She laughed, and it sounded genuine. “You always know the right thing to say,” she told him cryptically, and waved the girl away. Go find out what’s taking Colleta so long.
The praetor rinsed herself under the streams of water, taking her time, while Mircea fought not to vibrate with impatience. But he said nothing, and kept his expression blank and dutiful. His old habits did him little good in this new society, where bluster and bravado were the habits of children, and where time, always the bane of mortal existence, stretched long.
Like the silences.
He watched the candlelight flicker in the dark water. The rain had stopped and someone had opened a window, letting in the scent of clean air, roses, and wine, because several servants were indulging themselves after a hard night’s work, somewhere below. Mircea wanted to elaborate on his previous theme, of how his daughter’s illness was keeping him from giving his full attention to the praetor’s matter, and how helping him to cure her would therefore benefit them both. But there was an odd stillness in the air. Something weighty that made him pause, and wait for her to resume the conversation.
And she knew he would wait, as long as required. She was the only one who could give him what he sought. Where else was he to go?
“Hand me my robe,” she finally said, and Mircea made himself move slowly and deliberately to retrieve it, as if it were a matter of complete indifference to him how long it took.
He turned to find her drying off—alone, because her servants weren’t back yet. And smiling at him, a brief twist of her lips, amused and a bit wistful, all at once. “I remember when things were so important,” she told him. “When I, too, vibrated with need.”
“Praetor—”
She held up a hand. “I know what you want. You know you haven’t earned it. But unlike our dear consul, I understand . . . exigencies. You may have until dawn. Do not waste it.”
“No, praetor. Thank you, praetor.”
She nodded and waved him off, her mind already on other things. Mircea bowed several times until he reached the door, trying to contain himself. And then he ran.
* * *
—
From rain-drenched Venice, Mircea tumbled into a world of dust so fine that it moved like water, sloughing off under his frantic feet and down a hill, before cascading into the valley below. The sky, which had cracked open with all the power of a lightning storm to release him, now snapped shut again, leaving only dancing red images in front of his eyes, like laughing demons. Which was fitting, Mircea thought, rolling over and trying to get to his knees.
After all, he’d just been in hell.
People called the rivers of lightning he’d traversed “ley lines,” a term that made no sense and was pathetically inadequate in any case. They weren’t lines. They were terrible, raging torrents that battered his flimsy shield as if desperate to consume him. As desperate as he was to get away from them.
But they allowed him to do what nothing else could, and travel hundreds of miles in a few moments, to visit the greatest healers of the age and search for a cure for Dorina. Not that that had been going so well, but then, he’d been able to see but a fraction of his list. Because, while the ley lines were owned by no man, and were therefore free, the shields required to traverse them safely definitely were not.
He wasn’t a mage; he couldn’t make his own. And he damned well couldn’t afford to buy one! Which is why he’d made his deal with the devil, or at least, with the praetor.
Who was going to kill him—quite, quite literally—if he lost her damned orb!
He scuffled about in what felt like an ocean of sand, for a round object the size of his palm. It looked like nothing more than a ball of glass, something the artisans of Murano might make as a toy, yet it was worth the price of a palazzo—a large one. He finally found it, and lay back against the sand, half-dizzy from relief. And noticed that the moon was up. Unencumbered by the clouds that draped it in Venetian skies, it was another pure, clear orb, lying low on the horizon.
He didn’t have much time.
Mircea got to his feet, dusted himself off, and looked around.
One of the praetor’s mages, who had been here once when he was younger, had spelled the little device to take Mircea to his destination. He’d also described the place, and it looked like it hadn’t changed in all the years since. It was nothing like Mircea had expected.
The great magical families of Venice lived in mansions every bit as fine as those owned by the wealthiest of merchants. This . . . was not one of them. In fact, Mircea hesitated even to call it a house, considering that it was half buried in sand, and what was still visible had a tree growing out of it.
Or sort of a tree. It was old, withered, and bleached a silvery gray by the harsh sun that was shortly to revisit this landscape. It had no leaves. It was a ridiculous excuse for a dead tree, and yet, there it was, poking out of the roof like a misshapen chimney.
Mages, Mircea thought in disgust, and slogged up the hill.
The little house sat at the very top of the rise, overlooking the small village that Mircea could see in the distance. It was dark and quiet, and Mircea hesitated before knocking. Humans rarely liked being awakened at this time of night, and human mages even less so. There was every chance the man would curse him.
But he’d curse himself far worse if he lost this chance, so he knocked.
Nothing happened.
Mircea swore under his breath, and tried again, louder this time.
Still nothing.
He could break down the flimsy excuse for a door, but there were undoubtedly wards here. Mircea couldn’t perceive them, even at the lowest range of his hearing, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there. He hesitated, biting his lip.
Then sent a mental feeler inside, sliding past the worn wood, and into the small space within.
And was promptly slapped by something that felt like a lightning bolt, one that sent him flying backward through the air and tumbling down the hill, trying to curse but finding that his mouth suddenly didn’t work right.
Neither did anything else.
The hand clutching the orb was locked tight around it, unable to move, while the other was flapping about randomly. He rolled to a stop and just lay there for a moment, watching it flutter here and there on its own, while the shock of the curse or whatever it was still echoed through him. He finally decided to attempt to get up, and found that his legs were just as useless, absolutely refusing to bear his weight, or even to let him crawl.
Not that he needed to. Because, a moment later, he was picked up from the sand by an unseen hand, and jerked back up the hill again. Where the strangest-looking creature he’d ever seen was waiting for him.
One would think that the great Abramalin could afford a better class of servant, Mircea thought, staring at a knee-length grizzled beard; a dirty loincloth over a scrawny, nut-brown body; and a pair of eyebrows so bushy that they were like little beards all on their own hanging down in front of the man’s eyes.
Mircea couldn’t tell if the creature was staring back because of the eyebeards, but he supposed so. Because a harrumph issued from between unseen lips after a moment, forcefully enough to blow out the regular beard a little. And then the creature turned and went back inside, prompting Mircea to call after him, and try to explain.
And to sound like one of the goats on the way to the abattoir back home, bleating its last, because his lips still didn’t work!