Inherit the Flame

Chapter Forty-One

There were a lot of things Detan could have done in the day after he let the firemount roar. The household staff tiptoed around him, and he didn’t see a hair of either Thratia or Aella. Or Ranalae, and his dear old auntie. That one visit, it seemed, was all he was going to get. He was on his own, which he knew, but it was real frustrating waking up with a pounding headache and knowing people were counting on you to get them out of one right tangled mess.

The reason he had that headache, he decided to shove aside. To dwell too long on that particular nightmare might just set off a whole fresh horror. Aella had given him an injection, returning some of his control, but he didn’t trust himself to light a candle with his power now. Not while he could still hear the rescue efforts going on outside.

He could have run. Could have weaseled his way up the towers of the palace and gotten himself onto the Happy Birthday Virra! and broken for the inland, or the sea. He could almost convince himself that fleeing was the best possible route, that what Pelkaia had said was true: the best thing he could do for this world was to run, to find some barren, sel-less place, destroy his flier, and stay there.

If Callia hadn’t dipped that needle into his vein, he might have believed her. Might have tried just that. But he could see it, now. That infinitesimal world beyond the ken of unaltered eyes. Sel wasn’t something that one could run from, not on this world, anyway. It was in his blood and his air and his bones, and even if he fled clear to the other side of the world, he suspected he’d find it there, too.

Running just prolonged the inevitable. He paced the length of his room, juggling options, when a solid knock on the door made him damn near jump out of his skin. He cleared his throat to get his dignity back, and said in the most authoritative voice he could muster, “Enter.”

A parlour maid he didn’t recognize let herself in, and offered up to him a thick package wrapped in coarse linen. “Master Gatai said I should bring this to you, straightaway.”

“My thanks.” He took the bundle from her, tucked it under his arm to the sound of rustling cloth and paper. She bobbed her head and made a dash for the door, then paused halfway out with her hand still on the knob, a little worried wrinkle dimpling her chin.

His stomach sank as she glanced back over her shoulder at him, eyes a little wide with worry. “My Lord?” she asked.

He forced himself to smile, knowing what was coming. She’d ask about the eruption. She must know his secret, probably the whole city did. Thratia certainly wasn’t trying to hide his deviation. Would she be so bold as to claim the destruction he’d wrought in his name?

Despite the stew of fear in his head, his voice was cool, calm. “Yes?”

“Nice to have you back, you don’t mind my saying.”

She flashed him a grin and darted out the door in a rustle of skirts. Detan nearly burst into a fit of anxious laughter. Gatai had said the servants were with him. There must be outliers, of course, people bought over to Ranalae or Thratia or who just plain didn’t like him. But, skies above, to have any support at all was a balm.

He made quick work of the package and found two servants’ black uniforms with a folded note tucked inside. Gatai’s precise handwriting greeted him.

My Lord Honding,

Your guests await you in the eastern wing, and have a lovely view of the oncoming monsoon winds. Recent events require my attention, but I trust you will handle all things with care.

Your Servant,

Gatai

A lot could be hidden behind servants’ black, or so his auntie had said, and Detan grinned as he thumbed the fine material. While all eyes were off him, it was time to make a few social calls.