by Stina Leicht
He shut his eyes once more, confident that the others would protect him while they each played their part.
The first law of magic is thus: Energy does not vanish. It transforms. All are born of water. All shall return to water. He took a deep breath. He felt himself merge with the elements forming the wall. Where the shadowy spirits brushed the barrier, he sensed an unpleasant stinging sensation that grew more potent with each contact.
He also sensed Aegrir’s presence. She was still distant, but it was reassuring to know that she fought along with him.
Raising his hands, he bent his knees and anchored himself in the foul mud. He moved with slow grace, shifting his weight from one leg to the other and back as he traced the patterns in the air that gave Leaudancers their name. He slid his right foot ever so slightly forward, taking care not to break the circle of silver.
The second law of magic is thus: The tide which goes out shall return, bringing with it all energy collected in its wake. This time he gradually shifted his balance forward and then back. In the same instant, he pushed out and then drew his palms together in front of his chest. He didn’t let them touch but kept them ever so slightly apart.
The third law of magic is knowledge. Understanding brings empathy, connection, and control. Ignorance is the enemy. It is the weakness of sand against the tide. Learn from all the world and all those that dwell within it. Above all, know thyself.
He slowly breathed in and out again, feeling his connection with the earth beneath his feet and the sky above.
May the Mother of All Waters bless the souls circled in her holy embrace this day, for all are worthy. I, Dylan Kask, beseech the Great Lady Aegrir for her favor. I make this request for Darius Teak, Suvi Hännenen, Nels Hännenen, Ilta Korpela, Viktor Reini, Jami Rautio, Natalia Annikki, Katrin Slate, myself, and all of those who could be harmed by the forces intent upon destroying this island. I weave the winds and dance the seas with the intent of the best outcome for those touched by my will.
Then he shoved his arms forward and used all the magical energy he’d gathered to shove back the entities throwing themselves against his barriers.
Thunder shook the ground. He heard rock cracking as the earth continued to shake. It was difficult to remain on his feet, but he managed it somehow. The earthquake seemed to last forever, but it finally stopped. He looked at the crevice and saw that it was now shut.
Once again, Ilta broke contact, got down on her knees, and began mixing silver dust with the mud. “Suvi, Nels, help me. We have to pack this into place all along the edges of the rift.”
Dylan felt the loss of power at once.
“Won’t it wash away when the pond water flows back?” Suvi asked.
Ilta said, “Not if I set it, it won’t.”
“Whatever you’re going to do,” Dylan said, “please do it, already. I don’t know how much longer I can hold the water back.”
The others moved fast, mixing the mud and covering the rift. It wasn’t long before they had the entire area covered. Ilta then set a hand deep into the silver-laced clay and murmured a few words in Eledorean. The seal began to set.
Worried that he might lose control before she was finished, Dylan closed his eyes and concentrated. The wall of water began to droop. At the same time, the entities swirling within it started to fade away—their connection to their home world gone. An ache settled into the back of Dylan’s skull. He pressed his lips together in determination. He could feel his legs trembling.
“All done,” Nels said. “All ashore who’s going ashore.”
Dylan nodded. “You … first.”
As the others reached the riverbank, the last of his strength gave out. The water closed over him. In the resulting roar, he thought he heard Dar scream. The water slammed him into the muddy bank and forced all the air from his lungs. For a panicked instant, he lost track of which direction was up, but he burst to the surface before finally drowning. He half-filled his lungs with air before going down again. Eventually, he clawed his way to shore, lay down on the beach, and passed out with Dar’s hand on his back.
BLACKTHORNE
ONE
THE REGNUM OF ACRASIA
JUNE 1785
Hard, cold stone pressed into his face and the left side of his body. This close to the worn flagstones, the damp, sour odor of old filth filled his nose. It would’ve made him sick if he’d had the strength to be. Instead, he lay on the floor, shivering, while he gathered the will to move.
They left me my clothes this time, he thought. Small mercies. The time before, they’d only left him his rage to keep him warm.
He wasn’t entirely certain where he was. The Brotherhood had multiple Reclamation Hospitals throughout the Regnum. That said, he was sure he was in a Reclamation Hospital. He recognized the signs. Wardens guarded the door. The cell itself had no windows. No bars. An iron door with a closed slot at the bottom was the only access to the outside world. It was his only light source as well. The narrow room was only five feet wider than the iron bench mortared into the smooth wall.
He didn’t know how much time had passed since he had been captured, because he didn’t know how long he’d been unconscious. Of course, the light under the door never varied. He kept track of the meal deliveries and had begun etching marks into the cot frame with a spoon. He could’ve been in the cell a week or months. There was no way of knowing for certain.
He tried not to let that disorient him. That was what they wanted. It was part of the all-too-familiar process used to break him.
Four marks. He’d been awake five days. He concentrated on remembering to scratch another hash mark into the wall hidden close to the cot’s edge. If they spied the cuts, they would punish him again. Then someone would sand the entries into oblivion and along with it his sense of time.
What preyed on his mind foremost was that in spite of the beatings, no one was bothering with questions. It was as if anything he could tell them was deemed unimportant.
He shifted painfully from his side onto his stomach. Waiting until the agony receded, he then crawled to the shelf serving as his bed. It took two tries, but he finally pulled himself onto it and took inventory of his injuries. There was a stabbing pain in his thigh from the crossbow bolt, but it was healing. The rest of his body ached from deep bruises. One eye was swollen shut. However, he didn’t think anything was broken. The eye worried him, and he hoped he wouldn’t lose it.
He closed his good eye and tried not to think about what they wanted from him. However long he’d lain on the cold floor, it’d been long enough to develop cramps in his neck and leg. He waited out the pain before moving. For a few minutes, his only coherent thought was that he needed to sleep. At last, he awkwardly tugged the thin blanket around himself and attempted to rest, but his pains wouldn’t let him.
His feet were freezing. They had stolen his boots and stockings while he was unconscious. His watch, the sterling, the forged papers, and even the knotted string he used to judge distance in the wild—they’d confiscated it all.
Thoughts drifting, he hoped Katrin and the others were safe and that the other wagon had reached its destination. As for Caius, Blackthorne wasn’t sure how he should feel. Betrayal was obvious, but he kept seeing his former friend’s expression.
I have my orders, and I can’t go against them. Blackthorne understood that sentiment. Considering the situation, it was likely he would’ve done the same thing had their roles been reversed.
He didn’t cut my throat. Blackthorne didn’t know if Caius had done him any favors. Soon, his jailers would drag him up the stairs to the main floor of the Hospital for another round of rehabilitation. The thought of it already frightened him more than death.
The director has to know what I am by now. Surely, they won’t waste resources rehabilitating a kainen.
It was illogical to keep him alive, yet they did. That meant he had something they wanted. But what? It wasn’t information, or they would’ve begun the interrogation by now.
His thoughts ran the curve of his skull, returning to the point of origin. He dredged up images of Lydia, but it brought no comfort. She’s dead now. He considered the fate of his daughter and felt marginally better. Did Mallory McDermott get her to the Hold? Is she safe? Mallory was intelligent and resourceful. Blackthorne told himself that she was in good hands.
Did I buy the others enough time to flee the city? Or were they captured? He tugged the blanket tighter under his chin and shivered. An even colder thought forced his good eye open. Were the Wardens I found the only ones tagging me? Did they tag the others as well? Again, he mentally counted the Warden Unit—those that he’d killed and the survivors.
Ten. It was an unusual number.
Why haven’t they asked me anything? Why haven’t they killed me? He let out a careful, frustrated sigh. His ribs hurt, but now, at least, the pain was manageable. He needed a distraction from worry. He needed rest. His situation wasn’t anything new, after all. He had been through this before. Many times before.
His mind was muzzy while he struggled to recall what he used to do to keep from focusing on the pain and fear.
Meditation. He supposed Talus had taught him some things that were useful.
Blackthorne didn’t feel he could sit up, not comfortably. He carefully rolled onto his back, took a deep breath that made his bruised ribs ache, and attempted to empty his mind. Out of habit, he whispered the first words from the Retainer’s Code that came to him. “A Retainer is not bound by family, friends, or lovers. There is only duty—”
What duty? Duty to whom? To what? Weary of the endless questions, he lay on the shelf, searching for anything that might substitute. That was when an Eledorean poem floated to the surface of his mind.
Early in the year, Moss had decided to take on the task of learning Eledorean. He’d said he needed someone with whom to practice. Deciding that learning Eledorean might be useful, Blackthorne agreed. In the process, he’d begun to pick up pieces of Eledorean culture. He hadn’t gotten far before the illfated journey to Novus Salernum, and in truth, he remembered very little—the alphabet, a few snatches of poetry. The fragment that sprang to mind had been a love poem. He remembered it because Moss had asked quite a few rather amusing questions about it.
Let me be your warm earth, in darkness—
A loud squeal and clank from somewhere on the other side of the door cut short his trance. Footsteps soon followed. His stomach did a lazy, queasy flip, and as he often did, he knew the identity of two of the four individuals approaching.
Turning to face the wall, he pretended they would stop at another cell, but the knelling of keys against the outside of the iron door dissolved false hope. His heart rammed his breastbone. He decided to pretend to sleep. I will not fear. I will not give them—
The door opened with a shrill protest that vibrated along the stone wall. Blackthorne knew without looking that Duke Aureus Corvinus stood in the doorway. The thought of him made Blackthorne’s stomach twist in a knot of fury. The second man he hadn’t expected to see ever again.
Aurum Atticus, the director of Wardens.
Blackthorne felt something inside him erode into nothingness, and the poem vanished from his mind as if it had never been.
Welcome it like a lover, for the lover does not bring terror. In this way, fear cannot splinter one’s heart from duty. Grow numb. Feel nothing. Discard all that ties one to life. Thus, no cowardice can interfere in the crucial moment, and there will be no hesitation in the instant between life and death.
But he was afraid. I am no Retainer.
Damned if you don’t make a pathetic kainen, too.
He heard the group crowd into the cell. Chairs were set in place. The director dismissed the guards in a low mutter, and the door shut with an ominous clang that sent another shudder through the wall.
“I know you’re awake, Severus,” the director said. His voice was deep, with a slight nasal quality. “I will not fall for such a simple ruse.”
Blackthorne opened his good eye and sat up. Then he struggled to position himself on the shelf with his back against the cold wall. The pain of moving was intense, but he had no intention of showing it.
And that’s your first mistake, he thought. Pretending to be unaffected will only make them press harder for what they want. But the rage in him didn’t care. He made fists of his hands and held tight to his anger. It was the very last thing he had of his own, and he used it to beat back his terror.
His Grace, Duke Aureus Corvinus, stood next to the director, behind two tall wooden chairs. Clearly, there wasn’t much room for him to sit.
Blackthorne thought he understood why the duke was present. It was the presence of the director that worried him the most. With the exception of certain required social gatherings, Blackthorne had rarely seen the man.
The duke smiled. “It is good to see you, son.”
Always the pretense. Blackthorne bit down on the profanity that his throat threatened to vomit up. It would be a pointless use of his scant energy. I’m in a Hospital cell, and he wants to play at happy family for the sake of the director?
Blackthorne refused to acknowledge the greeting. Instead, he combed stiff blood-soaked hair from his face with his fingers, gritted his teeth, and focused on the wall just beyond the duke’s right arm. He didn’t get up from the shelf, only sat up straighter. His ribs protested.
“I know you don’t believe me,” the duke said, “but it is nonetheless true.”
Maintaining his silence, Blackthorne attempted to cross his arms over his chest without wincing.
“It seems you haven’t changed your attitude. Although you appear to have undergone a rather dramatic transformation,” the duke said. “Have you been eating?”
Why don’t you ask my jailers? Blackthorne thought.
“You’ve had enough of the niceties, I see,” the duke said. “I’ll get to the point, then. We wanted to ask you a few questions.”
At last, Blackthorne thought. Something with which I can work. He felt the feather touch of relief. He could find out what it was they wanted from him. And that knowledge might bring him a small amount of power.
The director rested an arm on the back of the second chair and looked away as if the proceedings didn’t interest him in the slightest. However, he held himself too still, too quiet, and that alone told Blackthorne the man was very interested indeed.
The duke edged his way into one of the chairs. Then he folded his arms across his chest. Noticing this mirroring of his own actions, Blackthorne placed his arms at his sides. Swive you, old man. I’m nothing like you. I’m not yours. I’m my own.
“Where have you been living?” the duke asked. “We found the room in that disgusting public house.”
The Golden Swan, Blackthorne thought. I hope Armas got out before the Brotherhood arrived.
“Dueling? Really, Severus, I would’ve preferred that you not risk your person so,” the duke said. “You’re too important an investment for that.”
Yet not important enough to avoid this place? Blackthorne stopped himself from rolling his eyes.
“Thank you for the cache of swords, by the way,” the director said. “Our enemy wanted to keep them from circulation among the Brotherhood. You’ve done your country a great service by liberating them. Still, your actions raise a number of questions. The first being: who did you steal them for?”
Staring at the wall, Blackthorne didn’t so much as move.
“We understand that you’ve been away for the winter,” the duke said. “I assume that you’ve been outside the city. If you’d been in Novus Salernum, the Brotherhood would’ve found you.”
Blackthorne decided not to give an answer to that question either. Not yet. He had no intention of mentioning the Hold, and he would use every trick he knew to avoid doing so. Therefore, he would have to let them pry a lie or two out of him. The most difficult part would be keeping the story consistent. Start simple. The simple lie is easiest to remember. M
aintaining a deception would be difficult when his mind was muddled with pain. He’d already planned the whole story he’d feed them. He didn’t delude himself with the idea that he wouldn’t break. Breaking was inevitable. Everyone broke. The only hope he had was that the director would give up asking questions before he finally did.
The duke sighed. “You had a great deal of silver on your person when you were found—far more than that barman paid you to fight in his ring. Where did you get it?”
“Who paid you to steal those swords, Severus?” the director asked.
Blackthorne decided it might be time to speak. Let that be the first lie. “I stole the money like I stole the swords. I didn’t have a buyer. Not yet.”
“Is that so?” the duke asked, and leaned forward. “I understand your desire to protect your cohorts. They have been paying you a great deal, after all. Your loyalty, however misplaced, is reasonable. The punishment for such an offence is rather … lengthy and painful, I understand. In any case, you need not concern yourself. We are already aware of a number of your contacts.”
He’s bluffing.
“Your friend Mallory McDermott has been rather forthcoming,” the duke said.
Blinking, Blackthorne struggled to keep his expression blank. They have my daughter.
“Ah, it would seem that you care about someone after all,” the duke said.
It doesn’t mean Mallory told them about her, Blackthorne thought. It’s possible he didn’t say anything about that. And if he didn’t, where is she now? Dying of exposure? “I don’t.”
“I know you, Severus,” the duke said. “I raised you, remember?”
You mean you had Talus do it for you, Blackthorne thought. It isn’t the same thing. And in that moment, he understood he’d do anything to make certain little Lydia was safe. It didn’t matter that he’d never seen her.
“What if I told you that you had an opportunity to save your friend?” the duke asked.
“I’d say you were lying,” Blackthorne said. “He’s dead already.”
