by Beth Alvarez
The air shifted and one of her spheres fell. It burst against the crown of her head and doused her. She shrieked at the cold. Another fell, and another. Firal hopped across two large stones in the river to avoid them. The water swelled at her ankles. She spun it into a long tendril and cracked it at him like a whip. It impacted his invisible barrier again and splashed uselessly against its surface. Behind them, a murmur of delight rolled through the growing crowd.
“A mage should always be prepared,” Firal called over the hiss of the water that pelted his air shield. “We both know once your concentration's broken, it's hard for you to catch your power again.”
“Prepared,” Daemon repeated flatly. The light in his eyes flashed brighter. Power surged in him, no longer muddied, but crackling like white-hot static at the edge of her senses. The water rose around her ankles. Then it withdrew, retreating up the riverbed as if the current had reversed. Toward him. Daemon spread his hands and slowly raised them.
The river itself lifted from its bed.
Firal stared in disbelief. The water rose higher and higher above its basin, the quivering sheet swelling and deepening as he held it overhead. Whispers of pure awe rippled through the crowd. Too stunned to continue their game, Firal sank to her knees.
The light of Daemon's eyes softened and lost its red tinge. The water arced over their heads to splash down behind her in the empty riverbed. Spray filled the air as it crashed into the stone. Daylight from the inverted tower danced on the plumes of mist, casting rainbows into the air. The flood unleashed, the river shot over them until the current faded to its normal, placid flow. Slowly, Daemon parted the water above them and allowed it to fall.
The river sank back into its path, mist soaking them both. And then all was normal again.
Small sighs of disappointment came from the watching children. Murmurs of disbelief passed between the adults.
“That's your first mistake,” Daemon said. “You think you must be prepared because you might be taken by surprise, without a chance to defend yourself. But who could stand against me without knowing they've come to die?”
Firal bowed her head. Sudden shame washed over her. She was not a powerful mage—she never had been and probably never would be. Surprise was her best weapon. She had nothing else.
His clawed toes came into view and she looked up, startled.
Daemon offered his hand. “Fortunately for you, we're on the same side.”
Tentatively, she laid her fingers against his palm. He cradled her hand gently and helped her to her feet. His other hand hovered a few inches from her wet clothing. When he swept his hand downward, the water peeled itself from her clothing to leave it dry.
More murmurs rose from the observers, but when Daemon looked at them, they scattered.
“You've gotten much better with water,” she remarked as he helped her out of the river. Her knees trembled beneath her, but he helped her keep her footing.
He passed a hand over himself to dry his clothing the same way. “Well, we have been practicing.”
“Moving water from a bucket in my cavern is hardly similar to lifting an entire river.” Firal tiptoed to the walkway beside the water and retrieved her bag. “But that was a good lesson, I suppose.”
“I have a good teacher.” The statement was flat and honest. Not meant to stroke her ego, she decided; simply a statement of fact. Regardless, it should have tickled her pride. It didn't.
She sniffed and turned back the way they'd come. “I have some ideas for how we can approach healing next time. Once the infirmary is set up, perhaps your next healing lesson can take place there.”
“Tonight,” Daemon agreed. “Have a meal ready when I get there. If I have to drag furniture around all afternoon, I'm going to be hungry.” He followed her back to the spiral path that descended into the earth. At the doorway, he offered his arm and positioned himself between her and the chasm.
A hint of suspicion welled within her, but she laid a hand on his arm and allowed him to escort her back to her home. The display earned them curious glances from passersby and more than once, Firal blushed. It must have been odd to see their general with a mageling on his arm. Despite the discomfort that came with those looks, she admitted his presence between her and the pit gave her a stronger sense of security. From the fact he'd offered it without her asking, she suspected he knew as much. She didn't know why she trusted him for protection, but she appreciated it. Especially with the price she knew he'd have to pay for his gentlemanly behavior.
He had quashed the rumors that flared when they first began their lessons, but she saw the way the people watched her, heard the whispers behind her back in the gardens and outside her open door during lessons. There was a touch of respect in the eyes of those who looked at them, though, and a part of her hungered for that recognition. To be respected and revered for what she could do and what she could offer, to be someone—was that not what she wanted? What her time in the temple had, in the end, failed to provide? A meaning and a purpose, and the dignity that went with them?
But was obtaining it worth becoming entangled in Daemon's politics and plans? The colonel's well-intentioned words weighed heavily on her thoughts and a frown worked its way onto her face.
She had considered asking Daemon outright about his intentions. Then she had considered seeking Minna's advice instead, but she hadn't bolstered her courage enough to ask the woman's opinion of Colonel Achos.
And what were Daemon's intentions? She found herself suddenly aware of his easy stride beside her, the comfortable way he moved with her as a decoration on his arm. She all but shoved him away.
He glanced to his sleeve and then touched it as though he expected to find a spider in its folds. “What's the matter?”
“It isn't proper.” A flush rose into her cheeks and Firal silently cursed her fair complexion. “People already speak of us in ways they shouldn't. We oughtn't do anything to encourage it. I wouldn't want them to think there was something unusual between us.”
Daemon's snake-slitted eyes fell on her like a weight. “Is there not?”
Her ears burned. “Thank you for your assistance. I can make my way home from here. I'll have food prepared and the room ready to accommodate whatever furnishings you can find.” She offered a stiff curtsy before hurrying down the path on her own.
It wasn't until she reached her house and closed the door that she felt like she could breathe again. The heat of embarrassment lingered in her ears and cheeks.
What had he meant by that? Was he trying to rile her? Or was the question genuine? She struggled to recall anything she might have said or done to make him believe she thought of him as anything other than a student.
Did she think of him as something other than a student? The idea hit her like a slap in the face. She couldn't see herself as a real teacher—she was still a mageling, herself—and he certainly wasn't simply a pupil. He was a general, and in bringing her to Core, he'd become something of a savior for her, as well. He was a sound leader. His people respected him. And she did, too.
Not so long ago, she'd blamed him for the temple's ruin and been sure she hated him. How quickly things had changed. Now she saw hints of his honor and integrity, honesty and reliability. A myriad of respectable qualities hidden just beneath the surface. For some reason, he tried to hide them. She'd fallen for it at first, but knowing what she now did, and feeling those glimmers of warmth and respect, how could he be a mere pupil?
And yet, if he wasn't merely a pupil to her, what was he?
A knock at the door made her jump and squeal. It took a moment for her to compose herself enough to answer.
“Everything all right, Miss Firal?” Minna asked with a frown when Firal opened the door. A basket of vegetables rested in her arms.
“Yes, I just stubbed my toe as you knocked.” The lie rolled off Firal's tongue smoothly, though she was sure her ears were still red.
“Well mind that you're more careful, miss. Can't have you givi
ng yourself an injury you can't heal.” The Underling woman clicked her tongue as she pushed into the room. She left the basket beside the hearth and fetched a tool to prod the banked fire back to life. “I see you haven't even put down your satchel yet. Just gotten back, have you?”
Firal looked to the forgotten bag slung over her shoulder. “Oh. Yes, I was out making notes. I'll have to make all my own reference manuals for healing, now that I haven't got access to Master Nondar's.”
Minna's expression shifted to something unreadable. “It's a good space to sit and do it, out under the serpent's-tongue trees.”
Firal's eyes widened. After the horseplay in the river, she'd forgotten the white flower tangled in her hair. She freed it from her dark curls and crushed it in her hand. “It's better to be close to the specimens. It'd be hard to draw them accurately if I'm sitting down here in the gloom.”
“Of course.” Minna chuckled and added another log to the fire. “I imagine Lord Daemon will find your references most useful in his training.”
“He's not the reason I'm making the book.” Firal tossed her satchel onto the table and moved to help Minna put the stew pot over the fire. “It'll be useful for everyone.”
“I didn't mean to say that he was.” Minna settled on the edge of the hearth and dusted her hands together. “He’s busy enough that his lessons might suffer, in any case. Goodness knows Queen Lumia keeps him on his toes. Davan says she means to have Lord Daemon off on business before long, though who knows what she has him doing. Sometimes I'm not sure the men here have enough duties to justify all their fancy rank and titles.”
Firal jumped at the opportunity to change the subject. “How large is the military, anyway? The men of Core are conscripted, but how many of them are there?” She retrieved the bucket of water she kept near the fire and dumped it into the pot. Then she sat beside Minna and reached for one of the paring knives tucked into the vegetable basket. Minna had given Firal many things to help start her new home, but the good cutlery was something she'd unashamedly kept for herself.
“Ten thousand men, perhaps twelve? I'm not right sure. They don't do the best job of divvying them up under the officers, which makes them hard to count. But Davan is in line to be considered for major when they get around to sorting that last thousand.” Minna swelled with pride. “I don't know much about how the military works, I admit. But if he's made major, Davan will spend more nights home with Tobias and myself, and I can't say I don't cherish the idea.”
“Best of luck, then.” Firal took a sweet potato from the basket and turned to slice it into the stew pot. “Though I'm sure his skill will be recognized. He seems like a good man, and a wise one, at that.” And he'd been the one to suggest they send her to Core. She'd never forget that. Silently, she thanked him for the opportunity his choice had granted her.
“I'm sure,” Minna agreed. She sprinkled a few herbs into the pot to go with Firal's vegetables. A pleasant aroma filled the room. “You've done a good job with cooking, the past few days. I think I've taught you all I can there. What else do you need from me?”
“I imagine you're a long way off from teaching me all you have to share.” Firal dumped the last of an onion into the stew and sniffed hard. “If you have the time to spare, though, I could use your help in moving furniture. I'll need space for new things if I'm to make a proper infirmary.”
“Taking the mantle of medic, are you?” A spark of delight lit Minna's eyes. “All of Core will be glad to hear that.”
Firal was not so sure. “I hope so. I'm afraid I still have a lot to learn about what's expected of me and what is acceptable. More knowledge about your culture would be helpful. You started to tell me about the chapel the other day, but we didn't speak much before Tobias came in with that skinned knee.”
“The chapel it is, then.” Minna got to her feet, and Firal followed. Together, the two of them moved the table closer to the hearth. “As I told you, they say the caverns of Core were left behind when Brant pulled up his roots and left the world. Most of our people are quite devout, though the shame of having disappointed the Fathertree weighs on them so heavily that few speak to him directly. They carry their prayers to the priests, instead, who pass them on. The priests and those who are most devout pierce their tongues with silver to prove they're pure enough to speak prayers...”
Firal listened and absorbed as much she could while they rearranged her sparse collection of furniture, but as the woman droned on, her thoughts drifted back to the serpent's-tongue trees and Daemon's arm beneath her hand as they walked through the underground.
The vegetable stew was ready just as a number of men arrived with new furniture in tow. Firal gawked at the assortment of furnishings he'd found, but Daemon did not give her time to stare. He directed the men while she directed the placement of furniture. Minna stayed, serving bowls of stew to the hungry visitors while Daemon paged through the unfinished illustrations and notes Firal had compiled for her new herbal.
With so many hands, the work did not last long. Minna departed with the men, and instead of staying for another lesson, Daemon left with a bowl of food in hand, unwilling to remove his mask to eat. Firal was left alone with a mage-light suspended above her new table. Her unfinished pages lay spread across its surface, a number of dried samples scattered around them. Somewhere in the mess, she found the crushed blossom she had pulled from her hair.
Firal turned it between her fingers as she closed the door. Alone in the firelight, she was glad no one was present to see her press it between the herbal’s thick pages.
11
No Exceptions
Ash swirled on the wind. Kifel coughed once to clear his throat and pressed his cape over his mouth and nose. The rains across the island had stabilized. They moved in predictable patterns and no longer stirred from nowhere, both of which were good signs. But the temple, strangely, was dry.
The handful of mages in blue-trimmed white who had followed him through the Gate looked up the tower and around the barren courtyard. Most wore expressions of puzzlement and concern. Kifel, on the other hand, showed nothing.
“Should we investigate the tower, Your Majesty?” Temar wrung her hands as she stepped forward. She was a good woman and a good mage, one of few Kifel believed he could trust. He hadn't been the one to appoint her as chief over his court mages, but he was grateful for whatever twist of fate put her there.
“No.” He coughed again, the sound muffled by his cape. “There is nothing more to see.”
Temar bowed her head and turned to the other mages. Within moments, they had opened a Gate back to the palace.
It was Temar who had suggested he take a contingent of mages with him to Kirban. In that moment, he had known he would find nothing but an empty husk. Temar had been alarmed when the portal to the temple opened. She had not said why, but Kifel suspected the curious power that let one Gifted person sense another worked through Gates as well, and she must have sensed Kirban's mages were gone. But had she insisted he take mages with him so they could open a return Gate? Or had it been concern for his safety?
Both, he decided. Had Temar and her subordinates not accompanied him, he would have been stranded in the empty temple without a way to return. His mages would have come for him eventually, but his temper would have been gone. As it was, he held it by a thread.
Resentment simmered inside him. It had for days. Only half his anger was directed toward the Archmage. The other half burned for himself.
He'd been a fool—a mistake a king could not afford. Lovesick and desperate, he'd tried to placate her, hoped to foster some semblance of the feelings he'd always harbored and she never had. In his efforts to bring peace between the two of them, he'd instead allowed a potential war between the island's two ruling factions to fester.
There was no one but himself to blame.
Kifel strode through the crackling portal and exhaled. His office had become a refuge; he spent more time there than anywhere else. The endless paperwork and sho
rt walk to the council chamber meant constant distractions close at hand. He clung to them. Work was all that kept his mind off the perpetual sickness that churned in the pit of his stomach.
His forefathers would have been ashamed.
Ruling was business, his mother had often said. As a ruler, he believed he had done well enough. His people were content, his cities thriving and his borders relatively peaceful. Steady flow of international goods through his ports kept the kingdom's coffers full and allowed him leniency in taxes. He was loved by his people, no mistaking it—yet he was reviled by the woman who should have stood by his side as queen, and his only heir... Kifel cut the thought short and swallowed against the bitter taste in the back of his mouth.
“There will be no more leniency.” He unfastened his ash-sullied cape and draped it over the chair at his desk. “Temar, summon my council to my office so they may receive their orders. There shall be no discussion.”
The mage curtsied. “As you wish, Your Majesty.”
Kifel drew back his chair, but his feet itched with a need to move. Instead of sitting, he paced in front of the tall windows as the mages scattered.
There were only two people he needed to speak with. One was Temar; the other was Ordin Straes, who served as both Captain of the Royal Guard and one of the heads of Kifel's armies. The rest of the council members were to appear only for sake of formality, and they would not be pleased.
He stopped to stare out the windows, his hands clasped behind his back. More than once, he'd considered moving his office to the other side of the palace. The gardens were beautiful, but they were safe, sheltered from the harsh sea winds that swept against the other side of the towers. Tradition had kept him anchored on the safe side of the palace, where imported flowers bloomed in bright swaths of color. He was tired of tradition. Now, he was the sea. Angry, churning, merciless.
The door behind him opened. Medreal's patient voice rose above the storm in his mind. “Your Majesty, your council is in the hallway.”
