Page 60 of Somewhere down the Ley Line
She stood several feet apart from him, thinking she’d try from a distance, and if that didn’t work she could always get closer. He was watching her with a quiet patience that unnerved her more than any of his usual joking ever could.
She reached out. Not with her hand, but with her mind, like she had with Leif. At first, there was nothing. There was no injury to focus on, and Felix wasn’t a mage. His magic, if there was any, would be buried deep, dormant and quiet. But then, much sooner than she thought she would, she found it. Or perhaps it found her. Threads, or tendrils, or something else that had no name latched itself onto her, drew her in. Coaxing her closer, until it surrounded her, and she wanted to curl up in its embrace. Not threads, but a blanket. Warm and soft and safe.
She didn’t expect the flashes of images, of feelings and thoughts. Running footsteps in a dark alley. Two scrawny little boys laughing. A rusty dagger found in a pile of rubbish. Fear so intense it made her blood run cold, slowly drowned out by anger. Hot sun on sand and the deafening roar of a crowd. Blood, blood everywhere. Pain, stumbling. A pretty, naked girl in a dimly lit room. The still face of a dead boy, and a great surge of sadness. Soldiers on horseback. A cosy taproom. Deep, suffocating loneliness. More pretty girls. Weapons flashing. A rooftop under starlight. Men arguing. Her father standing by the lake. And violence, so much violence, a dizzying dance of death that seemed to go on forever.
Then a girl surrounded by blue light. A girl who was her, looking terrified. Laughing. Scribbling in a notebook. Making a face at something. Looking up at the stars. Looking at him.
She was invading his mind. He had not agreed to this. It wasn’t right. She frantically attempted to disengage, to throw off the blanket, and after a heartbeat the world snapped back into place with a violent lurch.
They were standing so close she could see each individual eyelash. Her hands were on his chest. His arms were wrapped around her, one hand between her shoulder blades and the other on her lower back. She didn’t remember moving, yet here they were. Her fingertips ghosted over the side of his face. His eyes met hers, but there was confusion there she had never seen before, like he was trying to wake up from a dream.
Had she done that to him? Manipulated him somehow? She suddenly felt dirty and pulled away, stumbling several steps backwards.
“I’m so sorry, Felix,” she stammered. “I didn’t… I had no idea that would happen.”
He blinked, then finally looked at her properly. “What were we doing…?”
She blushed and stared down at her toes.
The signature grin returned to his face. “Well? Any conclusions based on this little experiment?”
“Um… Yes. I think… I was right.”
“It sure seems so.” He cocked his head sideways, eyes narrowed, as if he was considering something. Isolde swallowed and pressed her lips together. Would hehave noticed her sifting through his thoughts, his memories, like some vulture? If he hadn’t, maybe it was better not to say anything. She didn’t want to cause him any embarrassment.
The connection between them was gone now; her magic retreated to the quiet current in the back of her mind, but an echo of it remained. It was still there when they returned to the others, as they mounted their horses again and continued their journey. An invisible thread that hung between them. She wondered if he felt it, too.
They rode side by side quietly until Felix broke the silence.
“Who was the blond boy in the garden?”
Isolde gasped, clapping her hand over her mouth and staring wide-eyed at him. “You… you saw into my mind?” she managed finally, her voice almost a squeak.
He nodded slowly.
“I did, too,” she whispered. “I’m sorry. It wasn’t my intention; I didn’t mean to –”
“Isa,” he interrupted her, “it’s fine.” Then he grinned again, as if all this was a very funny joke. “It was… kind of nice, actually. But don’t change the subject. Who was he?”
Isolde blushed and looked down. Ithadbeen kind of nice. “Tristin,” she answered his question. “He was our scribe’s apprentice. We were both sixteen. He was my first… everything.” She smiled at the memory. “He was sweet. Gentle, not pushy or rough like I had been told all men would be.”
A flicker of something unfamiliar shot across Felix’s face, but was gone as quickly as it appeared. “What happened to him?”
“My father had him and his master fired and ‘encouraged’ them to ply their trade in another city when he found out,” she answered.
Felix chuckled. “You must have been devastated.”
Isolde attempted a glare, but failed miserably in the face of his mischief. “Oh, I was. It was a great tragedy.” An unladylike snort escaped her. “I read nothing but miserable love poetry for weeks and weeks.” She considered him again. He’d opened the topic… “What about the pretty girl with the dark hair?”
Felix smirked his most roguish smirk at her. “The one with the blue eyes and the scary magic?”
Her heart lurched in her chest. “I… No. The girl in the room with all the curtains.”
He hesitated a moment, staring off into the distance. “Have you heard of the pits?”
“Where people fight for gold? At the south wall?” She frowned. What could that have to do with a woman?
“Yes. I used to be a regular there. When you win enough, eventually there will be women who are, uh… interested. I was the same age as you were, sixteen, seventeen. She was trying to make some other fighter jealous, I think.”
