Chapter Text
I could have had the black robe mage killed.
I had contemplated it when first he showed up in Tortall, as much as it shames me to admit it. I had read the reports on him that recounted not only the immense breadth of his power, but also speculated at the horrific conditions of his confinement in Orzone’s Empty Rooms, and drew the conclusion that he was a broken, volatile man, that he was a danger to all of Tortall. George had men who could do the job, I was sure, men who knew how to deal with mages. Shall I say that the decision to spare Numair’s life was my own, that it showed the colors of my character, both merciful and courageous? Yes, I could tell that lie. I have told it to myself many times. But I find that with years comes wisdom, and now those lies ring a sour and hollow tune.
Rather, it was an array of factors that stayed my hand. It was Thayet’s insistence that I show compassion, and her pointed comments that a fugitive should not be defined by the troubles that tail them. It was Alanna’s brash approval of his character, and George’s eventual admittance that the scared and brooding mage wanted nothing more than a quiet and peaceful life. All the people I trusted most insisted I adopt him into court and offer him sanctuary, despite my trepidation. I admit, my trepidation was strong. I did not trust a foreigner with all the powers of a black robe mage. I knew, intimately, the terrible things that a man with that power could do. I often woke, screaming, from nightmares of it.
He is not Duke Roger, I told myself, and I almost believed it.
What changed my mind about him? How did I learn to trust a man who could will up my destruction on a whim, when I had not yet healed from the agonizing wounds dealt by a man who had attempted that very thing and so nearly succeeded? There was not one single instance that broke my distrust, but rather a slow unfurling of realization that perception is not the same thing as truth.
First it was the shock as I watched him juggle for my children. My cousin would never have done that, I knew. He never would have laughed as they cheered him on, nor shouted words of encouragement as they rushed to find more items to throw his way.
Neither would my cousin have patiently sat in the corner of the stable’s hayloft to earn a shy kitten’s trust with bits of his own lunch. It was also the quiet deference he showed to everyone, even the servants. That, too, was not my cousin.
And my cousin would never have approached my throne, nails bitten down to the quick, and told me “I won’t kill for you.” Numair’s resolute conviction that I would ever ask that of him stunned me into silence. “Alanna hinted that you intend to offer me a position as a court mage,” he continued, his voice strained and quiet but firm. “But I won’t do any battle magic. Ozorne tried to make me. He told me of the good I would do for Carthak, if only I carried out his wishes. In the end, he only wanted blood. And in the very end, it was my blood he wanted for refusing him. Send me away, or kill me yourself, but I will not do that for you.”
The look he gave me when he said that…gods above. I never want to see that look in man’s eyes ever again. I comprehended then that he was broken, yes, but so was I, and seeing him through my own shattered lens. In that moment of clarity I understood that maybe our fractured pieces were of the same shape.
“I am not Orzone,” I told him, as the realization he is not my cousin finally echoed through my mind. He nodded at that, stiffly, before bowing and leaving the hall. Did he believe me in that moment? Did he understand that I would never cross that line? No, I think I had not yet earned his trust. But, I found that I finally wanted to try.