Sorcerybound (World's First Wizard Book 2) by Aaron Schneider (best color ereader .TXT) 📗

melded into a blur of cheering, drinking, toasting, drinking, feasting, drinking, and even more drinking.

He’d crept off a few hours ago after realizing he was sobering up, and he had no idea how long it had been since he’d been in that state. Since then, he’d wandered the ever-shifting halls of the fey manse until he found his current perch. The overindulgence of elven wine and fair folk spirits hadn’t left him with the physical maladies such excess should have entailed, but they made him merrily forgetful, and now he wasn’t sure that was always a good thing. They’d need to be on their way soon, and he wanted his head clear and his memory intact.

Seeing Rihyani standing there with a glass in hand, her dark garments exchanged for a gown of blue velvet, he thought little harm could come from one last sip. After all, in his bleary recollections of the recent revels, her face featured not a little.

“Not a victory? Nonsense,” the fey chided lightly, a smile on her dark lips. “You set out to capture a dangerous enemy from the midst of his followers, and you not only succeeded relatively unscathed, but you even captured one of his most useful subordinates.”

Milo shook his head, torn between escaping the scrutiny of her gaze and longing to savor the sight of her.

“That last one just fell into our laps, so I don’t think I can take any credit for it.” Milo sighed and realized she was standing in front of him, arm extended with glass in hand. “Oh, sorry, I’ll take that.”

He took the flute, and they raised their drinks together. Rihyani’s eyes locked onto his and he felt her will brush against his, as intimate as though she was whispering in his ear.

To your conquest of impossible odds, she thought, her will gliding across his like fingers across his cheek. Both on the field of battle and in far more important arenas. May you always show such courage, determination, and cunning in whatever lies ahead.

Hear, hear, Milo managed, not so practiced that he could casually commune in the Art as effortlessly as the fey.

The flutes chimed against each other and they both drank deep, each watching the other.

The amber liquor was cool on the tongue but warm in the throat and tasted of smoked honey and cloves. The warmth of it became a low fire in his belly, and with a sudden intensity he didn’t quite trust, the hazy lethargy of the last few days of celebrating melted like fog in the summer sun.

Rihyani saw his eyes widen as everything came into sharp clarity and gave one of those laughs that made Milo’s heart sore with longing. Up to this point, he’d never been sure what he longed for, but whether it was the liquor or a revelation, when he looked at her, he thought he might know now.

“S-so,” he began and nearly cursed himself for the stammer, “now that you helped us, what is the plan? Will the Shepherds reassign you?”

Rihyani’s eyes slid down to the dance floor, where the fey cavorted as the marquis sat at a vast table at the head of the chamber. The lord of the manor watched the proceedings with a venerable patriarch's assured ease.

“It doesn’t quite work like that.” The contessa sighed as she eyed the tall, goatlike fey. “But I do need to pass the word among our circles that the marquis has joined our side. I’m sure he’s already made it known to some, but I’ll need to verify the reports before he can be brought in on our operations.”

Milo nodded, knowing he needed to say something. He also needed to stop bobbing his head up and down like an idiot, but standing there watching her, he didn’t seem capable of anything else.

A smirk curled a corner of Rihyani’s mouth, and for a second, he thought she was going to laugh at him. He wondered if he’d find that enchanting too, but then he saw her nod at the banquet table.

“They look like they’re having fun.” She giggled as Milo followed her gaze and then shared her smile.

To the marquis’ immediate right and left were the seats reserved for Milo and Rihyani, while on opposite sides, Ambrose and Bakbak-Devi were engaged in yet another competition of consumption. That the half-human bodyguard had managed to win a few times against the many-headed giant was certain to be a matter of folklore among the fey for some time to come.

“I’m glad Ambrose is enjoying himself,” Milo said and felt his grin buckling under a grim realization. “It’s probably going to be a long time before we get a hero’s welcome again. We’re headed back north, and if we’re both not thrown into the stockade on sight, it will be a mercy.”

Rihyani turned back, studying his face, her smile giving way to pensive concern.

“You don’t think your captives will be enough?”

Milo shrugged and shook his head.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “They have vital intelligence about the Guardians and the Ewiges Reich, and they both seem practical enough to talk.”

And that wasn’t the only thing at least one of them knew. Milo felt a sudden urge to race out to the dovecote where Stalin was chained and ask him why he’d said a name scrawled on a tarot card in Milo’s pocket.

“But?” Rihyani prompted, and Milo realized he’d trailed off.

“Um, but, uh…” He floundered for a second before seizing on the thread he’d left dangling. “But the military loves hierarchy, and I pretty much threw the book out not once, but twice. I’m not sure anything short of winning the war can guarantee I’ll be spared.”

Rihyani nodded and finished off the last of her flute before making it vanish with a flutter of her fingers.

“I still need you to teach me that one,” Milo said. “If we ever get the time.”

Rihyani turned back to the dance floor as she folded her arms in front of her. A smile tickled the corner of her