I blink. “What do you mean by—”
Another mammoth ball of water clips me in the chest. I tumble backward again, ass over elbows, and hit the water face-first, ending up with a mouthful of briny seaweed. Choking and spitting like an enraged beast, I burst out of the bay intent on murder. My clothes are plastered to every curve of my body as I slog back toward the beach. To my great annoyance, the waves seem to be ferrying me along, kissing at the backs of my knees.
Soren’s doing.
“So help me gods,” I thunder, storming toward him the second my sodden boots hit the rocks. “This is not amusing!”
“I fully agree,” he says solemnly, though his lips are twitching.
“Do you care to explain what that was about?”
“Thatwas you failing to trust your instincts.”
I gape at him, totally confused. “Have you gone insa—”
Another water ball slams into me. This one is smaller. It does not take me down, merely douses me where I stand.
“Stop that!”
He just stares at me, watching the water course down my body. I can feel it dripping off the ends of my hair, pooling in my socks, saturating the leather strappings of my thigh sheath. My anger is matched only by my mystification.
Why is he doing this?
I thought Soren and I were becoming, if not friends, at least…Close acquaintances. Comrades in arms. Allies of a sort, beyond mere teacher and pupil.
With the exception of our maegical lessons, we do not spend an exceeding amount of time together. He is, after all, rather busy with the business of running a kingdom. But on the occasions he is not meeting with Arwen or consulting his advisers or mingling with his people, he is at the villa. He does not go out of his way to avoid my presence. Often, he actually seeks me out—joining me on the terrace for a glass of wine at sunset, or in the library where I am reading by candlelight, or in the kitchen where I am fixing myself a meal.
Sometimes he cooks. Sometimes I do. He is undeniably a dab hand with a whisk or a spatula, but I am not completely incapable of pulling together a passable dinner. As we eat, he tells me stories about the happenings down in the city—Arwen’s warpath regarding the rapidly approaching wedding, the grueling process he’s been overseeing to remove the burned-out wreckage of theSelkiefrom the harbor floor, the mediation of several trade disputes between rival merchant companies. In turn, I tell him about my progress with my powers, brimming with excitement over my increasing control.
He never pushes me to reveal anything beyond what I offer willingly, nor does he share much of anything personal. I think we both feel safer that way. Keeping conversations light, never straying into deep waters. Superficial though it is, I cannot deny it feels…
Restorative.
There is a part of me that craves normalcy. Lightness of being. Levity. Before I arrived in Hylios, I could not recall the last time I had a conversation with anyone that did not reference war or wounds, devastation or death. To have someone to simply chat with about nothing of any real importance…
It is like a gift.
One Soren has given to me, one for which he does not expect anything in return. And that, in itself, is another kind of gift. For it is perilously rare to receive something without any expectation of reciprocity.
But now, as I stand here on the beach, sopping wet and mad as a hornet, I cannot help but question our burgeoning camaraderie. Perhaps I have been mistaken. Perhaps we are not as closeas I’ve presumed. If he thinks torturing me for sport is an amusing diversion…
“Look,” I grit out, still seeing red, “I don’t know what you think this is accomplishing, but…”
My words falter into silence. Because, suddenly, Ido. I feel the faint surge of maegic stain the air between us the instant before he summons another water ball, before his fingers so much as twitch to send it flying. One split second of awareness. Hardly enough to process what is about to happen, let alone dodge out of the way…but long enough to counterstrike.
My anger thrums close to the surface. I do not tamp it down. I use it like fuel. The very moment he blasts me with another globe, I fling out my hand and send it barreling straight back at him. He grins as it misses him by a large margin, already summoning another from the shallows. It hurls at me quicker than should be possible, but I’m prepared. I call a current of wind and catch it, an invisible hand closing around the ball. Then, with all my might, I lob it at Soren’s head.
He deflects it easily, sending it splashing onto the rocks.
“Good.” His eyes are glittering. “Now you’re getting it.”
I’m panting too hard to respond.
“You have sharper senses than most, but they’re only good to you if you use them,” he says, not at all winded. “Once you can recognize the telltale signature of impending maegic, you can stop it before it is used against you.”
I raise my brows. “Are you planning to use it against me?”
“I am not the only one with maegic in this kingdom. Llyrian bloodlines are strong despite the blight. Arwen herself has minor water powers. Nothing like mine”—his words gain a wry edge—“but enough to do some damage.”