by Lisa Shearin
Justinius took a healthy swig of whiskey. From the way my morning was going, joining him was sounding better by the second.
He set the glass down. “Sarad Nukpana’s not someone I’d want in my head.”
“No one asked what I wanted.”
“And you want me to change that.”
“It’d be nice if you could help.”
Justinius straightened in his chair. “My not-so-illustrious predecessors didn’t have any luck turning that rock to dust, but then I like to think I’m a better mage than they were.”
“Do you have any immediate ideas?”
“Not a one. But Mychael just dumped this on me late last night. Brilliance takes time.”
“Time’s something I’m running out of.”
“Mychael said the rock’s not affecting you, and from what I’m seeing I’m inclined to agree.”
“I beg to differ.”
“Feeling evil?” Justinius asked.
“No.”
“Having an urge to overthrow governments, kill thousands?”
“No and no.”
“Take over the world?”
“Too much work.”
He laughed, a bright bark. Then the laughter was gone. “You sure you want to be rid of it?”
I knew the “it” he was referring to. Power. “What I was born with was working just fine as of last week,” I told him. “I’m a very good seeker,” I said with a meaningful glance at Mychael. “I’m an average sorceress. That was good enough for me, and I’d like to have that back.”
“Some of my mages would be foaming at the mouth to have what you have now.”
Justinius Valerian’s eyes had never left mine, but they changed focus, and I felt the barest hint of the power that’d earned him his title. He was seeing me inside and out. It was the type of seeing that’d earn any other magic user the business end of my fist. Considering who Justinius was, I thought I’d let him finish. He was just assuring himself that I wasn’t actually on the verge of a world-domination rampage.
“You’ll be fine,” he concluded. “But considering who your papa was, that’s not all that surprising.”
“Who my papa is,” I corrected him.
“You’re absolutely sure about that?”
My father was alive. Nine hundred years’ worth of alive. The last year or so had been inside the Saghred, the other eight hundred and something years the result of an extended lifespan from too much contact with the Saghred. A fate I really wanted to avoid.
“Unfortunately certain,” I said.
“Poor bastard.”
I nodded in agreement. “His daughter’s not in too great of a state, either. But at least I’m not sharing his accommodations—or his roommate.”
“Sarad Nukpana isn’t someone I’d want to spend eternity with.”
I didn’t have a response for that.
I’d been in the Saghred once before. It had only been for a few moments, but it’d been enough time for me to see that it wasn’t a vacation destination, more like someplace you went after a lifetime of pulling wings off of flies, then working your way up to things that screamed. A Sarad Nukpana kind of place. I had met Sarad Nukpana up close and personal last week, and was in no hurry to repeat the experience. It was looking more like I was my father’s only chance at freedom—or resting in peace.
“Girl?”
“Sir?”
“Let’s keep that bit of information to ourselves for now.”
“Nukpana or my father?”
“Both, but especially who’s little girl you are. That doesn’t need to leave this room.”
“I wasn’t about to yell it from the battlements. I’m not sure how I feel about it myself.”
“Contrary to how old I look, I’m not old enough to have known your papa in his early Guardian days. But history’s told me plenty about the bastards he was up against. I’m ashamed to say the archmagus back then was one of them; and a couple of his top mages were a few more. History has an annoying tendency to repeat itself. I’m going to see what I can do to keep that from happening. The Conclave did your papa wrong. I’ll do whatever I can to make up for it.”
“Thank you.” And I meant it.
“Though the first help I might be giving you is of a legal nature.” He glanced at Mychael. “I heard from your friends the Khrynsani last night.”
I swore silently. Mychael tried not to look concerned, but I wasn’t buying it.
“Actually, I didn’t see their representatives directly,” Justinius continued. “They filed their formal complaint with the magistrate. He brought the papers to me. Your ship hadn’t docked yet.”
“What papers?” Mychael’s voice betrayed no emotion.
“The papers charging Miss Benares here with grand larceny, attempted murder, kidnapping, and false imprisonment.”
I blinked. “Of who?”
“Grand Shaman Sarad Nukpana. The Khrynsani have requested that we turn you over to them for prosecution.”
“What?”
“We won’t do that,” Mychael assured me.
“I should hope not!”
“Actually, we can’t do that,” Justinius said. “Not legally, anyway.”
“For the Khrynsani to have any legal claim, they would have to go through the elven embassy,” Mychael told me. “That would take time; no doubt they want to resolve this quickly.”
Justinius cleared his throat. “Actually, I just heard from Giles Keril this morning.”
The name sounded vaguely familiar. “Who?”
“The elven ambassador to Mid,” Justinius said.
Oh, that Giles Keril.
“Keril got an identical set of papers this morning,” Justinius continued. “The sight of goblin lawyers on his embassy doorstep probably made the little weasel crap his pants. The goblins are claiming that Miss Benares here has stolen the Saghred, which is a treasured possession of the goblin people, attempted to murder a counselor of the royal House of Mal’Salin, and has kidnapped and falsely imprisoned said royal counselor.” He winked slyly at me. “Not a bad week’s work, girl.”
I’m sure if I listened closely enough, I’d be able to hear Sarad Nukpana laughing.
“By the way, you’re listed as an accessory,” Justinius told Mychael. “They claim your actions in Mermeia were outside of your legal jurisdiction as paladin.”
At least I’d have company when I was hung out to dry. Last week Mychael had come to my home city of Mermeia to enlist my services as a seeker, but mostly as Eamaliel Anguis’s daughter, to help him and his Guardians find the Saghred before Sarad Nukpana could get his hands on it. Both Mychael and Sarad Nukpana suspected the Saghred was in Mermeia. They were both right. I found the Saghred, and the Saghred promptly attached itself to me like a psychic leech. I’d definitely gotten the raw end of that deal.
Like father, like daughter.
“I’m not hanging either one of you out to dry,” Justinius told me point-blank.
Further confirmation that the old man could read my mind.
“In terms of legal strength, you may not have any choice, sir,” Mychael told him.
“The hell I don’t.”
“The Seat of Twelve will have to be convened, and you only have two votes to their twelve. Given that enough of them vote in our favor, the situation won’t escalate any further.”
The Seat of Twelve was the name given to the twelve mages who made up the governing Conclave council. In terms of firepower, they ranked right up there with Justinius Valerian.
“And if you’re not too popular right now?” I didn’t want to ask, but I had to.
“The goblin government could begin extradition proceedings,” Mychael said. “If they prove just cause with the elven embassy, they could begin the same against you.”
I wondered just how fast Phaelan could set sail.
“They would have to prove that you had malice of intent on all counts,” Justinius told us both. “And I don’t think anyone who knows—or k
new—Sarad Nukpana would call any treatment he received at your hands unprovoked.”
I couldn’t be bonded to just any old stone of cataclysmic power.
Mine had lawyers.
Chapter 3
“I want to help find that girl,” I said as soon as Mychael closed the archmagus’s office door behind us.
Mychael sighed. He looked about as tired as I felt. I wasn’t the only one whose day had gone down the crapper.
“I know you want to help,” he told me. “And under normal circumstances, I would welcome that help, but—”
“I’m dangerous,” I finished for him. “And unpredictable, and infected with the Saghred.”
Mychael’s lips curled into a weary smile. “I knew you were dangerous and unpredictable the moment I met you.”
That had been last week. Our first meeting had been mistaken identity, followed by misunderstanding, ending in me kicking Mychael in the balls. Not one of my glowing moments.
“What happened today just further proves my point,” Mychael was saying. “The Nightshades are here; so are the Khrynsani. The safest place for you is in this citadel. The Khrynsani want to get their hands on you. And the same people who hired Banan Ryce to collapse that stage could have also paid him to kidnap you.” His blue eyes were hard. “Neither is going to happen.”
I took a breath and told myself to calm down. Mychael didn’t respond to emotional tirades. He was the paladin; he demanded cooperation, and respected logic. I knew a way I could give him both and still get what I wanted.
“I don’t want Banan yanking me through a mirror, either,” I told him. “I also don’t need to leave the citadel to help find that girl. Lock me in the highest tower you’ve got, have Vegard sit on me, just get me something that belongs to her, something she’s worn recently, or used, like a hairbrush. Hairbrushes are great. I don’t need to do the footwork. Your men and the city watch know this island better than I do. Just let me point them in the right direction.”
I stopped, mainly because I’d run out of air. Mychael didn’t say anything, but I could tell he was wavering.
“You can link to a victim through objects?” he asked.
“Yes, I can link through objects. It’ll be like I’m inside the girl’s head.”
For a seeker, one of the best ways to find a missing person was to hold an object that belonged to them. The closer the person was to that object, the better. Before I’d picked up more magical mojo courtesy of the Saghred, my seeking talents were good, better than most, but still pretty basic. I could use an object to track the person who owned that object, but most of what I got were just impressions, not a direct link. I could then use those impressions—and some good old-fashioned footwork—to find the missing person. Thanks to the Saghred, what’s normal for me now is unheard of for most seekers. I can link directly to the person. Last week, I got a murder victim’s final moments in full color, sound, smell, and touch. I felt like I was being murdered right along with him. Not pleasant, but neither was being murdered. That was the first and only time I’d done it. I assumed it would work even better with a living subject. I wasn’t about to tell Mychael that I’d only done it once. Show no doubt, know no refusal.
“Can any seeker on your city watch do that?” I asked quietly.
From his silence I knew none of them could. I waited.
“I’ll get you her hairbrush.”
An hour or so later someone knocked on the door to my room. I expected a hairbrush. It was Riston.
“The paladin would like to see you in his office.”
When I got there, Mychael wasn’t alone. I took one look at his guest and I think my mouth fell open.
The man’s robes were a riot of silk and color. Red, orange, amber, gold—every color that flame could be at one point or another in its capricious existence—this man managed to wear them all at once and wear them well. It was nothing short of a stunning fashion achievement.
“Maestro, this is Raine Benares,” Mychael said. “Raine, this is Maestro Ronan Cayle.”
If you were a magic user, you’d heard of Ronan Cayle. The spellsinging master. The legend who only taught future legends. The maestro who turned out the finest spellsingers the Isle of Mid and the Conclave had to offer. Mychael’s teacher.
Mychael was a spellsinger and a healer. Each was a highly desirable magical talent, and Mychael was gifted with both. With the power of his voice alone, a spellsinger could influence thought with a quietly hummed phrase, or control actions with simple speech or carefully crafted tune. One person or thousands—the number didn’t matter. One spellsinger could turn the tide of battle. Gifted spellsingers were highly prized and sought after—not to mention rare and dangerous. Mychael could do virtually anything he wanted to with that baritone of his, and not only would his intended victim not mind in the least, he’d enjoy it. I know I had.
His spellsinging teacher’s appearance didn’t match his reputation. Ronan Cayle’s features were strong and solid, but it was the kind of face that would go unnoticed in a crowd. He was human, but from the amber glint in his hazel eyes, there was elf in there somewhere.
The maestro extended his hand for mine. I gave it to him and was treated to a most proficient hand kiss.
So this was Piaras’s future teacher.
Piaras Rivalin was an elf, my Mermeian landlady’s grandson, and the little brother I’d always wanted. He’d also attracted unwanted attention last week as a result of the Saghred. Piaras had fought off that attention with a level of spellsinging talent unheard of for a seventeen-year-old. His singing voice was magnificent, but it was also an incredibly powerful weapon that he needed to learn to control. My godfather, Garadin Wyne, had been Piaras’s first voice teacher. He knew Ronan Cayle from his Conclave days and had sent the maestro a letter of recommendation. Mychael added his recommendation to Garadin’s, effectively securing an audition for Piaras.
Tarsilia Rivalin and Garadin had come with us to Mid, but at my insistence had returned to Mermeia. Piaras and I were surrounded by hundreds of Guardians; we were as safe as we were going to get, so there was no reason for them to stay. Plus Piaras would be going to school; I would be looking for a way out of my Saghred predicament. Neither were short-term activities. I snorted to myself. The way my luck was running, Piaras would graduate before I was out of this mess.
Piaras was practicing downstairs in the citadel’s music room for his audition tomorrow with the maestro. The poor kid was already scared to death. Hopefully he hadn’t heard the maestro was in the citadel.
“We need your help,” Mychael was saying. He didn’t sound too happy about it.
I didn’t move. “With what?”
“The Saghred. Since spellbinding isn’t containing it, I asked Ronan if he knew a spellsong that would work. He does. You can sense that the Saghred is awake.” His expression darkened. “Unfortunately, we cannot. It would be helpful to know whether the spellsong is working.” He paused uncomfortably. “We need you to go down into the containment rooms with us.”
That was the part he really didn’t like.
I hadn’t been down to the Guardians’ containment rooms, and I didn’t want to go now. But I also didn’t want the Saghred awake and in my head.
“I’ll go,” I told him. “What kind of spellsong are you going to use?” I asked the maestro.
“A sleepsong,” Cayle told me. “Since binding the Saghred itself was ineffective, Mychael and I thought that the souls inside would be a better target.”
I bristled. I didn’t like hearing my father described as a target.
“The song I’ll be using is for the binding of wayward souls,” he continued.
“Binding?” My voice was tight with restraint. My father was not a wayward soul. Being trapped in the Saghred was torture enough; I did not want him bound and unable to move.
Ronan Cayle sensed my growing anger. So did Mychael.
“Raine, it’s like sleep,” Mychael explained.
“I would thi
nk you would want Sarad Nukpana bound,” Cayle said, clearly puzzled at my reaction.
“I’m not talking about Sarad Nukpana,” I said, my voice low and quiet.
“Ronan knows about your father,” Mychael told me.
“Ah, then I understand your concern,” Cayle said. “I can guarantee that your father will not be harmed.”
“Have you ever been hit with this sleepsong?”
“No, but—”
“Then you can’t guarantee me a damned thing.”
Mychael stepped between us. “Raine.”
“This is my father we’re talking about!”
“And Sarad Nukpana,” he reminded me sternly. “And who knows how many others just like him. Raine, your father gave over eight hundred years of his life to keep the Saghred out of the hands of people like Sarad Nukpana.” Mychael’s intense blue gaze never wavered. “It can’t remain active. Your father is a Guardian; he knows his duty. He would want us to do this.” Mychael’s voice lost some of its edge. “He’s trapped inside the Saghred. You’ve been in there; you know what it’s like. Sleep would be a mercy.”
I remembered what I had seen. Those who had been in the Saghred the longest had been reduced to filmy, faceless wraiths. Other prisoners seemed to be more solid, but their bodies looked ravaged and wasted as if from disease. I had seen my father. Elegantly pointed ears, a beautiful, pure-blooded high elf. His hair was silver, and his eyes were the gray of gathering storm clouds. Eyes identical to my own. He had only been inside the Saghred for a year, and he had already begun to fade.
I had been able to see through him.
I gritted my teeth and stifled a sniff. I would not tear up in front of Mychael, and I sure as hell wouldn’t in front of a stranger.
Mychael looked at me. I stared at him. I didn’t say anything because I knew he was right. My father had been taken by the Saghred while trying to hide it from the Khrynsani and Sarad Nukpana. He would want us to do this.
