Crimson Fury (Magic of Isskasala Book 2)

by Mirren Hogan

  She took one of Isobel’s hands, brought it to her mouth and kissed her palm.

  “I’m worried about these people.” She nodded out the window. “There’s so many of them and they can’t all be happy to be here.”

  “They will be cared for, yes?” Isobel pressed herself against Tabia’s back and rested her head on her shoulder, so their cheeks touched.

  “Yes, but all those men and women so close together . . . ” Tabia swallowed. Isobel was one of the few who knew of Tarang’s assault on her. “All those tense people, with little to do but take it out on each other.”

  “They will be watched night and day,” Isobel reminded her. “Did you not insist on that yourself?”

  Tabia nodded her agreement. “I know, I just . . . ”

  “Like to keep everyone safe, even from themselves?” Isobel teased gently, drawing a smile from Tabia.

  “Something like that,” Tabia agreed.

  “They won’t be there forever,” Isobel reminded her. “Just until the magic is removed from them.”

  “That could have been done where they lived.” Tabia had argued for that too, but had been shouted down. The magic drawn from people could be used, at least in theory. The ability to draw magic from others was a delicate one. Most magic users had to draw magic from the earth by means of a conduit, usually a staff. Others could draw magic from water. Others, like Tabia, could channel it directly from air. She assumed it was also possible to draw from fire, but the user might not survive the experience long enough to be of much use.

  Most sorcerers could combine their magic with that of others, to teach a skill or increase power for a particularly difficult task. Drawing magic from another person was generally only done with the consent of both parties and both were sorcerers. Removing it from someone who wasn’t a sorcerer must be unnerving at best. At worst, it could be fatal, the strain too much for the harvested person’s heart.

  “Did they not say—”

  “I know,” Tabia interrupted. “Releasing all of their magic too soon could cause another Outpouring. I just—” She shook her head gently.

  Isobel kissed her cheek. “I know you will do what is best for them. You have a kind heart.” She placed a hand gently on Tabia’s chest. “I can feel you worrying in there.”

  Tabia laughed softly. “Is it too much?”

  “Not at all.” Isobel turned her gently to face her and pressed her forehead to Tabia’s, dark skin to pale. “You would not be you if you did not worry. You care about people. That is why I love you.”

  “Is that the only reason?” Tabia teased, placing a hand on Isobel’s hip.

  “Oh no, it is just one of many.” Isobel kissed her lightly. “Many.” She kissed her again.

  A horn sounded outside, making them both jump.

  Tabia looked out the window. “They’ve entered the guild compound. I suppose I should go down there.” She sighed and ran her hand around to her lover’s behind. “I’ll be back.”

  “Of course, you will.” Isobel always had faith in Tabia, even when she had none in herself. “You always come back.”

  “Because I love you too,” Tabia said. She kissed her quickly and hurried from the room before she changed her mind about leaving.

  ***

  “Come to hold their hands?” Sorcerer Benassi had a round, soft face and brown eyes like cocoa beans. His body was also round and soft, his black robes doing nothing to hide his love of fine food and copious glasses of wine. He had to tilt his face to look up at Tabia, which might account for his dislike of her. Not that Benassi seemed to care for anyone. Rumour had it that he’d had a wife, but that she’d run off with a baker. While Tabia could believe it, she wasn’t sure how much truth there was to it. She certainly wasn’t going to ask, nor did she spare much thought to gossip if she could help it. It seemed to be of little benefit to anyone, other than to amuse idle minds.

  “No, I just thought I’d warn them about you,” she replied lightly. “Not that they can’t see for themselves.”

  He shot her a look of pure venom. His knuckles paled on the top of his staff. She saw the desire to lash out at her on his face. She also knew he wouldn’t. By the time he started to draw magic, waited for it to travel up his staff and into his reach, she’d have him bound and floating above the stone floor. A distinct advantage to channeling magic via air was that it was more readily available, making her quicker than any earth channeller. It was another reason for his animosity, but she wouldn’t give it up for anything, even if she could.

  “Your words are unbecoming of a member of the assembly,” Benassi said coldly.

  Tabia could have kicked herself for having a tongue which sometimes moved faster than her mind. He was right and all she’d done was prove her immaturity, and thus—by his definition—

  unsuitability to sit on the assembly. She’d have to watch herself. Benassi would love to find an excuse to force her out of the guild, much less the assembly.

  “You’re right, sorcerer,” she said graciously, enjoying the look of surprise in his eyes. “Please accept my apology for being so rude.”

  He looked like he’d do no such thing, but then inclined his head as though it pained him to do so. “Of course, sorcerer.” He used the word like it was an insult. “I wouldn’t expect a mere woman to fully appreciate the need to respect her elders and betters. You could do to learn discretion and consider your judgments before you make them.”

  She wanted to laugh in his face. She’d seen the instant dislike in his eyes the moment they’d met. She’d come with endorsement from a king, and was already fully-trained, including having skills of which Benassi had never heard. As head of the guild’s students, he prided himself on his knowledge, and she’d shown that he was lacking. Of course, he knew things she hadn’t and he’d hated having to show her those new skills in her early days in Dassane. Luckily, she’d learned quickly and they’d done their best to avoid each other since.

  “Of course, sorcerer,” she replied sweetly. She watched expressions war with one another on his face; a mix of pompous pleasure at thinking her cowed and a more realistic understanding that she was humouring him.

  “Are you going to come and greet them?” she asked.

  He snorted. “I have better things to do than waste time with filthy villagers.”

  Oh you do, really? she thought sarcastically. Wisely, she kept the thought to herself. “I suppose you do. The sorcerers-in-training won’t teach themselves.”

  He barked a laugh. “Yes they will, that’s why they need a firm hand to guide them. Otherwise they’d bring the guildhall down around our ears. Or sink Dassane to the bottom of the lake.”

  For a moment, she felt sorry for him. If she had to deal with all of the youngsters, she might eat and drink too much too. “Maybe you should let someone else take over?” she suggested, only meaning that he might like a break. Maybe he could travel or study new ways to use magic. She regretted the words the moment she saw his response.

  His face turned pink and his eyes bulged. “I’m perfectly able to do my job, sorcerer,” he snapped. “I will not step aside, especially under the suggestion of a former slave, whose sole occupation was to spread her legs for her owners.”

  Tabia barely contained the desire to use her magic to slam him against the wall. It was common knowledge that she’d been a slave, and had shared the bed of a princess. She’d been given her freedom after killing Tarang and thwarting his attempt to seize power in Vanmala. The princess, kibibi Efea was also long dead, murdered by her own sisters in a bloody coup. No owner had bedded her since, only her lovers Satsuko and Isobel.

  She took a deep breath and forced herself to remain calm.

  “We all have pasts, sorcerer.” Her voice was tight and strained. “It’s the present and the future which matter and our actions today which show people who we are. We can choose to be good people and do good things, or we can be petty and unreasonable.” She knew he had no doubt as to which she considered him to
be.

  He glared at her. “At least I never owned my wife.”

  “Are you implying something?” she asked.

  “I’m implying nothing,” Benassi said, looking smug. “Everyone knows you own that woman who shares your room.”

  “Oh, you mean Isobel,” Tabia replied, as if she hadn’t known who he was referring to. “Oh no, I don’t own her. I freed her a long time ago. She stays because she wants to. Also, she’s not my wife. Why are so interested all of a sudden? Do you want to come and watch?”

  She almost laughed as he stammered, his face redder than ever. He stalked away, muttering something that sounded like ‘filthy whore.’ She sighed softly at his back. She hadn’t meant to make him angrier. She didn’t want him for a friend, but she also didn’t need him as an enemy. What he could do to her, she didn’t really know, but he was petty enough to find some way to make her life more difficult.

  “At least he didn’t agree to watch.”

  Tabia turned as she heard the sound of Ezeji’s voice. He looked tired and dusty, his robes rumpled and dried mud caked to his boots.

  “Thank Zuleso for that,” she said invoking the name of her god. Not that she’d let any man watch. “You’re back.”

  “Observant as always,” the other sorcerer said dryly. “We have a job for you.” He held out a board with paper attached to the front with a silver clip, a writing tool tucked underneath. She took it and glanced down.

  “Rather you than me,” he added wearily. “I’m going to have a bath.”

  “Have fun.” She waved him away.

  “Funny,” Ezeji said over his shoulder. “I was going to say the same to you.”

  “I’m sure you were,” she muttered. She tucked the board under her arm and headed out to greet the newcomers. She might not want to hold their hands, but someone had to help them to settle in.

  CHAPTER 7

  The pens, they called them, were housing for the harvested ones. An ignominious name and not particularly accurate. They were, in fact, several dormitories, each lined with beds separated with screens for privacy. Each dorm had its own latrine and bathing area. One pen held the children under the age of twelve, along with two female sorcerers to supervise their care whilst they remained in the guild. Another housed the single women. Yet another held the women who had babies with them, with a cot beside each bed. The last held the men.

  There was barely a foot between the beds; Darai found the whole arrangement disturbing. They must have started setting up the pens before the Outpouring, to be this organised already. That just under half the beds were already claimed made him feel chilled. There must be at least two hundred people gathered here already, from the farthest corners of Isskasala, living as one, pressed in close together.

  Like cattle, the sorcerers herded them in, with Wutango behind them calling, “Choose bed, choose bed. Put belongings next to or on bed.”

  Darai had no belongings but his clothes. He sat down on the bed beside the old man’s and turned to look around the pen. The sound of other people talking and laughing was overwhelming and made him shrink into himself a little.

  He’d never been comfortable in crowds, and this was more people than he’d ever seen in one place. Short and tall, old and young, some in rough homespun, others in what looked like silk. A few were barefoot, but most wore sandals or simple shoes. An enormous man Darai guessed was from Kalil took the bed beside his. He looked as though two beds pushed together might not be enough, but the man flopped down, grinning as the bed creaked in protest.

  Darai looked away in time to see the doors to the men’s pens shut and rattle with what sounded like a bolt drawn into place. Inside the door stood two of the king’s soldiers and a sorcerer; the three probably an equal match, even for this many men.

  The room was soon hot as the men, for lack of anything else to do, began to lie down to rest or gather in the corners in groups to talk in low voices. Darai caught a word or two—”escape” and “hopeless.” He had no desire to join any of the groups, even if they looked welcoming. He slipped off his bed and walked down to the latrine. On the other side of the facility, a door led out to one of the courtyards he’d glimpsed earlier in the day.

  Enclosed by high stone walls, iron gates led out into the other pens. One of these stood open, and no guards stood here to prevent him from moving closer. He clearly heard a woman weeping just inside one of the gates. He walked forward a few steps, and saw her sitting with her palms pressed against her cheeks, eyes closed. Her back was turned away from her pen and the other women inside it. Evidently, she wished for privacy, so Darai moved on.

  How is it possible, he asked himself, to be lonely in the company of so many? Lonely, homesick, scared, overwhelmed. He was all of that and more. Here he was in the heart of the sorcerers’ home, the last place on Isskasala he ever thought he’d be. Unless he could find a way to escape, he might be here for months.

  How much magic did the sorcerers need? Darai looked into the door leading into the women’s pen, seeing half again as many in there as in the men’s. How much magic did they all hold between them? Was it enough for the entire guild? Or, he thought, chilling himself, maybe it was too much. He could be here for years.

  He gulped, fighting back the tears threatening to spill from the corners of his eyes. He shamed himself. He was a hunter, a wrestler of wild hogs, skinner of snakes, not a little boy. His steps around the courtyard quickened.

  He was a warrior, provider of food for his family. He helped to build huts for the newly married couples in Nageso. He was walking faster now.

  He was fit, he spent every day out in the jungle and plains searching for prey, stalking, killing. He wasn’t a child to be beaten down by circumstance. He’d look for a chance, bide his time, and then grab it with both hands and flee. He was running now, trotting around the courtyard, ducking, and weaving through crowds of dazed harvested ones just come from the pens for some sun.

  In running, he felt free, unfettered. He’d do this every morning before breakfast, he resolved, or any time he was frustrated. With a grimace, he knew he’d be running often, but in this, he had some control over his fate.

  He ran until he began to sweat heavily and then slowed to a walk, only then noticing a tall woman circulating amongst the harvested ones with some kind of board in her arms. Her head was down as she wrote across the paper pinned to the board and then moved on to the next group. By her black robes, Darai identified her as a sorcerer, but she was the first he’d seen not clinging to a staff as though it were a lifeline. She was at least in her late twenties. On her chest, she wore a silver pin formed in the shape of a staff slashed across a triangle. The symbol of the guild.

  He stopped walking and rested his hand on his knees, watching her move through the harvested ones, asking the name of every person and from where they’d come and writing them down.

  “And where is that?” Darai heard her ask a young woman, “South of the Osk, isn’t it? Oh yes, just where I . . . ” her voice dropped, but Darai recognised her accent as Iljoskan. Her Mindossan was flawless, from what he could tell and, as she moved on again, she addressed the next group in what sounded like Kalili.

  He was so surprised that when she reached him, he didn’t hear what she’d said at first.

  “Excuse me,” she asked again. She wiped a hair off her brow with the back of her hand, displaying her frustration, though she quickly schooled her face into a pleasant smile. “Can you speak Mindossan? Good,” she continued when he nodded. “What’s your name?”

  “Darai,” he replied, his eyes wandering down to take in her brooch. “Why?”

  “Why?” she echoed, her tone curt. Then she made a face and let her shoulders sag. “I’m sorry; it’s been a long day already. We need to know where you come from and who you are. I’m Tabia.” She looked obscurely embarrassed or perhaps she just wished to be anywhere but here. “Now, that’s D-a-r-a-i-?”

  He nodded. She seemed more—human—than the sorcerers he�
��d met. To her, he thought he might ask all of his questions and get the answers. But he didn’t; all he could do was open and close his mouth and be glad she was looking at her full page and not at him.

  “Where are you from, Darai?”

  “From? Uh . . . from Nageso,” he stammered, feeling his face heat, “north of here.”

  She looked up at him and smiled. “Yes, I know where Nageso is,” she said, not unkindly. “Nice, quiet country.” Her eyes widened for him alone and he could see she was almost as overwhelmed as he was. In the next moment, the look passed, and he was sure he’d imagined it. She was so cool and composed, how could she be anything but at home here?

  “If you need anything, just ask one of the soldiers or sorcerers on duty. We want to make your stay as comfortable as possible.” She gave him a last smile and moved on, leaving Darai to stare back.

  Presumably “anything” didn’t include opening the doors and letting him go home. He saw a woman with strange golden hair, skin like milk and odd blue eyes had joined Tabia and he turned away as someone called that it was time for the men to eat.

  “Come, come. Food.”

  He was hungry, but resented being herded from the pens into a dining hall by two sorcerers waving an arm at them to move. Their hands firmly on their staffs served as a reminder that he had no choice but to comply.

  The hall was filled with at least two dozen tables, each capable of sitting ten or more people, depending on the elbow room between them. Darai slipped into a chair positioned so he could see around the room, but his eyes were drawn to the food adorning the table. It was more than he’d seen in years. For quality, variety, and quantity, the feasts at Year’s End in Nageso couldn’t compare to this. More cangi, pork, chicken, rice, cassava, desserts and jugs of beer, water, and wine graced the tables. After some whispered concerns about the food being drugged, a few men ate, and took sips of their chosen beverage. Darai poured himself water and after an initial sniff, he drank it down. It tasted a little stale, but otherwise untainted. He poured another and set it beside his plate before considering the food. It looked delicious and from the expressions on those around him, tasted so as well. He watched for a moment longer before reaching for some bread and meat.