Page 21 of Golden Queen (Idrigard #1)

I realized I had been pressing my thumb down onto my index finger hard in the place where you could sometimes see a hint of those tiny shards—blue and red—still embedded in my fingertips. "No. But I have seen it shattered."

I realized too late the implications of that statement. When would a common born woman ever have the opportunity to see Withian glass shattered?

"I find it difficult to discern who you actually are, and that is not a situation I generally find myself in."

I smiled wanly. "I do try to maintain an air of mystery about me. I find it keeps people on their toes."

He laughed. "You might be onto something there."

I followed him as he motioned me to a door.

"You are not any more discernible, you know," I said as he led me into an elegant dining room with a long table set with silver cloches and plates. Wine glasses and cutlery were laid out in front of two chairs, one at the head of the table and the closest one to the right.

He pulled out the chair at the head of the table, and I thought he would sit, but then he surprised me by holding it out for me. After I was seated, he took the chair to my right.

"Why are you frowning, Sera? Are you not hungry? I did ask you to have dinner with me."

"No, I mean, yes. I am hungry." I hesitated to explain why I had been frowning, as though the admission would somehow make me look weak. "I've just...well, I've never seen a man who would allow a woman to take the head of the table while he sits on the side."

His face showed something like revulsion in response. "You must be joking?" he said, his dark eyes boring into me intently, as though trying for some of that discernment he mentioned.

"Not at all. Women are...lesser in all ways to the men of Windemere, Athelen, and Castering."

That wicked, mischievous mask fell over his face then. He looked at me with a sly grin. "They are pathetically wrong. Women are far better—in every way."

"You say that like someone who has spent a great deal of time discovering the ways in which women are better."

He laughed—that laugh. And something inside me just...melted. It stayed that way for the rest of dinner.

We talked about magic as we ate. He’d removed the covers over platters of roast chicken and tender seasoned beef, vegetables, little savory pastries, and more.

And then he proceeded to heat every dish with a simple touch to the edge of the plate. Within seconds, they were steaming as though straight from the oven.

He showed off a little when I asked him to. He made a little flame in the center of his palm, letting it dance up and around his long index finger and then winking it out by pressing it against his thumb.

He did it without a shred of hubris. To him, it was commonplace, I realized. But to me...well, it was simply magical.

"So you're a fire mage?" I asked as I speared a bite of chicken on my fork.

"Yes," he said, reaching for the wine bottle and pouring himself some.

I gave him a look holding out my empty glass.

"You were falling down drunk not so long ago. Are you sure you want more wine?"

I was. My head was mostly clear, and I recognized the vintner's mark on the bottle. I knew it was the absolute best wine Windemere had to offer.

He sighed and poured a small amount into my glass. I had expected him to refuse, and I gave him a grateful smile.

The wine was delicious and perfectly chilled.

"Did you...?" I asked, holding the cold glass up and noting the condensation around the sides.

He inclined his head.

"So you're an...ice mage too?"

"It's air, actually, or water. Both can manage to cool something," he said, absentmindedly.

"Oh."

He smiled, noting my confusion. "You don't know a great deal about magic."

The words should have stung, as they always did when I was in a situation where my lack of knowledge put me at a disadvantage. There was no judgment in his tone, though. No look of condescension in his eyes, especially as he explained it to me. "Magic is sourced from different natural elements."

"That, I knew," I said.

"Mages usually develop an affinity for a particular element, so they focus on it in order to become as powerful as they can be.

Some of them will eventually move on to sourcing from other elements—complementary ones.

Fire will be strengthened by air, for example, but weakened by the addition of water magic.

Even with complementary magic though, the division of resources will often cause their original gift to suffer—to become weaker.

It makes it much more practical to stick to one element. "

"So, does your air strengthen your fire then?"

"It does," he said, and again he spoke with no hint of pride. It was just a detail to him, even if it was astonishing to me.

I chewed my lip as I considered it. I had not even known about the system of elements, believing a mage could only channel whatever magic they were born with.

I was about to ask another question, but when I looked up, his eyes were narrowed and intense.

I realized they were trained on my neck, where Igraine had artfully wrapped a silk scarf over my bruises—a much finer scarf than the one I had messily wound around my neck when I left the castle.

My heart skittered in my chest as he rose from his chair and moved around the table. He stood in front of me and put a hand beneath my chin, tilting my head back gently.

And then his fingers lightly grazed the skin of my throat, and I forgot about the bruises and the icy cold look of rage on his face as my heart plunged in a free fall. It didn't stop until it landed low in my stomach where it settled in a pool of warmth.

The air grew thick, heavy, oppressive. The lanterns along the wall dimmed and wavered. His eyes, those night-black pools, dulled to a swirling mass of shadows. "Who did this?"

It was a demand, but I didn't answer. He was so unnaturally still, aside from the muscle that ticked in his jaw and the slow steady rise and fall of his chest.

He slid his fingers around to the end of the scarf and unwound it, gently and painstakingly, to reveal the extent of my bruises. I watched his eyes flare slightly as he took in the mottled flesh.

I was transfixed, hypnotized by his presence above me.

He ran his fingers lightly across the flesh and chills ran out from the fiery touch, racing over my arms, my sides, peaking my nipples, and ending with my toes curling in my slippers.

His voice when he spoke again was hoarse, nearly a whisper, but it promised ruin and devastation. "Sera...who did this to you?"

"No one," I said, and shook my head. "It doesn't matter."

It did matter. I suddenly got a clear image in my mind of what would happen if I said the name of the man who had given me those bruises. He would die, in some violent manner very similar to the way the man's arm had been smashed on the roof of that carriage. And then war would follow.

So I shook my head again, feeling stupid, traitorous tears pricking at my eyelids.

I heard a door open—the front door, and rapid footsteps coming in our direction. Still, Io held my gaze, waiting, and still I could not look away, even as the door was opened.

"Uh..." came a female voice.

"Out," Io said without looking to see who was there.

"We need..." the voice tried again.

"Out, Britaxia!" he said sharply. I heard the door close with a soft snick.

Io knelt in front of my chair and reached for my neck with both hands, his eyes scanning over my skin even as that muscle continued to jump along his jawline.

I felt blissful warmth as his hands laid against my throat. I closed my eyes as the heat seeped into me, racing along my nerve-endings like some kind of balm—soothing, refreshing...healing!

My eyes shot open and met his dark, still severe gaze.

Slowly, he slid his hands off my neck, but he let them linger on me—one on my shoulder and one against my collarbone.

The light touch of his fingers caused some desperate yearning in me to fold myself into his arms. Instead, I asked, in a near whisper, "You healed me? "

"Of course," he replied. "But Sera, you will tell me who did this."

"You're a healer?" I asked, as Madia's poor, sick father's face filled my mind.

"I...in a way," he said, surprised by my question.

"Can you...can you heal illness as well as injury?" I had so much hope blooming in my chest. I needed to temper it with the fact that he had not yet even answered me.

"Yes, I can. Does it have something to do with the man who put those bruises on you?"

"No, of course not, but will you come with me? Please. Heal my friend's father?"

A knock sounded on the door. "Io, mate, button your breeches and come out. It's important."

Io sighed. "Yes, I will go with you. But I have to deal with these idiots first." He said the words loud enough to ensure they carried. Then he stood, straightening and stepped to the door.

"I heard that." A very large, very handsome, dark-haired man with a neatly trimmed black beard strode into the dining room. He was dressed in black leather tunic and pants with knives strapped across his chest and a sword hilt peeking up from behind his back.

He smiled, glancing between me and Io, but to his credit, he didn't slide his eyes over my body as I half expected him to.

He was huge—even taller than Io, who had to be more than six and a half feet. The bearded fae must have been closer to seven, with large powerful muscles under tight-fitting sleeves.

He assessed me with amused, vivid blue eyes as a tall, lithe woman strode into the room behind him.

"Are you serious?" she said, folding her arms across her chest. She darted a sideways glance at me still seated in my chair. "You send us on this fool's errand so you can be alone with a woman?"

My cheeks burned with barely contained embarrassment and anger.

I stood, and the woman glanced sharply at me. "No offense to you, of course," she said, smiling prettily.