by C. Greenwood
He looked approving. “Good. You are not easily moved by the plight of one you deem inferior. We are alike in that if in nothing else. And you do think yourself my superior, don’t you? Even now that circumstances force you to serve me, you do not bow or seek favor.”
I wasn’t sure I cared for the way he painted me. “Unlike you, I don’t determine inferiority by birth but by deed,” I said. “And it is there I find you wanting.”
“Bold words for an insignificant thief from the woods whom I could have hanged at a snap of my fingers.”
“If that were your intention, you’d have done it already,” I pointed out. “But as you’ve said yourself, I’m useful to you.”
“And your outlaw friends? The street thief? The wily priest? Are they of use to me too?” he asked lazily.
The cruel suggestion behind his words made my blood run cold. It was the one thing I feared from him, his ability to punish others for my failure to satisfy his expectations.
“There. That frightens you,” he observed. “I’m glad something does.”
I had almost forgotten his magery gave him the ability to sift through my mind at will. I had experienced such an intrusion once before, long ago. But if he were employing it now, his touch had grown more subtle, for I detected no breech of my thoughts. All the same, I slammed up my mental barriers, as Hadrian had taught me, to keep my feelings my own.
An amused twitch of his lips told me he knew what I was doing. He said, “You may rest easy. Even were there anyone in this room with the forbidden power to read your mind, he would not be so squandering his energies when they are needed to bolster his own strength.”
“Then it is true? You are dying?”
He had closed his eyes again, but now he opened one. “A blunt conclusion. But yes, that is the essence of it.”
“And you cannot, er, take any steps to prevent this outcome?” I was never quite sure how openly we were to speak of the magic we both knew he practiced.
“I have the means of slowing my decline,” he admitted. “But what troubles me is no natural sickness. Its power is beyond my ability to cure.”
I could not be expected to feign sympathy. “A pity. One might almost wish all the magic healers in the province had not been killed or driven out over a decade ago.”
“Yes,” he agreed dryly. “One could almost wish that.”
As the conversation hit dangerously close to home, I found it impossible to conceal my feelings. I said, “You speak so casually of events that ruined the lives of many. Do you know how many families were destroyed by the cleansings? How many surviving children can no longer remember the faces of their dead parents?”
“I suspect that is a question you could answer better than I,” he said, watching me thoughtfully. “Considering your abilities. Or perhaps you think I have forgotten what you are capable of?”
I swallowed, unaccustomed to speaking of my magic. “When did you first realize it?” I asked. “Even before the Black Forest incident a year ago?”
“From the beginning. If I’d had any doubts, they would have been extinguished when you performed that remarkable feat of transporting dozens of survivors from Skeltai territory back to Dimmingwood in a matter of moments. When my Fists told me of their impossible rescue, I knew there could be no other explanation.”
Now that we were speaking of the unspeakable, I had to ask, “Why did you do it? Why outlaw magic so long ago and kill the magickers?”
I fully expected to be told it was not my place to question such decisions. But he surprised me by answering.
“I was angry. My brother had made a… regrettable decision, abandoning his family and position to attach himself to a silver-haired female of certain unsuitable ancestry. I warned him if he abandoned his blood duty he would suffer for it.”
So that was it. I had waited for what seemed a lifetime to hear the true explanation of my parents’ deaths. But now it came, I could hardly accept that so many had died to satisfy this man’s need for personal vengeance against my father. Did he guess that too? That his brother was my father? Was that why he taunted me with this information? I could not ask. I felt curiously numb.
He cut into my thoughts with, “You are wondering why I have turned a blind eye to your magickery.”
I wasn’t. I knew him well enough by now to understand the answer.
He continued, “At first I found your feeble powers amusing. And then I quickly realized they, like your other talents, could be useful weapons in my war against the Skeltai. You have darkened your hair now but you cannot conceal the sharp ears and fair skin that marks you of their descent. So I asked myself, Who better to fight the savages than another savage?”
I said, “There are others who would take up the fight, if you will allow it. You have only to revoke the law.” My voice sounded wooden, even to me.
“You speak of your friends in the magicker community. I expected you to bring this request before me again.”
I waited for him to reject the suggestion as before. Instead, he said, “If our situation becomes desperate enough, it is possible even the most distasteful course would prove preferable to the alternative. If our situation is ever that dire, I will take it under consideration.”
It was the closest thing to a concession I had ever gotten from him, but I felt no relief. My thoughts were too full of my parents and their unnecessary deaths.
The Praetor rose abruptly and went to his desk where he took up a scroll and perused its contents. He seemed to forget I was there, and as the silence stretched, I wondered if I was dismissed.
Inching toward the door, I prepared to let myself out.
His words stopped me.
Chapter Ten
“Do you know what this is?” Praetor Tarius indicated the scroll in his hand. “It’s a letter of recommendation, to be sent to the king in Lythnia upon my death. The role of Praetor is not a hereditary or elected position. The power of appointment lies with the king. But by tradition, he will almost certainly name whatever man I put forth as my successor. There are some among my advisors who suspect the seriousness of my condition and aspire to replace me when the time comes. They hope it is their name I will write here.”
He tilted the scroll so I could see that it had been mostly filled, but there was an empty space. “It only remains for me to enter my choice and sign the document.”
I couldn’t imagine why he was telling me any of this.
He continued with, “Torg Branek especially covets the position. He imagines I do not know of his ambition, but none of my counselors can hide their aims from me. Asmund Summerdale is another who would rejoice to see the way cleared for him. But he is as weak and foolish as Branek is shortsighted. With such a poor selection, you can see why I have yet to reach a decision.”
He looked at me suddenly. “Perhaps I should put your name down here, and we could have a rule of thieves. Would you like that?”
I could see he was taunting me. I didn’t rise to the bait. “No, I wouldn’t like it,” I said. “Why would I want such a thing?”
His dark eyes glinted. “If you don’t, you’re the only one. None of the others would refuse the opportunity.”
I said, “Then you have a difficult decision ahead of you in selecting one of them. I will leave you to it.”
I didn’t care about protocol enough to wait around for him to dismiss me.
As I was turning to leave, he said, “I notice you’ve acquired a familiar heirloom. That pin you wear is one of a limited number made especially for members of my father’s house. They belong to my kin and our most favored servants. You should feel honored to own one.”
I fumbled for an explanation. “It was a gift,” I said.
It seemed like a weak answer, but he accepted it with a nod. “From my new captain of the Iron Fists, I don’t doubt. I am surprised Terrac would part with it.”
If that was a prompt for further details, I pretended not to notice. If he hadn’t already guessed the brooch�
��s true origins, I had no intention of telling him.
I mumbled some vague response about Terrac’s generosity and excused myself in a hurry.
____________________
After my interview with Praetor Tarius, I collected Jarrod from the stables and together we found the house steward and arranged Jarrod’s quarters. My conversation with the Praetor had left me in a sour mood. The last thing I wanted to do was take my dinner in the crowded hall with the rest of the household, so I sent Jarrod to the kitchens to find something for us both.
Back in my room, we ate before the fireplace. No matter the time of year, it always seemed to be chilly in the drafty castle. This evening was no exception. Luckily, Eisa or some other servant had built a warm fire while I was out. I supposed that duty might fall to Jarrod from now on. I really wasn’t quite sure what a personal servant was supposed to do. With the sort of life I led, the last thing I required was someone to wait on me. Everyone back in Dimmingwood would laugh at the notion. But I’d needed some excuse to get Jarrod away from his stepfather.
You’ve been quiet a long time,” Jarrod observed, scarfing down a chunk of bread. “Are you thinking about the war?”
I wasn’t. I was thinking about Martyn and wondering if he would be satisfied with the way I was discharging my debt. But I didn’t say that.
“What do you know about the war?” I asked, sniffing suspiciously at the bowl of green soup on the tray in front of me. The chunks floating in its murky depths looked as unappetizing as its smell. I reminded myself I had eaten worse and been glad to get it.
Jarrod said, “All I know’s what everybody says. That the Skeltai are coming again and it’ll be worse than before. Some folk are prophesying doom for the provinces.”
“Somebody’s always prophesying doom for something” I pointed out, wrinkling my nose as the first sip of soup passed my lips.
Jarrod shot me a sidelong look from his seat on the hearth. “I overhead down in the kitchen that you’re an important asset to our side. The cook says the Praetor trusts you to defeat the invaders. Also says you have a fiery enchanted bow. And you’ll use the forbidden arts to save Ellesus and stop the enemy from flooding over the provinces.”
“You can’t go believing everything you hear,” I answered vaguely, pushing aside my dinner, which hadn’t improved on further sampling. The soup had a bitter herbal taste that I couldn’t quite place. Elderbark? Mountainweed?
Jarrod wouldn’t let the matter go. “But it’s true you fought in the last war? And you do have a fiery bow? People have seen it.”
I rubbed my temples. It had been a long day, and the boy’s questions were giving me a headache. Was I that relentlessly inquisitive at his age? If so, I pitied Brig for the task of raising me.
I broke into Jarrod’s questions. “We can discuss this later. I’m going to bed.”
At least, that was what I tried to say. But my tongue felt swollen and my mouth curiously numb, so the words came out slurred.
Jarrod frowned. “What did you say?”
I didn’t have the energy to repeat myself. A deep drowsiness was settling over me. I needed to lie down. I rose from my chair but only made it a few steps before my weak legs buckled beneath me. I crashed, facedown, to the floor. The floor stones felt cool against my skin. Refreshing. But everything else was suddenly very hot. The air I breathed might as well have come from an oven. Heat pulsed through my body, the worst of it radiating from my belly, which was churning.
“Ilan, are you all right?” I heard Jarrod’s frightened voice, and then he was at my side, turning me over. “What’s happening? What’s wrong?”
“Wormroot,” I muttered. I knew now where that bitter, tongue-numbing flavor came from. Many years ago, the outlaw healer Javen had made me taste a pinch of wormroot so I would recognize the dangerous herb if I ever encountered it again. It was a fast-acting poison, almost always fatal.
Was there any cure for it? I couldn’t remember. My thoughts were jumping around and hard to catch hold of. Only one stood out. “Get help,” I said thickly. “Bring the Praetor alone. No one else.”
I wasn’t sure if Jarrod understood my slurred instructions, but he must have gotten the gist, because he nodded, his eyes wide, and ran off in a hurry.
Alone now, I reached desperately for my magic, drawing on it through the dragon scale. Although it was comforting to feel it rushing through me, I couldn’t think how to use the power to help myself. I wasn’t trained in magical healing, and past attempts to use my power for that purpose had ended poorly.
At least there was one thing I could do. I rolled onto my side and made myself sick. It wasn’t hard, with the contents of my stomach already roiling like water in a hot cauldron. When I was done heaving, I lay motionless in a pool of sweat and vomit, trying to hang onto consciousness. I was losing that battle.
What was taking Jarrod so long? Maybe he too had been struck down. I tried to remember if he had eaten any of the soup but couldn’t recall.
As if my thoughts had summoned the boy, I heard the echo of returning footsteps in the hall and then the door slamming open. Two figures loomed over me. Jarrod and Praetor Tarius, I thought. Their faces seemed so far away I could hardly focus on them.
A black tide pulled at me, and although I clung tight to my magic, I was helpless to prevent the ocean of darkness dragging me down. My last thought as the blackness closed over me was, Who? Who had done this to me?
Chapter Eleven
Daylight, harsh and glaring, pierced my eyes. Colors whirled and blurred around me. I kept very still, focusing on breathing in and out, until the world stopped turning. Gradually, dizziness passed and the splashes of color on all sides resolved themselves into distinct shapes. There was a tree beside me, and I rested my weight against its smooth trunk. It was a slender, supple tree. One of many that grew in the orchard around our little cottage in the valley. With a feeling of unreality, I examined my hands gripping the side of the tree. They were small, pudgy hands with short fingers and tiny nails. The hands of a child not quite out of infancy. I looked down to find my feet were also curiously small. They were bare, allowing tall blades of summer grass to tickle my toes.
I was distracted from this strangeness by the play of dappled sunlight filtering through the top of the tree. A blanket of endless blue spread across the sky overhead, interrupted only by a dazzling golden sun that made my eyes hurt when I gazed directly at it.
Something else caught my attention. Encouraging, cooing sounds coming from nearby. I knew the voice well, even if I didn’t understand all the words. My mother knelt a short distance away, her arms outstretched and a welcoming smile on her face as she beckoned to me. A long stretch of grass was between us, and for some nameless reason, I felt afraid to cross it. But I plucked up my courage, released my safe hold on the tree, and took my first wobbly steps.
Mama’s smile widened and she called my name. Lilia.
I was impatient to reach her, but my short unsteady legs were failing me and the distance between us seemed to be growing.
A cloud came from nowhere to dim the sun that had shined so brightly only moments before. All the colors of my world grew less vivid. I felt suddenly cold and alone. A rising wind whipped my mother’s hair until it concealed her face like a silvery veil. She kept calling that name, Lilia, but I was no longer sure that name meant me. Anyway, I wasn’t ready to go to her yet.
Instead, I let the powerful wind snatch me up and carry me away to another place.
____________________
I was lying on the hard floor with a dark stranger gazing fixedly down on me. I wasn’t small anymore, but I was still afraid. I just couldn’t remember what of. The golden blaze of the outdoor sun had been replaced by the dimmer glow of embers dying in a large fireplace at the edge of my vision. The rest of the room, and especially the ceiling high above, was a mass of shadows. The dark stranger was speaking to me or maybe chanting something over me. But although I saw his lips move, I heard only sil
ence. His steely eyes were grave.
I knew those eyes, I realized. Praetor Tarius’s eyes. At the same instant I recognized him, I felt a stirring of magic ripple over me like icy waves engulfing my body. My immediate instinct was to fight the intrusion. But I couldn’t summon the strength to block his magic. Why was my power so weak and difficult to hold on to? The mere effort of drawing it sucked up the last of my energy. I slipped out of consciousness again.
____________________
The night passed in a blur as I flickered in and out of awareness. At one point, I knew I had been moved to a bed. The Praetor had been joined by another presence I couldn’t place, a white-haired old man who poured a sour liquid down my throat. The medicine seemed to cool the heat raging through my body. Or maybe the Praetor’s magic had done that. With the fever eased and the churning in my stomach subsiding, I was at last able to slip into a restful and dreamless sleep.
“Lilia…” I awoke with the name on my lips. After a brief moment of confusion, my head cleared and I remembered the events of the night. I felt weak and shaky, but it seemed the worst effects of the poison had passed and I was still alive.
A lamp flickered at my bedside, but the rest of the room was as dark as it had been earlier. Even the embers in the fireplace had died out. How much time had passed since I was taken ill? Was this the same endless night or a new one?
I wasn’t alone. The shadowy figure of Praetor Tarius occupied the chair beside my bed.
“So, you’ve survived the night,” he observed. “When I brought in my personal healer, he was doubtful you would pull through.” He sounded neither pleased nor disappointed his prediction had proven wrong.
The gaunt planes of his face were outlined harshly in the lamplight. He looked old and weary.
A memory flashed through my mind of him curing me before the official healer arrived, of the cold waves of magic washing over me. It was a draining thing, using magic to heal. Tarius must have expended great energy to keep me alive. Clearly, it had cost him.
