There was an abrupt rattle at the door and Maru leapt, fearful of discovery. But it was Ariana who entered, stumbling once on the hem of her dark robes. She pushed her cloak toward a wall hook but missed, and she stared at the puddled fabric as if confused.
“Ariana’rika?” Maru started toward her, softening his voice. “Are you well?”
She looked at him, and he was startled by the raw hurt in her expression. “I came home early...”
He adapted the easy tone of a conversant servant, soothing her with everyday familiarity. “Not so early,” he returned, stooping to collect the fallen cloak. “The sho should be coming soon as well. Would you like something warm to drink? It looks chill out today.”
“Yes, thank you,” she answered, but the words were merely reflexive. No matter, he thought. Routine would relax her and help her recover from whatever affected her. He nodded and turned toward the kitchen. Her voice stopped him. “Did—” she began, but she seemed afraid to speak.
Maru hesitated. “Ariana’rika?”
“Did—did anyone—no one came here...”
He thought of the note. “There was a letter.”
“Where is it?” she demanded, and he turned. He would have brought it to her, but she rushed past him and seized it. “Who brought this?”
“I don’t know. It was left beneath the door. I could not answer, obviously.”
She nodded distantly and opened the sheet, breaking the fragile seal. She stared at the page for a long moment, apparently reading and re-reading. At last she looked up with a shuddering breath and fixed her eyes on Maru. “My drink?”
He had been staring, waiting. “I’m sorry, Ariana’rika. I’ll bring it now.”
He hurried to the kitchen and pulled a pitcher of ale from its cool cabinet, mixing it with water from the pot kept near the fire. When he returned, he saw her drifting toward the room where Tamaryl worked, clutching the letter in one dangling hand. She hesitated at the open door. “Tamaryl...”
He hadn’t heard her approach. His head jerked up as his hand shielded the crystal. “By the—don’t you humans demand privacy for yourselves?”
Ariana recoiled. Maru winced. Ryl, no—not now...
Tamaryl’s expression changed. He started up from the table, pushing the crystal piece behind him. But as his mouth opened, Ariana slammed the door.
She turned and nearly collided with Maru. She looked at him, and he thought she would cry. He extended the drink. “Ariana’rika,” he said gently. “If you—”
She reached for him, embracing him awkwardly about the torso. He stiffened, startled, and then closed his free arm about her as she began to sob.
“He’s gone,” she cried. “He’s gone, and he didn’t even—and I was stupid enough to think—I was such a fool, and you’re stuck here and I can’t help you, and I can’t do anything at all!”
Maru held her, ignoring the dull discomfort where she pinched a wing, while she fought to control her breathing, subduing the tears. That was how Ewan Hazelrig found them as he entered.
Maru looked up anxiously, aware he was holding close the daughter of the highest human mage. But the White Mage only hurried to them with a gentle, concerned expression, easing her from Maru’s grasp and enfolding her in his own arms more tightly. Confronted with fresh tenderness, she began to cry anew.
“Oh, Ariana,” Hazelrig soothed, pulling her close. “I’m sorry.”
Maru dropped his eyes uncomfortably, thinking he could back away and escape the humans’ distress. His gaze landed on the note in her hand. It was almost certainly something concerning the commander—had something happened to him? Had he discarded his lover?
Hazelrig, though, seemed to know enough. His expression hardened over Ariana’s shoulder. “Ariana, Ariana. It’s all right, darling. I’ll turn him into a cockroach.”
Ariana sobbed, “No!” and Maru clenched his fists. It had been the commander indeed, he had toyed with the rika’s heart, and Tamaryl had lost her to this.
Ariana pushed herself back to meet her father’s eyes. “He didn’t—it was my own fault.”
“Was it?” Hazelrig’s voice was gentle, but Maru could hear the steel within it. He glanced pointedly at the letter.
Ariana crumpled it in her fist. “I let myself—I talked myself into imagining—it was nothing.”
“What, exactly, was this nothing?” The White Mage was roused at the wounding of his daughter.
Ariana only shook her head.
Hazelrig frowned and exhaled. “If not a cockroach, then will you allow a deformed gnome?”
Ariana sniffed. “Don’t tease me, Father. Not now.”
Maru gave a respectful nod, though he doubted either saw it, and retreated to the workroom. He slipped inside and jostled against Tamaryl, who waited stiffly behind the door, his head bowed and fists clenched. Maru watched him, his words caught in his throat.
“She...” It seemed Tamaryl couldn’t say more.
Maru felt increasingly helpless. “Ryl... I’m sorry.”
“No.” Tamaryl shook his head. “No, I’m to blame. I did not... And then I snapped at her. And at you, my friend.” He sighed. “I’m sorry.”
“Ryl, I—”
“No. I’m sorry.” He looked at Maru. “But I will not keep you here. I swear it. I won’t let you be trapped here.”
Maru regarded him suspiciously. “What about you?” He hadn’t mentioned himself, and that was alarming. “You won’t stay here!”
Tamaryl glanced toward the door, his eyes betraying his thoughts. “I hadn’t thought...”
He was thinking of Ariana. Maru tensed. “I don’t want to go without you.”
“Do you want to stay in the human world for the rest of your life?”
“Do you?”
They stared at one another for a long moment, and then Tamaryl relented. “No, I don’t want to stay here. I want to go home.”
Maru didn’t want to ask, but fear for his friend pushed him. “And what about her?”
“There’s no use asking anything, is there? Not when she’s crying for him and I have no claim on her?” His jaw set. “But anything might happen.”
CHAPTER SIXTY
LUCA DROPPED HEAVILY to the roadside and closed his eyes, his pulse loud in his ears. He had found himself in far worse positions than now, but the rolling hills outside Cascais had been taxing, and his head throbbed with every step. Now that they had finally stopped, he wanted only to sleep and try to forget his headache and his new circumstance.
“Supper, you lot.” Frangit banged a ladle against the pot, sending jarring waves through Luca’s skull. “Eat up.”
Luca’s gut felt hollow, but his aching head overwhelmed what appetite he had. Still, he knew he needed food. He’d eaten nothing since the caravan’s seizure and he would face more exertion the next day. He rolled slowly upright and shuffled toward the small cookfire where his new master warmed the meal.
His other new master, the more talkative Benton, was tugging at something in the rear of the wagon. He and his cousin Frangit had finished their business across the continent and were making their way slowly back home, trying to manage a few more coins along the route. They had lost two of their four slaves to illness, leaving them with a weighty cart and two weakened draft slaves. It was less costly, Luca had surmised from snatches of their conversation, to purchase two more slaves of mediocre quality than to sell their remaining goods at the discounted prices of glutted Cascais.
The supper, Luca discovered, was more substantial than the thin gruel of Trader Matteo’s caravan. Each of them received a hot sausage and a handful of dried vegetables, reconstituted in boiling water. Benton and Frangit weren’t careless of their labor, or perhaps they regretted the loss of their ill slaves and the expense of new ones. Regardless, Luca was encouraged at the sight, as well as the fact that neither cousin had lurked over the draft team with threats and a switch.
Perhaps, if he had to endure as a slave...
&
nbsp; No. No, he would not remain a slave—at least, not in the hands of strangers. Benton and Frangit would take him to Alham, where he would be rescued by Master Shianan.
So near. So near to freedom and a new life.
A slave beside him with thin ginger-colored hair stared resentfully over his dish at Luca. Luca shifted uncomfortably and looked away, pulling his meal closer to his chest. He’d said little to his new companions on the road, busy with his work and his headache.
His sausage was cooling, and he pushed the rest into his mouth. He wished he knew what had become of Marla and Cole. Cole had thought Marla escaped, but where did that leave her—on the road with no shelter, no food, no protection? Anyone would think her a runaway or valuable property to be stolen and abused. And Cole might go anywhere, might well end up suffering in a salt flat or ore mine.
He finished the last of his tasteless vegetables and pushed his empty plate toward the fire. Hoping desperately they would not want him for further work such as scrubbing the cookware, he crawled toward the wagon and curled himself beneath it, tucked safely behind one of the wheels to blunt any casual kicks to rouse the slaves in the morning. Within seconds he was asleep.
“YOUR HIGHNESS, I DO not know.” General Septime shook his head unhappily. “I had no reason to think it important.”
Torg looked back and forth between the prince-heir and the general. In truth, they had known instantly that something was wrong. Shianan Becknam had never requested leave in all his service, from Torg or Septime or any other. And why should he? He had no family, no home, nothing and no one to visit. His life was his work.
To Torg he had said only, “I’m going to see General Septime about some leave,” and then walked away too quickly for Torg to question—wholly unlike his usual care.
Torg had followed him. “Sir! How long? What are your orders while you’re away?”
But Shianan had not stopped until he reached the general’s office and gestured to Petar that he wanted inside. He did not look at Torg. “I suppose you should hear,” he said to the general’s door. “Come in with me, then.”
Petar held the door for them, and they went inside and saluted.
“I should like to take a leave of absence, sir.” Shianan’s eyes betrayed desperation over his carefully controlled voice. Torg could see it, and he guessed the general could as well.
Septime nodded. “Certainly you can have a few days. When will—”
“Now, sir. Immediately.”
Septime looked surprised. “What about arranging for someone to take over your duties?”
“Captain Torg is more than capable, sir, and with the annual review finished and the Ryuven raids apparently ceased, he can see to things for the time I’m away.”
Septime looked at Torg, but not critically, almost as if he were asking for information. “I am sure the captain is very capable, but there is no harm in taking a day to arrange things.”
The commander glanced away. “It would be better for all concerned, sir, if I were to take a leave of absence now.”
Torg’s stomach clenched. The royal seal and the mercenaries hired to beat Shianan, and Septime’s warning to avoid trouble with the royal house—and Torg’s own memory of orders to let the bastard die in a tragic accident.
Torg could see that Septime was thinking something similar. “Go on then, of course, take some time to yourself. When can we expect you again?”
And a different man had answered, a Shianan Becknam Torg had never before seen. “I have a great deal of leave due me,” he said in a tight voice. “I shall return when I can.” And with a quick salute, he fled before the startled general could question or dismiss him, leaving Septime and Torg both staring at the closed door.
Torg jerked his eyes back to the general. Septime frowned. “Do you know anything about this?”
Torg shook his head. “No, sir. Only what happened at the fights, same as you.”
The general shook his head. “If he’s learned of something else, it would not be prudent to share it. Let’s assume he is removing himself from a potentially awkward situation. Becknam is a good soldier, and he’ll return when he can. In the meantime, please see to his duties, and tell me if you need assistance.”
“Of course, sir.” Captain Torg and General Septime had not spoken of it again.
But now Prince Soren was here in Septime’s own office, asking them where Shianan Becknam had gone.
“I’m sorry, Your Highness, but he didn’t say where he would go. I didn’t think to ask. A man’s leave is his own, after all.”
“When will he return?”
Septime shifted. “I’m not exactly sure, my lord.”
“What?” Prince Soren frowned. “Surely your officers may not take their leave in so slipshod a manner.”
“No, Your Highness. That is, not generally.” Septime’s fingers twitched at his beard. “But Commander Becknam has not been in the habit of taking leave, you see, and as this was a particular case...”
Soren’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
Septime took a careful breath. “He’d done a great deal of work preparing for the review and parade, and then there was that unexpected challenge by the mercenaries out to make a name for themselves. And of course, that business with the Shard and the Court of the High Star was not so long ago. No one could argue the man couldn’t do with a reprieve.”
“But where is he?” Prince Soren looked from Septime to Torg. “If Ryuven were sighted now, how would you contact him?”
Septime sighed and shook his head. “I don’t know, Your Highness.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
ARIANA DIDN’T KNOW the Indigo Mage well, and in truth had avoided him, though she supposed he should be willing to see her. After all, her appointment as Black Mage had graduated him to his present position. She wasn’t keen on asking for his help now, but her father had called him the foremost expert.
She raised her hand to knock again, and the dark blue door opened abruptly. Taev Callahan looked down at her, his marred face almost suspicious. “Yes? What do you want?”
Ariana’s mouth went dry. “My father—er, the White Mage said you knew more of botany than anyone else.”
He inclined his head slightly to one side. She wondered if it helped him to see her better or if it was just a reaction to the compliment. “Yes.”
“I would like your opinion on some specimens.”
He made a curt nod. “Come in, then.” He stepped back and held the door.
His office was identical to hers, but strangely foreign with its unfamiliar clutter and different arrangement. She made her way to an open surface. “May I display them here?”
“Not there.” He stacked two piles of notes into one on another table, nodding toward a chair. “Sit down.” He took a half-dozen books from a second chair and brought it to the table for himself.
Ariana unbound the little bag and shook out the dried leaves. She began to sort them into groups.
“Not like that!” snapped Mage Callahan. “You’ll damage them.” He reached over the table, his fingers deftly separating the leaves into their various shapes and colors. “You keep them in that bag? They’ll crumble—like this, see? They need to be kept flat.”
“I’m sorry,” Ariana interrupted. “This is how I got them, and I didn’t think—”
“Obviously,” he cut in. “One doesn’t need to consider much when one is the daughter of the White Mage.”
Ariana was stung. “I earned my place in the Circle,” she protested, her voice failing to hide her pique.
“With your father on the panel.”
“And he failed me the first time.” She had never thought she would be eager to cite that.
He hesitated. “Then I suppose we can’t assume that skill breeds true,” he said, but the pause had betrayed him. “How is that apprentice magic coming along?”
“You heard that I broke up an exhibition match turned ugly?”
One corner of his
mouth turned upward, and she couldn’t guess if it was a smirk or what remained of his smile. “I suppose I did. All right, then, Mage Hazelrig. Let’s see what you have.”
“Thank you.” Ariana took a breath. “Could you help me to identify these? I know dried leaves aren’t best, but this is all I have.”
“Clearly this is cliff bristle, which anyone should know. This one is mudvein, of course, and redleaf is obvious. And—” He stopped speaking, his finger poised over a crumbling leaf with three lobes. “What color was this when fresh?”
“I don’t know. I never saw it but dried.”
“Where did you find this?”
“It was given to me,” she answered carefully. “It’s not from a local source, if that’s what you mean. I don’t know exactly where it was picked.” True enough, if incomplete, but she didn’t know how much she wanted to share with the irascible Indigo.
“Hmm.” He selected a book from the displaced stack and began paging through it, ignoring Ariana.
She sat back, trying not to look as if she were staring, but the livid scar across his face could not be ignored. He was intent on his book, his blue eyes flicking from page to page. She wondered if his eyes would look less blue if he were not in his deeply-colored robes. With his black hair and blue eyes, he must have looked quite striking before—before. The half-knitted line ran from his hairline across his face, over the bridge of his nose, and over his jaw before disappearing into his collar. No blade could have followed the curves of his skull so cleanly.
“Luenda,” he said shortly, without looking up. The great and brutal battle which had obliterated their army, where her father had become the White Mage, where the boy Tam had been brought home from the battlefield.
She jumped in her seat. “I wasn’t...”
“You were.” He glanced up. “Of course you were looking. And how could you not? It’s like sharing a room with a wyvern. One cannot not look.”
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