He cocked his head to the side, his gaze distant, “You should leave, it’s your turn to play.”

          Issi blinked. Her ears strained, only the murmurs of conversation reached her above the quiet lapping of water.

“Run along,” he shooed her as one might an insect or a child.

Her legs shook as she made her way to her feet, the king let her by with a simpering smile.  The guard who hovered outside their hiding place spared her an uninterested glance.

          Her hands shook as she grabbed her violin, setting her shoulder rest.  She made her way onto the stage.  The light from the lanterns painted everything in soft, dreamy hues.  The stage’s carpet swallowed her footsteps.  The magic that ran beneath it smelled of sweet summer blossoms and would send any sound she’d make to the furthest reaches of the room.

          She’d prepared an introductory speech, two pieces to please the people who’d killed hers.  But she couldn’t remember any of it.  She stared out above the crowd completely blank.

          There was only one thing she really wanted to play.

          But she’d chosen it with the faint hope that the king might deem it treasonous and have her hung for playing it.  After all, it would have been a notable performance in front of the court and he’d have to keep his reputation.

          She hadn’t realized how much she had hoped it might work.

          Issi sniffled wincing as the sound traveled across the room. A few heads turned her way.  Her cheeks were fire as she bowed and brought her instrument beneath her chin.  The first note of The Sailor’s Tale rang out. 

The melody unwound slow and somber, she could imagine it as it must have been raising above abandoned battle fields, sung through the air by passerby over the bodies of the dead. A song of mourning.

Looking out at the sea of nobles, she doubted many of them would recognize it. So many had purchased their safety, fled to their homes tucked away in the country sides where mail was slow, and news was slower.  But they knew something was wrong.

          Those who did remember stood stock still.  Too afraid to move in recognition of a song that wasn’t meant to exist.

          The melody picked up.  In all honesty The Sailor’s Tale was a mess of a piece. Filled with accidentals and shifts and double stops that rang dissonantly and if given the chance, would gladly sink into a smattering of discordant wails.  It was a piece that needed tending and a gentle hand, to calm it when it railed and give it space when it exalted.

          If someone could coax it together, the piece sang.

          The room flickered, as her mind pulled her through time to when her hands were smaller, and she’d struggled to keep her violin upright.  She remembered the way the kind eyes of her violin teacher had lit up when he’d given her the piece.  He’d spoken excitedly about it, giving her the safe retelling of the story that went along with it. Until a necklace had tumbled from the nestled safety of his shirt.

          It had been a simple thing, with a cord of carefully tended leather and a pendant at its center. A small depiction of Ipheoth’s tree had hung before her. 

In that instant, she’d wanted to tell him everything, that she still worshipped in her own ways, that she didn’t think he was wrong, that she thought the gods remained to watch them, and that the king was being silly. But when she looked at him ready to breathe the biggest secret she’d left to tell, his eyes had been filled with fear.

Issi had turned away, let her gaze drift to her window, pretending she hadn’t seen.  And he’d tucked the beneath his shirt without a word.

          The last she saw of him were the small quick twitches of his legs as the noose dug into his neck.  The roar of the crowds still rang in her ears. 

          Even as she unwound the piece, finishing somberly before the small crowd she’d managed to gather.  The king watched her from the front of the stage.

          No soldiers climbed the stairs to grab her.

          There was only silence.  And then the king began to clap. The ensuing applause roared between her ears.

 The rest of the event passed in a blur of vapid conversation.  Issi found herself flouncing about the edges of the aristocracy, flattering any low nobles who captured her as she searched for her master.  Bowing deeply to the few middle and highborn nobles who gave her the time of day.

She found the Grand Mage looking miserable as he spoke to a mage brought from a province marked by a pale green scarf.  Issi knew vaguely of him.  He was a slightly substandard mage newly designated to work a small bit of land that’d once belonged to Repren. He’d visited once or twice before her master had dismissed his students, and his recent reports had left much to be desired.

Her master’s face filled with relief when he saw her.  The fear still sat deep in his eyes.  She looked away.

The former Grand Mage gestured to his companion, “Issi, you know, Fyno.”

She smiled and dropped into a bow, “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

The man in question, nodded, his eyes travelling down the neckline of her gown.  He was lost instantly to the void between her breasts.

“I…uhm,” he fidgeted, tried to change his focus, and failed, “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Likewise.  The word shriveled in her throat.  She managed a passable smile.  Beside her, the Grand Mage stood straighter.

“You can look, there’s no shame in it,” he gestured towards her, “And she doesn’t mind.”

The lesser mage dropped any pretense.  She felt him break her down into hips and breasts, his gaze lingering on curves and the slit that climbed up her thigh.

He did not notice the swelling on her face.

“She’s very…,” he caught himself and swallowed, dragging his gaze away, “I heard the piece she performed.  She’s very skilled.”

The Grand Mage nodded sagely, sliding his finger along the opening in her skirt, widening the gap so most of her thigh flashed.  Her hand clamped down on the fabric before he could do it again.

“Master,” she began quietly, “Isn’t the sunset wonderful?”

The Grand Mage turned to one of the openings. The waters of the Copros had gone warm with the setting sun, and had begun reflecting reds, yellows, and oranges across the dome’s ceiling. His face drained, “Ah, yes, it is.  Fyno, feel free to send a letter detailing your requests.”

“Yes, well, but—”

“We’re leaving,” the Grand Mage continued curtly, as he snatched Issi’s hand, his grip hard enough to leave her worrying after her bones, “I only came to make my presence known.”

“Oh, I suppose—”

The young man was left speaking to the wind, as the Grand Mage whisked Issi around and started for the exit.  He ignored the questioning look of his companions.  His face had drawn, the color was slowly dripping away until he was the shade of dry soil.

          The dinner itself hadn’t even started.

          He pressed her against the wall as soon as they’d entered his wing, kissing her desperately.  His hand hiked her skirts and she slammed the instinct to recoil.

          She managed to convince him to his bed before he had her undressed.  He checked the scars he’d carved into her as he muttered about. His words were empty promises and accusations.  Love letters and threats tied together with strings of desperation. 

          He’d seen how she’d looked at the prince.  He wanted to know how she’d managed to seduce him in so little time.

          Her denials fell on deaf ears.  She melted beneath his hands and forced her mind silent.

          She lay awake beside him when he slept.  The Grand Mage’s bed was a ridiculous thing, so soft she felt like she was suffocating in a nest of sheets and covers. His ceiling had been enchanted to show the sky, currently a set of rose-colored clouds floated above them as the Grand Mage let out a soft snore.

          When he slept, he really looked like nothing more than a boy.  She reached out tentatively and let her fingers brush his cheek.  She moved a lock of hair away from his face as her eyes traveled down his neck.

          If he were gentler, would she have loved him?

          She couldn’t imagine it.

          Once, he had smelled of magic and magic made the world feel real, and terrifying, and exciting.  Now he smelled of sweat and sex and the perfumes he’d donned to attend a banquet where he’d been slighted by the man who’s approval he craved more than anything in the world.