by Karen MacRae
Anna was unaware of anything but her battle with the black. She threw more power than she’d ever thrown before, the endless reservoir under her feet limited only by what she could channel. Still the black resisted. She gritted her teeth. She would save this man, light help her. For his friends, for his family, for the King, she would save him.
With every inch of sea green she restored, her head throbbed a thousand times. She could feel the pain build but could spare nothing to Heal herself. She didn’t realise she’d fallen to her knees. Her mind was utterly focused on her task. She didn’t feel the others lend her what remained of their strength. She had become part of the White, part of the light, her mind lost to everything but its power.
Sy was the only one still conscious when Anna sprawled face-down on top of Finn. He couldn’t see the stain-free sea green that enveloped Finn’s body, but he could see his friend’s face was relaxed and his chest was moving up and down as if he were merely sleeping. The big man passed out with a smile on his lips.
CHAPTER 2
Somewhere up north
P yteor slumped still further in his saddle. “What’s the point in having a weather mage if we have to trudge through all this damn rain anyway?” he whined.
The Reader sneered at him. “Don’t be so pathetic. We can’t have Mystrim using up his gift on a bit of water when we might need it for something more important. Find some backbone, for light’s sake.”
“I’m sick of being wet!”
“I’m sick of you complaining. Now shut up or I’ll make sure you can’t speak for weeks.”
Pyteor’s misery at the rivulets of water running down his back made him less cautious than was normal or wise. “It’s this miserable country. It hasn’t stopped raining in a week, the forests are full of bandits, we only get off the damn horses to sleep, not that I’ve had a decent night sleep since we left the capital because…”
Elona’s fist connected with Pyteor’s jaw with an almighty crack. Her pet Healer sniggered as the young man fell from his horse into a puddle of mud. His mistress turned her gaze on the Healer and he felt his smile falter. Much as she excited him, he’d learned not to upset her and he still wasn’t quite sure what did and didn’t do that.
Elona nodded her approval at her pet’s control and saw him almost pant with happiness. Training was going well. Lord Thornson had not lied that the boy was perfect for her. Unlike the irritating Pyteor. She considered jumping down to kick the annoying underling a few times, but the sight of cold, wet mud dissuaded her. “You’ll not Heal him, you hear me, Nijel? With any luck this’ll shut him up for a few days.”
She caught the weather mage looking at her. They shared a moment of mutual appreciation at the sight of the Concealer lying in the mud before their normal antipathy returned.
“Sifry!” shouted Mystrim. “Pick him up and make sure you catch us up within the hour. We need him tonight, with or without a working jaw. Do not be late, do you hear me?”
An elderly man on a donkey nodded his head furiously. “Yes, sir. As you say, sir,” he warbled.
Elona rolled her eyes and Nijel suppressed another snigger.
Sifry climbed down from his mount and groaned as his old bones objected to their rough use. It was a far cry from his previous career, but at least he was alive. And without chains. It was better than most. He waddled over to Pyteor. Stupid boy. When would he learn to keep his mouth shut? He grunted. Not too soon, hopefully. He and that new Healer boy kept Elona entertained and her eye off reliable, old Sifry. Thank the light. Mystrim wasn’t an issue. He only had eyes for the women. No eyes for Elona, though. Light, no. She’d crucify Mystrim if he tried anything on with her. Sifry paused briefly as a delicious image of Elona and Mystrim tearing chunks out of each other came to mind. Huh, I wish.
He stood over the stationary body lying face down in the mud. He was tempted to kick it but decided not to. Much as it would feel good, his hip probably wasn’t up to it. He bent to turn the body and feel for a pulse. His hips screamed at him, but the boy hadn’t drowned and his blood still pumped. A good result. Sifry wouldn’t be getting beaten for the temerity of not being able to bring Pyteor back from the dead. He slapped the young man’s face a few times but gave up when his arthritic hand began to pain him. For light’s sake. The idiot must have a glass jaw to be so fragile. One clobber and he’s out cold? Useless pile of dung.
“Give me a hand,” he said to the two slaves chained to the pack horses.
One of the women immediately dismounted and came to do his bidding, her long chain rattling loudly as it unwound. He looked at the other. Was she the one who’d joined in Alscombe? He couldn’t be sure. They were both tall, blonde, scrawny and covered in bruises. Mystrim did like to make full use of their female resources.
“You too,” he ordered.
“You realise those monsters are out of sight? We could leave and they’d never find us.”
Sifry laughed. Definitely the new one. “You’d better forget those notions,” he told her. “At least you’re alive and there’s a chance you’ll survive. Leave and you’re as dead as dead can be. After you’ve begged them to kill you.”
The enslaved groom stood her ground, imploring the old man with her eyes. He sighed, annoyed that he’d have to make her do as she was told. He disliked using his little gift. It hurt.
If Elona had been there, she’d have seen a shaft of red arc from Sifry to the front of the woman’s brain. The slave, however, didn’t. Sifry groaned with the effort. His target reacted as if someone had stuck a white-hot poker through her spine then her eyes went blank and her mouth went slack.
“Come and help me get this ass back on his horse,” Sifry repeated. The groom immediately obeyed.
They were remounted within five minutes, albeit Pyteor was riding face down and across his saddle. Sifry set off at a brisk trot. He wasn’t going to risk being late. He watched the Concealer bounce around in the saddle and smiled. The opportunity to give the idiot some nice new bruises was a welcome bonus.
They caught up within half an hour. Pyteor was still out cold; Elona had a formidable right hook. The cook looked immensely relieved at their reappearance. He hadn’t liked being the most vulnerable in the group. If these animals were going to take anything out on anyone, it would now be a groom, thank the light. If it wasn’t each other. They seemed to have an endless capacity for violence and were wholly unpredictable. Even worse than Lord Thornson, light curse his soul for selling his cook into this nightmare. He’d keep his head down and try to get away in Leask, if they ever got there. He slowed his horse until he was at the rear of the group. Further from danger.
He thought someone must have thrown a stone at him when he felt the thud in his back and smelled the unmistakeable smell of fresh blood. His mouth opened in surprise when he saw an arrowhead protruding from his chest, but then he fell without a sound into the mud.
One of the slaves screamed when she saw the men charge from the forest. She realised too late she should have kept her mouth shut: they might have freed her. Instead, it was enough to rouse Elona, Nijel and Mystrim to action.
Elona went berserk when she saw the cook on the ground. She loved her food and these morons had deprived her of her cook? Nijel and Mystrim knew better than to get in her way. Nijel took out an old crossbow and sent sufficient bolts towards the marauders to keep them from getting too close. Mystrim couldn’t gather much in the way of heat from the air without longer to prepare, but he managed to throw a few small fireballs into the mix. Both took the opportunity to admire the blonde; she really was magnificent in action. Not that Mystrim would ever admit it to her face.
Elona withdrew her blade from the gut of a particularly ugly outlaw and looked about for her next victim. All around her was bloody carnage. Her shoulders slumped at the lack of enemies. There was no one left to kill. She poked at the bodies, hoping for some sign of life, but all stayed motionless. “Damn it!” she yelled. “Why’d they have to kill the cook?”
Mystrim hid his face behind his scarf and allowed himself a huge grin. He didn’t care much where his calories came from and he did love to see her suffer.
“Where are all these light-forsaken murderers coming from?” Nijel asked peevishly. “I thought The Kingdom was supposed to be virtually free of bandits?”
Mystrim’s hidden grin broadened still further. “You didn’t hear the language they were speaking?”
“No, I didn’t recognise it. Should I have?” asked the teenager.
Elona’s face was cold as she looked at the Healer. “Be silent,” she ordered. She saw dread shade his aura. He knew he’d done something wrong, that she was unhappy. He had no idea why. Later, she’d make sure he knew never to give the weather mage an opportunity to taunt her but, for now, she couldn’t let Mystrim know the realisation had disturbed her. “They’re deserters. From Ruustra. My home. We’ll speak no more of it.”
The group walked on in silence. Elona cursed the necessity of killing her countrymen, deserters or not. It spoiled her pleasure. Mystrim could see the irony in the fact they were plagued by men and women escaping from their own side’s actions on the continent. Nijel didn’t understand the significance of the outlaws being from Elona’s home but was sufficiently well-trained to remain silent. Sifry wondered when anyone would realise Pyteor had a crossbow bolt sticking out of his right buttock.
An hour went past without conversation until the dimming light made stopping inevitable. “Is that idiot ever going to wake up?” Mystrim asked aloud. He wheeled his horse around and trotted back to the supine Concealer. Elona and Nijel heard his guffaw and pulled their mounts to a halt. They turned in their saddles to see what was so amusing.
“He’s only got a bolt in his backside,” the weather mage managed to get out between belly laughs. “You are so going to pay for that, young Nijel.”
Nijel’s face went grey. “It might not be one of mine.”
“Sure, and pigs might fly.”
Elona’s mouth twitched in amusement, but she felt her loyalties torn. Not that she felt a lot of loyalty for anyone, but Nijel was hers to punish. He would feel pain only with her approval. Pyteor didn’t deserve the honour. He didn’t deserve anything, not after landing her in trouble with Nystrieth in Alscombe.
“You may Heal the wound,” she told Nijel. “And you will pay an appropriate reward for my leniency tonight. I feel the need for some release.”
“Thank you, mistress,” the Healer sighed. “Shall I wake him after I Heal him? He will feel the pain from his jaw for longer.”
Elona smiled. Oh yes, he was learning.
They set up camp long after sunset, Pyteor’s gift ensuring they would remain undetected. How the Concealer bent the light to hide them was a mystery to his companions, but it was undoubtedly useful. It meant he didn’t get a lot of sleep in this bandit-run territory, but they cared little about that. He could sleep when they got to Leask.
Elona was immensely relieved to discover the new groom could cook a little. It was hardly fine dining, but the meaty stew she prepared was perfectly acceptable. “If you touch her nose or her hands, I swear I will eviscerate you, Mystrim,” the Reader warned the weather mage. Every word rang with sincerity. Mystrim opened his mouth to argue that they had a Healer. Elona waved him silent, anticipating his reply. Her face was deadly serious. “I will not have Nijel’s Healing well wasted on a slave. Do not test me, Mystrim.”
Much later, screams and grunts of pleasure echoed from both sides of the camp. Mystrim was enjoying his nightly rendezvous with one of the unwilling slaves while Elona was educating a willing Nijel in how to please her best. Pyteor frowned by the fire. He needed to pick up a girl for himself in the next town. It wasn’t fair, him having to miss out all the time. He sank into a semi-sleep, his mind dreaming up a short, plump blonde. No, a brunette. He didn’t want any reminders of the Reader. He shivered as his plump beauty shifted into a tall, blonde warrior. No, no, no! Light forbid! The very thought made him feel sick. He sat up and poked a stick in the fire, trying and failing to take his mind off the horrible image.
“Sifry? Sifry, are you awake?” he called, wincing at the pain the movement caused his badly bruised jaw.
“Yes, young master Pyteor,” the old man fawned.
“Tell me the plan again.”
The accountant shuffled across the campsite to sit by the fire. His bones were glad of its heat. It was a treat he rarely received, having learned it was better to keep his presence as low-key as possible. “The worst of the mountain pass is behind us so we should arrive in Leask in three days. Perhaps fewer if we ruin the horses on the final day, but more if the weather worsens.” Pyteor frowned at the thought of the weather worsening but decided to spare his jaw the effort of making a comment.
“We’ll stay at our agent’s house near the harbour. He’ll have received instructions from Sesi by now and arranged a boat for us to Ionatis. We’ll set sail the day after we arrive, assuming favourable conditions. It’ll take two days to get there. Again, Sesi will have informed our agent of our arrival and our requirements. The appropriate clothing and documentation will be waiting for us. Our master has allowed for our task there to take two days. After that, we set sail for Shae. The timings in Shae are a little uncertain. Our master has allotted two to three days. Once we have the necessary stone, we will depart for Rubra. Our agent there will arrange passage to the continent and we are home and free to win great rewards from the Emperor and God.”
Pyteor slammed his fist against his chest. “Nystrieth is God,” he intoned.
“Oh, yes, of course,” murmured Sifry. “Nystrieth is God.”
The young man didn’t hear the lack of fervour in the accountant’s voice or see the old man sneak back to his hidey-hole. He was too busy recalling the exquisite mix of pleasure and pain Nystrieth had awarded him in Alscombe. He prayed to his God they would succeed, that he would survive the mission and earn His glorious Shaping. His mind skipped over the price of failure. He didn’t want to face that possibility. Instead, he realised with surprise that he no longer feared committing inconsequential errors. The success of the mission was all that mattered. It was the only goal. If he had to break some rules to make it happen, then so be it. Then he would be blessed to receive that bliss again.
CHAPTER 3
Alscombe
L ady Goldsmith looked upon what appeared to be a scene of mass murder. “Interesting,” she murmured.
“Light! What the hell happened here?” exclaimed her husband as he stepped into the room, wrinkling his nose at the lingering scent of heavy incense. “Why is Novac’s meeting room filled with rocks?”
His wife laughed. “You never cease to surprise me, my love. You see a roomful of bodies and you think only of the rocks!”
“They’re all alive, Marissa, as you well know. Well, apart from those two over there,” he replied, gesturing towards the two covered bodies in the corner.
“I do know, my dear, but how do you?”
Lord Goldsmith gave his wife an amused look. “Because, if any of those boys didn’t have glows around them, you’d have been over there in a second.”
Alscombe’s spy mistress smiled before making her way over to the nearest stack of boulders. “Is this Aurovian crystal?”
“I suspect so, dearest, because I’m fairly sure the tiny brunette lying on top of Finn is the Shaper.”
The two regarded Anna for a few moments. “She doesn’t look like much, does she?” Lord Goldsmith commented.
“Like she’d blow away in a light breeze,” his wife agreed. “It’s an advantage for her. She will ever be underestimated.”
Lady Goldsmith walked back to the doorway to speak to her groom come bodyguard. “George, kindly go and ask the housekeeper to have every bedroom in the house prepared for guests, including those belonging to the Novacs. We’ll also need twenty-four bedrolls in here within a quarter hour. If you have any trouble, threaten to run a sword through her belly and promote her underl
ing. I’d rather you didn’t actually do it but use your own judgement. On your way, ask Stevenson to step in.”
“You think they’ll be out long enough to need a bedroom?” her husband asked.
“I have no idea, but it’ll keep the servants busy and stop the housekeeper thinking she’s escaped interrogation. Her answers won’t be so well rehearsed when we get to her.”
Footsteps announced the arrival of Stevenson, one of Lady Goldsmith’s men at arms. His mouth gaped slightly at the sight of dozens of sprawled, overlapping bodies, but he trusted his mistress to know what she was doing.
“How goes the search?” she asked him. He snapped to attention and tore his eyes away from the unnatural scene.
“Only one still missing, milady. We found Lady Thumbrid hiding in a cupboard in an upstairs privy. She became quite hysterical when she was locked in the ice room with the others. ‘Do you know who I am?’ and all that, milady.”
Lady Goldsmith’s mouth twitched into a small smile. “We’ll leave her until last then, I think, Stevenson. There are other priorities and the cold will teach her that riches are no escape from justice. Now, kindly divert two strong men from the search to make everyone here a bit more comfortable, but keep the house properly locked down. Lord Taylor is much too fat to get himself on a horse and much too lazy to walk, but his coach and driver were still outside when we arrived. He did not escape. Oh! A sadly belated thought - you’d best put a man on the dovecote if you haven’t already. I doubt he could climb the steps without having a palsy, but he might think to try to play hero and send word.”
Twenty minutes later, eighteen bodies had been moved to bedrolls that stretched the length of the corridor outside the meeting room. Inside the room’s crystal-walled circle lay the other sleeping six. One, Lord Thornson, slept in chains, George standing over him with a drawn sword. It wouldn’t do for the Healer to wake and think he’d done enough to offset his treason.
