Beside her, Alise stiffened in outrage, but before she could defend herself, Sabrina gestured at a pile of things on a nearby dresser. “I have. I just don’t care,” she said dully. “In all honesty,” she said, meeting Nic’s gaze, “I don’t understand why you haven’t killed me yet. Why bother with grooming if I’m just going to die?”
Was this broken appearance subterfuge? Nic wouldn’t put it past the wily Sammael teenager, but somehow she believed otherwise. “We have no plans to execute you,” Nic answered, “because we don’t do things that way in House Phel.”
Sabrina snorted, evincing more spirit at that. “All Convocation houses do things that way, Lady Phel. After all, your wizard master killed Sergio quickly enough.”
True. “A clean death, no torture, which was more than Sergio deserved after what he did to me. In your case, it’s not clear how much guilt you bear.”
Sabrina’s eyes flicked cagily to Iliana. The soft-hearted familiar still hovered near the door, not out of fear, Nic thought, but because she couldn’t bear to see anyone in pain, even the wizard who’d have cheerfully tormented her. “I haven’t been interrogated,” Sabrina said, “so I assume you already know everything about my plan to bond Han as my familiar and bring Iliana into House Sammael to ensure his good behavior.”
“Reprehensible and loathsome plans,” Nic agreed, “but not against Convocation law.”
Sabrina nearly smiled, a wry twist of her mouth that should be pretty, if it weren’t pressed in the bitterness of defeat and grief. “Trust an Elal to split those hairs.”
“If anything,” Nic continued, “it’s Han, Iliana, and my own sister who are on the wrong side of Convocation law in this instance, for evading a duly executed contract on the part of the familiars and for stealing them, on the part of Alise.”
Alise showed no reaction—perhaps the jibe about Elals had merit—but Iliana gasped, moving slightly in Nic’s peripheral vision. Nic glanced at her, raising a brow. Either Iliana trusted her or she didn’t. The redhead subsided, but fidgeted with one long braid.
Sabrina regarded Nic with cynicism. “Am I to believe you’ll turn over my familiars to me, arrest your sister, and send me on my merry way?”
Nic laughed. “Of course not. There’s Convocation law and then there’s how things are done between high houses.”
“House Phel is not a high house.”
“Not yet,” Nic agreed airily, “but we will be. And, as you point out, I’m an Elal by birth and breeding, which means that I’m going to offer you a bargain. I suggest you listen carefully.”
~ 12 ~
Fyrdo chatted amiably as he escorted Selly to dinner on his arm—a necessary assistance as she still wasn’t entirely proficient at walking on the high heels. When she’d rebelled and made to take them off, saying she’d prefer to go barefoot, he’d stopped her with a gentle hand and a grave expression. “Lady El-Adrel would be unhappy with you and I promise you would regret it. I know you feel you don’t care about angering her at this juncture, but I am sincere in telling you that you are far better off not annoying her over something so inconsequential.”
He was absolutely correct that she didn’t care, but there was also something so grimly serious underlying his quiet words that she conceded. Thus, she hung onto his arm like a lady in an historical novel, concentrating on her balance as he pointed out features of House El-Adrel, along with copious warnings of the parts to avoid at all costs. “The testing labs are down that way,” he said, pointing to a tunnel of bright aluminum concentric circles that appeared to be expanding and contracting as she looked. “You really don’t want to go there.”
She believed him. Just the term seemed ominous, making her skin crawl with foreboding. They reached the immense dining hall, the ceiling soaring with what looked like gravity-defying arches to her. Needle-thin spires of copper held up a roof that appeared to be made of glass, a sunset sky showing above in shades of violet streaked with the peaches of spring clouds, making her long with a physical ache to be outside.
A clockwork mechanism whirled with stately grace, apparently suspended from nothing in the center of the dome, spheres moving in orbits around each other. She couldn’t imagine its purpose, but it seemed to be something more than beautiful.
Several long tables filled the room, people standing by their chairs and chattering at such a volume that their conversation bounced off the hard ceiling with a dull roar. Selly had attended a few formal dinners at House Phel—subdued ones with Gabriel unconscious, and then him convalescing and Nic absent—so she knew it was Convocation custom to assemble the house junior wizards, students, and other minions for dinner, and she’d thought herself prepared via that prior experience. This boisterous crowd and resulting din, however, sent flutters of panic surging through her. Without thought, operating on animal instinct, she yanked her arm from Fyrdo’s—he didn’t have Jadren’s experience, too startled to stop her—and bolted blindly for the door.
Her slick heels skidded on the polished metal floor, and she teetered precariously, but she managed to catch her balance, pushing past shocked faces. Until strong hands caught her by the arms, holding her still in an implacable grip as she flailed wildly. Fiery auburn hair trimmed neat as his beard, wizard-black eyes intent on hers. Jadren.
“Seliah,” he said with quiet deliberation. “Stop. Think.” He said nothing more, holding onto her, holding her gaze, firm expectation in his eyes.
Stop. Think.
That’s right—she couldn’t run. She didn’t know the way out. Even if she did, the way out changed constantly, the doors opened only to one wizard, and then there was the wire topping the walls. She was a prisoner in House El-Adrel, no matter how they dressed it up. “I hate it here,” she whispered, finally ceasing her struggles. She’d meant to spit the words at Jadren, the traitor, her abductor, but they came out like a plea. “I want to leave this place.”
He squeezed her arms, steadied her, then let go. “You may be crazy, but no one ever said you were stupid,” he muttered quietly before stepping back. His black gaze traveled over her, an odd expression on his face. “I’m sure you hate the shoes, but there’s no doubt you are gorgeous cleaned up. You look truly lovely, Seliah.”
The fervency in his quiet voice had her flushing from the unexpected compliment, off balance and searching for a response, she wondered how she could be flattered and hate him at the same time.
His lips twisted in that ironic half smile and he cleared his throat. “Now,” he continued in a patronizing tone, “try to be pretty on the inside, too, and don’t upset Maman. For all our sakes.”
Crooking his elbow in an invitation to take his arm, Jadren indicated the high table at the far end of the room. It perched on a dais, sitting under an enormous banner suspended from the ceiling, which glowed white, diagonally bifurcated by a lightning bolt worked in metals of all shades. Centered beneath it, as if she were one of her automatons brought to life by the glittering zig-zag of enchantment, Lady El-Adrel watched them with stone-black eyes in her cold face, her slow-burning, calculating gaze crawling over Selly’s skin.
Lady El-Adrel would be unhappy with you and I promise you would regret the results.
And there was Jadren, his gaze on her with similarly cool assessment and challenge, so like his father in build and coloring, with his mother’s eyes and manner. How much was he his mother’s creation? She had no way of knowing, but Jadren had quelled her ill-advised panic, and he stared her down now. So, she took his arm, slipping her hand through the crook of his elbow, aware of how his manner relaxed infinitesimally, though his muscles remained tense. It was in his magic, she realized, that the prickling insistence had subsided. Some wizards, she’d heard the others mention in passing, had the ability to compel others. Had Jadren been using that on her?
She didn’t think so, but she had no reason for that belief. He walked with a measured pace, not chatting as his father had, but acting as if they had all the time in the world, which allowed her the dignity of moving with more grace—something she sorely needed after her impetuous flight. Not that she imagined Jadren was doing it out of consideration for her. All right, she did imagine that because, despite all evidence to the contrary, she couldn’t seem to stop thinking of him as, if not her friend, at least her ally.
