Page 94 of A Cursed Son

He runs his hand through his hair. “You’ve snatched a lot of secrets from me today.” That means I won’t be getting an answer. How surprising. With eyes set on me, he asks, “What about you? Aren’t you going to tell me about your magic?”

I exhale, partly annoyed, partly tired. His question poked that constant, buried fear deep within my chest. “I worship the Almighty Mother and she gives me strength when I need it.”

“Is that true, or what they trained you to say?”

“You saw it. She gives us light.”

He blinks slowly. “I did. You were glowing. I had never seen anything like that.”

“You had never seen anyone who had faith.”

He grunts. “Fair. What about… your mind magic?”

I shake my hands in frustration. “I don’t have any mind magic, unlike you. Ask yourself what happened, not me.”

He takes a deep breath. “So you know nothing about dreams?”

I shrug. “A little, yes.” I’m going to give him a completely useless, generic answer. “Dreams can sometimes have meanings. It can be something you’re worried about, something you fear. It can also be something you want, like a repressed desire.” I keep my face straight, even though deep down I’m snickering. “But what does it have to do with mind magic?”

His gaze is piercing. “Sometimes I wonder, dear wife, if you take me for a fool. You did something and you know it.”

If he thinks he’ll make me confess, he’s delusional. I feign confusion. “When? Tell me. Tell me what I did. Maybe I can help you understand it. I don’t do well with riddles.”

He looks away and strokes his chin. “Me neither.” He pauses, then looks back at me. “Maybe your magic came about because of faith. I’ll accept that. Have you ever wondered what you could do if you had more control over it? Yes, it’s great to connect with some power when you’re desperate, but perhaps you could do more.”

This change in subject catches me by surprise. “I should call upon the Almighty Mother more often?”

“Yes. Understand that presence within you. Some people say that magic has a cost, but for people like us, with power coursing through our veins, magic as part of our nature, it’s the opposite. The cost is in not using it, repressing it. Magic is life and energy, and it needs to flow—like water. You keep it stagnant, and it spoils. Your magic is your energy, Astra. You need to control it and allow it to flow.”

Magic. Cursed, deadly, horrific darksoul magic? I’ll never use that. His words snake around my neck like a too tight cord. Through my constricted throat I manage a whisper, “It’s not magic.”

His gaze softens and he brushes a strand of hair away from my face, obviously unaware that the gesture brings shivers down my spine.

To make everything worse, he speaks in a low, rumbling voice. “Your connection with the Almighty Mother, then. Because I never see you using it. Or practicing it. Imagine how incredible you could become if you used at least part of your potential. Not that you’re not incredible.”

Incredible? His words send a gust of air to my stomach. Crazy, dumb stomach. I’m not incredible, just incredulous that he’s calling me that. Sometimes I wonder if he’s trying to seduce me.

I can’t tell him how dangerous it would be to attempt any magic. I can’t tell him how it would reveal my identity, how it would put me at risk. I can’t tell him how it would put others at risk.

He’s staring at me, though, reading too much, and asks, “Are you… afraid?” His tone is concerned or perhaps… pitying?

“No!” I snap. I shouldn’t have snapped. I soften my features, relax my body, and aim for a calm voice. “I’m happy the way I am, Marlak.”

His eyes are searching and kind. “Apologies for the misguided advice, Astra.”

Perhaps he doesn’t mean what he said, but his tone is earnest, disarming.

It would be so easy to reach out and touch his hair, so easy to kiss him. Would he kiss me back? Or would he be offended at my pathetic attempt at seduction?

I recall Queen Berta and think that he must indeed be made of ice if not even bare tits impress him. Would he react differently if he saw my?—

Horrified at my deranged thoughts, I get up. “Are we going to endure hours here without any food? Any supplies?” I don’t hide the annoyance in my voice.

He puts a hand over his heart. “Oh, how cruel it is to be underestimated by my own wife.”

“I’m not your wife. Not in earnest.” His words, not mine.

“Oh.” He moans as if in pain, but his tone is mocking. “And then reminded that I’m not loved. You salt my wounds, wife.”