Page 35 of The Exile's Curse

Well, Lucien had been that, but he was no dog to obey his master unthinking. And Maxim's speeches left out the reality of the work. That it often wasn't easy, and it was the very opposite of glory when his skills were truly needed. There was justice, perhaps, and the service of truth, but the tools at his disposal, the means by which he could uncover the truth if someone tried to hide it, were hardly glorious. More brutal and efficient.

He would have preferred not to have to use them at this damned wedding.

Given that he was going to have to wade back into the mess wrought by House Elannon and figure out who amongst them might be trustworthy, what he preferred didn't matter.

What mattered was securing the treaty with Andalyssia and the rule of the king. Who had been a small boy the last time Lucien set foot in his country. The old king had been a tough and ruthless mountain man who had no trouble smiting his own internal enemies, a fact proven by his holding the throne for thirty-odd years unchallenged.

But even tough and ruthless mountain men weren't immune to the vagaries of fate. King Berlund had fallen from a horse and died, and his twenty-three-year-old son had been crowned a little over a year ago. So far he had survived, but if he was to continue to do so, and to thrive, he needed a council who supported his power. The father of his bride was one of the Ashmeisters, which would help, but not enough if the priests and the seers continued to agitate about balance and House Elannon couldn't be restored.

It could all go very horribly wrong despite Lucien’s magic.

The power was rare, and he still didn't know exactly why the goddess had gifted it to him when other illusioners had, it seemed, far more entertaining lives using the Arts of Air. He could do those things, too, of course, conjure illusions to delight or conceal or confuse. But he could also see truth. Not just the awareness that allowed illusioners to see through another's illusion but actual truth.

And in Andalyssia, the truth was complicated.

As was the fact that Chloe was here.

Today he wasn't so sure about where the truth lay. Aristides had requested him to join this mission, and his orders to board the navire on the appointed date had arrived shortly after.

Last night, at dinner, she walked into the room, and Lucien had been undone all over again.

He was a thousand times a fool when it came to this woman, it seemed.

Months they had to spend now. In proximity that he was perfectly clear she didn't desire. Just as he was perfectly clear that his own preference would be different.

Which was why he was still standing outside the dining room like an idiot, regarding the door as though everything would be just fine as long as it stayed closed. During the day the room became a working part of the ship, and today he was taking his turn teaching the junior members of the delegation some of the finer points of Andalyssian.

One of whom was Chloe.

Who was going to be loathing him every moment.

He fought the urge to bang his head gently on the still new wood of the door. He had refrained from using his powers on Chloe. He didn't use them when he wasn’t required to in service to the law.

But he didn't need to use them to understand how she felt about him.

He could feel the sting of her dislike in the blaze of those dark eyes and in the lines of tension in her body every time they met.

Goddess knew why they kept meeting.

But there was nothing to be done about that.

He couldn’t go to Colonel Brodier with the whole troubled history he and Chloe shared. For one thing, she was probably already well aware of it. Of who Chloe was and who her husband had been and Lucien's own role in what happened to Charl. She hadn’t already raised the subject, so Lucien could hardly do so.

Instead he had to find a way to do his duty and minimize the pain for both Chloe and himself.

And given he had no good answer about how he might do that, he would instead open this damn door, go inside, and see if trying to teach the snaky, smoky syllables of Andalyssian might prove a distraction.

Chapter 12

Of course it was Lucien.

Chloe had assumed the language classes would be led by one of the mages whose sanctii had done the reveilles. Apparently not.

That would be far too simple.

Lieutenant Plesse, who had served in the corps for several years already, stood as Lucien entered the room and threw a salute. Everyone else copied him, bumping chairs and rustling uniforms.

"Major de Roche, my lord Truth Seeker. Welcome," Lieutenant Plesse said. He sounded nervous, and for a man who had a sanctii at his side, that was unusual.

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