Page 25 of Sword & Sacrifice

“Why both fingers?” Penn asked. “The ring was only on one of them.”

Valistair pursed his lips in displeasure. “Cutting off just the ring finger would have taken more patience and precision.”

Both of which Niall lacks.

“Your grip is ruined,” Penn observed, his heart sinking as he realized the implications for Valerian. Even if he regained control of his body, it would be changed forever. How many scars could one man bear?

At least the wound beneath the bandages looked like it had been cauterized, if poorly. Penn pressed a folded layer of bandages to it and applied pressure.

“I should have kept the witch after all. Perhaps I can find her still.”

Penn’s head jerked up. Does he also think Adelaide is following us? How do I convince him she’s not? “We had a deal.”

“Are you worth it?” Valistair’s good hand traced Penn’s stubbly jaw.

“I’ve cooperated with you. I haven’t tried to escape. Any information you want, you just need to ask.” He squeezed Valistair’s hand a little too hard and immediately eased the pressure, afraid the mage would retaliate.

Valistair barely noticed, his touch still gentle. He gazed at Penn’s face, drinking in every detail. “Desperation looks good on you.” Valistair’s hand tensed, urging Penn closer.

He guessed what the mage wanted and leaned across the gap, kissing him gently. He expected Valistair to deepen the kiss, but he kept it soft, feather-light and shockingly tender.

The carriage jolted over a rock and Penn tumbled forward. He landed in Valistair’s lap, catching himself with one hand pressed against the seat.

Valistair chuckled and wrapped his good arm around Penn. “All right,” he whispered. “If you throw yourself at me, who am I to decline?” Then kissed Penn again, deeper this time, tongue eagerly exploring.

The kiss lasted until Penn finally pulled away to catch his breath. Panting, he remembered the wound he was in the middle of treating. Clutching it while they kissed had at least kept the pressure on long enough to stop the bleeding. “I need to finish bandaging you up,” he said, settling back in his seat.

“You’re not as good as a trained healer,” Valistair said, “but you’re a fair substitute.”

Is that his way of agreeing not to hunt Adelaide? As Penn rewrapped the bandage, he once again felt the weight of the ring on his left hand. If he gave it to Valistair, would it repair his hand? It might be one more bargaining chip to add to his collection in case the mage lost interest in him.

Penn would use any means necessary to keep Valistair’s focus on him.

Chapter Twelve

Will I ever escape the smell of smoke? Silas wondered as he rubbed his nose in displeasure.

The East Wing showed less direct damage from the fire, but scorch marks still marred the hallways. The Council Chambers were locked any time they were not in use, so the interior had remained mostly intact, but the acrid smoke had leaked through the cracks, staining the furniture and documents within.

Strider had been true to his word and cleared the Council Chambers for use by the next morning. Now Silas waded through the stacks of boxes, wondering how he would ever determine what the people behind the fire might have been after. Where should he begin? Varro’s documents, since he was the one who had escaped? Alistair’s, since he was the leader of the traitors? Cal’s might prove useful, since he was the only adviser whose allegiances were still unknown. The Head of The Merchant’s Guild had disappeared even before Alistair’s treachery was revealed to the public. Supposedly he was on a trade mission to Percosa, but no one had heard from the adviser in weeks.

Truthfully, Silas could find a reason to search everyone’s documents. Jacoby had been embezzling money, maybe someone wanted to destroy those records. Niall had managed all the household staff, maybe someone wanted to hide their past. Every time he started toward a specific adviser’s pile of boxes, he thought of another reason why the culprit could be someone else.

“Can you make up your damn mind? Your pacing is making me dizzy.”

Silas startled and turned to face Griselda, who had plopped down at one end of the long council table. She pointed at Varro’s pile of boxes and demanded, “Bring me one of those.”

Standing next to her, Darian arched an eyebrow and asked, “Am I your servant now?”

“Which one of us took an icicle to the stomach?”

Heaving a long-suffering sigh, Darian grabbed two boxes of Varro’s files. He’d rolled up the sleeves of his blue uniform shirt and the muscles of his dark forearms flexed as he hefted the boxes and carried them back to the table.

A heavy, dissatisfied gazed settled over Silas and he looked over to find Archer watching him watch Darian. Silas grinned, unrepentant, and caressed a hand down Archer’s forearm to silently reassure him: yours are better.

Archer’s broody pout relaxed slightly, his thick brows unknitting as he grabbed Silas’ hand and held it against his skin.

A throat cleared, making Silas once again jump as if he’d done something wrong.