An Ocean of Lies (AFOS II)

Chapter 17: Laurentius

Adela, as usual, had been incredibly chatty: a nod, and there's the door, Laurentius. No, thank you for infiltrating the palace, Laurentius, no how's Volstad doing Laurentius? She just closed the door behind him, almost pushing his shapely butt with it, by the way. He smoothed his doublet. He was still wearing that white uniform: thank the creators it was late and everyone was in bed, none would see him like that, Ontur forbid. He was exhausted and hungry and reeked of wet cat, thanks to the city's fog. The forecast on the daily newspaper announced an ethereal tide in two days' time: that, he didn't look forward to. It was bad enough as it was, his hair got frizzy with the humidity and his potions and oils weren't enough. He'd have to give up and let it go free, in all its curly glory. Maybe have it braided, he could make it work, maybe some golden chains twisted in-between? He glanced at his reflection on a mirror on his way to the common dining area. He looked like a revenant, tired and ashen. The golden dust on his cheeks was a joke, it only made his tired skin more evident. Golden. Onturians. Markolf. Ugh. He had pushed it aside all day, being alone with his thoughts was torture but he could choose to ignore them, and those images of dimpled smiles with a side of guilt, until the morning.

The dining room was empty, for obvious reasons, but the kitchen was still there, inviting and just as unattended; hopefully. He undid a couple of the doublet's buttons, it was getting stuffy in there. He rolled up his sleeves and pushed the door, like he owned the place. Breakfast had a whole new meaning when you actually had to break into kitchens to grab a bite. It counted as breakfast, didn't it? It was early morning, he hadn't eaten, at least anything of significance, since, creators, all day. None right, none left, except for the sleeping dog by the kitchen's back door. The mutt was so used to seeing people coming in and out that he didn't even flinch when he kneeled to pet him behind the ears. Mice were a completely different matter, he learned it the hard way one night during his first week in the college.

He was in the middle of a cheese sandwich when a faint noise made him jump off the chair and almost drop his warm milk with spices. There was no way he wouldn't finish that sandwich: he shoved it into his mouth, almost choked, drank all the milk to pass it down, and turned into a moth. He hated moths, but he couldn't think of anything else in such short notice and he had to blend in. His wings looked like wood, just like the cupboard to the left. Moths on cupboards, a better concept than flies on walls, less likely to be chased with a shoe. He shifted his wings and antennae, uncomfortably. He hated digesting food in other shapes, his stomach was all wrong, it felt strange, too far away. He waited. He felt a current, coming from the door, the light suddenly felt too bright, he needed to close his eyes or fly somewhere really dark, like around that firedust fixture at the other side of the kitchen, its edges looked dark, like those black holes the alchemist astronomers talked about. No. His moth brain was tricking him: he had to stay put. Stupid moth brain.

Hushed whispers, the ruffling of fine silk and the clink of custom-made jewelry: Adela. Followed by clumsy feet and the rattle of staves, hung too low for their wearers' heights. Novices, probably, not younger than sixteen. Older mages, like himself, knew how to fit the straps of their staves properly, of course. The four of them, clad in impermeable robes and hoods, their faces covered in ornate fog repelling masks with frozen smiles painted on them, surrounded Adela in a tight circle. They whispered, but his moth hearing, thank the creators: one good thing about it, enhanced their voices.

"This is what you've been practicing for," Adela said, her voice low and sharp. If his blood had been warm, it would've frozen in his moth veins. His antennae twitched.

"What if they see us?" one of them said, their voice shaky.

"They won't. I'll cast a shrouding spell around you, they won't even see you coming," he could imagine her icy smirk, "you'll go out, strike from the shadows. It won't even need to be bloody, they won't feel any pain at all, if you do it correctly, like I showed you," she fixed her dress.