Myntar City, Sagmyn Province
“No no no no no no no no…”
The Malithii priest knew at least one word of Provincial Common, apparently.
Emrael and Jaina sat with their prisoner in a dank stone-walled cell beneath the Citadel. The stink of mold, blood, and piss permeated the air. A single infusori coil sat on a stool behind them next to a bloody pair of pliers, a dirty towel, and a bucket of water turned red with gore. The coil cast its steady blue light so that their shadows danced with their captive, who hung by his wrists from a chain mounted in the ceiling.
Dark red blood oozed in rivulets from raw patches on the Malithii’s arms where his angular script tattoos had once been. The Malithii believed that their tattoos granted them status with the Fallen God of Glory in some sort of afterlife, and it was evident to Emrael that this was not Jaina’s first time carving said tattoos from the flesh of a living Malithii priest.
Jaina leaned down to shout in the young Malithii’s ear. “Ichta dromni aes? Oule gaberei pire ousse! Ousse!”
The language of the Malithii was close enough to Old Ordenan that they could understand each other. The Ordenans had preserved as closely as possible the language and culture of the ancient Ravans, the people from which the Malithii had also diverged in the early days of the world.
The priest said nothing, though his body shuddered as he struggled to contain sobs of desperation. He clamped his eyes shut, knowing what came next.
Jaina pulled her knife from where she had stabbed it into the arm of the chair. With excruciating slowness, she dragged the tip of the blade through the priest’s skin, tracing another tattoo, this one high on his shoulder. The young Malithii’s semi-controlled whimpers crescendoed until he wept openly.
She snatched the pliers from the stool. The Malithii’s breath quickened as she secured a grip on the skin at the top of her cut. She jerked the flap of skin from the Malithii’s flesh.
Emrael’s stomach twisted as he watched the man scream himself hoarse. It was not lost on him that the torture was similar to what had been done to him several months prior. His heart beat heavy in his chest, his breathing quickened as the memory of his father’s mad green eyes flashed through his mind. He could still recall the feel of the knife parting his own flesh. He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath, repressing his own pain and panic.
This Malithii, young though he may have been, had done horrible things to earn his tattoos, and would do them to Emrael and his people given the chance. Jaina described the tattoos and the deeds done to earn them to Emrael as she tore them from the priest’s body.
“This one is given to those that participate in the ritual sacrifice of young women. They cut out their eyes, their womb, and then their still-beating heart in an offering to the Fallen,” she said, holding the latest bloody patch of human skin up to the light to inspect it. “Fucking barbarians.”
This priest had been taken after months of bloody fighting to take the Sagmynan infusori Wells back from Sagmyn Legion rebels who had chosen to stick with their Malithii allies, even as the demented priests turned captives from Emrael’s ranks—their former brothers-in-arms—into their soulbound monsters.
Jaina drew her knife once more and muttered a few more words Emrael didn’t understand as she placed the tip of the blade beneath the priest’s right eye and began to apply pressure slowly. The priest whimpered, then began to scream again as the blade pierced the skin and slid slowly into his flesh.
“Ichta dromni aes?” Jaina said it quietly this time, still holding the knife in his eye socket.
The priest started gibbering, and Jaina stopped pushing her knife. After the priest gasped a few sentences, Jaina pulled the knife from his eye. She turned to look at Emrael. “I believe he’s told us all he knows. He believes Corrande answers to his Malithii masters, to someone called ‘the Prophet.’ They are gathering in the Corrande and Barros provinces, traveling through the Ithan Kingdoms as we thought. He was told that the men gathering in Barros would be here to help them if they held the Wells long enough. Though this one likely does not know much beyond his own journey and rumors he’s heard. He is very junior.”
Emrael nodded, staring at the young Malithii priest, who had now vomited on himself. His head drooped down to his chest, the pain of being slowly skinned alive finally robbing him of his consciousness. Emrael was surprised that he felt pity more than contempt. The young mage was fighting for the only cause, the only way of life he knew, making the best of the life he had been handed.
Just like Emrael. Tens of thousands dead because of his choices, and many more would die before the conflict was over. He had been so sure he was justified in starting the war, but it was hard to feel morally superior when staring his own torture victim in the face.
He motioned to Jaina, who drew her sword and stabbed the Malithii through the heart in one smooth motion. She cleaned and sheathed her blades quickly, her face an uncaring mask that Emrael did his best to match. They exited the dungeons to speak with three of his Ire Legionmen waiting in the hallway.
Emrael locked eyes with the man in the lead, an Iraean sergeant named Ligan. Ligan’s squad were the ones who had captured the Malithii priest alive in the latest battle to liberate a Well, and they had paid a heavy price to do so. Five of his men dead, two gravely wounded.
“He’s in the second row, ten cells down. Deal with the body quietly. Lady Barros cannot hear about any of this.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” A few tears streaked Ligan’s otherwise stoic face.
Emrael hesitated, but finally asked, “Who did you lose?”
“My cousins, sir, and other lads from home.”
“And where is home?”
“A village called Four Hills, near Old Forge in the Norta Holding, Lord Ire.”
Emrael nodded, feeling queasy as he remembered his own desperation to keep Ban safe just a few short months ago. Ligan was living a nightmare like the one Emrael had feared, losing his friends. And they had done it for him.
He clapped the man on the shoulder and walked on toward the Citadel proper.
Jaina caught up with him a few strides later. “Are you well?”
Emrael shrugged it off. “Yes. It’s just … I’m fine.”
Taking him by the arm, she pulled him to a stop, then stared at him quietly for a time. “I know a thing or two about what you’re feeling, I think. I experienced—and did—some truly terrible things in my time fighting in the Westlands.” She paused, her gaze growing distant. “What matters now, however, is that you overcome the pain.”
She gently lifted his arm to peer at the bandage that covered his wrist and hand. “This, however, is inexcusable. You should never have been involved in the battles to retake the Wells in the first place. You have armies for that, now.”
He jerked his hand back. “I won’t sit in a palace while these men and women die for me, Jaina. Besides, this was just a lucky spear throw.”
She grunted. “Well. Do not complain to me when it turns to rot.”
“I’ll have Elle or my mother take a look at it right now. They want to review the trade proposal we’re sending to Ordena.”
Her sour expression turned sly. “Good. Make sure one of them heals it fully. I will make you run laps if you are late to training, ruler of a province or no.”
Jaina watched with a small group of Imperators as Emrael sparred with Yirram, an Imperator she did not know well but had quickly grown to respect. Yirram, a short, muscular Stonebreaker, didn’t talk much, but fought well. Sisters be praised, so did Emrael. The shame of having trained an inferior student would have been unbearable, particularly when the student was Councilor Maira’s son.
Emrael had also become a passable Stonebreaker and even showed some skill as a Battle-Mage in the several months since Lord Governor Corrande’s attack on the Citadel had interrupted that training, though he was understandably nowhere near the skill level of a full Imperator. The precise control of infusori required years, if not decades, of experience to master.
Still, he had progressed significantly. A taste of battle these past months had done the boy a favor in that regard.
However, she worried that his torture at the Malithii’s hands had affected him excessively. Emrael’s scars glittered in the sunlight, clearly visible even now without any infusori in his system. Beautiful, and horrifying. What worried her more were the scars within—the true extent of which only she had likely felt, as he only trained the Art with her. He hardly laughed anymore, and his eyes now burned with a ferocity that had nothing to do with his use of infusori. She had seen that look before, and rarely did it end well, especially for mages. She herself had been in a similar state after Welitan’s death, and had almost gotten herself and others killed because of it.
As she watched, Emrael escalated the sparring match with a flurry of strikes, his wooden practice blade a blur. Yirram’s blade dipped too low, and Emrael ended the match with his sword pinned to Yirram’s chest. The old Emrael would have gloated, or at least smiled. Now, he simply stepped back with a small bow for his opponent. The changes had not been all bad, perhaps.
“Again,” Emrael barked, but Yirram had had enough after nearly two hours of sparring without rest. Sweat dripped from every inch of bare skin on both men.
Jaina clapped her hands loudly three times, ending the training session and summoning the others to her. Emrael and the Imperators quickly gathered in a small semicircle in front of her. Her fellow Ordenans had accepted her leadership easily after Maira had given her the command during the battle for the Citadel. All of the new arrivals had seen battle in the Dark Lands, but none as extensively as she.
“Yirram!” she barked. “Why did you lose?”
This had become her standard for training, whether single combat or group exercises. Train, analyze. She did not do this to shame the losers, but to teach the entire group effectively, and purposefully. Though in truth, shame was an effective teacher, as long as success was given due recognition as well.
To his credit, Yirram did not fidget or hesitate, though he took a deep breath, winded after the prolonged fight. “My stamina failed, Imperator Jaina. I did not maintain proper defensive position nor counterattack appropriately to deter my opponent. I will improve by drilling for quickness in counterstriking, and doubling my endurance training.” He glanced at Emrael, who was similarly slicked with sweat and breathing hard but stood perfectly erect, and muttered audibly, “The demon bastard.” A compliment, coming from an Imperator.
She turned to point a thumb at Emrael as she addressed the other Ordenans. “Now, what did he do well?”
“His balance and footwork are impeccable,” one called. Timan, she thought. One of the better pure Battle-Mages Maira had brought with her, and seemed to have the Councilor’s favor besides. Jaina would keep him close.
Another of the young Imperators, a Mage-Healer named Cailla, offered her critique. “The varied power behind Emrael’s strikes tired Yirram more quickly than a consistently tempered attack would have.”
Jaina nodded along with all of them. “Very good. That is enough, the boy’s head is large enough already. Where does Emrael need to improve?”
Cailla spoke up again. “He is arrogant. His willingness to take risks in sparring often wins matches in the training yard, but creates unacceptable liability in battle. Behaviors chosen in training are sure to be repeated, soon or late.”
She tried to hide a small smile and failed. She had told Emrael the same more times than she could count. Again, Emrael showed no reaction other than a slight nod of his head in recognition of the critique.
Satisfied, she turned to wave at a few dozen blocks of granite she had placed at the edge of the combat yard. “Now to truly humble him. Yirram, show us how to shear the block cleanly in two, vertically. The rest of you, gather close to watch. Feel. You especially, Emrael.”
Emrael toweled off after his cold shower—cold because not enough infusori yet flowed from the newly liberated infusori Wells in the mountains above the city for use on such luxuries. This according to Elle, anyway.
He didn’t have time for a prolonged shower in any case. Training had gone long, and Toravin was already waiting to take him on a tour of the Legion.
Waiting right outside his bath chamber, in fact. “Hurry your ass up, Ire. The men will be waiting. A few months as a king and already making thousands of people wait on you.”
“I’m not a king, you dumb bastard,” Emrael called back as he pulled clean clothes and not-so-clean armor on. Toravin had fast become a friend, his easy manner and general disdain for authority extremely refreshing. He was already sick of people bowing and saluting at him left and right. “Not yet. Governor at best. But Elle and my mother do most of the governing.”
Toravin clapped him on the shoulder as he exited into the hallway. “And a good thing they do. You’re good enough with a sword and with tactics, but I’d hazard a guess that civilian relations and international trade are not your strengths.”
Emrael grunted sourly, but didn’t argue. Toravin was right, for the most part, though Emrael made a point of spending several hours per day learning the craft of governance from his mother and Elle. Over the last months, he had sat in on scores of mind-numbingly boring audiences and budgeting meetings, contributing where possible but mostly trying to absorb as much information as he could about the day-to-day workings of a province.
Flanked by a squad of ten Legionmen, he and Toravin walked through the Citadel compound and to the second tier of the city, where Emrael’s army had taken over the large compound that had housed the Sagmyn Legion. When they arrived, men with varied styles of Legion armor worn over green uniforms lined the top of the short walls of the compound. While his men still weren’t outfitted uniformly, all of them now had functional armor and weapons, many pilfered from Sagmyn stores or stored away for decades by those who had served in the Barros Legion or even the Watchers in the past. It would do, for now.
The Legionmen on guard saluted them as they approached the open gate to the sudden sound of beating their swords on their shields. Emrael looked to Toravin, frowning. “Really?”
Toravin laughed. “Just wait.”
They reached the courtyard and found thousands of their Legionmen lined up in perfect ranks. They began beating their shields as well, a thunder of crashing metal.
Toravin was now laughing so hard that tears streamed from the corners of his eyes. “You should see your face! Act pleased, the men were very excited about this little display. Dumb bastards. Good lads, though, most of them. Fought well so far, for a ragtag army.”
Toravin still had a smile on his face as he waved to the gathered soldiers, and Emrael followed suit. While he was uncomfortable with the constant reminders of his newly acquired status, this display gave him goosebumps and filled him with pride. He had aspired to leading men like these—he just hadn’t dreamed that it would happen so quickly, or that he’d feel like a fraud most days.
As they continued their tour of the Legionmen gathered in the courtyard of the compound, the assembled men broke into companies of one hundred to demonstrate drills.
The companies paired off to form opposing ranks three deep, with shields to the front and overlapped, forming a traditional shield wall. Men pushed and shoved with their shields, shouting and cursing as they battered away at their “enemies” with clubs fashioned from seasoned wood or unbladed spear hafts. No sense in using edged weapons in training, after all.
Toravin gestured at a nearby company running this drill. “I’ve got them fighting properly with shields. None of that fancy sport-fighting you learned at the Citadel.”
Emrael guffawed. “I started drilling with the Barros Junior Legion before I was twelve years old, and we fought with shields often enough at the Citadel. I’ve likely drilled in full gear more than any man here, with the possible exception of old-timers like Voran.”
Toravin nodded at that. “Aye, the men have noticed. I’ve noticed. Stupid of you to risk yourself in the battle for the Citadel and the skirmishes up in the mountains, but you’ve earned yourself a great deal of loyalty among the men. The Sagmynans like that you’re a Citadel lad, and the Iraeans have been waiting for someone like you for two generations. Fighting men appreciate a leader who takes the same risks they do.”
Emrael grunted. “I’m a fighting man same as them, Toravin.”
Toravin looked at him askance, a small smirk pursing his lips. “They call themselves the ‘Ire Legion’ now, you know that? Not the Iraean Legion, not the Sagmynan Legion. The ‘Ire’ Legion. If we succeed, it will be because you made them believe you were something more than that.”
Emrael clapped his friend on the shoulder fondly. “Tor, if we succeed, it’ll be because you have done a damn fine job organizing and training this lot. I never would have believed that the Sagmynans would take so quickly to joining us. But are they ready for war? Real war?”
It was Toravin’s turn to look uncomfortable. “As ready as they can be. I’ve had them training as much as I can without them killing me in my sleep. As long as we’re smart about how we use the men, they’ll get the job done.”
“How many are ready to march? Barros is breathing down our necks—the last reports said he’s got twenty thousand in Lidran already.”
“Voran is the one keeping the ledgers and other paperwork. I only handle the city defenses and training. But based on the men in rotation for city duty and what I know of other stations and patrols … we might be able to take twenty thousand with us. Twenty-five, if you’re very sure that Corrande won’t try to retake Sagmyn.”
Emrael just grunted noncommittally. At best, he’d have half a Legion to fight three Legions’ worth of men between Barros, Corrande, and the Watchers. Not to mention the Malithii and their Glory-forsaken soulbound. If he didn’t find more men, and quickly, they were doomed.
They reached the command building of the Legion compound. Emrael had expected to find Voran there, and had hoped to review some of the ledgers. They had lost hundreds of men liberating the infusori Wells from a small band of Sagmyn Legion holdouts, but more recruits joined their ranks every day. He needed an accurate count of their men and training statuses for what came next. “Speaking of the old bastard—where is he?”
Toravin looked at him sideways before trying to cover it. “I thought to ask the same of you, Ire. Supplies and the soldiers’ pay arrive as they should, which is nothing short of a miracle, mind you. But I hardly see the man more than a day or two each week. Figured he was up at the Citadel with you.”
Emrael frowned, but soon shrugged. “I’ll find him later. Take me to see the men on the walls like you wanted.”
The two of them and the squad assigned to accompany them were given saddled horses at the Legion stables, which they rode through the bustling city streets to several different Legion guardhouses for inspection.
The large structure at the west gate that had just recently been rebuilt—after Emrael had destroyed it in their assault in early summer—was the last guardhouse they planned to visit. As they rode their horses at a slow trot, the iron-shod hooves clopping as they struck the stone cobbles, Emrael recognized an inn. He had stopped there what seemed like a lifetime ago, though in reality it had just been a few short months.
Emrael called for a halt. When Toravin looked at him like he had gone mad, Emrael said, “Just follow me. And bring your coin purse.”
“My what?” Toravin replied, confused.
Emrael dismounted without responding and made his way to the door of the inn. When he stepped inside, the same stocky innkeeper he remembered stood behind the counter of the bar.
“Can I help you … Captain?”
Emrael smiled. The man didn’t recognize him, despite the distinctive hair, and the fact that Emrael had robbed him just months earlier. “Yes, you can, innkeeper. I’ve come to repay a debt.”
The innkeeper’s brows furrowed in confusion, then recognition slowly widened his eyes. “You!”
The burly man’s eyes darted from Emrael to Toravin, both of whom wore the armor, riveted straps, and added stars of Commanders in a Legion. No doubt he was trying to decide whether Emrael was here to trick and rob him again.
Emrael nodded. “Me.”
He turned to Toravin, who stood watching in confusion. “Your purse?”
Toravin slowly extended a leather bag full of coins.
Emrael took it and asked, “What’s the going rate for a Legion mount, Tor?”
Toravin looked to the Captain Third who led the squad accompanying them today, who shrugged. Toravin sighed. “Ah … last I checked it was three copper rounds.”
Emrael stared in momentary shock. “Glory, that’s triple what it should be.”
Toravin shrugged. “Everything costs more when a war is on. Some bastards attacked the city a while back.”
The innkeeper, recovered from his shock and confusion, grumbled, “Try running an inn with no travelers, and food costs at five times what they should be. And those Legionmen handing out free food in nearly every square. I’m nearly bankrupt.”
Left unsaid but clearly communicated through his baleful glare was an accusation that Emrael was behind the economic difficulties. And he wasn’t entirely wrong.
Toravin, however, objected. “Hundreds of my men are dead and thousands wounded, all to provide infusori to the city and the rest of the province. Food is being paid for and handed out—at our expense, mind you—to keep people from starving. It will get worse before it gets better, but we are doing right by everyone we can. War is not always so civil, good innkeeper.”
The innkeeper’s eyes now bulged with anger. “You are thieves, criminals! Attacking our city and then lording about as if it’s your right to be here.”
Toravin opened his mouth to respond, but Emrael held up his hand to forestall him.
“Governors Corrande and Sagmyn brought war to the Provinces. No doubt you’ve seen their monsters we strapped to the gates. But, I won’t deny that I brought war to Myntar.” He began counting coins from the purse Toravin had handed him, clicking them on the bar counter one by one until he had laid out ten full copper rounds. “If I were truly just, I would be in a cell right now for stealing from you. The world is not just, however, and I don’t have time to be, either. But here is payment for the horse I stole and much more. Perhaps enough to ease your hardships.”
The sum was likely as much as the innkeeper would have earned in several weeks of operating his inn. That silenced him, and Emrael left without another word.
“What was that about?” Toravin asked as he caught up to him out in the street.
“I pay my debts, Tor. All of them I can.”
Toravin laughed. “Well, you owe me ten copper rounds.”
That night, Emrael sat in a leather-cushioned chair on the opposite side of a large table from his brother, Banron. Their old, worn Reign game board and pieces were out of place on the finely finished wood of the table in Ban’s new rooms.
Emrael had practically had to force his brother to take the old Master’s quarters in the wing nearest the Crafting laboratories instead of the small room that they had shared the year before. The rooms were nearly as large as his own suite of rooms in the main wing of the Citadel, which had been newly repaired after he had collapsed a portion of it in the battle several months before.
On the other hand, convincing Ban to take charge of the Crafters left in the Citadel had been quite easy. Even the few Masters who had survived the Watcher and Malithii occupation now deferred to his brother readily, though he was just shy of twenty summers old. In his few months in charge, the Crafters of the Citadel had produced more Craftings than they otherwise would have in a year’s time. A good thing too—Craftings were desperately needed to power cooling chambers and pumps that supplied the city and much of the rest of the province with fresh food and water. Now, they would likely be able to feed the entire province solely from their own stores, even through the winter.
The remains of their dinner—fire-roasted chicken, flatbread, and summer squash—sat on trays scattered about the table along with pitchers full of ale, both light for Emrael and the dark that Ban favored. A map of the Provinces lay on the table next to Emrael, marked with the latest information from their scouts.
Emrael pulled his gaze away from the map to stare at the Reign board in consternation. “Absent Gods, Ban, have you been doing nothing but playing Reign all day while I’m out working and training? How did you get this good so quickly?”
Ban laughed and raked his hand through his now shoulder-length chestnut hair. “You’re distracted, and I still only win half our games at best.”
“Half too many, if you ask me,” Emrael mumbled sourly as he swept his pieces from the board, admitting defeat. His brother laughed harder.
They were silent for a time as they reset the board. “Your move,” Emrael grunted, then drained another tankard of ale.
Ban eyed the map and the empty tankard after he placed his first piece. “Worried?”
Emrael grunted a sardonic laugh. “What would I be worried about?”
Ban simply raised his eyebrows in reply.
Emrael sighed, tapping on the map. “We’re in a hard spot, Ban. Barros has us pinned in the west. Corrande, the Watchers, and the Malithii are gathering to crush Dorae in Whitehall, and then us soon after, no doubt. This might have all been for nothing.”
Ban met his gaze for a moment, his lips pursed. “What are our options?”
“I don’t know that there are any options, Ban. We have maybe one-quarter the soldiers Corrande and Barros do, and ours aren’t nearly as well trained or equipped. We might be able to hold Sagmyn for a time while we train our men, but to what end? I need men, weapons, and supplies. I need more copper. I need a lot of things.”
Ban’s mouth quirked into a small smile as he turned to their board, removing most of Emrael’s pieces and arranging the board so that Emrael was in a dire situation—almost certain to lose. He had left the Arbiter and the Commander to Emrael, however—the most powerful pieces. Enough to win a game by themselves, if played correctly. “What would your next moves be, should you find yourself in this situation in the game?”
Emrael gave his brother a flat glare. “I know what you’re doing, Ban. But this isn’t as simple as pieces on a board. When I issue orders, people die. Thousands have already died, between taking the city and liberating the Wells.”
Ban shook his head. “If we do nothing, everyone dies, Em. You and I could likely flee to Ordena with Mother. Nobody else has that option, though. All of the men who followed you, fought for you, and many innocents besides will die or worse at Corrande’s hand. All of our paths lead to bloodshed.” He looked Emrael in the eyes and gestured to the board again. “What’s your move?”
Emrael glared at his brother but made his move. They played for a solid half an hour in silence, making moves one after the other. Emrael did the only thing he could do—launched an all-out attack. Twenty moves later, the board was nearly even, Emrael having won back more pieces than he had lost. Ban sat back suddenly, a full smile baring his bright white teeth. “If anyone can do it, it’s you, Em. Use the pieces you’ve got, and make your move.”
Emrael leaned back, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. “Glory take you, Ban, you’re right. If anyone will join our cause, it’s the Iraeans. We need to show them we can win against the Provinces, and need to have something to offer in return for joining us. Land, copper, and a cause. I wonder what’s left of Trylla…” He trailed off, running one finger along his map of Iraea until it rested on a drawing of a ruined city. “Think they have usable wells and roads, still? Reviving the ancient capital could be just the thing.”
Ban shrugged. “I’d imagine so. It’s only been fifty years or so, and the Watchers can’t have destroyed much of the critical infrastructure, which will be mostly masonry. Repairs will be needed, but it’d be better than starting from scratch.”
Emrael clicked his tongue as he pondered. “Right. It might work. But first, we deal with Barros.”
Ban looked from the map, his eyes wide in surprise. “You’d attack Elle’s father?”
Emrael’s face twisted in a snarl as his father’s green eyes flashed vividly in his mind. Anger surged through him, trying in vain to smother the overwhelming sorrow that lurked in his core. When he spoke, emotion roughed his voice. “Barros is more rotten than you might think, Ban. When Father and I were ambushed at that bandit stronghold in Iraea, it was on Governor Barros’s personal orders. He’s not our ally and never will be.”
Ban sucked a breath in between his teeth. “Elle won’t like it.”
“Elle won’t like what?” a voice called from the foyer, just before they heard the door shut. Emrael shot a warning glance at Ban just before Elle swept into the room where they were playing.
“Ah … Emrael’s drinking,” Ban said, gesturing at Emrael’s empty tankard and the empty pitcher to one side of the table. “I told him he needs to keep his wits about him.”
Elle gave him a suspicious glare, which she soon turned on Emrael. “Yes, well. If you’re busy drinking yourself into a stupor, I can make other plans.”
Elle had her own suite of rooms, but had taken to staying in Emrael’s quarters over the last few months. She had even commandeered the vast majority of his closets. He didn’t need the space anyway; he only owned two pairs of boots and five sets of cotton shirts and wool uniforms in Ire Legion green, and it still felt odd having so many clothes.
Emrael stood quickly to embrace her and give her a quick kiss on the cheek. “No, no. We’re done here, Ban finally took a game from me. I’m coming.”
Elle smiled predatorily. “That’s what I thought.”
She blushed a bit when her eyes flicked to her lifelong friend, Ban. Her gaze hardened quickly, however, as she took in Ban’s tankard. “Ban, I expected this from Emrael, but it looks like you’ve had your share as well, eh? Don’t forget that I’m still waiting on dozens of refrigeration Craftings and Crafted winches for the Merchants’ Guild. They’ve been breathing down my neck for weeks.”
Ban leaned back in his chair, wiping his hands across his face. “Glory, Elle, we’re working as fast as we can. No harm in a drink or two in the evenings.”
“Besides,” Emrael chimed in, “he’s supposed to be making more Observers for me, not wasting his beautiful brain on common contraptions for the merchants. They can wait until Ban’s Crafting students finish them.”
Elle glared at them both again, but soon laughed. “Fine. I can’t think anymore about merchants or Craftings or ledgers or budgets tonight. I need a hot bath and a soft bed.”
“The Citadel water heaters have charged infusori coils again, then?”
She flashed a smile. “Not yet. We’ll have coils enough for that within a month or so, but Ban made me a Crafting that will heat one bathtub.”
Emrael glared at his brother. “Seriously? You don’t have time for the Observers or Crafted crossbows I need, but you can make her a bath warmer?”
His brother, the smug bastard, shrugged and said simply, “Look, you put her in charge. I just follow orders.”
“Idiot,” Emrael mumbled, but only halfheartedly. He knew that such a small Crafting would not have taken Ban much time, and Elle had shouldered much of the stress of running their commandeered province.
Elle didn’t look one bit abashed. She looked pointedly at Emrael, arching an eyebrow. “I’m going for that bath and bed. Now or never.”
It was Emrael’s turn to blush as Ban laughed.
“I’ll take care of all this,” Ban said with a smile, gesturing at the remains of their meal. “Go.”
Emrael gave his brother a brief hug before following Elle out of the room.