An Affinity For Fire

29. Tarragon

The Lapisalis house was little larger than a high Ortusian's home. That surprised Tarragon, given the wealth the Ocassan nobility were famed for, and given that Kavalore Lapisalis was the Ocassan Queen's son.

Since Prince Bollorec had informed the Lapisalises of the group's travels in advance, their arrival was expected, which eliminated the confusion and suspicion they'd been faced with upon their arrival at the Eye of Aestas. The servant didn't even ask for any proof of their identities. He simply led them into the entrance hall and instructed them to wait as he informed the family of their arrival.

Once inside, the wealth of the Ocassans suddenly became much more apparent. Every surface was tiled, mostly with white marble, and ambiguously shaped glass ornaments sat on every table and window-sill. Everything in sight was polished and gleaming.

Tarragon was distracted from his curiosity by a woman's voice.

"Well, well, who do we have here?"

The owner of the voice was descending on the right side of the curved double staircase. She moved slowly and fluidly, with an elegance Tarragon had never seen. Petite and slender, she wore a fitted, lacey cornflower-blue dress that fully covered her arms and neck.

She stopped before them, eyeing them with an almost hungry air. "I do love guests. Who do I have the pleasure of meeting?"

 In the absence of Leo, Clover took up the duty of talking. "The pleasure's all ours, My Lady." She gave the young woman a stiff bow. "My name is Clover Cadarn," she continued, "and this is Tarragon Versenna. Leo-" She shook her head, brushing off the stumble in formalities. "Prince Heleonne is on his way."

Tarragon bowed, too, managing a tight smile. "Wonderful to meet you."

"Wonderful indeed," She answered, narrowing her frighteningly pale eyes at his lips and biting her own. Tarragon tried not to squirm. "Welcome to the Lapisalis household. My name is Jassiba Lapisalis, but everybody calls me Jas."

"Zib!" Someone barked from halfway up the stairs.

Jassiba groaned. "Everybody, except for him."

The man in question walked towards them, glaring at her. "If you could refrain from attempting to climb into the trousers of our guest, that would be splendid."

The resemblance between the two young nobles was uncanny. Had he been half a foot shorter, and had the golden-copper ringlets of his hair reached to his elbows instead of his eyebrows, The pair would have been impossible to tell apart. They shared the same fair skin, sharp nose and piercing ice-blue eyes.

"What do you want, Mal?" Jassiba asked through gritted teeth.

"I want you to kindly leave our guests alone," he replied, his voice as cold as hers had become. "Besides, father wants you."

Tarragon watched in uncomfortable silence as the pair stared each other down, until Jassiba finally took a step back. "Fine," she bit out, hoicking up her skirt and trotting back up the stairs.

The young man watched her leave, face twisted in a pained expression. "Apologies for my sister. She doesn't seem to understand the concept of boundaries."

"Don't worry about it," Clover said. "We've become used to forward hosts."

The boy turned to face her. "Was your last forward host fourteen years old?"

Tarragon's eyes grew wide. "Wait, what?!" he spluttered. "No. She looked at least three years older than that."

"I know," he said, tone grim. "She's the bane of my life. Anyway, terribly sorry for the unorthodox greeting."

Clover smirked. "Well, we're used to those, too." She introduced herself and shook his hand. Tarragon followed suit.

"And I believe I heard your sister call you Mal?" Clover observed.

The young man's pale cheeks flushed red as he grimaced. "Mal is the name she uses to punish me for calling her Zib. The official version is Malbaryn Lapisalis, but Bryn will do just fine."

At that moment, Leo strode through the front door. Bryn's pale eyes brightened slightly at the sight of him. "Heleonne. Delighted to see you again," he said with a broad smile that seemed to faulter slightly in a moment of doubt. "We met at your father's fiftieth birthday celebration last year, I don't know if you recall."

Leo laughed. "How could I forget? You completely destroyed me in that friendly duel our fathers insisted we have."

The warmth returned to Bryn's smile, his eyes gleaming with a slight hint of pride. "Ah, yes. Good times. But I'm sure we'll have time to reminisce later. For the time being, you should unpack and rest. You must all be dying to get out of those riding clothes. Let's get you settled into some guestrooms, shall we?"

The rooms were concise and comfortable, with practical furnishings and large windows overlooking the surrounding fields. As Tarragon began to unpack his things, he heard the urgent, firm click of shoes in the corridor.

"Father didn't need me for anything," he heard, assuming the sharp voice must have been coming from Jassiba, "and now he's in a mood that I interrupted him from his work, so, thank you for that."

"Well, excuse me for coming up with an excuse to spare our new guests from the trauma that is spending time with you," Bryn replied.

"Oh, come on," she laughed. "We both know that had nothing to do with them and everything to do with obsessively trying to shield me."

Tarragon tried his best not to eavesdrop, but that was difficult when the pair insisted on arguing so loudly right outside his room.

"Look, if you're not going to protect yourself, then someone has to. You can't just trust every male you come across. I thought maybe the incident last week finally taught you that, but clearly I was wrong."

"Really, this again?" she complained. "One time, that's happened. One time."

"It only takes one time for you to die!" Bryn almost shouted.

"Well, clearly not, since I'm still here."

"This isn't funny, Zib, he tried to murder you!"

Tarragon put down the shirt he'd been pulling out of his bag and turned to face the closed door.

"Seriously, if I hadn't happened to be near enough to your room to hear you screaming, what would you have done?"

"Oh, please," she purred. Tarragon could practically feel her eyes rolling, even if he couldn't see them. "Contrary to the opinion you so insistently cling to, I can actually take care of myself. If you hadn't been there, I would've drowned him." The clicking of steps returned. "That's one of the joys of being a blue mage - I don't need one of your fancy, extortionately expensive swords. As long as there's moisture in the air, I'm always armed."

The pair had got far enough down the corridor that Tarragon couldn't make out Bryn's response, but it didn't matter. He'd heard enough.

The rebels had reached Ocassus. All four kingdoms were under attack.