Chapter Text
Fire magic users were supposed to rise with the sun. Aelin has said that was nothing but a preposterous myth and a terrible stereotype besides. Slanderous, even. If the occasion did not demand it, she would not rise from her bed until midday. “This much can be accorded to the Queen of Terrasen and Liberator of Erelia, can’t it? Some decent hours of sleep?”
Nehemia would reliably reply, “You would not have to rise so late if you slept a little more early.”
But Aelin would pay it no heed. Years of assassin training, she’d claimed, had left her more attuned to the night. Her fae prince consort (because Nehemia had gagged at the faux pas of naming him King of anything, as had all the major lords and ladies of Terrasen on the Council, even the newly restored Lady Elide of Perranth — if admittedly only after some badgering on multiple fronts) was much the same.
Kaltain had once quipped, and only when Aelin was well out of earshot, “Attuned to her bed, more likely.”
Nehemia hated agreeing with Kaltain, but years of study under the most patient of tutors and learned of sages had also taught her it was folly to reject anyone’s words or wisdom just due to personal character — or lack thereof.
She still owed Kaltain a small debt for convincing Elide Lochan to vote against titling Rowan a king.
The day had been memorable.
Aelin had been furious at the betrayal and a vicious fight had broken out between Rowan and Lorcan in a dogged attempt to defend their mates’ “honour” or some such nonsense, but eventually they'd been convinced to get pried off of each other, but not before Aelin started shooting of wildfire in a spat of outrage and either the situation, or the intervention of the other fae males in her court.
Dorian, unfortunately, had already traveled South for his official coronation ceremony, and was not present to intervene with his magic.
Nehemia would have paid handsomely to see him freeze the whole room in a blanket of blizzards and hail until all these quarrelsome brutes quite literally ‘cooled off’.
Kaltain, present only because she had not quite managed to find away to excuse herself during a pre-confrontation strategy meeting that Elide and Nehemia had held just moments prior, had reluctantly been coaxed to redirect some of Aelin’s wildfire and minimise the property destruction involved, but the effort of it in the face the absurd torrent of magic Rowan and Aelin pooled between themselves had left her lethargic and vomiting for days — what the healers called ‘the spiritual equivalent of food poisoning’.
(She had a feeling Kaltain was still upset about that.)
Whether he's a prince or a king won't fill sails with wind, of fields with crops, or turn mills or braid nets or load ships or take inventory of the thousand and one amateurs who think they can go on avoiding paying excise duty, Kaltain had groused. I told you I've washed my hands of all of that. Name the Queen’s pet hawk whatever you like. Just leave me out of it. I leave you alone and make money. Isn't that all you people wanted?
They both knew that was a lie.
The pithy title and size of Rowan’s crown could lead to burnt fields and empty ships, circling ports unable get permission to land, and arrows raining from the skies above.
Nehemia had swallowed her pride and begged. So Kaltain had turned and been reduced to the same, pleading and arguing with Elide of Perranth to vote against the decree for Kingship. And whatever trust or (facsimile) of a friendship between them had been just enough for it to be a yes.
“Ask the witch next time,” Kaltain had complained again once the wildfire redirection was over and done with, with the serene dignity of a sitting Duchess, and like Nehemia hadn't just seen her throw up in a bucket underneath her desk, blobs of spittle and vomit dotting the edges of her parchments and ledgers.
“I will,” Nehemia relented.
(She wouldn't. Manon Blackbeak, queen of all witches, Crochan and Ironteeth alike, could never be contacted. At least not by her. And even if she could, she'd never answer Nehemia’s calls to go against Elide’s decisions. She'd never go against Elide at all.)
Even when she was a dry-heaving mess, even when sweat plastering tendrils of hair to her forehead like streaks of ink, Kaltain’s papers were in capable order. They weren't as clean, and the writing was strained, the quills splotching ink unevenly on each stroke, but still perfectly legible, neatly filed, systematic and accessible should the need ever arise.
She could admire Kaltain’s dedication to work, at least.
Kaltain looked up and her, her knuckles bone white, grasping the edge of the desk to keep herself upright. She sensed that they both knew Nehemia was only offering a polite lie.
Kaltain glared. It lacked any fire. Perhaps she’d used it all up, trying to bring Aelin’s inferno of a temper tantrum to heel. Kaltain was tired. They were all tired. This was just the way things were now.
“Never ask me to use magic again.”