She knew it by its smell.
“That’s it, then,” she whispered. “Everything I need.”
But she felt oddly empty, because that wasn’t really true.
She didn’t have Mere-Glim and the knowledge she needed to destroy Umbriel. Or her locket, so Attrebus would know where she was.
If Attrebus was still alive. The last time they’d spoken, there was something about him, vulnerability. And the way he talked to her, as if he cared, as if he was risking his life just for her …
She shook that thought off and read the label on the jar.
ICHOR OF WINGED TWILIGHT.
Well, that made sense. She put it in the little cabinet that was for her private use, along with the other ingredients she needed, and a great many she did not. Then she finished out the hour and went back to help with dinner.
Slyr watched her dress in yet another new outfit that Dulg had appeared with, a simple green gossamer slip of a gown. The other woman was halfway through a bottle of wine already.
“Don’t forget me,” she said as Annaïg left.
As usual, she met him on his balcony. They sipped a red slurry that—despite being cold—burned her throat gently as it went down.
“Lord Irrel sent his compliments,” Toel said.
“He enjoyed your meal, then.”
Toel nodded. “The meal was not uninspired,” he said. “I am an artist. But you have added so much to my palette, and the special touches you invent—Lord Irrel is usually pleased with what I make him, but lately his compliments have come more frequently and sincerely.”
“I’m happy to have helped, then.”
She felt a little giddy, and realized that whatever was in her drink was already having an effect.
“With me you will become great,” he said. “But there is more to being great than being an artist. You must also have vision, and the strength to do the thing that must be done. Do you understand?”
“I think so, Chef.”
“And you must learn to make choices uncolored by any sort of passion.”
Annaïg took another drink, not liking the direction the conversation was going.
“When I took you from Qijne, I spared Slyr as well. But since she has been here, I haven’t felt justified in that decision. I rather think she should go.”
“Without her, I would never have come to your attention,” Annaïg said. “Without her, I would never have learned so much in so little time.”
“And yet how far you have outstripped her, and how slowly she is learning the ways of my kitchen. Do you really believe she has any business being here?”
“She saved my life,” Annaïg said. “Qijne would have killed me.”
“Yes, I know that,” he replied. “In that moment she was very useful to me, and to you. But that moment is gone.”
“I pray you,” she said.
“Don’t pray to me,” he said. “I give this decision to you. You could have Sarha or Loy for assistants—with them you would learn quickly, rise quickly. You could work directly for me, as my understudy. But so long as Slyr is here, she will be your only assistant. But if you ask me to rid you of her, I will do it in an instant.”
“Let her stay, please.”
“As I said,” he went on, disappointment evident in his voice, “it’s your choice, and remains your choice. I hope you will try to consider that decision without passion or sympathy. I hope you will be great.”
“I will try to be great,” Annaïg said. “But I hope to do it without betraying my friends.”
“Does this work, where you are from?”
“I … I don’t know. Sometimes, I hope.”
He nodded and his gaze found hers, and in his eyes she saw something both frightening and compelling. She felt again the caress on the back of her neck, and her belly tingled.
“There is another decision I give you to make,” he said, very softly. “Like the first, you are free to make it on any evening I have you here.”
She couldn’t find any words, or even think straight. She had flirted with a few boys, kissed a few, but it had always seemed clumsy and ridiculous, and she’d certainly never been swept away by the sort of passion she had read of.
But this wasn’t a boy. This was a man, a man who wanted her, wanted her very badly, who could probably take her if he desired it.
She realized she was breathing hard.
“I—ah …” she started. “I wonder if I can have some water.”
He smiled, and leaned back, and signed for water to be brought, and she sat there the rest of the evening feeling drunk and foolish and very much a little girl. He could see right through it all, through any manner and bearing she tried to fabricate.
But beneath all of that there was this other, little voice, the one that reminded her that it should always be her choice, that it shouldn’t be something someone could condescend to give you. And that voice didn’t go away, and when dinner was over she returned to her room, where Slyr had passed out, alone.
FIVE
A short morning’s ride brought them to a hill overlooking Water’s Edge, a bustling market town that—like Ione—had done most of its growing in the last few decades. During the years when the old Empire was collapsing, it had served as a free port when Bravil and Leyawiin were independent and often at odds with each other, and Water’s Edge had been protected by both and by what remained of the Imperial navy. Even enemies needed some neutral ground for trade, a place where conflict was set aside.
And now that the Empire was reunited, it was growing still, attracting entrepreneurs and tradesmen from crime-ridden Bravil especially.
“I don’t understand why we didn’t just go to Bravil,” Attrebus complained to Sul. “That’s at least in the right direction.”
“This was closer,” Sul replied. “Distance doesn’t matter so much as time. We’re short of time as it is. If I can get the things I need here, we have a far better chance of succeeding.”
“And if you can’t get what you need?”
“The College of Whispers has a cynosure here,” the Dunmer replied. “The things I’m after aren’t terribly uncommon.”