Page 10 of Magick and Lead
I opened my mouth to answer the poor man, but no words came. Mercifully, I was rescued when the doors at the back of the room burst open.
Everyone brought a hand to the hilt of their sword—but it was only young Drane, one of the few surviving royal guards. He was breathless with excitement.
“The Torouman!” he shouted.
“What?” I said.
“Pardon the interruption Y-Your Majesty,” Drane stammered. “But your Torouman, Ollyvar. He’s alive. He’s here!”
I struck Ollie with such force I nearly knocked him off his feet.
“Easy, Essa,” he laughed, returning my embrace.
I buried my face in his chest, breathing deep to stifle the tears that rose up in me. So much was lost, but Ollie was alive. Ollie, whom I had been bonded with as a child. Ollie, who I had grown up with. Ollie, who was as close to me as a twin brother. Ollie, my Torouman. My guardian and advisor. He was here!
He squeezed me back, his face pressed to the top of my head, then we both pulled apart and looked at one another.
“You look—” we both began at once.
“—Well,” he finished.
“—Terrible,” I said.
He gave a wan smile. “A lot has happened, Essa.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “Where have you been?”
He glanced around. The others from our small camp had gathered around, jubilant at this turn of fortune. Even those who didn’t know Ollie personally knew the wisdom and power of a Torouman and knew his presence could only help our cause. They smiled and chatted and laughed, clearly ready to applaud for him or raise a toast.
But Ollie looked grim as he took my arm and leaned in close.
“Is there a place we can talk?” he asked. “Privately?”
We set up at a round table on the far end of the longhouse with four guards posted at the door to discourage eavesdroppers, and I sent for food. Lure, Pocha, and Dagar joined us, all of them as happy to see Ollie as I was. But I watched him warily as he took his seat. He moved stiffly and gingerly, as if our months apart had aged him. Maybe they had. So much had changed. So much had disappeared. It had taken its toll on everyone.
We chatted for a few minutes, my fellow Skrathan cracking jokes, Ollie bantering back with his usual wit. Then the food arrived: a few roast chickens, some bread and fruit, water, and jinjin. Though food was scarce, the locals were always bringing us things—honored to share with their queen in her time of need.
Ollie ate as if he hadn’t had a morsel in weeks. But his Torouman robes were clean and unrumpled, his hair trimmed, his face freshly shaved, his nails manicured. Clearly, he had not been rotting in some dungeon all this time. But where had he been? The question hung upon my lips, but I held it back. Torouman were infuriatingly patient. It was a quality he’d always tried to instill in me—with little success—but I wanted to show him that I still possessed the graces he’d helped me cultivate, especially now that I was queen. And so, I waited in excruciating suspense for him to speak. I could feel the tension in Pocha, Lure, and Dagar, too, as their curiosity became unbearable. But I was queen now. They would not press the conversation until I did.
When at last nothing remained on his plate but bones, Ollie sat back in his chair and lit a pipe.
I glared at him. “You’ve picked up bad habits in my absence.”
He glanced down at the pipe in his hand. “Oh. Yes. Well…” he trailed off.
I leaned forward, my elbows on the table, my patience broken. “Where have you been, Ollie?”
For a moment, his eyes remained trained on his pipe. On the glowing core of burning pipe leaf inside it. Then, he met my gaze.
“At Charcain.”
I blinked at him. “Charcain is destroyed.”
“It is being rebuilt,” he said.
“By whom?”
“You know by whom,” he said. “Prelate Kortoi. Lord Natath.”
