Abaddon's Gift

Chapter Eighteen

Theon woke feeling uncomfortable. He sat at his desk and struggled to focus, ever aware of some outward source of his pain.

He always ached.

There was the brand, of course. On his lower back, it sometimes burned like the day his father gave it to him. Partially destroyed by dragon fire which had been stripped of his body but the pain of which still remained, eating away at him on the coldest days of winter.

Then there were the small things. The broken bones and crackled knuckles which hadn't healed quite right. The beatings he had taken as a child and then, later, the miscellaneous beatings taken when he had been flung, stabbed, shoved, and almost entirely destroyed by magic and spells.

His body ached, and he knew it was going to be a bad day before he dragged his throbbing flesh out of bed.

If he could have trusted the healers not to poison him, he might have gone to them and asked for a draught or spell to ease his suffering. As it was, he had to rely one what little magic he could muster to push into teas. That would do little more than dull the edge of it.

There was one thing which would stop his pain and put him to bed.

Though most folks frowned upon drinking so early in the morning.

Putting himself in his study, he sniffed and opened the drawer of his desk to find the placard with Naena's scrawled spell and a bottle of scotch. Below that, he found a note from Luk.

Thank Magi Yole.

Theon sniffed again and opened the scotch, bringing it to his lips to sip.

Sweet, blessed scotch washed over his tongue and down his throat. Theon let out a little sound and considered the scotch. He considered meeting the bottom of the bottle. It would have been a shame to stop after just a sip.

Except, there was a knock on his study door, and there was never a knock on his door, especially that early in the morning.

Theon replaced the cork in the scotch and stood. He walked to the door and pulled it open to find a startled servant with big, weepy eyes.

Never be mean to help.

"I am not having a good day," he said. "Might this be quick?"

The servant looked up and down the hallway, then to Theon.

Who growled and stepped back, pulling the door open and motioning inside. The servant slipped in immediately, which made Theon growl again.

There was only one reason a servant would come see him that early in the morning, let alone one who didn't run away when he growled.

He had a reputation. One he carefully cultivated. That same reputation meant that servants and the lower levels of society had little problem approaching him.

Theon closed and locked the door. He returned to his desk and sat, intertwining his fingers as the servant took the seat across from him and looked absolutely terrified. She didn't cry, he noted.

They always cried.

"Yes?" Theon said, hoping he sounded calm.

Even as he planned the little bastard's death.

"It's about your ward," she said.

And all Theon's anger vanished. He found his mind rising to her defence, making excuses for her possible behaviour, wondering what could have brought on such a visit from a servant.

"Please, do explain," he said, rather than spout the excuses.

The servant dragged in a breath.

"All right, every woman has a time," the servant said.