by Jenna Glass
He had been seen by three healers already—his mother would have brought in every healer in the kingdom if Khalvin would have allowed—and each had declared himself mystified by Delnamal’s illness. The first—who had been a friend of Xanvin’s and unquestionably competent—had seen him in Aaltah, right after the accident. Delnamal had been unconscious at the time, and he heartily wished his mother had thought to bring the healer with them to Khalpar. Maybe as the illness developed, that worthy would have had the skill to diagnose and cure it. The two that Khalvin had grudgingly allowed Xanvin to hire had struck Delnamal as second-rate—and that was being generous. The last one had sat by Delnamal’s side when the cycle reached its nadir, watching with his Mindseye in case it should reveal some heretofore unknown magic, but it had all been in vain. And Khalvin had declined to send any others.
With a groan, Delnamal did something he very rarely did, for he did not like to be reminded that he—a king’s son!—had so little magical power: he opened his Mindseye.
Naturally, he expected to see what he always had in the past: his own aura of Rho shining brightly in the midst of a thin veil of other elements. Men more powerful than he were nearly blinded by the abundance of elements in the air, but his own middling talent meant his worldly vision was only somewhat impaired. But what he saw right now was like nothing he’d ever expected.
The aura of Rho that surrounded him looked thin and patchy, but that was not what caught his attention. The thing that nearly took his breath away was what else he saw in his own aura.
Interspersed with the motes of Rho were a dozen or so other, crystalline motes—motes that he recognized as Kai. Only magically talented men could see Kai—Delnamal was genuinely surprised that a man of his middling gifts had been able to see it in the first place—and that only when they were teetering on the brink of a violent death. And he had never even heard of anyone possessing more than one mote.
Swallowing hard, he closed his eyes and then opened them again—the effort requiring nearly all the strength he had left to him—but that did not make the impossible motes of Kai go away.
Clearly, his suspicion that the healers who’d seen him before were incompetent had been correct, for not one had mentioned seeing Kai in his aura. He vaguely remembered his mother saying the healer who’d first treated him had seen what he thought were shards of Kai in his vomit, but how he could have missed those Kai motes in Delnamal’s aura was a mystery.
Delnamal looked downward and suffered another shock. A superstitious chill iced his spine as his gaze landed on his legs, which were propped on a footstool before him. Beneath the aura of mingled Rho and Kai, his legs were filled with branching streams of small, spherical, black motes. Streams that moved with every sluggish beat of his heart. As he stared at them, he saw that there were flashes of other colors in the depths of the black, and that rather than being perfectly round, they were faceted like crystals. A quick glance at the rest of his body showed that those streams moved through him from the tips of his toes to the tips of his fingers and everywhere in between.
Whatever those strange, unsettling motes were, they were inside his body. Their movement slowed as his pulse faltered, and he decided they weren’t just in his body, they were in his blood. His stomach tried to turn over, objecting to the very thought of those black motes poisoning his blood, but he hadn’t the strength even to gag. His eyes were starting to close of their own volition, and his lungs decided that taking in more air was just too much work.
Just as his eyes had almost closed, he caught sight of one of those strange black motes suddenly ballooning in size and rising into the air above him. And then it burst with a pop he could almost hear.
The outside of the mote crumbled like a pile of ash in a gust of wind, dissolving into nothingness and revealing a compressed inner core of Rho—way more motes than could possibly have fit inside the small black sphere it had once been. Those motes shot outward as if they’d been packed in under pressure, revealing yet another mote that had been hidden deep in their midst—a mote of crystalline teal and purple that was unmistakably Kai.
The black dust had dissipated as if it never existed, but the Rho and the Kai both sank downward and were absorbed into Delnamal’s aura.
The moment those motes met his aura, Delnamal experienced the unmistakable surge he’d felt each time his strength had waned to its absolute nadir, when he was almost convinced he was dying. The sensation was like nothing he could describe in words. The best he could do was to say that, from the brink of nothingness, he suddenly felt as though every nerve in his body and mind came alive at once. Energy rushed through his blood, his back bowed with a strange combination of ecstasy and pain, and he felt like weeping, laughing, and screaming in anger all at once.
He knew from overhearing the servants’ superstitious rumblings that he was quite a sight to behold when these “fits” overtook him, and he often recovered from them to find himself lying on the floor with his knees tucked up under his chin and his face wet with tears.
He was grateful when, this time, he came back to himself and found he was still in his chair, although his body was curled into a little ball and blood dripped from his mouth where he had bitten his lip. He had regained control of his body, but his emotions continued to riot, coming one after the other with little rhyme or reason. Fury then terror then deep bitterness. There were occasional bright flashes of joy, but these were always short-lived, overwhelmed by everything less pleasant.
The first few times it had happened, he had lost hours to gibbering incoherence, his mind fleeing helplessly from the onslaught. He imagined he might easily have gone mad if he hadn’t eventually—and ever so slowly—found a way to shelter himself from the worst of the tumult. It wasn’t something he did consciously, not some technique he could learn to control or call upon at will. It just happened over time that his mind fought for purchase in the overwhelming flood of emotions. At first, it could do nothing but cling helplessly, desperately, as the waters battered and bruised him. But now he seemed able to pull himself out of the flow once the worst of it had passed. These days, the tumult lasted only a few minutes before he was able to eagerly—and fully—withdraw.
He was aware that others would find his method of coping…unhealthy. He knew instinctively that the emotions that flooded him in these moments were not his—at least not only his. But when he withdrew from the flow, it was not just the foreign emotions he left behind. In his eyes, it was a fair trade, but of course he had no intention of explaining to anyone—least of all his mother—what he was giving up to maintain his sanity.
Shuddering, he forced himself to sit up straight, fighting his way free of the sweltering blanket he no longer needed. Sweat coated his skin, and he used the edge of the blanket to wipe it and the blood and the tears from his face.
Groaning with the effort, he pushed himself to his feet and stretched. He was a far cry from hale and hearty, but he felt so much stronger and more vigorous than he had mere moments ago that he felt almost capable of breaking into a sprint. His formerly sluggish pulse raced and he breathed deep.
Tentatively, he allowed himself to think about what he’d seen with his Mindseye, bracing in case the nausea that had tried to rise at the sight of that foreign substance in his blood should overtake him. But with his emotions comfortably distant, he experienced nothing more than curiosity when he put his mind to it.
He had no idea what those strange motes could be—he had never heard of anything remotely like them—but clearly they had something to do with the disaster at Aaltah’s Well.
He remembered seeing something rising out of the Well after Mairahsol threw herself in, and he’d seen the flash of Kai motes in that something. But his first impression had been of darkness rising from the Well, and he wondered now if what he’d seen hadn’t been these impossible motes that now filled his blood—motes that contained Kai, but were clearly somethi
ng altogether different.
Whatever had risen from the Well, it had slammed into his back when he tried to flee, lifting him bodily off the floor and smashing him into a wall as the chamber crumbled around him. By all rights, he should have died. When his mother and Oona had found him, he’d been unconscious, and he had remained so for days, even under the care of the healer.
He opened his Mindseye once more, looking at the strange motes that infused his blood. There were hundreds of them, if not thousands. And if what he had just witnessed was the same thing that happened every time he regained his strength, then it was obvious those motes were responsible for his continued life—and all those motes of Kai in his aura. Perhaps the healer in Aaltah had not seen any Kai in his aura because he had not yet begun this cycle of waxing and waning at that time.
The servants—having seen him through many of these episodes over the weeks he’d been residing in Khalpar—had helpfully left his cane propped against the side of a neighboring chair. Delnamal gave the damn thing a sneer of distaste before grudgingly grabbing it with his gnarled, nearly useless hand. With this fresh burst of energy, he could walk unaided for the time being, but the rush would soon abandon him, and he preferred to lean on the cane rather than risk a humiliating fall.
Delnamal crossed the short distance between his chair and the edge of the balcony, setting his cane to the side and leaning his elbows on the railing as he surveyed his paltry domain.
King Khalvin no doubt expected Delnamal to feel grateful for the generous gift of this secluded manor house in the countryside. Considering the strain that had characterized their relationship since Delnamal had ascended to the throne of Aaltah, it was likely only his mother’s persuasion that had won him even that much. But even with his emotions comfortably distant, he couldn’t help recognizing the ignominy of his position, forced to live on his uncle’s sufferance. He’d been all but exiled to this crumbling old manor house a day’s travel from the closest city, with nothing but a skeleton staff of servants to see to his needs. This was not how a king ought to live. Even a king in exile.
He smiled faintly as he gently tucked that little pocket of bitterness away with all the rest of his emotions. In the old days, he would have been carried away on the wave of it and wallowed in misery for hours. Now, he could acknowledge that the bitterness existed and then shut it off as surely as he could shut off a luminant by plucking out the Rho that powered it.
A breeze rippled through the woods that surrounded the manor house—there was no town nearby, and their closest neighbor was an hour’s ride away on horseback. He watched the trees sway, then felt the breeze catch at his doublet and breeches, which flapped around him. He looked down at himself in chagrin, realizing he needed to call for a tailor yet again. It had been more than a month since he’d stopped vomiting, and yet he still had little appetite, so the weight kept dropping off him. He had once been quite fat—at the time, he’d vainly thought of himself as portly, but when he looked at some of his unaltered clothing, the truth was undeniable. Now, he seemed to be growing thinner by the day.
A footstep sounded on the balcony behind him, and Delnamal let out a quiet sigh. It had been a long time since anyone had granted him more than a handful of minutes of privacy, and he’d been enjoying the moment of solitude.
He turned, keeping one ruined hand on the railing for support. The initial rush of his recovery was already fading, and he was unsure of his ability to stand unaided. He conjured a thin smile for his mother, who hovered anxiously in the doorway.
“I am quite all right now, Mama,” he told her, preempting the question he knew was on her lips. “And I am not contemplating tossing myself off the balcony to my tragic death.”
His mother bowed her head, but he saw the blush that heated her face anyway and knew he had correctly guessed the source of her anxiety. Everyone seemed to think he was wallowing in a pit of despair, but he knew they were only seeing in him what they thought they themselves might be feeling in his shoes.
He had lost…everything. He had been the king of one of the three great kingdoms of Seven Wells. He had had wealth, and stature, and power. He had had a beautiful wife and an infant son—both of whom had remained in Aaltah while his mother had spirited him away to safety. He had had health and strength and fully functioning hands, and he was now a frail, easily tired invalid who could barely bend his fingers enough to hold on to his cane—and that only when he wasn’t on the brink of one of his strange fits. How could a man such as he not live in abject misery?
“Is there anything you need, my son?” Xanvin asked, her voice low and deferential and modest. She was, as always, the picture of demure Khalpari womanhood, and Delnamal had no doubt that she loved him still, no matter the changes in him, no matter the troubles his actions had caused them both. But there was also no doubting that she was now afraid of him, for reasons he had to admit puzzled him.
In the days before the accident, when his grip on his kingdom—and perhaps also on his sanity—had been slipping, he could see now that he’d been dangerously erratic, his temper only one incendiary word away from exploding. He’d roared and snapped and blustered and threatened, and even in the face of all that, his mother had been only cautious, not fearful, when in his presence. And yet now she feared him. Just because she didn’t understand what was happening to him.
He wished he could tell her everything he had learned today, but she might think him delusional.
“You’ve already given me everything I need,” he told her. He made a concerted effort to add some cadence and inflection to his voice, to sound as much like his old self as possible, and yet the slight tightening around the corners of her eyes told him he had failed. In the old days, it might have annoyed him that she found fault in the flatness of his voice, but now he merely noted and dismissed it. “You gave me life and freedom—such as it is—and a safe place to rest and gather myself. You have more than fulfilled your duties as a mother.”
Xanvin bit her lip. Her hand strayed to the miniature Devotional that hung on a chain from her waist. Knowing her, there was a full-sized copy hidden somewhere in her voluminous skirts. She had always clung to the Devotional with the ferocity of a small child with a favored toy. He could almost picture her putting her thumb in her mouth while clutching the thing as if it were the answer to—and her shield from—everything that troubled her.
“I want more for you than that,” she said, her voice so soft a gust of wind nearly obscured the words, if not the sentiment.
“I want more, too,” he assured her, gazing out again at the dull woods that were all he could see from any window in the manor house. He wanted to look out his windows and see a teeming, busy, glorious city filled with people. People who served him, naturally.
“Mark my words, Mama,” he said. “I will be king again.”
Delnamal smiled at the look of shock in Xanvin’s eyes. She had thought him caught in the throes of despair, in danger of doing himself an injury to end his pain. Now here he was declaring his intention to rule again.
“I imagine you’re feeling no small amount of skepticism,” he said, still smiling. He tried to take a step toward her in a moment of overconfidence. His knees threatened to buckle beneath him, and he hastily grabbed for the cane he had left leaning against the balustrade. He chuckled as he used the cane to regain his balance. “I am well aware that I am not in any shape to reclaim my throne just yet. But my mind is clearer than it has ever been, and I believe my body will continue to get stronger.”
That, he had to admit to himself, was a lie. He did not imagine there was much chance of any further recovery of his body, but it was certainly true that he was getting better at dealing with the aftereffects of his fits. He doubted his ability to retake his kingdom when he was prone to such unseemly public displays, but he believed that once he had that under control, he’d be in a stronger position. And surely he could make gr
eat use of all those Kai motes in his aura.
“I was rash and impetuous and so desperate for approval that I displayed no judgment whatsoever,” he said. “But I see the error of my ways now, and I will not make the same mistakes.”
“How can you possibly hope to retake Aaltah?” Xanvin asked with a shake of her head.
He was certain his mother was even now calculating exactly what she needed to say to talk him out of this ridiculous quest. Once upon a time, her lack of faith in his abilities would have sent him into a rage—or at least a pout—but now it solicited no more than a flicker of annoyance, easily shunted aside.
“You let me worry about that,” he said. “It will naturally require a great deal of planning and preparation. But believe me when I tell you it will happen. I will take back my kingdom. I will take back my wife and my child. And my mother will once more be the Dowager Queen of Aaltah, with all the comforts and respect that goes with it.”
That Xanvin thought he was delusional was clear from the look on her face, although she did not attempt to reason with him. Most likely, she hoped this was some passing whim that would go away before it had the chance to do any damage.
But it was not a whim. He did not fully understand what was happening to him or why, but he did know it made him far more powerful than anyone could ever have imagined. He did not know yet exactly what he was going to do with that power, but it would surely be something glorious.
One day, he would be the greatest king Seven Wells had ever seen. All he needed was time and patience. And those were two things he had in abundance.
* * *
—
Kailee was on the verge of retiring for the night when Tynthanal finally returned to the royal apartments after yet another long and grueling day. If theirs had been a traditional marriage, she imagined she might have felt very put out indeed at how little time her new husband spent with her, but his duties were such that he could have spent all the hours of the night working and still found more to do. Especially now that he was trying to cram a lifetime’s study of spell crafting into whatever stolen hours he could find.
