Page 80 of Fate

She gripped his hand, and he took a step backwards. He watched her carefully, and she smoothed her clothes, determined to be better. She wouldn’t ask for reassurances. Wouldn’t pull him close and ask if he’d be truly cross with her if something went wrong. He needed her strength and her good manners, not to dissolve into a fledgling in need of care and attention. “Ready?” She asked brightly, and she was relieved that his shoulders relaxed ever so slightly as he nodded to her. She could do this. Would do this.

He did not take her hand, nor her arm. But he tilted his head every so often to ensure that he kept pace with her, that she was not growing distracted and lost as they twined through the hallways. She’d never been here. Never had the need. She could recall only a few disputes over trade and payments gone wrong, and those were quickly overseen by the Proctor and never escalated further.

There were fewer people about than she might have expected. The hallways were lit by moonstones rather than torches, and she was resentful that it now reminded her more of her time in the tower than the festivals she’d loved as a girl. There were chambers built into the stone. Heavily riveted doors sealed theentrances, and she kept herself from pestering Lucian about what lay behind them. Books, she decided. Rooms full of them. To dwarf Oberon’s meagre offerings.

Could just anyone read them? Or were they only for the highest officials to study? She wondered that too, but didn’t ask it. She’d keep a list. All the things she could ask once they were tucked away in their beds again.

He stopped at one. It looked no different from any of the others, but she supposed if she squinted just right, she could make out some sort of runes etched into the stone arches above the doors. She could admit she’d spent little time studying how to read such things. It hadn’t seemed practical when she needed to know how to calculate figures and study the smithy books and old papers that littered the workshop. All of which were written in plain speech, only the margins were occasionally notated with something written so tightly they could have been mistaken for some of the scratchings that indicated this was the door they were meant to go through.

She would have liked to see the main Hall. To know where Lucian would sit—stand?—and if he had ever spoken before the magistrate. Or perhaps he was still too new in his profession for something of such importance. There was so much she’d like to ask, but caution stayed her. There was much to learn, not only in the little details of Lucian’s life, but also in how to talk to him. How and when to ask him about her many queries.

He did not knock. Instead, he pulled on a woven cord poking through a small hole bored through the heavy stone. It was tasselled, and reminded her of the one he’d pulled in his little bathing room that brought the hot water to the tap.

“What’s that do?” It left her mouth before she could remember to simply add it to her list for later, and she shook her head quickly when he glanced down at her. “Sorry.”

But he didn’t chide her. She even thought he meant to answer her, except that the door was unlatched and drawn open.

It was the man she remembered. Looking older, perhaps, than the last time she had seen him. His face was lined, and the markings at this cheekbone had faded and bled with age. A muted blue, she noted with some approval. Not quite like hers, but not so dissimilar, either.

He wasn’t smiling. Not exactly. He was not frowning either as he looked them both up and down. She didn’t fidget, didn’t lean closer into Lucian. Just waited calmly. He was the elder—he could speak when he wished it. They’d made that mistake in the tower, and she would not do it again here.

“You will make beautiful fledglings if they take after their mother.”

He waved them inside, and she smiled warmly at the compliment. “I don’t think they would be worth abandoning if they take after their father. But I suppose we shall have to wait to decide.”

Lucian snorted beside her. The room itself was lined with books, as she’d expected. There were the long tables filled with papers. Some scrolls. Others were books so small they would have fit nicely into her hands when she’d first sprouted her flight feathers. There was no hearth, so there was a distinct chill that was rather unpleasant, and the large window on the far end was shadowed by trees beyond.

It did not seem the sort of place a high-ranking lawmancer would have chosen for himself, but perhaps he liked it for other reasons.

He eased down into his chair and gestured for them to make use of the two seats across from him. There was a tray already laid out, with three cups and a plate full of baked goods that looked suspiciously like the ones from the shop Lucian favoured.

“Would you mind pouring?” Vandran asked, rubbing at the palm of one hand. It shook—not badly, but as she glanced at the surface of the desk, she could see it was affecting his penmanship.

Lucian reached for the pot—metal wrapped in carved wood. The handle had been covered in a knitted sleeve, protective and charming in a homey sort of way. “Did your mate make that?” she asked, pointing to the sleeve.

His eyes crinkled about the edges. “My daughter. When she was very young. I’d burned my hand rather badly—no, not on the pot. Just an incident with the hearth at home. She decided I could not be trusted with anything hot afterwards and set about making all sorts of things to help me. I had protested the gloves she made for me, so this was her next solution.”

“A tender-hearted girl,” Firen declared, thanking Lucian quietly as he passed her a cup. “She sounds lovely.”

His pride in her was obvious. “The very best. Matched only by her sister.”

As it should be. Her attention drifted toward Lucian, who offered Vandran one of the cups—not filled to the brim, she noted. A kindness, so he would not have to suffer the indignity of sloshing hot tea over the sides if his hand trembled. He seemed untroubled to hear of other families. Ones that loved each other and had no difficulty making it known to any that thought to ask.

“So. Firen, was it?”

She nodded, taking a sip of her tea. A light blend, a little cooler than she would have preferred given the coldness of the room, but perfectly pleasant.

“What did your mate tell you about our discussion?”

Her throat tightened, but only briefly. He reminded her a bit of Da’s father before he passed, and she regretted thinking poorly of him when he came through the market. He was proud of his family and of his accomplishments. That was all.

“You’re considering taking Lucian on as your pupil. To finish his apprenticeship.” She did not say more. She did not know how many details Lucian had thought necessary to give about Oberon and the rest of them, and she did not think it was her place to enlighten him.

“I did not say finish,” Lucian cut in. “It, of course, would be up to your discretion if I must return to the beginning of my studies.”

Firen’s own smile faltered, and she looked between both men worriedly.

Vandran took a long sip of his tea. “Lucian,” he began at last, setting down his cup and smiling at him. It wasn’t condescending, but it wasn’t entirely pleasant either. “Do you know why I wanted your mate to attend with you?”

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