Mystic (23 page)

“I brought you something,” he said.

Her eyes widened. “A gift?”

“Yes.” He handed her a scroll case made of dark, lacquered wood. An unfamiliar coat of arms was painted on it.

Trying to be as deliberate as possible, Pomella slowly opened the capped end and slid out a roll of fine paper. Her fingers explored its smooth surface.

“This paper is so nice!” she said.

Quentin grinned. “Open it.”

She rolled it open and gasped.

Musical notation, written in a fine, steady hand between perfectly straight lines, filled the entire scroll. It wasn't a complex tune, but she broke out into a wide grin and laughed when she recognized it.

“Is this ‘Boom-bung Dog-ding'?”

“It is. I figured you had to be properly educated in the classics.”

“Quentin, this is the kindest gift,
ever
.” She wished the last word hadn't sound so slurred.

“I asked Oxillian to deliver my request to my manservant waiting in the woods, and return when it was ready. It arrived earlier today. I've also asked him to send a rider to the nearest city and hire a bard to prepare other songs for you.”

She gaped at him. “Thank you. For everything. And for, you know…”

He looked at her, waiting. “For…?”

She set the scroll down and closed the door behind him. Her hand trembled as she lifted it to touch his cheek. “For being you.”

His closeness, and the chi-uy, warmed her skin. She eased closer to him. “And thank you,” she said, “for being so handsome and for having these
arms
.” She traced a finger along his muscular shoulder. A tiny part of her realized she was finding bravery in her unstable condition, but blither-blather, she didn't care. Her fingers found the back of his head and the coarse hair growing there.

“You've been drinking,” he said quietly.

“I want to kiss you,” she whispered, amazed and proud of her boldness.

“Pomella…”

“Quentin-my,” she whispered, holding his gaze. She took a steadying breath and spoke as rationally and steady as she could manage. “I. Want. To kiss. You. Now.”

She felt his shoulders tremble as she lifted up to her tiptoes and closed her eyes. Her mouth met his. She moved her hands slowly up his back, and melted when he leaned into her.

She kissed him again, more urgently this time, and he went with her, matching her intensity. Between more kissing and quick gasps for breath, their hands explored each other's bodies. Pomella didn't care, even welcomed, his hands caressing her hair, neck, and down the front of her chest. After a long minute, Quentin pulled away.

“Maybe we shouldn't,” he said. “I don't want to take advantage.”

“Take advantage of what?” Pomella said, kissing his neck. “I want to take advantage of right now, before we have the last Trial. I ruined my meeting with Yarina.”

He gently pushed her away to half an arm's length. “Not like this. It's not right.”

“Do I taste like dog?” she blurted.

His face scrunched into a confused grimace. “No, not at all.”

She closed her eyes and sighed. The whole room spun around her. She gripped his arm to steady herself. “Maybe you're right,” she said. “Slowing down might be a good idea right now.”

He moved to the table, which was filled with fresh food and a wooden pitcher. “Let me get you some water.”

“No,” she replied, holding on to his arm. “Come here. Please.”

He obliged and she put her head against his chest. “You're so kind,” she said.

“You're worthy of kindness, Pomella-my.”

A lump formed in her throat. She reached for him again, and kissed him slowly, meaning every bit of it.

“Pomella?” came a surprised voice from the window.

She and Quentin whipped their heads toward the voice at the same time. Before she could cry out, Quentin pulled a knife.

Her heart thundered. She barely managed to speak.

“Sim?”

 

THIRTEEN

THE ROAD TO MAGDOON

“Blessed Saints, what are you doing here?” Pomella exclaimed. She stared, dumbfounded, as a soaking-wet Sim stood outside the half-shuttered window of her cabin.

She sidestepped away from Quentin. The room refused to stop spinning no matter how hard she squeezed her eyes. For a brief moment she wondered if Sim was really there, staring at her with that hurt look on his face.

Quentin pointed at him with his dagger. “You know this man?”

Somewhere in her muddled mind, Pomella wondered where Quentin had kept that dagger. She recalled groping him thoroughly just a moment before. She shook off the thought. Now wasn't the time to be mooning over Quentin. But bugger Sim for having the worst timing!

“Yah,” she said.

Sim raised his hands to show he was unarmed. “Can I come in?” Pomella wondered where his sword was.

He slipped around the corner of the cabin and pushed the door open. Water rolled off him as though he'd brought the storm inside. He set a small travel sack onto the floor.

Shaking water off his hands, Sim bent his back in just the barest hint of a bow to Quentin. Pomella could practically feel every muscle in Quentin's body tense.

“She and I are longtime friends,” Sim said. “I escorted her through the forest five days ago.”

“So you've left your barony without permission. Why are you here?” Quentin jabbed his blade in the air. “Answer me!”

Pomella touched his shoulder. “Quentin…”

The hard look didn't leave Quentin's face, but he lowered the dagger.

“I need to talk to you in private,” Sim said to Pomella. “Please.”

“Sim,” she began, “I don't…” She wilted as she saw the look on his face. By all the buggered Saints in the underworld, what was he doing here?

“Oh, shite and blather. Quentin, I think he and I should talk alone.”

“I don't think that's a good idea, Pomella,” said Quentin.

Pomella softened her tone. “I know him. I'll be fine. Let's complete tomorrow's Trial, and then we can … continue.”

His jaw clenched, but he nodded. He squeezed her hand before lowering the dagger. He walked to the door and bumped Sim's shoulder as he passed.

Strangely, Pomella didn't have to fight the urge to roll her eyes at them. She couldn't help the small part of herself that found it a little flattering.

Sim waited until the door closed behind Quentin. “Pomella, I—”

“What in the Dying Hells are you
doing
here, Sim?” she snapped. “I'm sorry if you saw me doing something that makes you uncomfortable, but I thought we'd decided that it would be best if we just—”

Sim stepped up to her and grabbed her shoulders. “You're in danger,” he said. “There's a plot to kill you.”

Pomella shoved Sim away. The room seemed very small. She looked out the window, suddenly concerned about being watched. Sim followed her gaze and shuttered the window.

“W-what do you mean? How do you know?” she asked.

“I don't have a lot of time,” he said. “I snuck away from the camp to find you. I need to get back quickly before they notice I'm gone. There's—”

“What camp? What do you mean? You didn't go home?”

“I started to go home, but I stumbled upon mercenaries from the Baronies of Rardaria. They call themselves the Black Claws. They plan to kill you.”

She blinked. Saijar was from Rardaria. “Why would they want to harm me?”

Sim sighed, exasperated. “Think about it, Pomella! You're a commoner doing something you're not supposed to. You shat in their business and now they're fixing to eliminate you. There's a Mystic leading them! He's … he's terrifying, Pomella.”

Pomella touched her temple. The only thing buzzing was her head. “What … what are they planning to do?” she asked.

Sim ran his hand though his wet hair. “I don't know. But I think they plan to strike soon. Tomorrow, even. We need to make you safe and warn the High Mystic.”

“No!” Pomella said immediately. By the Saints, if her head didn't stop spinning, she'd retch on his boots. “I'm perfectly safe here. Nobody gets into Kelt Apar without the High Mystic's consent. And there's some sort of guardian force protecting us here. I can't remember what it's—”

“The ceon'hur,” Sim said. “I met a ranger who mentioned it. Do you know what it is?”

She shook her head. “No. But it won't let anybody in.”

“I got in.”

She glared at him. “That's because…”

Sim raised an eyebrow, waiting.

“Oh, buggerish, I don't know
how
you got in, but that's not the point. The point is that I need to do this alone, Sim. I'm in the middle of these Trials! I can't jump at shadows I can't even see.”

Sim threw his hands up in exasperation.

Pomella's temper flared through her drunken fog. A thousand thoughts crashed around in her skull. “Don't do that again.”

“What?”

“That! Rolling your blazing eyes at me.”

“You're being foolish, Pomella. You know this. I don't know what you were doing tonight, but you've obviously got a badger running your mind and mouth right now. Don't be stupid!”

She reeled as if slapped. His face blanched when he realized what he'd said. He sighed and lifted a hand toward her. “I'm sorry.”

She stared at him with cold iron eyes. “You told me that you understood me,” she said with controlled fury.

“Pomella,” he said, easing toward her, “I didn't mean to hurt you. I want to protect you. I—”

“I don't need you to save me, Sim!” she yelled. “I'm here, doing what you and Bethy and Grandmhathir and all the others in Oakspring wanted me to do! I'm rising above my station. I'm following my heart and all that other blather and shite! Yet you won't let me succeed or fail on my own!”

“Your life is in
danger
!” he pleaded.

“And if I beg for help, if I go crying to Mistress Yarina to protect me, it will only prove those mercenaries right! That I'm just a commoner who needs special protection from a Mystic.”

Sim scratched the back of his head and dropped his hand. “I don't understand why you'd endanger your life like this.”

Pomella forced herself to take a steadying breath. “Fine. I'll handle this on my own. I need to think.”

Sim gave her a flat stare. “I really hope you do. What would that other man say?” He pointed in the direction Quentin had gone.

Pomella scoffed and plunked down onto a chair. Why did he have to bring Quentin into this? She felt sick to her stomach. “Maybe we had a chance once, Sim. But it can't happen anymore.”

He swallowed and nodded. “Yah. I suppose it can't,” he whispered. “But no matter what you think, you're being foolish.”

He walked to the door and opened it. Hesitating on the threshold, he turned back and said, “The Black Claws captured a ranger named Rochella. She's a virga. While you fret over whether to tell the High Mystic, at least know she's in danger, too. They're camped east of here, just north of the road.”

He retrieved his sack from beside the door and removed a square bundle from it. She gasped.

The Book of Songs.

He set it on the nearby table, then stepped out into the rain. She heard him slosh through the mud and away from the cabin. The rain grew heavier, thick drops storming on the roof. Pomella stared at the book as confusion and guilt mixed with the chi-uy in her stomach. She scrambled for her night pot and vomited.

*   *   *

Sim stormed away from Pomella's cabin, not caring that the rain poured down onto him. Foolish girl! Why did she have to be so stubborn? She was just going to get herself hurt. She put her trust in the High Mystic when it was a
Mystic
who wanted to harm her.

He stopped and considered whether he should go back and talk sense into her. Whether she knew it or not, she needed him. He could help her. If she got hurt, or worse, he'd never forgive himself.

Sim frowned. Maybe she didn't need him. Maybe he just needed her. Perhaps they needed each other?

Dim light shone from Pomella's cabin, pushing back the night. Sim slumped his shoulders and sighed. No. He couldn't go back. He'd told her what she needed to know, the essentials anyway, and she'd dismissed him.

Again.

A lump rose in his throat. He had to accept that she didn't want him in her life. Their childhood together, their shared grief after the plague, their tenuous trust that night in the pit … he thought it special, but she didn't.

If only he'd stayed with her after the laghart ranger found them. If only he'd let her kiss him.

Faced with the reality that she was gone for good, that he'd truly pushed her away forever, Sim felt a hollow echo in his heart where before only she had existed.