Page 65 of Sword & Sacrifice

Darian continued to roll the crank, stepping back as the mechanism pulled the door open.

A decaying hand thumped onto the floor.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Penn had completely lost the mage’s attention. Days passed with Valistair barely looking at him, too absorbed in Val’s grimoires.

The shift in attitude thrilled Niall, who poked and prodded Penn during every opportunity. Hissing in his ear, “Soon, he’ll tire of you completely” or “your death will be so satisfying.” Though he was careful never to speak loud enough to disturb his master’s reading.

Penn kept a neutral expression even as he fantasized about slitting the traitor’s throat. I’ll hide the body and take over driving the carriage. Valistair is so preoccupied, he might not even notice a change in direction. I could take him to Adelaide’s cottage, like we’d planned. Though I have no idea how to help him once we get there …

Bringing the mage to Adelaide’s cottage would do no good if the Witch wasn’t there to heal him, but it could cause real harm to Adelaide and her daughter if they’d fled there after the fight. After buying their freedom, Penn wouldn’t risk bringing Alistair to their doorstep unannounced.

The sudden snap of a closing book brought Penn out of his thoughts. Startled, he glanced at the mage, expecting him to immediately dive into the next riveting read, only to find those mismatched eyes locked on him.

“You’re wearing a glamour,” Valistair said with no prelude.

First thing he says to me all day, and it’s still about magic. “Yes.”

“It’s one Valerian crafted?”

A needle pricked Penn’s heart at the mage talking about Valerian while abusing his body. “Yes.”

“Come here.” The mage patted the bench next to him.

Penn’s jaw tightened and he leaned more firmly against the carriage wall.

“Are you sulking because I’ve neglected you?” Valistair asked, lips quirked in amusement. “I promise to pay more attention to you going forward.”

Penn didn’t think anything good could come of the mage familiarizing himself with Valerian’s work, but he still needed to play along, at least until he had a solid plan for how to save Val. So Penn planted himself on the bench next to the mage, close enough for their thighs to touch.

Valistair took Penn’s hands, twisting them to examine both the backs and the palms. Not finding what he wanted there, the mage carefully slid his hands up Penn’s wrist, pushing his sleeves up, examining each inch of his skin. The rough callouses on Val’s warm palms reminded Penn of other times they’d been intimate, before Alistair had taken over. The missing fingers on his left hand reminded Penn that his lover was still in danger.

“Ah, here it is,” Valistair murmured softly, twisting Penn’s shoulder to examine the faded mark. The tattoo had been a dark, intricate glyph while fresh, but in the past few weeks, the ink faded to a faint gray, the lines blurred. “The magic is almost spent.”

“It didn’t last as long as he wanted,” Penn admitted. The glamour was supposed to buy him a few months of a new identity while he helped Silas take his kingdom back from the traitors. It was almost a good thing the plan failed before it’d even fully begun or Penn’s darkening hair and complexion would have drawn the wrong attention.

The mage’s gaze grew distant as he brushed a thumb back and forth over the spell mark. “I prefer your original appearance.”

The real Val likes me no matter how I look.

The warmth of Valistair’s touch grew so hot it burned. Penn instinctively tried to pull away from him, but the mage tightened his hold and continued tracing his thumb over the tender skin.

“What are you—”

The heat turned to a sharp, slicing pain, as if the mage was cutting something out of him.

Penn finally yanked his arm out of Valistair’s grasp and threw himself onto the other bench. He lifted one foot to block the mage from following him and clapped a hand over his injured arm. Except there was no blood, no bubbling skin, no lingering pain. Penn craned his neck to examine his shoulder and saw that the faint tattoo had completely disappeared.

Not only that, but his skin was darker, back to his original amber complexion. He ran a hand through his hair and pulled a lock into view, shocked to see deep, raven wing black rather than the pewter it had been when last he’d looked in a mirror. His voice was faint as he said, “Valerian said he couldn’t remove the glamour.”

“I am not Valerian,” the mage reminded him with a mix of annoyance and amusement. “I broke the glamour like I would break a curse or a ward, unraveling it at its root.”

“Why?”

“To see if I could.”

The hair stood up on the back of Penn’s neck. What else will he learn from Val’s grimoires? Penn eyed the books, considering the best way to remove them before Alistair learned all of Val’s tricks. Toss them out the carriage? Burn them in a hearth or campfire the next time they stopped for the night? But he hesitated, because what if while Alistair read, Valerian also absorbed information?