by Beth Alvarez
Against all he expected, the chapter house beside his home loomed above them again.
“I was curious,” Envesi said. “I wondered what could drive a man to stand against someone he knows he has no hope of defeating. But you’re as useless as every other who dares stand against me. Your sense of honor is misguided, Stal Kaith.”
He struggled to rise. The back hem of his robe was charred and his heel blistered, burned by the raw energy that had brushed his skin. Fortunate, he thought, that he hadn’t lost his leg.
Envesi’s eyes flashed, luminescent, in the dark. “You do no one favors by entertaining the notion mages should be left to their own devices. Magic demands structure and control. If you cannot submit to it, then you are no longer of use.” Again, she reached for fire.
Stal slammed his foot to the ground and ignored the shock of pain. The ground seized beneath him and a wave of rock surged forward to crush her.
Before it struck, she waved a hand. Instead of fighting the wave of earth, she bore down on Stal with air. But he’d escaped those flows once already, and he hacked at her hold of them and severed the threads of power before it ever touched him.
The stone crashed down around her and bounced harmlessly off a rippling shield. He hadn’t even felt her form it.
Magic surged within the chapter house and a wave of heat poured from the open doors and windows. Screams sounded inside and panic clawed at Stal’s heart.
“Kill me if you desire,” he spat, “but leave my mages out of it. They are free to make their own decisions. Even if that means supporting you.”
The heat eased, though slightly. Envesi turned a speculative eye toward him.
Behind her, a mage appeared at a window. Before Stal could address her, the Master disappeared in a swirl of white.
“Yes,” the rogue Archmage mused. “Perhaps I shall.”
Something pinged inside of Stal and a wave of discomfort shot down his legs, like a nerve plucked or pinched. Then again it pinched, pulled, and he rocked on his feet.
He lifted his chin and stared at her, defiant. “Killing me changes nothing. There are still those who will oppose you. Those who will see you fall.”
A cold smile quirked the corners of her mouth. “On the contrary, Archmage. Only your Collective shall fall.”
A deafening roar split the air as fire erupted from the chapter house, a surge of magic like nothing he’d ever thought possible. Shrieks of fear, pain, and panic flooded the air, and the twinges of pain that speared through Stal’s body grew stronger.
Sharp, picking, pulling. Pangs in his neck. His arms. His head.
Envesi’s snakelike eyes hardened until they gleamed like jewels in the dark.
Unraveling him, he realized.
She meant to pull him apart.
Gritting his teeth, he wound his own energies tight, envisioning a ball of string pulled so snug that nothing came loose. The pain subsided. Then the onslaught began anew, more focused, more determined.
Behind him, the air heated.
Mages appeared beside the chapter house. Already, the building groaned and creaked as flames licked up its walls and across its roof. Something cracked; embers spiraled into the air.
More than a dozen mages formed a half-circle at Envesi’s back.
The woman laughed, her voice cold and harsh. “You’d be fools to attack me.”
But instead of striking her, they looked at him.
“Rabbits will always return to a well-kept garden,” one of the Masters called. Stal recognized her. Blood still marred her face and her hair and stained the front of her white robes.
The code was not lost on him.
At his back, reality split. The light of a well-illuminated courtyard poured from it. Stal spun, his brow furrowed. The Spiral Palace.
Suddenly, the nameless Master was beside him.
“The Collective may fall,” she whispered, “but we will stand as long as we can.”
With both hands, she thrust Stal through the Gate.
13
Ballads
Formal dinners were rarely enjoyable affairs. Firal expected nothing otherwise, but she was relieved Vicamros had called for a banquet.
She hadn’t spoken to any of her friends outside of the council chamber. The task of expanding the magic-nullifying barrier consumed everyone’s attention and though she was a mage, Firal had not been asked to assist them. The exclusion hurt, but she couldn’t be angry at them. No one seemed to know what to do with a displaced queen. She didn’t know what to do with herself, left rudderless in a wild current.
Servants retrieved her long hours after nightfall and escorted her to a banquet hall remarkably similar to the one in Ilmenhith’s palace. Smooth-shafted columns with unadorned capitals supported a vaulted ceiling. Streamers in the Triad’s three colors hung draped between them. Two mirrored chandeliers suspended by gilded chains chased the dark away from the table, but cast double shadows of each column. An odd chill crept up Firal’s spine as she passed through them.
Dozens of chairs lined the table, most of them already filled. A servant in tri-colored livery led her to her seat, a place near enough to Vicamros to lend her importance, but far enough away to make it clear she was no longer his equal.
Kytenia sat across the table, one chair nearer to the king, but the other mages were among nobles and councilors at the other end. The throne at the head of the table remained empty, as did the seats to its left and right, but she didn’t have time to contemplate them.
A trumpeted fanfare announced the king’s arrival and everyone around the table stood.
Firal turned her head, pleasantly surprised to see Rhyllyn take the empty place to her left. The youth flashed her a smile, then turned to watch Vicamros take his place.
He led Sera with her fingertips resting on his upturned palm, as dainty and courtly a gesture as Firal had ever seen. He seated her at the place of honor to his left before he took his place at the head of the table. Respect for her gravid state, no doubt. With a position as lofty as Sera’s seemed to be, her placement wasn’t a surprise, but considering she’d only just returned to Umdal a day prior, her presence was unexpected.
More surprising was that Rune took his place at Vicamros’s right side. An odd place for a man who’d exchanged blows with the king only hardly any time before, but Firal bit her tongue. Had she been a queen, she might have criticized the choice. As things were now, her opinion meant nothing.
When Vicamros sat, everyone sat, and the wave of serving staff with trays of food began to flow down the table.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Rhyllyn whispered.
Firal smiled politely in return. “I didn’t expect the mages would give you a chance to eat, to be honest.” She plucked two rolls from a tray and put one on his plate.
He grinned, tore a piece from its top and popped it into his mouth. “They’re keeping me busy, but we’ve made progress. I’ve learned some important things. I can’t wait to tell you about them.”
“I’m sure you’ll have a chance. It’s not like I’ve anything else to do. I feel a bit like a bird in a gilded cage.” She filled her plate with various tidbits as servants filtered past.
Behind the throne, a lute plucked a sour note and made everyone cringe.
“Fine entertainment for us, eh, Vicamros?” Sera smirked as the musician tuned his instrument in preparation to play.
“Not the best choice I could have made, it seems.” Vicamros chuckled, waiting for his taster to nod before he sampled his food.
“Perhaps Rhyllyn could play for us after he’s had a bit to eat.” Sera glanced his way, amusement clear in her eyes.
Firal turned to the young man beside her, curious. “You did tell me before that you can play a number of instruments. Are you skilled?”
“He’s a bard,” Rune said over the rim of his goblet. He leaned one elbow on the table. “Formally trained and recognized.”
Rhyllyn flushed and stared at his plate. “I’m all
right, I guess.”
Firal smiled and touched his arm. “I’d love to hear you play sometime.”
“A good idea, that,” Vicamros murmured. “Let this fool strum a few notes and let the boy get a bit in his belly, then maybe he can be convinced to play.”
“Of course, Majesty,” Rhyllyn said, though his cheeks were so red Firal thought they might glow.
“I’m afraid it will be our last opportunity for levity for some time.” Vicamros sobered. “It seems every war is preceded by a feast. Tomorrow morning, the mages we’ve gathered will depart in hopes of finding as many parts of Umdal’s Collective as possible.”
Sera’s cheerful expression faltered and she turned her attention to her plate. Both Rune and Rhyllyn grew solemn, and Firal bowed her head.
She didn’t know why the mages would be needed to recover the Collective, but with Sera there and her husband absent, it wasn’t difficult to piece together that something troubling had transpired. Firal had intended to ask why Sera had returned so soon. Now that seemed unwise. She liked the woman, her eager demeanor and upbeat attitude infectiously inspiring, but Firal didn’t know her well, and the friendly ease between Sera and Rune still gave her an odd discomfort.
Conversation around the table went on without her. She didn’t notice until someone directed a question toward Rhyllyn.
He straightened in his seat, drawing Firal’s attention back to the affairs at hand. “Yes, Majesty. At least, I think it’s true. It’s much too early to tell, but we can try as soon as the barrier is taken care of.”
“Extraordinary.” Kytenia leaned forward, taking interest in the talk for the first time. Firal might have missed the beginning, but if Kytenia was interested, it had to be related to magic. “How did you discover this?”
“It was because of how the barrier’s anchor reacted to him when he tried to manipulate it.” Rhyllyn cupped his hands as if he held a pair of objects aloft to compare them. “There was something between them that caused them to repel each other. The two forces pushed apart, like mismatched lodestones. If he’d allowed me to help, I never would have noticed. The barrier is considerably stronger than the seal on his power, though, so that’s why he couldn’t conquer it and ended up being physically thrown back.”
Firal raised a brow and leaned back in her chair to look past the boy’s shoulders. Rune didn’t notice, too occupied with nursing his drink and frowning. He didn’t appear to sport any new injuries, but it was clear her lack of involvement with the mages meant she’d missed out on all sorts of excitement. A twinge of bitterness pulled at her heart.
“Were you able to determine how the seal works, then?” Kytenia asked as she reached for her cup.
“Not yet, but I have an idea.” Rhyllyn paused to take a drink as well. “We weren’t able to do much, since Sera and the messenger needed our attention too, but observing Rune trying to manipulate energy afterward let me see the seal performing the same functions as the barrier.”
“And yet you never noticed this before?” Vicamros frowned.
“I had, I suppose, I just never realized what was actually happening. See, the barrier works by reacting whenever someone reaches for power. I’m not sure how, but when it senses that, it pulls the energy flows away. Toward itself. The seal does that too, but on a smaller scale, and it’s attuned to his power.” Rhyllyn gave the Archmage a nervous grin, as if uncertain of his explanation. “But since it’s so small, it can’t disrupt his power entirely. It hinders most, but allows a small trickle of energy through.”
Kytenia tapped a finger against the edge of her plate. “But if it restricts energy that way, shouldn’t it keep him from using yours like he does?”
Rhyllyn shook his head. “Not at all. Like I said, it’s attuned to his power. It’s not designed to stop anything else. I think the Alda’anan meant to use it as a training device. Something to teach him to pace himself, or maybe exercise restraint when working with magic. Because when he pushes too hard, the seal reacts in another way, punishing him with physical pain.”
Rune grunted in displeasure. “The real question isn’t how it works. It’s whether or not he can unravel it.”
Vicamros nodded, rubbing his chin. “Can you, Rhyllyn?”
The youth hesitated. “I think it’s too early to tell. Either way, I need to take care of the mage-barrier first.”
“Of course, of course.” The king returned to his food and the conversation shifted again.
If the seal on Rune’s power could be removed, it would change everything. Level the field and bring back their chance. But Firal couldn’t dare hope, not yet. She drew a long breath and willed herself to be reasonable, but in the wake of such a revelation, she already found the food no longer had any taste.
The rest of the mealtime chatter remained cordial and continued until the serving staff began to clear away empty plates. Then Vicamros clapped his hands and turned to Rhyllyn again.
“Have you had enough to eat, then, bard? Are you ready to serenade us?”
Rhyllyn smiled sheepishly, dipped a corner of his napkin into his water goblet and used it to clean his hands. “I suppose I could manage a song, if you really wish me to.”
“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t wish it! Minstrel, here! Let the boy borrow your lute. Perhaps he can teach you to tune it.”
Laughter erupted around the table and the minstrel tucked in his chin, abashed. He met Rhyllyn halfway to hand over his instrument.
“He truly is an excellent bard, you know,” Vicamros said. “There’s a ballad he wrote that’s become quite popular in these parts. Why don’t you play that one for us?”
Rhyllyn’s eyes widened. “I don’t know...”
The king raised a hand to silence him. “Come on, now. Don’t be bashful. I’m sure our guests are eager to hear.”
Wordlessly, Rune slid from the table and retreated between the columns.
“All right,” Rhyllyn murmured. He carried the lute to the tall stool the minstrel had abandoned and tuned the worn lute with nimble claws, casting a furtive glance after his brother as he began. A haunting, sorrowful melody filled the banquet hall and a hush drew over the crowd. His surprising baritone rose with the music and threatened to tear Firal’s heart in two.
“A songbird sings at twilight,
a cage of reeds her home.
She longs to claim her birthright,
the night sky hers to roam.
She sings of her desire,
and knows not who hears her song.
A serpent waits and listens,
and her voice makes his heart long.
The serpent aches to join her
and weave songs among the trees,
but snake-shed begets scales,
and not feathers underneath.
The serpent scales the tree
with a wish to make his love known.
He breaks her lonely prison
and now freed, the bird flies home.
Abandoned in silent midnight,
the serpent weeps red stones.
His tears capture the starlight,
and the serpent is alone.
Of raven plumes and starlit skies,
he’s left dreaming in the mists.
Of a gift of aspen seeds,
and serpent’s tears in golden twists.
Alone, the venom grows inside,
his heart in shadow deep,
baring fangs and hatred
so no one will hear him weep,
And at night he dreams of starlight,
and a gift of aspen seeds.”
The last strum faded before applause erupted, but Rhyllyn kept his head down and fiddled with the instrument’s strings.
Firal drew a shuddering breath, aware of the tears in her eyes for the first time. She twisted in her chair, hoping to catch a glimpse of Rune.
She found him as a shadow beside a column, toying with a necklace between his claws. He tucked it beneath his shirt and disappeared into the dark beyon
d the banquet hall.
“A remarkable piece, isn’t it?” Vicamros wiped his eyes, evidently as touched by the sorrowful ballad as a dozen others around the table. “A beautiful expansion on a piece of old folklore, truly. But there’s one piece I’ve never understood. The line about aspen seeds, what does it mean?” He turned to Rhyllyn, seeking an answer.
“A tradition,” Firal supplied.
Vicamros regarded her, surprised.
She swallowed hard. “In my homeland, it’s tradition for a newly wedded couple to exchange a gift of seeds. Different plants bear different meanings, you see. Aspen is meant to represent strength and longevity in a bond.”
“A curious choice.” The king eyed Rhyllyn with new respect. “So the serpent dreams of a love that could have been.”
Rhyllyn forced a smile. “Yes, Your Majesty. I suppose you could say that.”
Firal left her napkin over the remnants of her meal as she stood. “A lovely ballad, Rhyllyn. Thank you for playing. If you will excuse me, I think that wine was a bit stronger than what I am used to. I believe I need a bit of air.”
“Of course,” Vicamros said dismissively, his attention still on Rhyllyn. “Do you have time to play another before the mages reclaim you?”
Firal slipped away before she heard his answer.
The ballad had been a surprise bordering on unpleasant. She’d learned the old folk tale about the snake and nightingale what seemed an eternity ago, nestled in the cozy underground city of Core. Even then the story of the snake whose scales separated him from love had struck close to home. She’d thought that one of the reasons for the asteriated ruby that adorned her wedding ring, but after the ring disappeared, she’d tried not to think of it—or the man who’d given it to her—again.
That Rhyllyn would combine their story with the fable made perfect sense, yet the invasion of the song into the life she’d had with Rune rankled. It was nobody’s business, and certainly wasn’t proper for recital in front of a gathered crowd.
