Balance of Power
Later that afternoon I walk to the kitchen, bolstered by the fact that I’m being escorted by a Level Five Mage in full military regalia whose father is the High Commander of the Gardnerian Mage Guard.
After our talk, Lukas brought me to Aislinn’s lodging, so I’m now cleaned up and wearing one of her conservative tunics over a clean, long black skirt. I’m curvier than Aislinn, and my hips and bust strain a bit at the black silk, but the clothes fit me reasonably well.
Lukas walks ahead of me through the small storage foyer leading to the main kitchen. He strides toward the door ahead and throws it open so hard that it slams against a wall, instantly getting everyone’s attention. They all grow silent and freeze as we walk in, their expressions of fear more intense, more stark, than those inspired by my arrival the day before.
Only Yvan glares openly at Lukas, slowly rising from where he’s just finished loading wood into the cookstove, moving with the slow caution one uses around a predator.
It’s clear that they all know exactly who Lukas is.
There are no books or maps strewn about today. No small children running around. The smell of hearty soup hangs thick in the air.
Lukas looks around, taking his time surveying the scene, taking in every last detail with hard, dark green eyes.
“Good afternoon,” he finally says, his tone and posture showing his displeasure.
“Good afternoon, Mage Grey,” Fernyllia Hawthorne responds. She looks positively stricken.
Lukas glares at her with disdain. “I’d like to speak with Fernyllia Hawthorne, Iris Morgaine and Bleddyn Arterra.”
Fernyllia nervously wipes the flour and bread dough from her hands, visibly trying to collect herself before approaching. Iris and Bleddyn march over, shooting threatening glares at me as they do so. I feel myself withering under the force of their combined hatred and glance over at Lukas. He doesn’t seem the least bit impressed.
“I don’t really believe much in small talk,” Lukas states curtly, “so let’s just get to the point, shall we? Iris Morgaine. I understand your parents are still farming.”
I jerk my gaze toward Lukas, surprised. Where is he going with this?
Iris also looks thrown by the unexpected turn of the conversation, her brow knitting tightly as she glares at Lukas with confusion. “Yes,” she says warily.
“And their farm is right on the Gardnerian border?” Lukas continues.
“It is.”
“Right next to the Essex military encampment, I believe?”
“Yes.”
Everyone has the same puzzled expression. Everyone, that is, except for Fernyllia and Yvan, the former looking flat-out scared, and the latter more furious by the second.
“I’m sure you’re aware that the location of the border there is a matter of some dispute between your government and ours,” Lukas continues.
Iris is silent, her face a picture of dawning horror.
Lukas continues to stare her down. “It would be a shame if our military decided to requisition your parents’ farmland. It would also be a shame if something went amiss during military training exercises, and your parents’ home was fired upon...by accident, of course. These types of occurrences are, luckily, very rare, but they do happen from time to time.”
Iris’s mouth opens a few times as if she wants to say something, but no sound comes out. Lukas appears amused by Iris’s discomfiture.
A cold unease pricks at the back of my neck.
“I will alert my father, Lachlan Grey, High Commander of the Gardnerian Military Forces, as to the whereabouts of your parents’ home, to make sure such an unfortunate event does not occur.”
“Thank...thank you,” Iris finally manages, her voice shaky now, all defiance shattered. “Thank you, sir.”
Lukas nods, pleased with her response, and turns to Bleddyn. “And you, Bleddyn Arterra. You have a mother who labors on the Fae Islands.”
Bleddyn narrows her eyes at him, a blood vessel at her temple becoming more pronounced, her face and body growing rigid with tension. It’s clear that she wants to lash out at us, that she’s struggling to rein in her anger.
“She’s been ill, hasn’t she?” Lukas prods Bleddyn.
Bleddyn doesn’t say anything, but the side of her mouth twitches, her eyes murderous.
“It would be bad for her if it were found that she had been distributing Resistance propaganda amongst the other laborers,” Lukas says smoothly. “That could be grounds for getting her transported to the Pyrran Isles. It’s difficult to survive there if a person is of a healthy constitution. Your mother might not fare well in a place such as that.”
My mind spins, almost dizzy with conflict. The Pyrran Isles—a storm-lashed military prison and war camp—are where we sent our enemies at the end of the Realm War.
Bleddyn’s face collapses. Lukas’s mouth curls up on one side, like a cat immobilizing a mouse.
“There’s no need to look so worried,” he assures her. “Even if your mother were found to be dabbling in the Resistance, I’m sure that a lot could be overlooked if her daughter were to exhibit model behavior, having been so generously granted work papers by the Gardnerian government. Am I making myself clear?”
“Yes,” Bleddyn croaks out, almost inaudibly.
Lukas cranes his head forward as if he hasn’t heard her completely. “Yes, what?” he asks.
She seems to be struggling with her jaw for a moment. “Yes, sir,” she finally manages.
Lukas smiles. “That’s better.”
I gape at Lukas, both in awe and troubled by how ruthlessly and efficiently he wields his power over them.
Lukas turns to Fernyllia. “And you, Miss Hawthorne. You have a granddaughter here, don’t you?”
As if on cue, the back door swings open, and the little Urisk girl, Fern, runs in, giggling and hugging the big gray kitchen cat in her small arms. Immediately sensing the tension, her smile evaporates. She sets down the cat and half hides behind her grandmother’s skirts, nervously peering out at us. Fernyllia seems momentarily devastated.
Guilt pricks at me.
But they hit you, I remind myself. They beat you and threatened you. And Fernyllia did nothing to stop them.
“Please, sir,” Fernyllia pleads, “the child is only here because her mother’s ill. I told her to stay out of the kitchens, not to disturb the laborers...”
Lukas smiles benignly. “Relax, Miss Hawthorne. The child can stay. I’m sure she’s useful around the kitchen, and I’m prepared to turn a blind eye to her presence.”
Fernyllia lets out a deep breath and bows her head submissively. “Thank you, sir. You’re very kind—”
“No, don’t make that mistake,” Lukas shoots back. “I’m not the least bit kind. A child of her age, with hands as small and nimble as hers, would be a very useful laborer on the Fae Islands.”
Little Fern begins to sob, looking up at her grandmother in desperation, pulling at her skirts as she lets loose a stream of panicked pleas in Uriskal.
Fernyllia doesn’t take her eyes off Lukas, the way you don’t take your eyes off a very dangerous animal. “Fern, be quiet,” she snaps.
Fern, possibly shocked by her grandmother’s harsh tone, quiets down to a soft whimper.
Lukas glances around at everyone, his expression stern and unforgiving. “I want to make myself very clear,” he begins. “If Mage Gardner trips again, or bumps her arm on a pot, or accidentally spills boiling water on herself or so much as scuffs her shoe, I will see that the child is on the next ship to the Fae Islands. Is there anything about this that is in any way not clear?” He looks back down at Fernyllia, who is regarding him squarely now, but with no small measure of fear.
“No,” Fernyllia replies. “No, sir. I think we all understand your meaning.”
Lukas nods at her. “Good.” He turns to me, his expression softening. “Elloren, I’ll meet you here at the end of your shift. I’m sure you’ll have a much more pleasant work experience.”
“Thank you,” I say, my voice stifled. I feel sick as I watch him leave, my mind in tumult.
Fern is crying softly into her grandmother’s skirts, clutching them with tiny fists. “Don’t let them send me back,” she whimpers miserably as Fernyllia, looking stressed and distracted, attempts to calm her, stroking her head with a weathered hand.
“Shhh, now. No one’s going to send you anywhere.” Fernyllia turns to me, the haze of fear still on her face, showing through her attempt at fake pleasantry. “Mage Gardner, you look tired. Why don’t you ice the spice cakes over there?”
I nod mutely, then go over to the sheets of brown cake, my stomach clenched into tight knots as everyone around me silently does the harder, heavier work.
For the rest of my shift, no one meets my eyes.
Except for Yvan.
Every time he brings a load of wood in to fuel the cooking fires, he shoves it into the stove, slams the iron door, then glares at me with a hatred as sharp as the kitchen knives.
I find myself withering under his hostile stare, my shame spiking when little Fern is quickly ushered out of the kitchens, countless worried glances cast my way.
I plop a pile of sticky frosting down on the sheet of cake and begin to slather it around as tears sting at my eyes.
I wish Lukas hadn’t threatened everyone so mercilessly—especially the child. I wish he hadn’t threatened to harm their families.
My sickening shame stiffens my movements as I work, Fern’s terrified sobbing fresh in my mind.
But what’s the alternative? To let them bully me? To let them kick me and slap me and threaten me with further violence? No, it’s better to make idle threats, if they now fear me.
I may be devoid of magic, but I’m Carnissa Gardner’s granddaughter, Vyvian Damon’s niece and favored by Lukas Grey.
For the rest of the shift, I try to cling to my roiling fear and anger to bolster myself and justify Lukas’s actions, but it’s impossible to hold back a fierce wave of sickening guilt. And I’m careful not to meet anyone’s eyes for the rest of the shift.
Especially not Yvan’s.