A Wizard's Sacrifice
A Wizard’s Sacrifice
Book Two of the Woern Saga
A. M. Justice
[Advance Review Copy]
A WIZARD’S SACRIFICE © copyright 2021 by A. M. Justice. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form whatsoever, by photography or xerography or by any other means, by broadcast or transmission, by translation into any kind of language, nor by recording electronically or otherwise, without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in critical articles or reviews.
ISBN 13: 978-1-63489-359-6
eISBN: 978-1-63489-368-8
Library of Congress Catalog Number: 2020913587
Printed in the United States of America
First Printing: 2020
24 23 22 21 20 5 4 3 2 1
Cover and interior design by Steven Meyer-Rassow
Wise Ink Creative Publishing
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Minneapolis, MN 55413
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For Eric
Contents
Prologue
Part One
Homecoming
The Queen's Secret
The Cost of Failure
Labor of Love
Call of Duty
Guildless
True Gift
The Deadliest One
The Ruse
Schemes in the Dark
Irredeemable
Repetitions
Kiareinoll Fembrosh
Steedfast
A Task for an Alnan
The Challenge
A Spook in the Forest
The Pledge
A Sensible Man
The Declaration
Abduction
Part Two
The Way of Trees
The Wrong Side of History
Heroes and Scoundrels
Fever Dream
Remembrance of Things Lost
The Consequence of Ignorance
The Second Rogue
A Myth of the Ancients
Restoration and Revelation
The Business of Traine
New World, New Enemies
Camp Life
Interlude
The Riches of Traine
Royal Favors
Ne'er-Do-Well
The Long Battle
A Grand Soiree
Center Alignment
Reconciliations
For Victory
Latent Potential
Citizen
The Legacy
Performances and Proposals
A Touch of Knowing
Rest Among the Trees
The One, the Fulcrum, and the Sacrifice
Love's Losses
Gambits Revealed
Blood Brothers
The Joining
Part Three
Trick of Fate
War Council
The Cost of Love
Haven
Across the Ages
The Marshaling
Concordance
The Blind Charge
Redemption
The Hunt
The Fulcrum, the Sacrifice, and the One
Fulfillment
APPENDIX
Prologue
Wizardry was outlawed for good reason. This simple truth nagged Victoria of Ourtown as another body crumpled. Another skull crunched; another torso smacked the sodden turf. Nobody, she thought, should have this power.
A trio roared toward her, two men and a woman, teeth bared, blades high. Tingling thrilled through Vic’s nerves as her mind swept air molecules into a solid mass around the attackers. Her hand clenched, the mass contracted, and three more Relmans fell. Bliss suffused her blood, sizzled across her skin, turning the freezing rain to mist. She imagined she looked like a wraith, a passing haze that left a trail of corpses in its wake.
Around her, soldiers brawled, slipping in the icy mud. Grunts and shouts peppered the rain. Stoneknives scraped. Crystal daggers squelched. Screams melted into groans, into sobs. A Relman wept over a gaping belly wound. Imploring eyes found Vic’s, and the soldier flopped back, her face clear of pain as red stained the grass beneath her skull. An officer rushed forward, a rare length of steel aimed at Vic’s heart. She hardened the air. His sword snapped. His body crumpled. Killing was all too easy with a wizard’s power, but she had a job to do: win the field for Latha and end a twenty-year war.
Her death toll mounted through the gray morning and long into the afternoon. At last a horn blared, and a small party emerged from a rubble-strewn breach, white flag held aloft. At dawn, the Lathans had made a show of setting sulfa charges at the base of the wall surrounding Relm’s capital, but it was wizardry, not ordinance, that had blown open that hole. At least the Relman surrender meant they were finally on the path to peace.
She released her power, and an ache bloomed behind her eye. Cresting a hill, she walked slowly back to the Lathan command pavilion, picking her way through a mile of sprawling dead before she left the battlefield and climbed a grassy slope to the royal banners. Her temple throbbed. Nausea clawed at her throat. The bleak, gray sunlight, weak as it was, hurt her eyes, and she wanted nothing more than to find a dark corner where she could curl around her pain.
“We won!” Princess Bethniel, Heir to Latha’s throne, ducked out of the pavilion and threw her arms around Vic. “The fieldmarshal went down to meet the Relman command. We’ll sleep in real beds in the city tonight.”
“We owe it all to you.” Prince Ashel’s smile eased the pounding behind Vic’s eyes. Black spiraling curls and midnight-dark eyes made him the masculine image of the princess, with a breath-stopping beauty that quickened her pulse. She forced her gaze toward the bandaged stump hidden in the folds of his cloak. She didn’t deserve his gratitude. Six weeks before, she’d abandoned him to the Relmlord’s depravities, and he’d lost half his hand.
In the field below, the Lathan fieldmarshal’s banner rippled as it approached the white flag of the Relman command. The last battle in a twenty-year war was finished. In this single day, she’d slain more people than she had in the five years she’d gone by Vic the Blade, when she used to sneak into Relman camps and kill their officers. When her blood, hot for revenge, had entered the icy chambers of her heart, and remorse had steamed away like the rain. When she’d killed with her hands and a dagger. Drawing her blade, she held the cut-crystal weapon to her chest and felt her heartbeat reverberate through the hilt. Regret, not vengeance, ran through her veins now. No matter how many Relmans she’d killed today, it wouldn’t make up for her failure to save the man standing in front of her.
Part One
Personal Log, Captain Franklin T. J. Wong, United Mineral Mining Vessel, Registry LSNDR2237, June 23, 2153
There’s sapient life down on the planet. Second team reported the arthropod colony they found on the central peninsula of the pancontinent isn’t a colony, it’s a city. A city inhabited by big, giant bugs. Heinlein big. Triangular heads, hundreds of legs and horns on their tails, standing five and six meters tall, with brains and language. Like something out of an old twentieth century movie. The Alien Invaders. Except we’re the Aliens. Wonder if they’ve ever imagined anything like us.
Their tech’s all organic. Advanced stuff. Architecture, infrastructure, lights—all manufactured. Craig and his team are down there now, negotiating permission to land. We’re stuck here, and I don’t need any land wars with the indigenous. No manifest destiny here, just survival.
Homecoming
Wizardry was outlawed for good reason. This simple point
of law nagged at Bethniel as her foster sister huddled on the opposite bench, knees curled to her forehead. Four months ago, Victoria of Ourtown had drunk the Waters of the Dead and become a wizard. Since then, she had won a decades-long war almost single-handedly, but the Lathan people would brand her an outlaw and banish her for life if they discovered how Vic had crushed their enemies. She had literally crushed them. And burned them to ash. Nose twitching, Bethniel pressed a scented handkerchief to her face, hoping to mask the stink of roasted flesh that festered in her pores. Vic had done many terrible things with her powers in the past four months, but the worst of those horrors, she’d done on Bethniel’s orders.
The carriage jolted out of a rut, and Vic groaned. “I thought sea voyages were bad.”
Bethniel moved across the cab and pillowed her sister’s head on her lap. “Can I do anything for you?”
“Move, so I don’t ruin that dress if I throw up.”
She massaged Vic’s temples. “I have dozens more at home.” Snow-draped branches scrolled between velvet curtains, the scenery like any stretch of road in Kiareinoll Fembrosh, the vast forest that covered most of Latha, but Bethniel recognized the twining limbs. An old geilmor leaned out across the road, its spiraling needles a familiar landmark. “We’re almost to Narath.”
Lips pressed together, Vic cringed into a tighter ball. Wizardry was outlawed not only for what wizards could do with their power, but for what the power did to the wizard. The Waters of the Dead bore that name because most who drank them died. Vic had been lucky; she’d only been sick as a cat since the day she’d choked the Waters down. Sick as a cat, but strong enough to blow apart a city wall and, before that, destroy a mountain.
The carriage stopped. Horses snorted, and Ashel poked his head inside the carriage. “We’re in view of the city. Come look.” Eyes falling on Vic, he sprang through the door and cupped her cheek. “She’s worse?"
“No,” Vic moaned.
“Yes,” Bethniel said. “She’s having a very bad day.”
“Vic,” he said, making that single syllable as rich and complex as the finest Eldanion red wine. He was called the Crystal Voice of Latha, his gifts so great that the son of a king had become a musician rather than a statesman. “There are banners everywhere, all hung in your honor.”
Vic grasped his wrist, and he bent toward her, their gazes locked. Bethniel’s heart skipped, hoping to see five years’ worth of hints and nudges come to fruition.
“All right.” Vic tugged herself up. “Maybe I can plunge this pounding skull into a snowdrift.”
Ashel’s smile melted as she slipped outside. Disappointment a cold knot in her belly, Bethniel squeezed his arm. “Be patient. She blames herself.”
He grimaced at the glove covering his right hand. “She shouldn’t.” Fur-lined leather hid a stump and a lone thumb. Fixing his lips in a cheery mask, he urged her out of the carriage. “Come see, sis.”
Greetings traced their passage through the royal retinue to the top of a rise. At the head of the column, Vic stood alone, feet apart and arms out, as if she fought for balance. Bethniel and Ashel each took an elbow, and their long, steady shadows sandwiched a small trembling one, all three pointing toward Latha’s capital. Banners draped the palisade, bearing the image of a crystal dagger, symbol of Vic the Blade. Pennants stirred, and the sinking sun painted sky and snow a fiery golden red, like the hair breezing round Vic’s face. The crystal atop the Senate building caught the sunset, refracting amber over rooftops. On the city walls, lanterns bloomed like glowbugs.
“It is beautiful.” Vic’s lips curved and froze. Her eyes rolled upward, her arms stiffened and back arched. Gagging escaped clenched jaws. Bethniel shouted for help. Ashel whipped off his cloak and laid Vic atop it. A Healer hurried through the retinue and wedged a knot of cloth between Vic’s teeth until the fit passed and she slumped insensate in Ashel’s arms.
“We must take her to the hospice,” the Healer said.
Cradling Vic, Ashel climbed to his feet. “We’ll take her to the Manor.”
“Your Highness, she should be properly examined—”
“Ashel’s right,” Bethniel said. Fear stuffed her lungs, leaving no room for breath. Wizardry was outlawed. Vic would be exiled if anyone traced this illness to her encounter with the Kragnashians. “The Ruler’s Healer will tend her. Get me a horse.”
Surrounded by soldiers, they tore across open fields, around the city toward the Manor. Held tight to Ashel’s chest, Vic slumped forward, head lolling with each bump and turn. On Manor Road, dense forest swallowed the last light of the sun. Hindquarters bunched and surged as their mounts rounded switchbacks, and every steaming huff crushed Bethniel’s chest a little more. The Waters of the Dead bore that name for a reason. Her foster sister had survived slavery and war—she could not die now in sight of home!
At the gate, the guards shouted questions as they sped past. Hooves skidded on slick cobbles before the Manor’s entrance, and Ashel leapt down and charged inside with Vic. Shouting orders at servants, Bethniel followed him up three flights and down a gallery to Vic’s room, where they pulled off her shoes and cloak and tucked her into bed. Panting, Bethniel sank onto the mattress.
“What’s wrong with her?”
Princess and prince jumped as if they were children caught at mischief. Queen Elekia of Reinoll Parish—their mother—stood in the doorway.
“She had a seizure,” Bethniel said.
“Just now?”
“Just as we arrived in sight of Narath. We rode here as fast as we could.”
Their mother crossed the threshold, and the door shut behind her, pushed by an invisible hand. “How long since she’s used wizardry?”
“At least six weeks.”
“All the way from Re, then.”
“Since the peace treaty was signed.”
Beaded braids clicked as the queen bent over Vic. Her scowl softened as she smoothed red hair from a pale forehead, but severity returned as she faced her natural-born children. “Did neither of you feel an urge to help her?”
“What kind of question is that?” Ashel snapped.
“The kind that needs to be asked, if your foster sister is having fits in sight of soldiers and courtiers.”
“Of course we helped her,” Bethniel cut in as Ashel’s chest puffed. “But she’s been ill since the Kragnashians made her drink the Waters of the Dead.”
“Which is exactly why I sent you with her.”
Bethniel winced at the sharp rebuke, though she had no idea what failure warranted a scolding. Latha’s Ruler had sent the Heir to be her Emissary. A mission of statecraft—one meant to assure the Senate Bethniel was fit to rule—it had been a triumph. Vic may have defeated their enemies, but Bethniel had secured a peace treaty that would be hailed for generations. Mother’s glower made her feel as if the signed parchment she carried in her satchel was privy paper.
“You had no desire to . . . share anything with her? Either of you?”
“Stop being so bloody cryptic, Mother,” Ashel said.
“Cryptic? Watch and learn.” Unsheathing her pocketknife, Mother sliced her thumb, dribbled blood onto Vic’s lips, and slipped the digit inside her mouth.
Ashel’s eyes snagged Bethniel’s, his twisted lips mirroring her own revulsion as Vic’s throat bobbed, swallowing their mother’s blood.
“That should help her.” Mother withdrew her thumb and graced them with a rare smile. “I am glad—very, very glad—to see you all safe. Welcome home.”
Tenderness from their mother was so rare a treasure that Bethniel’s shock melted and she flew into the queen’s open arms. They held each other, tears wetting collars, a long time.
Fingers combed through Bethniel’s shorn tresses. “You cut your hair?”
“The Kragnashians wanted it for trade. They wanted Vic’s too, but she gave them only a single lock.”
A crease marred their mother’s forehead as she turned to Ashel.
“I prayed Elesendar would see you home safe, son.”
Glowering, he pulled off his right glove and showed her the stump. “When he took the first finger, Lornk Korng said, ‘This is a gift for your mother.’”
“I heard you stopped Vic from killing him.” She caressed his cheek.
“I thought you should do your own dirty work.”
Eyebrows flattening, Mother stepped away from him. “Go rest, both of you. Tomorrow you can explain why you sent me the Relmlord alive, when I asked for his corpse.”
“Because Lornk Korng’s crimes were committed against an entire people,” Vic said, elbowing out from under the blankets.
Bethniel bit back a cry of joy—neither Vic nor her mother cared for girlish squealing at any time, much less when it interrupted a discussion of their enemy’s depravities.
“I didn’t kill him,” Vic continued, “because Ashel, with his butchered fingers on the floor, soaked in his own blood, made me see that Lornk didn’t harm just him, or me, or you. Ashel spoke for every Lathan soldier taken in battle and sold into slavery, and for every Lathan farmer whose family was murdered by Relman raiders. He made me see that Lornk deserves to be tried and convicted and to starve and rot under the Shrine at Mirkeldirk. That’s what you do with the worst criminals, isn’t it?”
“It isn’t so simple when the accused was a sovereign of a rival nation. I do not have legal standing to prosecute him.”
“It’s in the peace treaty,” Bethniel said. “We made sure of it.”
“And how did you get the Relmans to agree to that?”
Cheeks hot, Bethniel exchanged a shamefaced look with Vic. The worst horrors Vic had committed had been done on Bethniel’s orders.
An invisible force yanks the Relman’s arm out straight, and an iron gauntlet flies across the room and snaps round her hand. The metal begins to glow red. As the color brightens, shrieks rend the air. The Councilors’ cries tumble after. The woman’s keens squeeze into ragged breaths, billow again into an ear-shattering howl. Burning flesh jabs Bethniel’s nose. A Councilor bends over, and a vile, stinking mess hits the polished marble floor, splattering boots and slippers and garment hems.