Free Artesans of Albia: 01 - King's Envoy by Cas Peace Page B

was also a murderer, and his remorse over the noble’s killing was becoming inextricably linked to how he felt about his powers. It seemed that every time he tried to increase his knowledge, he made more disastrous mistakes. Break his heart though it might, those around him would be better off if he renounced his Artesan powers altogether.
     
And there was still the frightening and very real possibility that he was personally responsible for the resurgence of outlander raids, whether in retaliation for the noble’s death or in response to the theft of the Staff. Probably both. Taran’s heart raced in fear as images of dreadful repercussions crashed around his aching skull.
     
He was still wallowing in the depths of self-pity when Rienne came softly into the room, carrying a bowl of something hot and savory. She saw the look in his eyes and gave a low cry.
     
“Oh, Taran, are you in pain?”
     
“It’s only my pride that hurts,” he muttered, his voice still scratchy with dust. He coughed and she brought the bowl of soup to him. She helped him sit up and passed him the bowl and spoon.
     
Cal followed her in and sat with him while he ate. “We’ve got to go to the military now, Taran.”
     
The Journeyman nodded, although he had no hope of finding help.
     
“I’m sorry I got you both into this,” he said. “I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted nothing more to do with me after that last little fiasco.”
     
“Little?” snorted Rienne. “You call a collapsed cellar little?”
     
Taran stared at her. “Collapsed? What, completely? What about the Staff?”
     
“Buried under feet of rubble,” said Cal. “It took me ages to dig you out and then we were trapped until Rienne came home and let the ladder down. The stairs are gone.”
     
Taran groaned—it was getting worse. “I’m so sorry,” he said again, a catch in his voice. “What a mess.”
     
Rienne chose to take him literally. “Nothing a bolted cellar door and a good broom won’t take care of. But that’ll have to wait ’til morning. You never got my supplies either, did you Cal?”
     
In spite of himself, Taran chuckled. “Oh, Rienne, I can see why he loves you so much.”
     
She blushed. “Get away with you.” She removed the empty soup bowl. “I’ll get you some drinks.”
     
They spent the rest of the evening discussing their next move. Taran decided the cellar should be made as safe as possible and left locked up. It wasn’t as if the Staff was going anywhere, buried under all that rubble, and he was fairly sure the Andaryans couldn’t know exactly where it was. If he was right, the village was as safe as anywhere else at the moment.
     
Rienne adamantly refused to stay behind and Taran’s suggestion that she move in with a neighbor was met with a sour response. She said she would make arrangements for her patients to see one of the healers in Shenton; she had no cases that needed continuous attention.
     
“Besides,” she added darkly, “the way you two have been behaving lately, you’ll need me.”
     
Taran couldn’t dispute it and Cal’s relief was obvious.
     
He decided they would leave the day after next, as horses had to be purchased for Cal and Rienne. Taran had his father’s gelding stabled at the livery and it was a good beast, but it couldn’t carry all three of them. Rienne still wanted to make the trip to Shenton, both to restock her supplies and also to arrange medical coverage for the village. Cal elected to go with her, leaving Taran to organize supplies.
     
The Journeyman felt so much better for making a positive decision. That had always been his father’s domain and Taran missed his confident, commanding ways. Amanus hadn’t thought much of his son’s abilities—and had pointedly said so on many occasions—but he had always been there. Taran had been deeply affected by the recent disastrous events, and the mere thought of finding someone to advise him lightened his mood.
     
He was still