by Beth Alvarez
Then she'd seen her father's killer.
Her chest still ached when she thought of him, the pain a wretched mixture of sorrow and heartbreak. She'd not forgiven herself for her mistake, for thinking Rune had gone to war for another woman's sake, that he’d used her as a pawn in some sort of game for power. But he had eyed the throne long before Firal had come into the picture. What else was she to think? Yet she hadn't recognized the emotions on his face when they'd presented him before the throne for sentencing. Surprise, concern, confusion. Relief and hope. They all seemed so clear in memory.
Salty tears made trails down her face as Medreal's words echoed in her head. You were young. You didn't know any better.
She knew better now.
Firal thrust herself up from her desk, scrubbing tears away with the sleeve of her dress. She'd trusted Anaide to pass fair judgment in her stead. That had been her first mistake, the first falter in her rule. A chink in her armor, through which they slid their knives and pushed just far enough to poke and prod her in the direction they wanted her to go.
No more. Stubborn determination welled up within her and she clenched her hands to fists as she slid out of her office. A dancing bear, Ennil had called her at their first dinner. The comparison had rankled then, but she began to understand the accusation. The mages thought she would dance, or else be easy to remove and replace. It wouldn't happen. She wouldn't be controlled any longer.
Firal hurried down the hall to the parlor where her court mages waited. It was a trip she'd taken countless times since her daughter's birth, desperate to fix her mistakes. The mages had given her the same answer at each visit and she had let herself be cowed every time.
No more, she repeated in her head. She would not be denied again.
Eight mages in blue-trimmed white jumped to attention when the door flew open. Fewer than she'd hoped for, but enough for what she needed. “Prepare to open a Gate,” Firal ordered, watching with a stony expression as the mages hurried to form a half-circle around the archway in the center of the room. She felt the surge of energy as the mages tied their magic together.
The woman closest to the arch turned toward her. Temar had served the royal family since before Kifel had been born. When the temple severed its ties with Ilmenhith, Temar had been the first to declare her loyalty to the crown alone. Firal had liked her since their first encounter, during the solstice ball. She had always been warm, pleasant. Yet she had denied Firal her independence at every visit. It seemed she anticipated another argument. Her mage-blue eyes bore a careful guard. “Where shall we send you, Majesty?”
Firal stepped forward. “Tie with me.”
All eight mages looked startled.
“I will lead the opening of the Gate. None of you have the familiarity needed to open it. Tie power with me and I'll lead.”
A flicker of doubt crossed Temar's face. “Your Majesty, we've been over this before.”
“That was not a request,” Firal snapped.
The mage made a soft, soothing motion with both hands. “Peace, Majesty. I mean no offense. The Archmage has not yet declared it safe for you to wield magic again.”
Firal gritted her teeth. Her power had been forbidden since the moment the Archmage detected the child in her womb; the fragile, budding life within her could not withstand the force of magic. Tradition demanded mothers abstain from touching power for a year. Nine months for a child to grow, three more for the mother's recovery. “And if the Archmage should die before he declares me free to practice magecraft again?”
A small gasp rolled through the mages in the room.
“We are not trying to hinder you, Majesty,” Temar pleaded. “We're trying to protect you.”
“I don't need your protection, and I will not be denied any longer.” Firal scowled. “I will lead. That is an order.”
Temar's mouth tightened, but she said nothing. A moment later, tendrils of energy pushed toward Firal. She snared them, wove them together with her own strength.
She had studied the opening of a Gate, though she had never done it, herself. From her understanding, she wouldn't need to. The other, more experienced mages could guide the power. All she had to do was tell it where to go. No different from directing healing, she assumed, and she had plenty of practice with that.
Yet nervous queasiness stirred in her stomach. Somehow, she hadn't believed she'd get this far. She'd never mentioned her intentions, afraid the mages would try to stop her. Uncertainty made her grasp of the power waver, but regret for the number of times she'd surrendered burned too deeply for her to give up.
“Are you certain you wish to lead, my queen?” Temar asked.
Firal glared, steeling her resolve. Instead of replying, she squeezed her eyes shut, turning all of Nondar's teachings over in her mind. Then she cleared her mind of thoughts and focused on creating a clear visual. She pictured every detail, feeding them into threads of energy, and spun those threads into a web within the archway.
The air crackled. Light zigzagged between the sides of the arch, brilliant even with her eyes closed. She traced each detail over in her mind and brought it into precise focus a second time. The texture of his skin, the line of his jaw. The color of his eyes, reflected every day in his daughter's gaze.
The Gate sizzled, white-hot with energy. She opened her eyes and her heart leaped as she caught a glimpse of her vision reflected in the ripples of the forming portal.
A deafening shriek filled the room, rising in pitch until the tendrils of energy shattered and the Gate collapsed on itself with a deafening boom. Power snapped back against her, knocking her to the floor. Firal scrambled upright, shaking so hard she could barely sit. She wasn't the only one who had toppled. All eight court mages lay on the floor. “What happened?” she cried.
“Not enough mages to contain a broken destination,” one woman groaned, struggling to her knees and rubbing the back of her head.
“A broken destination?” Firal glanced between the mages as they got up, uncertain what the woman meant.
“Trying to open a Gate to something that has changed,” another mage explained. “Something must have happened to wherever you were trying to go.”
Firal's heart sank.
“There just weren't enough of us present to hold the misdirected energy in check.” Temar got to her feet and offered her hand. “I apologize, my queen. We should have been prepared for that possibility.”
“No,” Firal said bitterly, waving the mage away and standing on her own. “It's not your fault. I wasn't prepared for that possibility, either.”
The mages bowed and shuffled back to their chairs to sit and groan over the bruises they'd have, come morning. Firal stared at the empty archway with a new ache in her heart. Silently, she sent out another wave of energy. A gentle beckon, pleading and filled with sadness. Broken destination or not, the Calling was a method of contact that didn't need a clear mental image to send. It was tied to someone's essence, someone's energy, taught to mages for times where simple contact was needed.
She stood waiting for what felt like an eternity, hoping to receive a Calling back.
Just when she thought nothing would come, the door to the parlor flew open.
“Firal!”
She spun on her heel, startled to see Vahn in the doorway. He rushed forward and clasped her hands in his. “I know what we're going to do!”
She hadn't Called him, but the look of elation on his face drove everything else out of mind.
15
Hard Choices
“A mine?” Firal repeated, surprised. She sipped her tea, watching Vahn pace in front of the couch. He hadn't given his cup a second glance after she set it on the low table.
“With enough gems in it to buy the island itself. The gold from the river alone will be more than enough to refill the treasury.” He paused to grin at her, a sparkle in his blue eyes. “I couldn't believe it. Davan tried to explain it, but he said something about the ocean and seams of the world that didn't
make a bit of sense to me. Either way, he's bringing a map as soon as he can get his hands on it, and we can plan from there.”
She smiled back, though her ears burned with embarrassment. She knew there were mines beneath Core and gold to be panned from the river. Why hadn't she thought of them before? The ruins were on her lands and the ruin-folk answered to her now. There was no reason she couldn't claim those resources for herself. Especially for the purpose of feeding hungry mouths. “I just can't believe you thought to mention it to him.”
Vahn paused his pacing and finally reached for his teacup. “I didn't. It came up in a roundabout sort of way, while we were discussing the cost of food. All I said was that even the palace can't afford to feed everyone forever, and Davan said he'd have spent time in the mines before coming if he'd known how bad it would be.”
Nodding thoughtfully, she tapped her nails against the side of her cup. It was both a relief and a new problem, pushing everything else to the back of her mind. “There's the issue of getting people to do it, though. Mining is hard work. It'll be difficult to find people willing to take the job. Then there's the trouble of getting it back to Ilmenhith. Not to mention keeping the workers from pocketing the gold and gems for themselves.”
“Yes, we discussed that a little. But it's a start.” His chipper attitude didn't waver and for a moment, she felt guilty for the discouragement that weighed on her shoulders.
“Yes,” she agreed. “It's a start.”
She had just enough time to finish her tea before Davan arrived with rolled maps tucked beneath his arm. He looked a little more worn each time Firal saw him, which stirred a new wave of guilt. She'd meant to visit the Underling camp to spend time with Minna. She still hadn't gotten to it.
“Your Majesty. Your Lordship.” Davan bowed so deep he almost dropped the maps. He shuffled them in his arms. “I apologize for the delay. It's just that it's hard to find things when all your belongings are still in the back of a wagon.” He didn't sound unhappy or inconvenienced, merely tired. Even after she'd spent months living among them, the Underlings still managed to surprise her with their tenacity.
“I completely understand.” Firal cleared her desk to make room for his maps. An informal meeting would have been more comfortable, but the small couch and table beside the windows didn't offer the space they needed. The men joined her and Davan rolled a map out across her desk as soon as she had it clean.
The map was marked with symbols she didn't recognize and written in a language she didn't understand, but the features themselves were easy to interpret. Having the map spread out in front of her made her heart race in delight, stirring memories of the many nights she'd spent trying to draw just such a thing. “This is the entirety of the ruins!” She traced the curving, twisting lines of the labyrinth's paths with a fingertip.
“Aye,” Davan laughed, laying the other scrolls to the side. “You didn't think we'd live there for centuries without mapping it, did you?”
“But this is incredible! Every hallway, every entrance to the underground—” She stopped short as he unfurled another map on top of it, one depicting the lay of the subterranean passages. Her mouth fell open.
“Lord Vahnil mentioned it would be difficult getting ores in and out of the mines without mages Gating them back and forth.” Davan searched the desk a moment before he cleared his throat. “Does milady have something I might use to mark the map?”
“Oh, yes, of course.” Firal leaned back and fished in a desk drawer. Davan's maps were drawn on skins. She imagined they were the only copies that existed, which made them priceless. She produced her softest chalk in hopes it could be cleaned from the map's surface easily when they were done. He took it from her fingers without looking away from the maps, rubbing his chin all the while.
“There are better ways in and out of Core than the hallways, though they need someone who knows how to work them. Her Majesty, our, ah... former queen...” He paused as if uncertain how Firal would take to the woman being mentioned, shifting nervously before going on. “She kept books on how to work them, but they'll have to be retrieved from her quarters and studied by someone who knows how to read better than the lot of us.”
Vahn's brow furrowed. “How to work what?”
Davan traced a hallway with a fingertip and marked a point along it. “The lifts, my lord.”
Firal stared at the mark, unable to picture its location. “Lifts?”
“Aye, several. The fastest way in and out of the ruins.” He made another mark, this one at the mouth of the river, near the giant waterwheel. “There's one not far from the mines, which means getting men through the ruins is the only challenge.”
“And not much of a challenge, if we can mark the path,” Vahn murmured, lifting the corner of the map to look at the layout of the ruins again.
“I'm more interested in these lifts,” Firal said. “What are they, Davan? Why didn't your people use them when they lived in the underground? I never heard mention of them.”
“Not much reason to use them, Majesty. No reason to visit the surface so often. How to work them fell out of common knowledge. But as I said, our former queen had books on them.” Davan shrugged as he marked a place near the throne room, and another beside the spiral path that led to the gardens. “They're easy to miss, just a door in an alcove. Some may need repair before they’ll work again, but a lift can carry a dozen men. There are big wheels and workings for them all over the place, but these are all the lifts I know of.”
Her eyes lit with understanding. “They're powered by the waterwheel!”
Davan grinned. “Aye, Your Majesty. But that's as much as I know.”
“So we just need someone to retrieve the books that explain how to use the lifts?” Vahn glanced between them for verification. “Then we can decide which lift is easiest to use with the mines, maybe even lay a roadway through the ruins. That would sure make it easier to move ore to Ilmenhith. The next problem is finding people who will want to work there.”
Davan handed the chalk back to Firal and cleared his throat. “Begging your pardon, your lordship, but I think that may be the easy part. Not all of Core was happy to leave. If Her Majesty grants them special permission to return to the underground, on the condition they work Her Majesty's mines...”
“Problem solved.” Firal put away the chalk with a smirk. “I suppose there's just one thing left.”
“Which is?” Vahn asked.
“Getting the books.” She raised a hand before either man could speak. “Which I will do myself.”
Davan looked uncomfortable. “I can send any number of men to—”
“No one needs to be sent,” she interrupted, gazing at the map. She committed each lift's location to memory, but her eyes lingered on the one beside the spiral path. She'd never ventured any lower than the path to her own cavern-house. The lift's alcove had to be somewhere below that. “It could take weeks for them to return. I have a dozen mages at my disposal. I can retrieve the books by myself. No arguments.” She glared at Vahn as he opened his mouth, though her eyes softened when he closed it again. “I'm the best one to send. I'm familiar enough with the underground to find the books on my own without getting lost. As soon as I have them, I can Call the mages and have them bring me right back. The hard part will be convincing them to let me lead another Gate.”
Vahn frowned. “Another Gate?”
Firal hesitated. She didn't speak without thinking very often any more. Davan looked at her curiously, but said nothing. She lifted her chin. “I'll discuss that with you later. Right now, this is more important. Davan, how soon can you have a group of miners ready? And what are the odds of having some of them be men already experienced in working these mines?”
“Very soon, my lady,” Davan said. “As for miners, I have some suggestions.”
She nodded, but even as she listened to his list of names and explanations of their former positions in the underground, she found her thoughts wandering to her failed Gate. Her de
sperate Call was still unanswered.
Alira spun, watching her pale gray robes swirl around her ankles. As Master of the House of fire, she'd looked down on magelings. She never would have expected to be pleased to see herself in gray again. Much had changed in the months since she'd reached the Grand College. She was beginning to think it was change for the better.
She'd always been a prodigious mage, strong in her Gift from an early age. One of the youngest mages in all Elenhiise to be named Master, and the youngest to be named Master of a House of element. Now she realized her skill—and the recognition of it that once meant so much—had never done her any favors. The shame of her exile from the island and her punishment in the college had been worsened by her pride. But the pride she felt now was different. It felt like progress, like something earned and deserved. It was strange that gray robes and the title of mageling were the first things she'd ever truly had to work for, but the strangeness didn't diminish her pride.
“Stop twirling,” Melora snapped. “You're acting like a child.”
Alira grew still, but didn't move from her place before the mirror. Melora and Envesi wore the same gray robes, though neither seemed pleased. They sulked at a table and looked bitter—Melora more so than the former Archmage beside her. Alira studied them both in the mirror, frowning. “You ought to be happy. Our title might be mageling, but the title isn't the important part.” She didn't have to name it. Melora had almost wept with relief when the barriers were lifted and they were able to reach the energy flows again. Long months had passed without any of them working magic. Alira had missed the pleasant tingle of power more than she could say.
“You think it's important because you assumed they could block you from your power wherever you go,” Envesi murmured.
Alira pursed her lips and turned toward her. She expected the woman to go on and felt a twinge of annoyance when she didn't. Still, when she spoke, she was mindful to keep respect in her tone. “What do you know?”
