Page 136 of Burn Her They Said
Footsteps draw near on the road behind us, and a chill rolls up my spine. Because I would know those footsteps anywhere. Anytime.
We share a look of warning, then step farther apart as I swipe my hands down the front of my dress, as if hiding some observable residue which could expose the content of our argument.
“There you are,” the Emperor says, raking his gaze up and down my body. “What are you doing hiding in the trees, my little witch?”
“Discussing safety protocol for entering Annovia, Your Majesty,” Varic says with a bow.
“You can discuss that out here, in the open.” He narrows his eyes at Varic before turning to address me.
“Luncheon has been prepared, Your Majesty,” an Imperial servant announces from the road.
“Come,” he commands, to which Varic and I bow until the only sound is that of our breath, once the Emperor and his party gradually disappear from view.
I swivel to catch Varic while he’s still himself—before he shifts into his role as the leader of my Guard—but I fail. Tears spring anew as I try to gain his attention a moment too late. He turns and gestures for the rest of my Guards to follow, and I swallow all the words lodged in my throat.
“So, are Mom and Dad still fighting, or have you two made up?” Lars asks, and Malin raises a hand at him.
Red streaks appear by Lars’ side as he uses his speed to snatch Malin’s wrist before it smacks him in the chest. Then my cheeks wobble when Lars plants a quick kiss on his knuckles. Malin shakes his head, though a small smile plays on one side of his face before returning to his typical stoicism.
“They were never fighting to begin with,” Fray says. “Remind me how you were appointed to protect the Empire’s greatest asset when you are unable to recognize something so glaringly obvious?”
“He wasn’t riding in the carriage with us,” Malin explains. “Meaning he did not hear her request a nap, nor did he see how we prepared her to do so, leaving him without the proper context to better understand their conflict.”
“What Malin said,” Lars snaps, and Varic huffs out a breath, silencing us as we trudge out from the trees to make our way up the dirt road.
No words are necessary for Varic to communicate the tumultuous energy churning inside his body. The expression on his face is strained every time I turn and study him, while a sense of desperation emanates from somewhere behind his eyes whenever he sweeps his gaze around in assessment, silently screaming for relief from the tension.
Innocuous chatter fills the air the closer we come to the lawn where Imperial servants have set up our luncheon. Golden blankets and throw pillows lie scattered across the plush green grass where our traveling party lounges. Witches and sorcerers sprawl out, appearing out of place in their black uniforms when surrounded by such vibrant, flowering trees.
Colorful birds flit around us—tittering and chirping in playful birdsong. Their carefree demeanor dredges up a sense of unease the longer I stare at them, exhibiting such different behavior to the black and gray birds who lurk around the Palace.
I force my gaze forward while those on the ground study us intently as we walk through their maze of blankets, hoping no one can guess where my focus truly is. I send Varic threads of clarity and peace—which must have been one emotion too many as he growls in frustration. The low frequency rumbles deep within his chest while his eyes dart to pin me in his periphery.
Yet he does not ward me out. Instead, he lets me support him by sifting through his distress and does not protest when I pull on the darkened red, sable, and ochre threads to siphon the bulk of his anger for him.
“Tasch,” he grits through clenched teeth as we step away from anyone who might overhear him.
I retract my magic and continue to stare forward, acting as if nothing worth discussing could have possibly occurred between the two of us.
His Majesty’s piercing gray eyes find mine, and my heart launches into my sternum, hammering harder and faster the closer we approach his gilded throne. He sits behind a dark wooden table set with an assortment of food and the ever-present crystal decanter.
Wyrth tips his head in acknowledgement before returning to his plate, having met the requirement of pretending to respect my presence. Imelda stands off to the side, following me with her big brown eyes, twisting my stomach with the unusually pointed attention from her.
Raki’s claws click over the Emperor’s shoulder, just as the tyrant himself swivels to face me. He continues chewing noisily as his long, pale fingers fold the corner of his black cloth napkin to dab at the slick layer of grease coating his lips.
“Ah, my little witch has finally decided to grace us with her presence,” he says, raising a brow as he addresses his audience, who respond with a round of raucous laughter at my expense.
I bow and ignore them. “Your Majesty.” I send a thread of curiosity to find he is filled with his typical incredulity and pride—a familiar elixir which settles my nerves, as I am highly practiced with the moves required for this sordid song of his.
“Sit.” He tips his wine back while gesturing for me to take the empty chair to his right, seemingly annoyed with me for taking a perfectly normal amount of time to walk to my place.
Varic reaches forward as if to move the black velvet chair for me, when a purple mist forces his hands back, and Malin steps forward to pull it out from the table, scraping its wooden legs across the dense fibers in the rug beneath.
“You spoil me, Your Majesty.”
“Rare of you to notice.”
“I apologize for my insolence. You deserve more recognition for all you have given me.”
