Angelfire | The Whispering Wall #3

Sixty Two: Burning

I think I would rather be stabbed again than spend another minute in this study.

Jeorge turned his eyes away from the red-faced merchant arguing with Lord Harkenn over taxes and wondered if he'd have enough time to wrench one of the decorative swords off the wall and fall on it before the next audience began.

"Are we boring you?"

He looked down to find Harkenn glaring at him over the back of his chair, the merchant on the other side of the desk also staring but trying to look like he wasn't. No one knew what to make of the new occupant of Anara's seat in the corner, whether to be more or less unnerved by him. He was content to leave them on the back foot, and so was Harkenn; Jeorge was never introduced in the lord's audiences, and it was amusing to watch them realise the hard way that he was just as good at detecting lies. The fact that he looked like Unspoken threw them off further, and he was certain that Harkenn capitalised on that confusion to get his way. It made all the castle staff treat him like he had plague, but that was hardly new.

"No, my lord. I'm listening."

Harkenn's lips pressed into a thin line, but he dropped it. Jeorge hadn't been listening for most of the meeting, but he didn't need to. Harkenn didn't want his advice, and Jeorge didn't need to know what someone was lying about to tell that they were doing it. It was just as well, because on the good days the incessant pounding of Nictaven's current left him exhausted, and on the bad days he could barely think for pain.

Blessedly, the meeting ended not long after. His wings were cramped and aching in the confines of his cloak and he longed for the darkness of his chamber. His headache was growing worse again, and he wanted to be horizontal when the worst of it hit. Unconsciousness would be an added bonus.

"You're dismissed, Nerahardt," Harkenn said, not looking up from his note-taking. He rarely lingered with dismissals; Jeorge had the distinct impression his dislike of the Lord of the Reach was entirely mutual.

"Thank you, my lord." He in turn wasted no time leaving, not wanting to leave it to chance that some last-minute petitioner would show up and hold him hostage for another hour.

"My chambers, tomorrow morning." The lord's voice reached him just as he stepped beyond the threshold. Jeorge set his teeth and turned, forced himself to bow.

"As you wish, my lord."

Damn Nika, gallivanting off across Nictaven. Like Jeorge didn't have enough problems without enduring Harkenn's sniping every other morning, as if his poisoning had been Jeorge's fault, and his slow recovery also Jeorge's fault, and everything wrong with the world was Jeorge's dark-damned fault.

He made his way down the corridor towards the guest chamber he had been allocated, about the only advantage he'd got out of being Harkenn's personal errand boy. He earned a small stipend for the privilege of being mostly ignored and resented, but the main prize was a luxurious guest apartment in the best-appointed area of the castle, always close to patrolling guards and with only one window that was too small to admit intruders. There were worse places to spend his time being driven mad by useless magic, though Jeorge would have taken the kitchen hearthstones and been grateful for them if he could just get one moment of peace.

He opened his chamber door, already half-asleep on his feet, and groaned.

"Good afternoon to you too, Nerahardt." Hap nodded cheerily from the chair at the desk Jeorge never used.

"I can't today," Jeorge said, unbuckling his cloak as his wings protested with a particularly nasty cramp. "I just can't. He's had me in there all morning."

"Oh, I'm not here for teaching." Hap's gloved fingers drummed on the head of his walking stick.

Jeorge paused, frowning. "You aren't?"