Crown of Iron

Chapter Five

Anya has to fight back a sigh of relief when Brigid serves their dinner. Neither Elias nor Eámann have stopped glaring at each other for more than a moment, the tension between them so thick that she could cut it with a knife, but they have fallen silent and the room is still. Outside, she can hear the quiet sigh of summer's dying breath, giving in a little more to autumn. For a moment, there is calm, and nothing exists but the five of them, sitting around a table, and not caring about anything else. But then—

"I'm getting sick of rabbit," mumbles Eámann.

"Then go out and catch dinner yourself," Tiarnán returns with a faint smile on his lips, and life comes crashing back in as he flicks a spoonful of stew. It hits Eámann's cheek with a resounding splat. He lets out a yelp as he dodges Eámann's response which comes in the form of Eámann's spoon being pelted at his head.

Across the table, Elias' eyes meet hers, a ghost of a smile on his lips. She still does not know if she is meant to trust him, but part of her wants to. If he's telling the truth about the King having sent him, she dreads to ask what the King deemed so dangerous only a mage could take care of the matter rather than a legion of soldiers.

"So," she begins softly, not paying attention to her brothers' bickering. "You're a battlemage then?"

Elias inclines his head, considering her words. "In a way," he responds after a moment's thought. "Defensive magic comes more naturally to me, though I've had... extensive training with offensive magic."

"Are you hunting down someone?"

He just smiles.

"You can't answer that question, can you?"

"Not without lying which has its own... consequences, shall we say," he says. "I have already confessed to searching for someone. I am certain you can come to your own conclusions as to why the King would send someone..." He trails off again, brows furrowing as though the words catch in his throat. "Someone of my skill set."

"Of your skill set?" she asks, but once again receives nothing but a smile. She lets out a sigh, running her hand over her face. "You can't tell me that either?"

"I have certain oaths I am sworn to uphold," he says in response, his smile twisting into an irritated scowl. "Of protection and... subservience, to a degree. I swore them out of necessity more than my own desire to be bound to the King. My presence here is not borne of my own desire."

"Can you at least tell me whether or not I should be concerned by you being here?" Anya suspects there's much more to his story beyond what she knows he's hiding, and it worries her. Battlemages are few and far between, and if he's telling the truth about the King having sent him, she's afraid of whoever—or whatever—it is he's looking for.

"You're worried for your people."

She blinks, taken aback by his words. He speaks as though he's surprised by her fear, as though it's not something he expected of her. "Of course I am," she says, perplexed by his confusion. "It's my duty to protect Mórsail."

"Not everyone with a duty cares so deeply about it," he says, lifting his shoulder in a shrug. "To many, it's an obligation."

"Speaking from experience?"

He smiles, canines glinting in the flickering light of the candles. "In a way."

"Can you not answer a question without being cryptic about it?"

Elias laughs, the sound all windchimes and frozen branches clattering in the breeze. "Perhaps if you weren't so inquisitive, yes, or perhaps if you asked the right questions—the questions that I can answer." He pauses, fingertips idly tracing the surface of the table as though painting a masterpiece only he can see. "I've met a few magical advisors to local lords already. None of them have been quite as... observant, as you. Most saw a handsome stranger and were more concerned about whether or not I'd bed them rather than being concerned about my secrets, of which I can assure you there are many. You are the first to invite me to dinner for reasons beyond wanting my affections."

"You certainly have a high opinion of yourself, don't you?"

He doesn't address her remark, continuing on as though she'd never said anything at all. "You ask if you should be concerned—a question few of your peers have asked—and to that, the answer is yes, but I imagine if you come face to face with man I search for, you will not live long enough to worry about the safety of Mórsail."

The colour drains from her face. "What do you mean by that?"

"Anya, the King has sworn me to secrecy. He fears that the truth will incite chaos. The people react poorly to magic as it is, they don't need to—" He grits his teeth, eyes flashing with anger.

"Can't say that because of your oath?"

"It would be too difficult to explain," he growls, clearly frustrated. "But I can tell you that if you meet the man I'm looking for, you won't live long enough to worry about protecting your people."

"Which is where you fit in," says Anya, trying to conceal her unease, "and that's why you're here."

"There's a reason," he says slowly, "the King sent me and not his army, and it isn't because he didn't want to risk losing that many of his soldiers."

Dread gnaws at her, as cold and as biting as a winter's night. She's thankful that her family has failed to notice their quiet conversation, or at least have decided to not interrupt for once. She can't say that she's afraid of very many things, but she can read between Elias' lines.

The King didn't send his armies because you're more dangerous than they are.

In a hoarse, hollow voice, she asks, "What makes you so dangerous?"

A smile languidly stretches across Elias' visage, like a cat that had finally caught its prey. "Now you're starting to ask the right questions."

"Yet I suspect you won't answer."

"I've told you as much as I can already," he says, a soft sigh escaping his lips. "If you're careful, I'm certain you will be fine. You seem... capable."

"I'm swooning."

"You're the first woman to not."

"Oh, you really think highly of yourself," she shoots back, but they're both grinning as they look back down at their bowls of stew. She'll admit that something about him is charming—enchanting, perhaps, is a better word—but she isn't that easily swayed by pretty looks and a quick tongue.

Anya turns her attention back to her family, and she isn't surprised to hear that they're still bickering about dinner. She's certain they're capable of bickering over the colour of Tiarnán's belt if they tried, but she wouldn't have them any other way. She doubts she'd care half as much about Mórsail if they weren't here.

You promised to look after them, she reminds herself, as if she'd forget about the oath she'd made her mother.

"If you're such a good hunter, then how come you can't catch anything bigger than a rabbit, hm?" Eámann teases.

"How about," she interrupts, her brothers' gaze turning towards her, "tomorrow, I go hunting with Tiarnán?"

Brigid blinks in surprise. "You don't have work?"

"Lord Rian was rather... taken aback by Elias' visit, and did not seem keen on having the presence of another mage around," she says, barely hiding her irritation. "But... I'll take it. What's the worst that could happen?"

"Careful, Anya," Tiarnán says, smirking. "You're making me want to get you into trouble tomorrow."

She summons a small flame on the tip of her finger, and with a gesture, it flicks him on the back of his hand, singing off some hair in the process. "You don't think I couldn't keep you in line?"

Tiarnán just shrugs as he leans back in his chair, fingers laced behind his head. "Not at all. I'd just like to see you keep up."

"If that's a bet then—" She cuts herself off as there's a clattering crash behind her. She glances over her shoulder to see the vase she'd gifted Eámann and Brigid in shards scattered across the floor. It had cost but a few coppers and a spell for a travelling merchant, but her heart still twinges with its loss.

But then she looks up, and her stomach lurches. Her father stands in the doorway just behind her, his skin ashy and pale. He trembles like a leaf in the wind, paralysed by the sight of...

Elias.