Seeing herself thus transformed, here and in this place, left her more unsettled than if she’d been thrust into a cell. What was the agenda here? She knew it couldn’t be kindness, so she supposed it must be part of her role in House El-Adrel. In Sammael, the familiars had been treated as faceless tools, mere appendages. In this place… well, apparently she was to be ornamental as much as a provider of magic. Physical beauty is icing with familiars.
Thoughtfully fingering the perfume bottle she’d palmed, she mused over the possibilities. No one expected an ornament to attack. And she’d rather die taking down Lady El-Adrel—and her faithful scum of a son—than become their pet familiar.
She went compliantly enough with the servants who escorted her back out to the sitting area, finding her balance on the heels and smoothing her gait as she did. Selly stopped in surprise, however, at the sight of the auburn-haired man relaxing in one of the armchairs.
For a short moment, during which a storm of emotions battered her—hope, despair, fury, love, rage, hate—she thought it was Jadren come to see her. A painful, idealistic part of her actually thought he’d come to rescue her.
But no.
It wasn’t Jadren at all, but an older version of him. So alike that they could be brothers. He waved a hello, a fluttering of fingers, and smiled with apparent sincerity. “Hello. Seliah, is it? I’m Fyrdo. Jadren’s father.”
She didn’t know why that revelation shocked her. Of course Jadren had a father and she could see now that this man had glints of silver in his hair and beard, and his eyes were a spicy brown, not wizard-black. Had Jadren’s eyes been that color once? The man—Fyrdo—was also a familiar, she realized with another start of recognition, along with surprise that she knew that so readily. Apparently her sense of magic was improving.
Fyrdo continued to smile warmly, gesturing to the chair beside him as the servants streamed out again. They seemed to trigger the door mechanism in some way, but Selly couldn’t quite see, blocked as it was by their bodies.
“I can see why Jadren likes you,” Fyrdo commented. “You’re a very beautiful young woman. A potent familiar, too. Wine?”
He leaned forward to pour wine into two fragile glass goblets tinted pale gold like the wine. “An Elal white, in celebration of spring,” he said, lifting both glasses and extending one to her. “Please. Sit, and be comfortable.”
Warily, she perched on the edge of the chair, not drinking from the glass, not at all sure how to process this next phase of her captivity. Surreptitiously, she tucked the purloined perfume bottle into the wedge between cushions.
“You can speak now,” he prompted with an understanding smile. “No wizards about. Just us familiars.”
Chagrined that she’d already become accustomed to being seen and not heard—though it was restful to take refuge in silence when she didn’t know her lines—it took a moment to find her voice. “Jadren doesn’t like me,” she said. “He hates me.”
Fyrdo tilted his head in a maybe yes, maybe no gesture. “Rarely are things as they appear,” he replied cryptically. “But Jadren did ask me to look in on you, and he’s never asked me anything like that before, or been interested in a familiar, so your assumptions might require some revisiting. How are you holding up?” he asked, before she could respond to that extraordinary remark.
“I don’t know,” she answered honestly. Why was she sitting here, pretending to have a civil conversation when she should be running as fast as she could? She was the half-feral swamp creature Jadren had named her, not a lady of falsely polite Convocation society.
“It’s a big change for you, I’m sure,” Fyrdo said, sounding sincerely sympathetic. “I come from something of a backwater, rural house also, and I recall my first days here vividly. A word to the wise: don’t go about unescorted. The house has ideas of its own and the unwary can become trapped if a wing shifts while you’re inside. You can drink the wine. It’s not poisoned and it’s best cold.” He tapped the carafe. “A lovely spell embedded in the bottle keeps the wine chilled, but it quickly warms once poured.”
Not quite able to keep up with the apparently friendly chatter, still processing what he could mean by the house shifting and having its own ideas—even though that explained the staircase—she sipped the wine. The other option was to refuse to eat or drink anything while in the house of her enemy, like a heroine from some epic tale, and she highly doubted that would be practical. She wanted to die destroying her enemies, not fainting from starvation and dehydration. Or survive to go home. Just the thought of being able to return to House Phel gave her a pang of longing.
“Delicious, yes?” Fyrdo asked with an encouraging nod at her wine glass.
In truth, she’d barely noticed how it tasted. “Will I have the opportunity to go about, escorted or otherwise?” she asked.
He looked charmingly puzzled. “Of course! You’re not a prisoner here.”
She set her glass down. “Then I’d like to go home to House Phel immediately.”
“Ah.” Taking a sip from his own glass, he considered her. “There is a bit of a gap between not being a prisoner and being allowed to leave altogether. Katica wants you here. Lady El-Adrel,” he clarified to her puzzled frown. “Her word is law. Besides, familiars don’t run around without a wizard to protect them, you know. To do so would simply invite trouble. We wouldn’t want you to be harmed by nefarious interests. You’re too important to Jadren.”
“As a hostage.”
“As a familiar,” he corrected. “I have to hand it to my son—he may have found the one familiar Lady El-Adrel will let him bond. Cleverly played, I must say.”
“You’re Lady El-Adrel’s familiar?” she asked, realizing she should’ve put that together already. He certainly spoke of his wife in an oddly formal way. “Her husband, that is. Lord El-Adrel.”
“No, no, no.” He looked amused, chuckling softly. “Lady El-Adrel heads the house alone. I am her familiar, yes, but not her husband. Not all wizards wed their familiars. It depends on the house custom, to a large extent, and the wizards. They are a law unto themselves, as I’m sure you’re discovering.” He slanted her a conspiratorial grin that she didn’t know how to respond to. Though Gabriel certainly did things his own way, expressing disdain for Convocation law, so she nodded.
“I am, however, the father of all of Lady El-Adrel’s children,” he added, with pride that seemed oddly misplaced to Selly. “We’re an excellent match procreationally, as well as magically. I impregnated Lady El-Adrel—though she was not yet head of the house at that time—the first week she bedded me.”
His tone was so boasting, his eyes so bright with the expectation of congratulations, that she murmured something to that effect, not really understanding at all.
“That’s an advantage for you,” he said with compassion, “that Jadren discovered you as he did. You won’t have to undergo the Betrothal Trials. For us guys, it’s not so bad, but for the females, being sequestered to guarantee parentage can be difficult. You’re truly lucky, Seliah. I hope you’ll come to see that. Jadren will be a wonderful wizard for you.”
Selly decided against arguing, still sorting through all the clues and partial information, he’d dumped in her lap. “Is that why you’re here,” she finally asked, “to convince me to bond Jadren?”
