sitting still. I should hand the note over to the Dragonmaster. Thorkel—likely one of his followers—knew where I lived. Knew my past. Knew… my mother.
I halted, right in front of the bookshelves. So many books, yet none had the information I wanted. My history book stopped about fifty years ago.
I don’t know anything about Thorkel. Not really. Could he be Dragerian? His name sounds like it. The way Merram and Orrik talk about him—there’s something personal in this war. They knew Thorkel once. Face to face.
I was staring at Introduction to Fire Magic. I’d read the entire thing, for nothing. Now I was to tell Merram of my epic failure with his rude Seneschal.
“So the question is, if I can’t stay here… No.” I picked up Thorkel’s gift. “The question is, do I leave in three days and try to figure all this out, or do I wait until they throw me out and hope I can find answers later?”
I was insane to even consider meeting with the enemy.
But the war—it was so vague, so far away. Did we really fight? Or was it merely more raiders than usual? The Dragon Mages didn’t discuss it much, though they didn’t often talk to trainees, anyway.
A knock sounded at the door.
My fingers tightened around the box. I could not let anyone see the note. I ran deeper into my apartment as the knock changed to the ring of a bell. My wardrobe, in my dressing room, I opened the doors and—there. I shoved the box into the bottom of a travel boot.
A quick check in the mirror—normal enough, hair down and dried curly. I ran to answer as the bell rang again.
“I’m sorry! I was—”
Shamino. It was Shamino in the hallway, his hair damp and clothing rumpled, as if he’d dressed in a hurry. The silly part of me tingled at the sight of him; the sane part of me went angry-stiff. I should shut the door in his face. “You.”
“Yes. The, uh,” he blushed, “sheep-brained asshole.”
The way he went all adorable when embarrassed put a dent in my anger. I didn’t like that. I began to shut the door.
“I came to apologize,” he blurted. He lifted a bag I hadn’t noticed. “May I?”
Why not? If he turned back into his haughty, sheep-brained self, I could throw him out. Thorkel’s letter gave me options.
But as Shamino stepped over the threshold, I regretted my decision. I’d forgotten about my shabby rooms. The furniture, I now knew to be mismatched and worn. And uncomfortable. The single tapestry I’d splurged on—a meadow scene—took up a blink in my endless gray wall. The stipend covered books and clothes, but it wasn’t enough to keep a servant; not that I’d be comfortable hiring one. My cleaning habits? Laughable.
“Um, one moment.” I swept breeches off the sofa and grabbed a crust of bread and a glass from the side table. Half-open books on magic were still strewn across the room, along with half-formed essays and piles of crumpled paper. In fact… My entire room looks like Merram’s study.
When I returned from the kitchen, I found Shamino fidgeting by the sofa. I told him to sit and pulled over the desk chair. I placed it a nice distance from him and managed not to wince when I settled my sore rump on it.
Shamino took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. Today shouldn’t have happened. I judged you without giving you a chance. I just assumed…”
That I’m a young, stupid fluffhead.
“I assumed,” he finished, and ran a hand through his hair. “Anyway, I’d like you to stay. At the Quarters.”
I hadn’t expected that. “You do?”
“Completely,” he said. “I never should have given you Maolmuire. Trainees learn how to oil with one of the sweet, small, elderly dragons. I was so furious with Merram. Anyway. You did a good job. No. A fantastic job.”
I stared at my bandaged hand as warmth spread from my face to my toes. I’d earned my place. At the Kyer. With dragons. And over and over my silly self sang, Shamino praised me!
I spoke to my hand. “What about my magic problem? I have the Gift, but it doesn’t do much.”
“Yet you managed anyway, and had I been patient with you, I could have shown you how to clean up the spill without magic. Please, Adara. Stay.”
When I looked up, a small smile ghosted his lips. He added, “Anyone who can face Maolmuire is someone I want beside me.”
I melted inside. I nodded rather than speak.
Shamino positively beamed at my nod. He reached into the bag he’d brought. “Here. I brought an ‘I’m an asshole’ gift.”
I laughed as I accepted the tin. “I shouldn’t have called you that.”
“I give you permission to be completely honest with me at all times. Though I must say,
