Page 2 of This Midsummer Heart (Seasons of Legend #4)

Chapter two

A Courtesy

Titaine

I

sip

my

tea

carefully,

delicately, so as not to accidentally slurp.

I’ve caught myself doing such graceless things of late.

The very thought of slipping up like that in front of Auberon mortifies me, and I find myself tensing long before he appears in the doorway.

It’s best that he sees me as the powerful fete I was when we were together—not someone losing her grip on the magic in her very nature.

Not that Auberon has fared that well, either. I hide my smile behind the rim of the teacup as I watch the elven man tromping like a brute through the rushes coating the floor of the Riverhouse Tavern. There’s barely a hint of his athletic ease and smooth, long-legged gait.

That isn’t all that’s different about him.

He is still tall and warrior-like in his build—there is no way to ignore that—but his cheekbones, once chiseled, now lend him an appearance of gauntness.

He wears a long, flaring coat, its collar pointed up at his sharp jaw.

His dark, shoulder-length hair has receded a bit at his temples, and is more limp and oily than full of its usual luster.

I used to run my fingers through it,

I think, the sweet memory turning bitter in an instant.

I focus instead on his grouchy mood, and the pair of lines that now frame his mouth when he frowns at me.

He is still striking to look at, with the blue-tinted skin from his dark elven father and height from his wood-elf mother, but Auberon is not the elf he once was.

The loss of magic in our world is slowly leeching his strength and youth.

He looks tired. Then again, so do I. It’s hard to sleep when you know you’ll wake up feeling less refreshed than before, a little more of your magic siphoned away by the world’s chaos.

What’s most important about his appearance, however, is that he looks annoyed as he stands before me.

“You’re drinking tea in an alehouse?” is the first thing Auberon says.

I tilt my head, resisting the urge to frown at his immediate judgment.

If I know Auberon, he is merely angry that I arrived here before him.

In truth, I’ve been sitting here an hour, expressly for the purpose of catching him off guard, and this is my third pot of black tea.

My fingers tremble a little as I set down my cup.

This proves that I can still get under his skin, even if he does have every advantage over me in this moment. I must admit, he’s played his hand well. But if there is anything I don’t want, it’s to look as though I’m asking him for a favor. At worst, it will have to be a courtesy.

I cannot owe the House of Elves—not with my fellow fetes growing more fragile by the day. Elves are still tall and full of lean muscle. They will not lose the ability to shoot with bows or wield heavy broadswords overnight. But the fetes?

For creatures of such pure magic, the loss of it is a great deal more dramatic.

More terrifying, too. Yet as Auberon takes his seat across from me, I hold tightly onto my glamour.

The last thing any of the fetes need is for the Houselord of the Elves to know I’ve been having this much trouble with my magic.

“Greetings to you as well, Lord of the House of Elves.” I offer him a smile as I gesture at the empty seat. “I know the alewife here, and she knows what I prefer.”

“Of course you do,” he mutters, his lip unnaturally stiff, as if he is tamping down a sneer. “You’re rather good at consorting with mortals, aren’t you? Even ones with donkey’s faces.”

I cock a brow. Are you really going to bring that up right now? You, of all people?

He tilts a slight bow in reply. When it comes to you, nothing is too humbling to mention,

his flinty eyes seem to say.

“Won’t you join me?” I ask politely.

Auberon pulls out the offered chair so forcefully, it squeaks against the floor. “Come to say your farewells, Titaine?” he asks, trying to sound lofty when there is a rough edge to his voice—one I’ve never heard before. “I trust you heard of my coming departure.”

Again, I am all smiles. “Vervaine told me, yes.”

“Ah, Vervaine.” Auberon sits with his knees wide, propping one hand on his thigh as he leans over the table, dominating the space between us.

When I go for very long without seeing him, I sometimes forget this.

Where fairies are delicate, he is big, lithe and strong—and now brutish without the grace his magic once lent him.

“It would be a pity if she didn’t join us on one of the runeboats. ”

I raise a brow. “Why would she?”

“She and Puk are sweet on one another. You know that.” He lifts his chin, as if this is nonsense. “Pity, separating two lovers.”

At once, I lose my grip on my glamour—and my composure.

I stare at him hard, searching for a way to parse his words.

They couldn’t be about Robin and Vervaine, could they?

After all this time—after Auberon’s little trick, making me fall for an enchanted human with the appearance of a donkey, just to humiliate me—he hasn’t changed.

Auberon is heartless. And even if he wasn’t, this is hardly the way to bring it up. He’s never forgiven me for breaking the bond between us, and with it, the treaty between the House of Fetes and House of Elves.

I play with the chipped handle of my teacup, trying to appear cool again, even though I am seething. “Vervaine will go nowhere without me.”

“Sure of that, are you?” He taps the table, drawing attention to his lack of beverage. Thanks to his stormy expression, no one has even dared to approach to take his order. When I glance at the bar, the alewife has already vanished up the stairs behind it.

Has Auberon earned himself some reputation I don’t know of?

I watch him with from beneath my lashes. Don’t know how to play nice without me, do you?

“I’m sure,” I answer. “A pity you don’t have room for me on one of your runeboats.”

Auberon laughs harshly. “If I did, I’d be tempted to toss you into the Diam Sea.”

“You couldn’t if you tried.”

“Believe that, do you?”

“I still have my magic,” I say, lifting my cup as if in a toast. “Do you?”

I don’t need to see his hand to know it’s clenched into a fist. Auberon never had much use for magic, but even though he could not command it, it’s clear now that it was still a part of him. Of course he feels the loss of it, as we all do.

“That would explain your hasty departure,” I muse over my tea.

I pause, taking a long drink just to let him stew.

“What do you think, Auberon? If the runeboats fail halfway to the City of Nox, will your elves have enough magic to make the rest of the journey?” I cluck my tongue in disapproval.

“You elves were always better shipbuilders and warriors than wielders of magic. I’m surprised you haven’t tried to steal more of my people from the House of Fetes. ”

“Puk came to me willingly.”

I roll my eyes. “I gifted

you a fete servant to tend to you. Don’t make it sound like you won him over with your infamous charm.”

“I won you

over with it,“ he says, dropping his voice. Did he just lean closer? “Isn’t that a greater achievement than a mere goodfellow?”

“I’ve met Puk, remember? There’s no comparison. If you’ve truly won his loyalty, then I applaud you.”

“What is this about, Titaine?” Auberon asks, raising his voice slightly. “If you want a place on my ships for you and your people—a very few

of your people—you’ll have to explain to the others you’re leaving them behind. It almost would be worth it just for that. But I find I require something more.

”

Every muscle in my body tenses.

“Ask me nicely,” he practically purrs.

”I am

being nice.”

“Then how about groveling?” A half smile contorts the lines of his strong jaw, brewing shadows that only add to his obvious malice towards me. I suck in a breath through my teeth.

I won’t grovel. I told myself I wouldn’t. But which do I hate more, groveling to Auberon or losing what’s left of my magic and my House?

I close my eyes. “Please, Auberon.”

When he does not reply, I peel open my lids, fearing whatever gloating expression he’ll be wearing.

Instead, his dark eyebrows are high, revealing new creases on his forehead.

“You asked me to grovel,” I offer weakly.

“I don’t think that was groveling.” Auberon leans back in his chair. “That sounded sincere.

My, Titaine, should I be worried about you and your House?”

“Worry about your own House,” I snap.

Auberon smirks in rejoinder. Morgana’s magic, how I hate that smirk! “There she is.”

Scoffing, I turn my head away, wishing I could look anywhere else. In my peripheral vision, I still watch him—as one watches a scorpion or a snake.

“I find myself in a generous mood,” he says airily. “You can have a few spots on one of my ships— if

you can pay for it.”

“Of course I can pay for it. The House of Fetes wants for nothing!”

Auberon smiles. Curse him, he’s gotten a rise out of me again!

“Good. Then you won’t mind paying twenty-thousand conters.”

Twenty-thousand?

Is he mad?

The awful truth sinks into the pit of my stomach.

If I sail to Nox, I’ll be leaving most of my people behind, with less than half the House’s wealth to sustain them as their loss of magic robs them of their abilities, too—even some of their livelihoods.

I would send for them, of course, once I have the runeships repaired in Nox.

But what if, even in that ancient city, no one knows how to fix runeships depleted of their magic?

And even if they do, how am I to pay for it?

I close my eyes. What would be left if I don’t

go?

“Twenty-thousand it is,” I agree, almost through gritted teeth. I hate the way the words ring in my ears. I hate Auberon.

Without another word, I stand and make for the empty bar, where I leave coins for all the tea I’ve drunk. I’m beginning to feel queasy, my belly overfull. I’m also beginning to feel like I’ve just signed my people’s future away, all on one last, desperate gamble.

And isn’t trusting Auberon again the biggest gamble of all?

I leave the alehouse without once looking back at him. But it does not change that I can feel his presence behind me, and smell his woodsy, earthy scent. Or that I can feel his eyes boring into my retreating back.

I hate that he’s won. But more than that, I hope my people won’t hate me.