by Beth Alvarez
He tried to push thieves and prisoners out of mind, but as he carried the wrapped blade to his private quarters above the barracks, the captain couldn't help but think of the haunting glow of the prisoner's eyes.
“That's a very old language you speak.”
Rune's head jerked up and he squinted against the weak lantern light of the dungeon. Jolted from sleep as he was, even that seemed too bright.
He almost thought he'd imagined the words. The prison was quiet, save the occasional rattle of chains or weak coughs from prisoners in cells farther down the row. Then he caught the sound of the guard snoring at his station beside the stairs.
“No, not your imagination. I wouldn't speak to you if the guards were awake. I wouldn't want to risk making myself useful.” The words were accompanied by a quiet chuckle, and Rune moved closer to the door of his cell.
He crouched beside the iron bars and peered across the hall. He'd noticed the old man in the cell opposite his, but hadn't paid him any mind. Of course, from the way the man spoke, perhaps he'd made himself unworthy of attention on purpose.
“You understand me?” Rune asked, keeping his voice low.
“Of course,” the old man laughed. He never looked up, never made eye contact, behaving almost as if he didn't see anything at all. Rune might have thought him blind if he hadn't caught the way the man watched the wall. His eyes were sharp, trained too intently on the stone for his gaze to be anything other than deliberate. “Any scholar worth his salt would know the tongue. It's for that reason I'm surprised Survas was able to speak to you.”
Rune snorted. “It wasn't much of a conversation.”
“No, it wasn't,” the man agreed. “He could have at least warned you what you're in for now.” When Rune did not reply, the old man sighed. “They'll have you off to the arena in a day or so. Can't have too many folk sitting about in the dungeons like I am, after all.”
“Arena?” Rune asked. The weight his fellow prisoner put on the word was enough to make him dislike the way it sounded.
“Of course. You're young enough, able-bodied from the look of you, and should put up a decent bit of entertainment for the nobles. They turn a whole gaggle of prisoners out into the arena each week, send lords and knights and nobles out with weapons to cut you down. Scares most people into behaving, and the betting puts a lot of coin into the pockets of the rich.”
“Well, I hate to have to disappoint them.” Rune wasn't chained, and having had time to rest and some semblance of a meal to replenish his strength, he saw no reason to stay put—especially if some sort of execution awaited. Shifting back from the bars, Rune closed his eyes and waited to sense the eb and flow of energy around him. He was a mage, after all. Not a skilled one, perhaps, but a strong one. If he could catch hold of the power in the air, there wasn't much chance that prison bars could stand in his way.
A delicate shift in the air gave him the direction he needed and he reached after it with his own energy. But the flow did something he didn't expect, bending around his reach as if it knew to avoid him. He opened his eyes, his brow furrowed. Despite his shaky grasp of magic, that had never happened before.
“If magic could get you out, don't you think I'd have tried that already?” The old man chortled, turning his head to peer across the walkway. The distinct, frigid blue of his eyes spoke volumes.
“You're a mage?” Rune regretted the words the moment they left his mouth. Of course the old man was a mage; no one had eyes that color naturally. It was one effect magic had on its wielders, the tax of bending energy to their whims. The raw power changed their eyes and scoured away the color of their hair, leaving them pale as ghosts. Rune focused on the man across the hall. The Gift of power prickled in his senses. He'd been too distracted to notice it before.
“Yes, unfortunately. You'd do well to mind your Gift if you make it out of your first arena visit alive. They don't take kindly to mages here.”
The statement gave Rune pause. There were a lot of reasons a mage could fail to garner respect for themselves, either by actions or accident. But for mages as a whole to be ill thought of? That was unfathomable. The rank of Master mage carried weight and power on Elenhiise island. Masters were considered nobles in every way.
But he wasn't on Elenhiise anymore. Rune tucked the knowledge away and tried not to let his thoughts show. The information was surprising, but useful, given his own Gift. Useful knowledge wasn't often given away for free. “Who are you? Why would they put an old mage in prison?”
“Because old mages are the frightening ones. We're too tired of the world to care about keeping our tongues in check.” Again the old man chuckled, though now he sounded tired. “I am Redoram Parthanus, highborn mage, scholar, and former member of the king's council. Of course, even that rank doesn't protect you if your opinions are unpopular.” He grimaced and shook his head. “They've put wards here to prevent our kind from breaking free. I don't believe the same wards preside over the arena, but they wouldn't dare include me. My opinions are unpopular with nobles, but not with the masses. They won't risk aggravating the people. Instead, I suppose they'll just wait for me to rot.”
More useful information. Rune considered it carefully. If he had access to his power in the arena, it bettered his chances of coming back alive. Coming back to what, though, he wasn't entirely sure. He supposed there were worse places to be than prison, though escaping one on Elenhiise only to land in another once he returned to dry land hadn't exactly been the plan.
And what was the plan? He'd never stopped to think about what he would do once he made it off that blasted ship. Too many regrets had clouded his mind. They rose into his head now, as if summoned. He tried to stifle the thoughts, fingering the rings on their cord around his neck.
“You lied to the jailers.” Redoram's voice brought his focus back to the present, to the dank and musty prison in which they both sat.
“What makes you think that?” Troubled, Rune shifted to sit on the floor and lean back against the cool stone wall. He didn't know the man's game just yet, couldn't risk being seen in a moment of turmoil.
Redoram leaned against the bars and rubbed his bearded chin with a frown. “Your name. I once knew a man who spoke your tongue and bore the same accent. An esteemed mage from the college out in the isles of Lore. The language as he spoke it would never favor a name so simple.” He paused and his mage-blue eyes narrowed. “I'm not sure what sort of training you've had for your Gift, but if it's of the sort that makes you think true names have any kind of power, you'd do well to learn otherwise.”
He snorted. “It is my true name.” He gave Redoram a look from the corner of one faintly glowing violet eye. “It just wasn't given to me until later in life.”
For a time the old man said nothing, regarding him in thoughtful silence. Then he nodded. “I see.” Redoram drew back from the bars and chuckled once more. The sound of the old man's laugh was beginning to grate on his nerves. “Well then, Rune, was it? Best of luck in the arena. It's been a pleasure speaking with you. Come back alive and I may do it more often. I'd be happy to teach you what you need to know to survive here, assuming you'll be keeping me company for a while.”
Rune arched a brow. “If I come back alive, I don't think I'll need you to teach me to survive.”
Redoram gave a hearty guffaw at that, letting the laugh fade into a cough when the prison guard stirred at his station.
Content to let silence fall, Rune stared at the far wall of his cell and played with the rings at his throat. If participating in some sort of arena combat was all it took to guarantee he'd make it back to the prison, he liked his odds. He'd be escorted to and from the event, he assumed, which would give him the opportunity to see where the prison was located within the city. He'd get to see the city itself, too, and having a clearer scope of its size would tell him how likely he was to find his father's sword. The rest of the plan could come later. Future conversations with Redoram could help him plan escape and choose a destination. The
old man was one resource he planned to pick clean while it was at his fingertips.
As for the arena itself, simply staying alive until the event was over didn't sound difficult. It didn't come at the best time, with him weakened and out of practice after two months on a ship and a few more starving while ashore, but he would have to make do. There would be rations in the evening and likely more in the morning as well. For the moment, all he could do was rest.
Rune folded his arms over his chest and tried to make himself comfortable against the wall as he let his eyes drift closed. Preparation was the easy part. Survival might be a bit more of a challenge. Then again, he reminded himself as a half-healed scar on his back rubbed against the coarse stone, he had lived through worse.
2
The College of Lore
Alira was blubbering again.
Envesi gritted her teeth, rubbed her eyes, and tried to ignore her. If the girl didn't stop, she'd pay penance for it later. Envesi had half a mind to stripe the girl herself.
Penance was an ugly word, one she'd heard far too often since their arrival in the mainland college some eight months before. She was Archmage of Elenhiise, not someone to be switched and scolded like a misbehaved mageling. Or she had been Archmage of Elenhiise, before the three of them had been sent away.
“Oh do be quiet,” Envesi snapped at last, giving Alira such a glare that the girl sniffled and quieted down. She shouldn't fault the girl, not really. Alira had barely worn the white robes of a Master mage before she'd been named Master of her House of affinity. But between her and Melora, the other Master exiled alongside them, Envesi had heard quite enough.
“Best mind the way you speak to her. We're all on equal footing now.” Melora's voice was too calm, too even. The former Master of the House of wind had done an admirable job of pretending to accept their punishment, but Envesi knew her too well to think her acceptance was genuine.
Biting her tongue to keep it in check, the former Archmage turned back to the tub of suds before her. She snatched a white robe from the water and scrubbed it against the washboard with a renewed vigor.
It was not the first time Envesi had worked the laundry basins at the Grand College of Lore. It was here that she'd received her training and scaled to the rank of Master mage before she was forced to fulfill an arranged marriage. There was no consolation in the fact that none of the mages she'd trained under seemed to be a part of the college any longer, though perhaps there should have been. Doing their laundry for a second time in her life would have been even more humiliating.
“I've heard they plan to test us soon, raise us to the rank of gray.” Melora spoke in a short, clipped tone. She did not look at the other two women as she pinned the wash to the many lines strung across the ceiling. If any of them had been allowed to use their Gift, the laundry would have been done hours ago. But that would have defeated the purpose of penance. “Imagine, a gray mageling at my age. My robes would match my hair.”
Alira wiped her nose, then coughed. “I'll be glad of it, to be honest. At least it would get us out of the laundry.”
Envesi couldn't help but agree, which she resented. Alira was young, her hair only just turned white from the continual shock of twisting raw energy into usable flows. Being set back to the lowest mageling rank was not quite so devastating to her as it was to Melora or herself, women who had worn Master white for longer than Alira had been alive. Still, it did provide a measure of relief. At least if they wore mageling robes, they'd be allowed to touch magic again. Envesi had sorely missed the sensation of power at her fingertips.
“I don't understand the need to test us. They know perfectly well that all three of us wore the white.” Melora scowled and wrung water from a shirt until her knuckles turned as white as the cloth.
“It ought to be obvious. They want to see that we understand the mainland's practices for magecraft before they decide whether or not they'll grant us access to power. The political climate involving mages is different here.” Envesi couldn't keep bitterness from her voice; admitting the energy lines were held beyond her reach was difficult to bear. At the same time, she scolded herself for forgetting the mainland mages had that power. She would have taken it to Kirban, if she'd had the time to learn the trick before being sent off to marry. Had she been able to bridle the magic of others, they wouldn't be in this situation now.
“And what are we to do if we reach the rank of Master again?” Alira asked, looking between the two older women with a frown. “The college doesn't retain as many teachers as the temple did. I know no one here, and I'm sure the others wouldn't have us back on Elenhiise, not after—”
“The right to Elenhiise is not theirs to give!” Envesi snapped. “I was Kifel's wife. With no heir named and the temple’s influence to back me, I should have had his throne.”
“And yet here we are, locked away in a basement, doing chores for Masters and mages we've never met,” Melora chuckled darkly and shook her head as she tugged the clothesline on its pulleys to run the clean wash to the edges of the room. “Wise of them to hold magic outside our reach.. If I could get hold of a single thread, I'd give them all a thrashing they won't soon forget.”
Envesi lifted her head and gave the former Master of wind a shadowed glance. “If I have my way, you may be afforded the chance.”
Melora paused. “I beg your pardon?”
“Pardoned.” Envesi straightened and pushed her snow-white hair back from her face. She still looked every bit the part of Archmage, even in the coarse brown wool of a laundry maid. The other women lowered their eyes and she savored the way it felt. “I see no reason to halt the research I carried out in Kirban. I've only been set back by the fact they put one of my tools to the noose. He was useful for study, but only a minor loss. I began the research needed to understand free magic long before I brought him to be.”
Alira sent Melora a questioning look. When the older woman's expression didn't change, her eyes shifted back to Envesi. “You mean Lomithrandel?”
Envesi heaved a sigh. The young woman had been full of questions when she'd learned the truth of the prince's birth, and all of them had been answered. She hadn't the patience to go over it again. “Melora, please?”
Melora shook her head. “Say it yourself or it won't be said at all. I'll not speak of the practices you pushed us into until I know there's no one listening.”
Irritated, Envesi turned back to the wash basin. “When Lomithrandel was brought to be, we were able to do something that was, until then, unheard of. You know he was born to free magic.” The words carried weight, and for good reason. For all the power mages possessed, they were limited by Affinity. Without a nearby energy source to tap, they were all but powerless. But free magic was different. It was limitless, unfettered and almost uncontrollable. Free magic was power that rivaled that of the Lifetree.
“And he was allowed to live after the magic warped him because it let you study how free magic worked,” Alira sighed. “I know. But if Lomithrandel has been put to death, how do you mean to study his powers?”
“I remember the course the magic took when he was made,” Envesi said, her eyes unfocused and her hands idle on the washboard. “I remember every twist and bend. I remember the moment the bindings of magic came undone, the way the power came to life in him.” Then her jaw tightened and she exhaled. “And could I extricate that moment from the taint that twisted his body, I could unbind myself, as well.”
Melora stared at her with wide eyes. “Such a thing isn't possible.”
“Isn't it, though?” Envesi mused. “It was possible in Lomithrandel. To determine what went wrong, all I need is another like him. Another that's been twisted by corrupted flows...”
Alira's jaw went slack. “You can’t mean to create another!”
“She can’t create another,” Melora said, scowling. “Not without a full council of mages, at least ten who are strong in their Gift.”
“I do not mean to renew that project.” The former Ar
chmage folded her arms over her chest and turned to face the others. “I mean only to study another that has been twisted by the unbinding process.”
Suddenly pale, Melora stepped back. “You cannot mean to unbind one of us.”
The thought hadn't crossed Envesi’s mind. She barked a laugh. “No, the two of you are too valuable. You, Melora, because you were there. And Alira because she knows too much to be safe.” She smiled coldly as she gave the younger woman a sidewise glance. Alira grew ashen as she swallowed and shifted in place. Good, let her be afraid. Fear was useful.
“Who, then?” Melora demanded.
“I don't know.” Envesi didn't like to admit it, but she hadn't gotten that far. Not when the Masters of the college held the flows beyond her reach. Not while she was under too much scrutiny to even consider the preparations she would need to take.
Who, indeed. Lomithrandel had been safe to keep around, if only because of his connection to Kifel. It made him weak, easy to control. His power had never been a threat. Another mage, already versed in the ways of their Gift, was out of the question. “A child, perhaps,” she said at last. “One just beginning to exhibit the spark of a Gift. One who knows nothing, hasn't been trained. Not a mageling, and no one from the college.”
“An orphan, perhaps?” Melora suggested. “We're in a large enough city. Surely there are dozens to choose from.”
An orphaned child did seem like the best option, though how she was to raise one while climbing the ranks in the college, Envesi did not know. It had been easy with Lomithrandel; Kifel had done that part of the work for her. “Perhaps,” she agreed as she reached for another piece of wash in the basin. “Perhaps more than one.”
Chances were, after all, she would need a bit of practice.
Lore had changed little in the time she'd been away. Not that Envesi expected it to be different. Mages came and mages went, and few returned to walk the hallways of the Grand College after graduation. Few ever had.
