Page 83 of The Shadowed Oracle
Unsurprisingly, Dean had been critical of everything Callinora proposed from the start. It became a duel of sorts. Dean’s hypotheticals matched against Callinora’s assuredness.
“All Magi have keen senses,” Dean continued. “She might see right through us. Might see what—” Dean caught himself at the last second, right before he’d accidentally hinted at Ingrid’s importance. “Might see us for who we are.”
Callinora took a long breath, then an even longer drink. “Do we have to go over all this again? Enitha’s a low-level spellcaster. That is all. My insiders assure me. If for some reason the rescueof my husband is linked back to me, it won’t be because Enitha read your damned minds. Mother help me.”
“So you admit it,” Dean countered. “Even if we succeed, it’s possible this is linked back to you? I mean, who else would want to free your husband?”
“Tons of people,” Raidinn corrected, idly picking at the scraps he’d left on his plate. “Bounty hunters. Mercenaries. Anyone loyal to Horace that wants to piss Enitha off?”
Dean’s mouth hung open. It was the first words his friend had spoken in half an hour, and they were used to make him look foolish.
Callinora winked at Raidinn, although the gesture only seemed to confuse him. “There you have it,” she said. “Anything is possible, dearest Dean. But, if my involvement is discovered, then we will set our sights on Wayfornn. They were the first of the Eastern lands to bow to Makkar, and they will be the first to be abandoned if attacked. Their army is weak. We can take them and their crops with but a fraction of our forces.”
She waited a moment, allowing for any one of them to voice some moral opposition, but none did. All four knew nothing of what it took to run a kingdom, so they only listened.
“War is ugly. There is no dressing that up.” She looked to Dean, smiling. As exhausted with the interrogation as she’d been, the princess seemed to have plenty more high-born sass left in her. “I think it’s time you accept that. This is your best option. And it is a damn good alternative to taking your chances out there in the wild.”
She finished off what was left in her glass, then reached for the small decanter of blue wine. “Anyway, I’m terribly bored with all this now,” she said. “Anyone else?”
“No,” Dean said sternly.
“I wasn’t asking you.” She turned to Ingrid and the twins. “I wonder. Would you three like to see Maradenn? The real Maradenn?”
“Know a few places, do you?” Ingrid asked.
“I do.”
“Someplace we can speak freely?”
Callinora flipped her hair over her shoulder. “And a lot more, my dear.”
The tavern was packed. Stringed instruments and horns played from a stage in the very center of the dining area. Old friends guffawed and recklessly clanged their pints together. Lovers held each other close and spoke sweetly over wine in dim booths in the back, while other Viator danced around the musicians like they were exorcising every ounce of dreariness from their bodies. It was what Ingrid had hoped to see when first reaching the beautiful city by the sea. These were people who didn’t let war, pain, even the constant threat of attack keep them from dancing. That extra sense of hers pulsed with joy just watching them.
Across their circular table, Raidinn and Tyla drank floral-smelling wine from the bottle, passing it back and forth. Calinnora sat next to them, now wearing yet another outfit—high leather boots, a long white skirt and a matching blouse. She was laughing and telling stories about the golden years of Maradenn, while Dean seemed to finally give in to the princess’s teasing. He was as relaxed and jovial as Ingrid had ever seen him, swaying with the music and drinking ale from a tall pint glass.
“I’m heading up to the bar.” He leaned close to speak over the music. “Do you want anything?”
Ingrid shook her head. “I’m fine.”
He set his glass down, looking to the empty spot on the table where Ingrid’s drink should’ve been. “Wait…you’re not drinking?”
Ingrid shook her head.
“Come on,” Dean insisted. “Drink with me. If anyone deserves one, it’s you.” He moved to leave, but Ingrid grabbed his arm.
“No, don’t. One drink will become ten and—just, trust me. I’d be dancing on a table or picking fights in less than an hour.” She’d said it as breezily as one could when hinting at a problem, but Dean returned a look of chagrin, palming his glass awkwardly.
“Oh,” he stammered. “You mean?—”
“I’m seven years sober.”
Dean forced a smile, trying to return the casual affect she had employed, but mostly failed. “That’s great.”
“What is?” Ingrid asked sharply. Other than pity, the congratulatory praise she received, especially from people who hadn’t known her when she was an addict, ranked nearly at the top of her least favorite conversations.
Dean quickly answered, “It’s great that you stopped. Incredible, really. I’m sure it wasn’t easy.”
“What the hell do you know about it?”
