The Wizard King by Julie Dean Smith Page B

had blown over; now all that remained was to see what damage it had done.
    “Will you be joining us?” she asked Tuilis. “I’m sure that Brand would be glad to share his breakfast with you and thank you for casting and releasing the sealing spell so smoothly.”
    “No, my Lady. His Grace asked me to deliver the prisoner to him right after I’d fetched you.”
    Drianna’s brows shot up in surprise. “What? Isn’t it far too soon for such a confrontation? Ranulf Osgood is no adept, but Brand says he’s still a capable wizard. And he’s had four whole months to nurse a grudge—he’ll try to kill Brand again the moment he sets foot in that chamber.” She began to wring her slender hands, increasingly agitated. “And if Brand isn’t fully recovered—”
    “We’ve plenty of guardsmen to protect him,” Tuilis reminded her gently, “and I shall be there, too. One mercenary, however capable, is no match for a palace full of Sarian wizards.”
    Drianna acquiesced with a half-smile of relief. “No, I suppose not.” She bade the steward a brief farewell and for the first time in several weeks stepped gingerly into her lover’s chamber.
    The day would be unseasonably hot away from the shore, but the sea breezes were kind to the Sage’s palace, and the chamber was sweet with salt spray and the lingering scent of cinnamon. Scattered crumbs and a slick of melted butter were the only evidence that the silver tray on the bedstand had ever contained the dozen oatcakes provided for the Sage’s breakfast. But despite the seeming calm, the chamber still betrayed signs of the Sage’s ordeal; Drianna was certain that the ugly scratch across the sideboard had not been there four months ago, nor the jagged rent in the brocade bedcurtains, now stitched tightly closed like lips vowing never to speak the horror of their abuse.
    The Sage of Sare paced to and fro before the open window, ebony hair rippling gently in the breeze, and stroked his freshly shaved chin as if working out a solution to a most intricate problem. He was clad only in simple trews and boots—a sweat-soaked shirt had been tossed into a careless heap on the floor—and wore his customary adornments: a pounded silver torque, a single dagger-shaped earring, and a heavy arm-ring snug upon each bicep. He had grown slightly thinner during his ordeal, and his skin had lost some of its bronze luster, but in all her days, Drianna had never seen him look so handsome or so regal. Truly, the man was a king already… what matter that he did not yet have a crown and country to prove it?
    “Brand?”
    He flicked a glance to her without breaking his rhythmic stride. “What took you so long?”
    “I—” Drianna bit back an overwhelming desire to scold him. Was
that
the first thing he would say to her since his awakening? Steadying herself, she made every effort to remember what Tullis had said. Perhaps it was not Brand himself that spoke so, but some shred of the sealing spell that still clung stubbornly to his mind.
    “How do you feel?”
    Brandegarth stopped in his tracks and flung his arms up to the heavens. “
Why
does everyone in this infernal palace keep
asking
me that? I feel fine. I feel more than fine.” He threw his head back and began to laugh, deep from the belly. “In fact, I’ve never felt so damned fine in all my life!”
    With both relief and a shade of apprehension, Drianna moved to embrace him, but he distractedly pushed her aside. “We’ve no time for that now, Drianna. We have work to do. Here, take this.” Ignoring her wounded stare, he snatched a sheet of parchment from his writing table and shoved it into her hand. “Sit over there and write down everything I say. I have tried to do it myself, but my thoughts run far beyond my fingers today, and I end up with naught but pages spotted with inkblots.”
    Drianna stood paralyzed, gaping at him stupidly and unable to contain her shock at his callous treatment.
    “Now!” he scolded, as if