A Wizard's Sacrifice Read online

  Chest heaving, he retrieved her blade and stood over her. He had never fought so fiercely in his life. That was you, wasn’t it? he asked Geram. The other man had grown up on the docks in Alna, where street scraps were as common as trees in Fembrosh.

  My instincts, my skills, maybe, but it was you that used them. You should kill her.

  No. Once before, Geram’s instincts and his own hatred had driven Ashel to fight and kill. What good would that do? Mora was gone from the horizon. A lupear howled, the cry pealing across the plain beneath rosy clouds. The two steeds ran toward him, their carapaces golden in the sunset. He’d have to kill Joslyrn too, without Melba getting harmed, and hope he could control the mounts well enough to reach the paddock before night fell. A lupear whistled, and another answered. Fear roiled in his belly. Only a fool traveled the Semena plains alone in the dark. Only a dead fool. We’re safer with the Herders than on our own. Is Lornk still in prison?

  Yes—

  A boom, wreathed in screams, cut off Geram’s reply. Through him, Ashel Heard Vic shouting orders into chaos.

  “You try that again, and I’ll kill you.” Kelmair sat up, her head swaying in a woozy circle.

  “You can try.” The howls came again, closer. Whatever was happening in Narath, he needed his attention here. “How far is it to your herd?”

  She staggered to her feet. “Closer than Mora. Meager won’t take you to the paddock, no matter how sweetly you croon at her.” Her lips twisted into a bitter grin. “You’ll come with us if you want to live.”

  Joslyrn’s steed skidded to a halt, Meager huffing beside it. “Don’t ever yank on a steed’s tentacles, Highness.”

  Hooks clinked as Kelmair picked up the saddle. Lupears chorused, and the steeds whickered and danced. “Give her a song and calm her down, or they’ll be on us.”

  “Ashel,” Melba asked aloud, voice quavering, “what is going on?”

  “I’m sorry, Mel.” Humming, he stroked Meager’s thorax while Kelmair fastened the saddle. When she was done, he mounted, Kelmair’s dagger still tight in his fist. “Looks like we’re going to have to spend some time on the range.”

  Schemes in the Dark

  Vic’s head lolled in Geram’s lap as the carriage lurched through the switchbacks up Manor Hill. Her skin felt as hot as the fire she’d smothered, her mind as silent as a dead woman’s, though her breath wheezed faintly. She had disappeared into the morass of her own thoughts before, but this was different. Now, she wasn’t ensnared in dark and bitter memories, she was simply gone, absent from her own body.

  I left my body once too, Ashel said. He sat in the Herders’ camp, a bowl of stew growing cold in his lap. His captors hadn’t bothered to bind him or Melba, relying on lupears and distance to hold their prisoners.

  This isn’t like that either. We know too well where you went. Trying to shield Ashel from the agonies wrought by those damn gauntlets, Geram had accidentally pulled the prince’s mind into his own, and now half a year later and a thousand miles apart, they shared memories, thoughts, actions.

  “Can you do anything?” Maynon braced himself on the other bench as the carriage swung through a turn.

  “Maybe.” He focused his attention on Vic. As he had once before when she was lost to herself, he held his breath and dove into the darkness.

  Sickness ripped up his throat; dizzying pain filled the cavities in his skull. His knees smacked the floorboards, and Vic tumbled into a heap beside him. He fought a surging dinner while Maynon cursed and wrestled Vic onto the other bench. On the plains, Ashel’s groans echoed his own. Geram climbed into his seat, his head throbbing like an old smuggler’s.

  The carriage jolted to a stop. Voices swirled outside, orders were issued, and they lurched through the Manor’s gate.

  “Seems you did nothing but harm yourself, Fishlicker,” Maynon muttered, Vic still slack in his arms. “I owe her—” He wiped wet cheeks. “Silla almost died at the birthing. Vic did something. I dunno what, but she saved her. She better not die now.”

  The carriage halted again, and Drak flung open the door. As his cousin carried Vic inside, Geram used Maynon’s sight to see his way through the entry hall and up the stairs. A Listener’s trick, it eased life as a blind man, though it didn’t assuage the bitterness of being blind. At the second landing, he stumbled and banged his shin. Grunting, Maynon grabbed his elbow, and they hustled onward to Vic’s room.

  Elekia swept in as Drak laid Vic on the bed. “What happened?”

  “A fire, Majesty,” Drak said. “She breathed in a lot of smoke.”

  “She’s feverish,” Elekia snapped. “Smoke didn’t cause that.”

  “She put it out, Majesty,” Geram said, his mindvoice faltering as the queen shot him a piercing glare. Dropping Maynon’s sight, he struggled against the desire to shrink into his boots.

  “Selcher,” the queen said, “she’s in some sort of trance.”

  “I tried to revive her in the carriage,” Geram said, chagrined he hadn’t noticed the other Listener.

  “And failed,” said Selcher. “Like as not used a bludgeon where a needle is required. Tell me, lieutenant, did you hurt yourself?”

  Maynon snorted, and Elekia ordered them all to wait outside. “When the Healer arrives, send him in.”

  In the hallway, Maynon slapped Geram’s shoulder. “You’ve got some competition up here, eh, Fishlicker?”

  “He holds his own,” Drak rumbled.

  Maynon’s lips drew down. “Don’t leave Vic alone tonight, not while she can’t defend herself.”

  “I won’t.”

  “I’ll see you out, Maynon,” Drak said as the Healer arrived and went into the bedroom. “Geram, debrief the queen. I’ll talk to the housemarshal.”

  Geram grasped his cousin’s arm. “Tell Olivet Lornk Korng is planning to escape.”

  “You Heard that tonight?”

  “From the pirate,” he said. Kelmair was a Caleisbahnin and an outlaw. Close enough to pirate, and what she’d told Ashel made it clear her people would attempt a prison break soon.

  “Right. I’ll tell him.”

  Alone, Geram paced the hallway, heart pounding.

  Do not tell Mother, Ashel said, swallowing cold stew. There’s nothing she could do anyway.

  How are you getting out of this?

  I’ll find a way. These people aren’t soldiers. They’re not even proper bandits.

  They caught you easily enough.

  The prince gazed at the massive herd of steeds milling nearby. They had a good lure. Do not say anything to Mother, but make sure Lornk Korng stays in prison.

  I’m telling Vic—she’ll come for you, and she’ll need me to find you.

  Mixed desire, chagrin, and apprehension were the only response from the prince.

  Elekia emerged, issuing instructions to Selcher and the Healer as she shut the door. “So, lieutenant, I see the other chickens have fled and left you to face the fox.”

  “The fox, Majesty?”

  She chuckled. “A predator from Ancient folklore, one particularly fond of chickens.”

  He bowed his head, feeling uncouth as well as chagrined that kernel of knowledge hadn’t popped out of Ashel’s memories. “How is Vic?”

  “She’ll recover. You were there?”

  “I was. So was a Caleisbahnin. I believe his associates set off an explosion. It was no ordinary kitchen fire.”

  Silence met the news, the queen keeping her thoughts well-muffled. “Was anyone else hurt?” she asked.

  “The cook, Your Majesty. He was taken to the hospice. We brought Vic here—”

  “You were correct to do so. Thank you, lieutenant.”

  “There’s something else, Majesty. I Heard the pirate think about a plan to break Lornk Korng from prison. Drak went to inform the housemarshal.”

  Another long moment passed before she asked, “Did anything else happen this evening?”

  He remembered S
elcher just on the other side of the door, hoped she was occupied with Vic. “No, Your Majesty.”

  “Truly? Come.” She strode down the hall. Feeling as nervous as a schoolboy, he followed, using her sight to enter a small parlor without stumbling. She settled herself in a chair, fiddled with her skirt while he waited, fists locked behind his back. When her eyes rose, her vision focused on the line of his jaw and the breadth of his shoulders. Most people’s sight slid off him as easily as the kitchen table. But she looked at him, the tight crop of black, wiry hair, the deep brown of his skin, the bulk of his shoulders—discomfited, he let go of her vision.

  “Does it feel like you’re looking in a mirror when you do that?” she asked.

  “No,” he replied curtly, trying to hide his surprise she could tell.

  “What did this Caleisbahnin want?”

  “He said his sect had a job for her, and he alluded to her power in front of dozens of witnesses.”

  “Shrine,” she muttered. “Would my son welcome her company in Mora?”

  “How would I know that, Majesty?” If Selcher knows, Mother knows, Bethniel had said. Shrine’s bitch. So much for hiding his connection to Ashel.

  “You shared a prison cell with him. You must have come to know each other well.”

  Sorrow tinged her mindvoice, and his fingers twitched with a mad urge to clasp her hand. He cleared his throat. “Majesty, it’s no secret Prince Ashel loved Vic.”

  “Loved? Has he changed his mind?”

  “I couldn’t say, Your Majesty, as I haven’t seen him in several months.”

  “Lieutenant, you have a comfortable position on my staff. Your duties are light, your salary generous. All I ask in return is your honesty.”

  He knotted his fingers together. “And you’ve received an honest answer.”

  “By the letter, perhaps, but not the spirit. I’m disappointed.”

  As always, Ashel said, settling onto a blanket Joslyrn gave him.

  “If I’m not fulfilling your expectations, Majesty, perhaps it’s because I don’t know my purpose here. You have a Listener already. You have guards. You have aides. What can a blind Alnan fisherman do that they can’t?”

  Silk rustled as Elekia stood. Her perfume coiled around Geram’s throat, filling his head with freakish longing. Her breath fell warm upon his face, smelling of herbs and dark wine. Heat prickled his skin, and he thought of the mudpit in Olivet’s training yard, of stinking fish in the rubbish bin, anything to purge the wild and unbidden desire running through his blood.

  “Will you answer my question honestly?” she asked.

  “I resign my commission,” he blurted.

  “You would rob your family of that generous pension I send them, in these difficult times?”

  “They’ll forgive the loss, Majesty. Good night.” He marched to Vic’s room, settling himself on the sofa. Tomorrow, he and Vic would go together to find Ashel. Tonight, he’d sit beside her and give her what protection a blind man could from schemes woven in the dark.

  * * *

  Sleep shattered. Like the sea under a storm, shouts and screams clashed in the hall. Springing off the sofa, Geram felt his way to the fireplace and seized the ceramic poker—the closest thing in the room to a weapon. Deeply drugged, Vic slept, insensible to the commotion.

  The mayhem rolled closer, crashes and shrieks, floorboard-rattling booms. He tried to Listen, to snag someone’s sight, but his perception shrank from chaos, and he stood, knees bent, fist around the poker, head cocked.

  The door banged open. Geram rushed forward, reaching for his opponent’s sight, but he caught nothing, as if he’d tried to capture dust motes from the air. Doubly blind, he tripped on the rug.

  “It’s a Kragnashian!” Drak shouted.

  Sprawled in front of Vic’s bed, he heard an awful clicking, loud and regular, bearing down on him. Crouching, he snagged his cousin’s vision. A trooper sat astride the Kragnashian’s thorax, stabbing between whipping antennae, but the dagger only skittered over the creature’s armor. Massive wing covers snapped, flesh crunched, and the soldier’s scream died to a gurgle as her body thumped to the floor. A mandible caught Drak’s head, and Geram’s sight went black.

  The Kragnashian shuffled forward, its clicking steady as a clock, a thousand tendrilled legs whisking over the carpet. Geram positioned himself in the path of the noise, nose twitching round the pungent, clean scent of its blood, like mown grass or slotaen, the curative ointment the Kragnashians distilled and sold from their deceased kin. The clicking stopped, and dread echoed.

  Air hissed out of trachea, and he pulled the poker back along his arm like a javelin. Screeching, the Kragnashian leapt forward, air luffing beneath its wing covers. Geram dove into the swishing legs and thrust upward. Razor-sharp spines raked his skin. The makeshift spear pierced chitin as mandibles snapped, slicing flesh to the bone. Pain seared his senses. Bright white blazed through the charcoal murk of his sight. A scream ripped his throat as a choking cloud, cloying and thick, burst forth. The Kragnashian collapsed.

  “Get a Healer!” Olivet shouted, dragging him from the entangling mass of legs and chitin. There was a whipping crack, and a leather strap was cinched round Geram’s thigh. “A Healer!”

  A bone-deep cold enveloped him, as if he stood naked in a sea of ice. Fatigue weighed upon his limbs and chest. His eyes fell shut, and shouts, cries, and orders shrank to incoherence as he sank below the frost. A tendril of Elekia’s scent infused the cold, faded, returned, and faded again.

  Geram! Ashel shouted. The prison!

  His eyes jerked open, but it was dark. A hand clasped his, and he clung to it as lethargy sucked him back under. “Korng,” he murmured as torpor took him.

  Irredeemable

  Smoke twined from beneath the door, rolling into black fingers that knuckled the ceiling and clawed slowly down toward Wineyll. She lay still on a damp pillow, breathing slowly and deeply as the sooty clouds descended, caught in her father’s last moments.

  He lies on the bed, lips sealed, nostrils flaring and sweat beading. A moan escapes; his knees fold toward his chest, his body clenched. The spasm subsides and he collapses, panting, tears running into his ears.

  She mops his face. “Let me ask for more.” More slotaen. It can’t heal the illness eating his insides, but it dulls the agony.

  “No,” he groans. “No. Do not abase yourself to them.” Them—the Guild, the Melody and Harmony, who have twice refused to pay the apothecary.

  With great effort, he pulls the pillow out from beneath his head, handing it to her. “Another way, my love. Only you can end my pain.”

  Winder had dedicated his life to the Guild he loved, and they’d paid him back by making him die in pain and disgrace. As black clouds and panicked screams curled through the crack beneath the door, she offered thanks to Elesendar. She’d be with her father soon.

  She wanted to take those prayers back when Drak burst into the garret and hustled her down the stairs. Feeling robbed and thwarted, she watched with the inn’s patrons as Helara and Geram dragged the cook outside, as the fire brigade arrived to find their work done for them, as Vic’s friends rushed her into a hired carriage and sped away. Helara began to usher guests back to their rooms, but Wineyll drifted down the street, all sorrow and anger drained away, leaving her a husk, just a shell enclosing a dark void.

  As she passed an alley, someone darted out, clapped a hand over her mouth, and yanked her into the shadows. Her pulse thumped against a blade at her throat, filling her head with a thrill that was halfway between fear and excitement. All she had to do was struggle, and this footpad would do for her what she’d done for her father.

  “Don’t scream, neither aloud nor silent, young miss.” Beneath the command, she Heard his purpose. He was Caleisbahnin, and his orders were to bring her to the prison. Relief flowed down her spine, surprise, shame, and anticipation tumbling with it.

  “Lornk Korng is going to escap
e tonight.”

  The man’s sharp eyes narrowed. Silver glinted at an ear. “Keep your mind to yourself, and no tricks, or there’ll be more bloodshed than need be this night.”

  “You don’t need the dagger. I’ll come quietly.”

  He peered at her, suspicion twisting his mouth. “No tricks.”

  She pushed the blade down. “Take me to him.”

  They stole down quiet, dark streets. The man’s fingers remained clamped around her arm until they turned down a blind alley and arrived at the city’s north wall, where he shoved aside an old crate. A rope ladder, hooked to the timbered wall, descended into black.

  “Down you go, and quietly,” he whispered.

  Wineyll’s freed muscles throbbed, the skin tender over blooming bruises. Now was her chance to vanish from the pirate’s perception, escape down the alley and warn the city guard the Caleisbahnin planned to free Lornk Korng tonight. She could escape and prove herself loyal to Latha, show herself a hero. But she wasn’t one. Ashel had lost his fingers because she’d failed to bring Vic to heel, and at the nexus of her dark void was the part of Vic that had once been Lornk’s slave. Wineyll had used that submissive girl when she tried to capture Vic’s mind and restrain it to Lornk’s will, and now she carried the thrall’s mad desire to yield to the hunger in his eyes again.

  “Go on now,” the pirate pushed her toward the opening.

  Cheeks hot with the shameful desire to see the Relmlord again, she climbed down the ladder.

  Narrow and short, the tunnel must have been dug in a hurry. Clods cascaded, smacking her head and shoulders as she wormed beneath the city wall and emerged in a hedge of hoarsgrout. The pirate climbed out after her, kicked dirt and leaves over the opening. His fingers locked round her arm again, they clambered over roots and rocks through the woods, turning onto the prison road once they were out of sight of the wall.

  Elesendar’s meager flicker guided their footsteps. Was that tiny sparkling orb, which crossed the sky twice or thrice a night, a god or a spacecraft? Wineyll believed it—He—was a god. But the Father wasn’t a doting one, not to her. She felt His judgment press upon her neck, a finger of dim light digging into her spine. His light was supposed to shepherd you on your path through life, but around her, forest shadows yawned like graves.