by R. K. Thorne
Detrax chuckled softly again. “A smart one, eh? Maybe I don’t need your information.” He lowered his face and his voice so the next words were a whisper in Thel’s ear. “Maybe I can rip it from your flailing mind while you writhe down into hell.”
Thel did his best to shrug without cutting himself. “That tickles.”
Detrax guffawed now, and all three hands shoved Thel toward the table, slamming his ribs into the table edge. The charcoal dropped from his hand, but he slowly picked it back up, gritting his teeth against the pain.
“Mark the map, and mayhap you’ll get dinner again tonight. Finish it.” Detrax’s voice was soft and not soaked in its usual rancor. Had to be a trap. But what difference did it make if he could pull the information from Thel’s mind? It was only a matter of time now before the beast would reach in, at the very least to verify that information.
Grudgingly, flattening his lips together in defeat, he marked three more spots on the map, these accurate, and labeled them all.
“Aye, that’s a good runt.” Detrax cuffed him on the back of the head, sending Thel’s hair flying into his face, but not hard enough that it hurt for more than a moment. The creature mage circled the table and sank down on the bench before Thel.
“What, no cutting today?”
Detrax shrugged. “I haven’t decided as yet. There’s always the seer.”
Thel glared at him. “I can’t imagine that helps her visions.”
Chuckling again, Detrax said, “You’re mighty concerned about that seer, no? She is a pretty slip of a thing.”
His glare hardened into a scowl. “She’s a traitor. Just like you.”
“I’m Kavanarian, I’m no traitor to you. Which is not to say that I wouldn’t betray the Masters, if I had much of a choice in the matter.” Detrax grinned, showing off his teeth again. Were they unnaturally pointy? “Still irks you the seer’s not on your side? How can you justify gettin’ in those holy robes if she’s a traitor?”
“She could look like a goddess, and I wouldn’t care one whit about her.” Thel let his face go bored in hopes that the subject would drop. “And she’s not on your side either.”
Detrax grinned even wider. “You’re a hoot, runt. Too proud to admit you’ve got it hard for her?”
“I’d have the same concern for any of Akaria’s subjects.”
“Suit yourself with whatever lies you like. You can’t hide from me.”
Detrax lowered his head, and Thel had only a split second to realize just what that meant and why Detrax had finally sat down.
A deluge hit him, and everything went black. Who needed eyes? Who had a body? What even existed anyway? He gasped for air, unsure he even had lungs to breathe, and groped blindly around him, searching for something, anything, of the world he’d been in a moment ago. He tried to shout, to scream, but if he succeeded, there was no sound. He thrashed violently now, searching for the table, the map, lunging toward where Detrax should be. Anything.
There was nothing. Everything was gone, and he was beyond alone.
He sank into the utter blackness of empty space.
The smelter was barely warm today, but thankfully, even this part of the smithy was warmer than it was outside. Tharomar took a deep breath of the familiar coal-smoke smell in the air. A tinge of burnt honey floated in there. Someone was working with beeswax.
He and Jaena had something much more unpleasant to toy with today.
Jaena pointed to the cloudy glass of the bowl that sat on the floor of the king’s smithy. Tharomar had talked the smith into giving them the smelting area again and getting out of the way. He hoped they weren’t going to do anything to make the smith regret relenting to his charms. But if the brand was finally destroyed, so be it.
No larger than a washbasin, it had steep sides, and the clear liquid inside had a slight yellowish cast. Tharomar shook his head. How were they going to destroy the brand in that?
“I know,” she said. “This is all I could get my hands on. I’ve been all over the city and bought up everything I could find.” A dozen different glass bottles of different shapes and sizes lay uncorked and empty on the nearby table.
“We’re lucky Aven gave us a generous stipend then.” He couldn’t tell how much acid was in the bowl, but it’d take forever to dissolve a whole rod of metal in that. Or would disintegrate be a better term?
“Yes, I’d say so. Also, the alchemists warned that putting iron into this could be very unstable. We should stay back as far as we can.”
Well, he knew a thing or two about staying back from dangerous things. “Let me get some tongs.”
It’d taken two days to find this stuff. While acid was sometimes used for etching swords, that wasn’t done terribly often by most smiths, and the amount they’d need to destroy something the size of the brand? It was ludicrous. Maybe just the bottom would suffice.
Tharomar had spent the intervening days bent over the star map, and much of his nights too, occasionally answering a question or fifty from Wunik on the Serabain alphabet. Working by starlight each night, he’d transcribe some ancient Serabain to its modern version, and by daylight, he’d translate it. It was meticulous work and, sadly, not something he really needed help with, so he’d spent it mostly alone.
With some instructions, though, Jaena had been able to canvas the city healers, apothecaries, and smiths, gathering up as much acid as she could. The idea of getting it from so many different sources made him nervous about combining it all, but she’d done it already, apparently without issue. And what else could they do? Say a prayer and have a healer on hand?
His labors over the star map also bought him time to think. The temple’s message weighed on his mind, but as each hour and day passed, he was able to convince himself the translation was more important; he would reply and break the news to them soon. Just a bit later.
He had tucked the missive in a drawer in the desk in their room and hadn’t mentioned it further. Not to Jaena, not to anyone. What was the point? He wasn’t going to act on it. He wasn’t going anywhere. And explaining the message meant admitting… a lot of things he wasn’t too keen on talking about. Jaena still thought of him as a man of honor, and integrity, and morality, and while he didn’t expect such an idealistic, romantic vision to last, he had no interest in hurrying her toward the truth.
So he had focused on the scroll, and when his work was done for the day, they’d headed back to the suspicious royal smith and his smelting room to have another go at destroying the cursed thing.
“Let’s see this thing done,” he said, returning with long tongs, apron, and gloves that stretched up his arms. They were made for heat, not acid. A leather apron wouldn’t do much of anything, but he gave Jaena one too. He eyed the bowl for a long moment. He didn’t have a good feeling about this.
Jaena pulled the brand from the pack and held it out. He took it in the tongs and moved forward. She backed toward the far wall, slipping the apron over her head and pulling her braid of braids out and over the shoulder strap.
Leaning his head back as far as he could from the bowl and the brand, he sank to one knee and lowered the iron into the yellowish liquid.
He listened, not sure he even wanted to turn his head at first. Iron scraped against glass from the slight shaking of his hand. He smelled nothing new. The tings of the smiths’ hammers in the background and the wind whipping outside met his ears, but there was no sound out of the ordinary.
Finally he looked. The iron might as well have been sitting in water.
“Did they say how long it should take?” he said. But his heart was already sinking.
“What’s it doing?”
“Nothing.”
“They didn’t say.”
“Any chance this isn’t acid, and those alchemists lied?”
“Several took a dropper and showed me some reactions. Not that I knew what to look for. They were… fairly happy to have an audience.”
Ro smiled crookedly at that. A pretty young w
oman as an audience probably hadn’t hurt. “Think you could run back and ask how long it should take? Any of them close by?”
“Yes—hold on.”
He wasn’t sure how long he waited, but he’d devised in his head an elaborate system of tongs, barrels, crates, and a bellows to hold this damn thing for him indefinitely when the door finally opened. He considered himself fairly strong, he could hammer with the best of them, but even his arms were starting to shake, holding the thing without a break. Just a little, but still.
She strode right up beside him.
“Bad news, huh?” He could sense it in the air.
“He said five minutes, maybe. He agreed I added enough water. That we should see some bubbling. Fizzing. Something. He wanted to come back and help us, so I spent half the time talking him out of that.”
Ro scowled at the thing. A faint line beside the edge of the circular brand caught his eye. He squinted—a reaction? Maybe one of the samples had been weaker or not quite right, and it was just taking a little longer.
No. As he looked closer, he could see it now.
“Is there a… bubble around the metal?” he said slowly.
“You mean it’s starting?” she said excitedly.
“No, I mean, I think it’s not touching the acid even. It’s pushing the acid away.”
“What?” she took a step even closer. “Gods, I see it.”
“Go out and ask our best, most loyal friend the royal smith for just a regular piece of scrap iron he doesn’t need back.”
“Got it.”
As she left, he slowly raised the brand from the liquid. There was no submersion line, no darker wet portion. No drips. No nothing. He carefully set it aside in the dirt, several feet away, near the smelter. Nothing bubbled or fizzed near the end that had been inside the acid—or supposedly had been.
Returning, Jaena held out another piece of iron, not even the size of his hand, and he took it and plopped it in with much less caution this time, dropping it fully into the deep bowl.
It was a good thing he didn’t need to hold it, because clouds of something sprang up from bubbles that frothed and hissed angrily to life. He staggered back, Jaena with him.
“Well, donkey balls. That’s more what I was expecting,” she said softly.
He smothered a laugh. “Donkey balls? Some diplomat you would have been.”
She waved him off, sobering, and he followed suit. “This isn’t going to work, is it.”
“I don’t think so.” He backed away another foot as the piece let out another bout of bitter bubbling and hissing.
“Maybe it can’t be destroyed,” she said, voice faltering. “Maybe it’s hopeless.”
He gritted his teeth. Normally he was optimistic. Normally he’d say, we’ll keep trying, we’ll find a way.
Normally iron and acid did not peacefully mix.
Rock jutting into his cheekbone was the first sensation Thel regained. He groaned.
The memory of the blackness returned to him, and he shuddered, forcing his eyes open. How long had he spent adrift in the nothingness, searching for… for what? For anything and everything. It was as if someone had seized his senses and ripped them away.
Not someone. Detrax.
A chill went through him, and his whole body shook again, something between a shiver and a shudder. He was back in his cell, and the air was icy around him. But he also shook at the realization that… creature mages could do that. Whatever that was.
Horrifying. No wonder people were afraid of mages. No wonder Niat thought Thel was evil.
They were all terribly, horribly right.
Thel forced himself to sitting, every joint screaming in protest. How long had he lain there? How much time had passed? In spite of the ache, he ran his fingers over the stone beneath him, delighting in the rough scrape of rock against his skin. The light of dusk or dawn filtered through the arrow slit faintly, but even that and the chilling wind were reassuring, grounding. Detrax might have the power to steal away the world from him, but it had all returned. For now.
What had Detrax discovered?
If he had discovered Thel’s magic, there was no sign of it. The cell was very much the same. He either hadn’t discovered it or had deemed Thel not to be a threat. Which, well, might be true. He sank into the stones, warming them, and he leaned back against the wall, pleased to connect to the rock around him, to feel the solid, quiet hum of it, to smile at its silent acceptance of his request. Rock didn’t mind if it was warm or cold. It might even prefer warm, or he might be having a fit of overactive imagination.
He hadn’t noticed closing his eyes, but they shot open as a thought hit him. The book. He reached for it in his jerkin pocket.
It was still there. He heaved a sigh of relief.
He spent a while sinking into the stone, tired in a deep way he couldn’t remember having ever been before. He let his mind glide through the crevices and seams in the masonry around him, a join, a hunk of limestone here, a slab of sandstone there. A seam, a weakness.
A crack.
Opening his eyes, he leaned his weary form toward the spot in the outer wall he’d sensed… Had it been a glimmer of hope, a flash of intuition? Or was it possible he was merely mad from exhaustion?
Focusing his attention hard on the spot, he gave it the slightest push.
Stone scraped against stone. Barely half a finger’s width, but it had moved. He’d made it move with his will alone. Well, and his magic.
Leaning back again, he stared at the slight change in the wall. How far was it down? If he could break the wall open, what would he do next? If he could get out of the fortress, could he survive out in the increasingly wintry forest? And was there a way he could rescue Niat at the same time? He couldn’t wait forever—Detrax had shown him he likely didn’t have that long—but he also couldn’t see leaving her to their blue vials either. And that meant two of them escaping and surviving in the dead, cold woods.
He needed a plan.
Chapter 6
Cracks
The raging fire was crackling away cheerfully, and Daes found himself in something of a good mood as he moved about his Evrical rooms, choosing what to pack into his trunk for tomorrow’s trip. The generals he’d sent were of course already in Gilaren, most likely. He took a deep breath and straightened, imagining the clangs of steel in smoky air, the shouting of men, the brisk, cold wind that would carry the smell of blood from the battlefield.
He missed it, he had to admit. And if only Marielle weren’t coming with him, he’d feel downright upbeat about the journey. Of course, she was right. Politically it was the only smart move. But that didn’t mean he had to be happy about it.
Suddenly, the door flung open without announcement or ceremony and slammed loudly against the opposite wall. Marielle stormed in, a swarm of women following her in a hasty, alarmed cloud. Her striking red dress was gathered in all the right places and fell in straight and clean lines toward the unfeeling marble.
“Was all of this just so you could someday be king?”
He sat down the leather-bound book he’d been holding and straightened, frowning at her as his heart sped up. “What?”
“Is that the only reason you even spoke to me?”
Daes frowned harder now. As if he would concoct such a foolish, dangerous, stupid plan. Only luck—was it that?—could have taken him this far. “I could say the same to you. Was it all about getting rid of the king? And his mistress?”
To their credit, the women behind her shrank back but showed little reaction beyond concern at either his or her words.
She glowered back as she strode toward him. “You used me so you could fight your war how you wanted.”
“I did not. I would not.”
“The first thing I did for you was send out troops.”
“Because it needed to be done. Time was of the essence. If you think that was what I was thinking of when I approached you in the gardens, you do not know me.” Certainly he had bee
n hoping some gratitude might come from the encounter, but he would have been utterly mad to believe she would someday grant him as much power as she had. It was all luck.
She folded her arms, clearly skeptical. “How can I know you? It’s not been long enough to know each other, truly. Your friends speak of you as a master manipulator. Would you tell me they’re wrong?”
He gritted his teeth. He was certainly better at political machinations than most, but he had never tried to manipulate her. “Friends? Neither Lady Seulka nor Princess Paranelin are friends.”
“They know you well.”
He shook his head in disgust. “No, they don’t.” He resumed packing, picking up another book as he dropped another into his trunk, not looking at her, willing her to drop this. The crowd of women staring at him wide-eyed was making him uncomfortable, and it was hardly proper.
“Daes. Look at me, Daes.”
He paused and glanced over at her. “Go.” He flicked his fingers at the archway where one of her attendants hovered. “Your ladies are waiting for you.”
“I’m the queen and the one giving the orders here.”
He pursed his lips, trying not to glower at her. “Why are you bringing this up now? Clearly you have social activities to attend to.”
She waved angrily at the woman to be gone. Frowning, her attendants backed out of the doorway, one of them shutting the door behind them. Silence stretched out between them, as if she waited for the women to move farther away.
“You don’t even care one coin’s toss about me, do you?” she said bitterly as she turned back to him, now that they were alone.
Rage shot through him, the intensity of it terrifying him. Why did he care so much what she thought, what she said? A strong desire to backhand someone flooded him, but he stayed still, setting down the new book carefully. As he did so, she charged the rest of the way toward him, stopping barely a foot away. His body went tense, vibrating with hard, pent-up anger. “Why are you even talking about this?”
