Lena broke her silence. “Working to improve conditions in Ninavel is certainly a worthwhile goal, if a rather daunting one. I’d like to help you, Kiran. But first, promise me you will ask Marten if my testifying to the Council would help him, and that you will relay the truth of his answer to me even if he asks you to conceal it. Can you do this?”
She drove a hard bargain. He didn’t want any chance Lena would suffer at the Council’s hands. Yet he had to respect her decisions, even when he disagreed with them.
Reluctantly, he nodded.
Lena’s smile held more pain than Cara’s, but it was warm nonetheless. “Then go, but don’t stay away too long. It doesn’t matter what you are, Kiran. None of us cares for you any less.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
(Kiran)
When Kiran stepped from the Cave of Stars into the demon realm, he found the scarred demon waiting for him. Hastily, Kiran constricted his senses so the myriad tastes and mesmerizing patterns of the currents wouldn’t distract him. His vision settled; the currents became crystalline dunes glimmering with a thousand subtle colors, and the demon took on its familiar shape, pale limbs and black braids and coldly beautiful features marked by the inky blotch of its scar. At the same time, Kiran sensed the indigo well of its soul, the taste of it sharp and sweet and rich all at once—and shot through with a black absence that mirrored the scar on the demon’s brow. Kiran had learned that the unique taste of a soul was how demons identified each other, rarely bothering with names.
The demon said, You waste so much effort worrying over your ratling friends, when it is the children of fire you should be preparing to meet. I told the madrek-zal you should be given time to adjust to your birth, just as we once needed, but that time is drawing to a close.
I know, Kiran said. I will face the madrek-zal, but I need a little longer yet. Did you bring what you promised?
The demon tossed him a braided bracelet of greenish metal that contained a thread of dissonant magic. Do not humans give gifts to mark a parting? Consider this as such; it may be long before we meet again.
What? You’re leaving? Going where? Kiran had assumed that when he finally faced the madrek-zal, the scarred demon would accompany him.
I go to seek Ashkiza, the demon said. She should hear the full tale of her labyrinth’s destruction—and of your birth.
That only heightened Kiran’s dismay. He could not imagine Ashkiza would be pleased to hear that her greatest creation had been destroyed. By a human, no less.
You do not yet understand us, the demon said. Better her tool’s destruction than her edict broken. She will be fascinated to know of you. She once tried to change a ratling into a child of fire. This Denarell of Parthus you’ve spoken of—but her attempt failed, and he burned.
Kiran wondered if the Council knew how Alathia’s founder had died. One thing, at least, was now clear. You’re still hoping for a kin-bond with Ashkiza.
Perhaps, the demon said with a ripple of amusement. I must find her first, and that will not be easy. She walks realms I have never dared to travel. You’ll have time before we return, little cousin. Tell the madrek-zal you await Ashkiza’s judgment. That will give them pause.
Before Kiran could frame another question, the demon hurtled away from him, as swift and brilliant as a shooting star, and vanished into the currents beyond the reach of Kiran’s senses.
Beautiful as the demon realm was, it had never felt lonelier. Kiran took firm hold of his courage. He had defeated Ruslan. He could handle the madrek-zal. And he wasn’t alone. Dev, Lena, Cara, Teo, all of them would help him in this if he asked.
But first, he had others to help. Kiran touched the cold magic within the braided metal of the ancient charm, a relic from the days demons had walked human lands. The spell was exactly what the demon had promised: an echo of the glacial prison the ssarez-kai had plunged him within to protect his partially human ikilhia from fraying away in the demon realm’s currents. Such a spell wasn’t enough to preserve the ikilhia of an ordinary mage, but for one like Marten or Mikail whose ikilhia had been reduced to a ragged flicker—with this charm, he could carry one of them through the demon realm. But only one, and only once…until he could learn how to create such a spell on his own.
If Marten wished rescue, the choice would be easy. If Marten did not…Kiran sifted the lingering tracery of Ruslan’s memories within his soul, looking for the day Ruslan had taken a boy from a land of ice.
* * *
Marten might be under arrest, but the Alathian ambassador wasn’t being at all cruel about it. When Kiran crossed from the demon realm into the embassy, he found a wan but awake Marten lying in a comfortable bed within a clean, airy room.
The room was heavily warded, but empty of other mages. Kiran had taken care to choose a moment when the ambassador and his lieutenants had left the embassy. Only two other Alathians remained within the embassy’s walls, and they both stood guard over Mikail’s dim ember of ikilhia in a distant chamber so small Kiran suspected it had once been a closet. Nothing like Marten’s spacious quarters, adorned with paintings of verdant Alathian hillsides, the sun’s glare softened by a gauzy veil of mist-pale silk over the unshuttered window.
Gaping at Kiran, Marten struggled upright amid a pile of pillows. “Twin gods above! Kiran, your eyes—is that—are you—”
It was perversely satisfying and yet a little alarming to see the ordinarily smooth-tongued Marten reduced to stammering surprise. But Marten listened to Kiran’s terse explanation with a keen attention that reassured Kiran his mind was fully intact despite the evidence of his injuries. Much of his skin remained raw and mottled, and his right temple was still swollen. The hair regrowing on that side of his head was pure white.
Marten said, “Now I understand why Ambassador Ponallan has been rushing around trying to secure supplies and arrange transport out of Ninavel. Not fast enough, it would seem. I assume you’re here for Mikail.”
“For you, too,” Kiran said. “Marten, whatever has passed between us, I don’t want you punished for helping me against Ruslan. If you wish it, I’ll take you to Lena, here and now. I have a charm that would protect you from the currents.”
“No.” Marten’s black eyes narrowed. “This time, I hope you’ll listen to my refusal.”
“You needn’t worry,” Kiran said. “I’m considering my actions more carefully these days.”
“I hope so, with the power you’ve gained.” A slanted smile pulled at Marten’s mouth. “But you are no longer the youth I met this spring, so full of grief and rebellion and yearning that it was easy for me to prod you onto a course of my choosing. Now, you stand firm on your own path. I find I’m glad to see that even if the Council is not. You must know you have my deepest gratitude for saving Alathia from Ruslan.” He hesitated. “Kiran…I’ve never apologized for what I did to you.”
“I know why you haven’t,” Kiran said. “You would betray me again in a heartbeat if you believed it necessary for your country.”
“Ouch.” Marten slumped ruefully onto the pillows. “I prefer to think that I too will choose my course with more care in the future. Lena certainly had much to say on that subject, and a good captain listens when his most trusted lieutenant takes him to task.” Pain flashed through his eyes like bitter lightning; he was surely thinking that he would never again be a Watch officer, secure in his magic with Lena steadfast at his side.
Marten took a breath, and the pain vanished, replaced by simple concern. “Lena is safe, I trust?”
“Yes, but she’s afraid for you. She wants me to ask you if her testimony would help you.”
“No!” Marten jolted back up out of his slouch. “With my magic gone, the Council will consider me far less of a threat. But Lena—her, they will fear. Especially if they learn how much she cares for you.”
In that moment, Kiran hated the Council as much as he ever had Ruslan. How could they look at Lena and see her compassion and empathy as anything but strengths to be celebr
ated?
“I care for her, too,” he said to Marten.
“I know,” Marten said. “So tell her she must stay away, hard as that will be for her. Even without my magic, I retain my wits as well as certain friends in Tamanath. Tell Lena to trust me as I have her. I refuse to give her any words of farewell, because I am certain she and I will meet again.”
Marten couldn’t be as confident as he sounded. He was so good with masks; but with Talmaddis dead and Lena exiled, whom did he have left who was capable of seeing behind them? Another pang of sympathy struck Kiran.
“I’ll continue to check on you while you remain in my reach,” he told Marten. “Should you change your mind about leaving, you have only to tell me. Either way…I wish you well.”
Marten chuckled. “Now those must be words you never imagined you’d say.” He hesitated, his amusement falling away. “I expect no argument I could make will dissuade you from taking Mikail. I only beg you to treat his guards gently. They don’t deserve harm.”
Mikail. Kiran dreaded facing his mage-brother, but delaying wouldn’t make the confrontation any easier. Stealing Mikail from the embassy, however, would be no problem at all.
Kiran smiled wryly at Marten. “You’re still thinking of me as a blood mage, but now I am a child of fire. I don’t need to hurt the guards to take Mikail. Nor do they have the least chance of stopping me.”
He took one quick step into the demon realm, and another that brought him into the bare little closet of Mikail’s cell. Two uniformed mages jerked back from him in surprise, while an even more shocked Mikail scrabbled up on his elbows on a rough cot.
Before the guard mages could cast, Kiran grabbed Mikail’s wrist, shoved the braided loop of metal over it, and yanked his mage-brother into the demon realm.
The demon’s spell enclosed Mikail in a thick, icy weave, protecting the raw little ember of his ikilhia. But Mikail’s panic was so strong that it seeped through to stain the currents.
What do you want of me, demon? Do you take my mage-brother’s shape to taunt me?
Mikail, it’s me. Kiran. He reached a careful tendril of his ikilhia through the spell to touch his mage-brother’s mind, wincing at Mikail’s utter lack of barriers. It was gut-wrenching to see his mage-brother so defenseless, his ikilhia dimmer even than Marten’s.
Shock blasted out of Mikail. It is you. You killed Ruslan and survived, and now…did you bring me here to kill me?
I never wanted you dead, Kiran said. It’s why I asked the demon to take you. I thought it the only way you would survive Ruslan’s death—to go where your mark-bond was blocked. That wasn’t the only reason. He had known he must remove his mage-brother’s power. But both reasons were true.
You think this is better? Mikail’s thought was dark with anguish. My magic is gone, Kiran. The Alathians say I will never cast again. They gloat about it. See the blood mage brought low, weak as any nathahlen…before you came, I’d hoped they would be the ones to end this misery. But all they did was talk, and poke and prod at me, and talk some more. So weak they can’t even bring themselves to kill an enemy.
Would you prefer torture, as you did to Dev? Kiran thrust the memory of Dev’s agony at Mikail. If you want death, he would happily give it to you.
Mikail flinched. But you won’t? Why, Kiran?
How can you ask that? Kiran poured into Mikail all his childhood memories of solace and protection. You are my brother. More—you didn’t kill Dev in Simon’s meadow. You didn’t kill me in Ruslan’s workroom. For that and every other time you tried to protect me, I’m giving you a second chance.
A second chance? Mikail repeated, incredulous. Ah, brother. I never could understand how you hated Ruslan when he loved you so fiercely. But at last…at last, I understand.
You do?
What was it you shouted at me before you first ran? ‘He is a monster, Mikail, because he acts according to his will without a second thought for what anyone else feels.’ You hated him because he took away all your choices and forced you to live in a way utterly foreign to your nature. Isn’t that so?
Kiran couldn’t answer. Mikail went on as if he had. You always claimed you and he were opposites, but even then I saw it wasn’t true. You’re exactly like him, Kiran. More his successor than I could ever be. The only difference is that he was more honest about his arrogance than you.
You’re wrong! But Kiran couldn’t hide how deep Mikail’s accusation cut.
Am I? You claim you wanted to save me. Yet you tore my magic from me with no thought that I would rather die than live so crippled. Even now, you want to force me to keep on living this pathetic half life, while you revel in power such as Ruslan never dreamed, and all the while you tell yourself it’s because you care—
Stop it. The currents around Kiran boiled with the force of his anger and denial. Marten lost his magic as you did, but he doesn’t wallow in self-pity.
Martennan didn’t lose his entire family along with his magic, and doesn’t have to live with the knowledge it was his own mage-brother who killed them!
Propelled by the rising intensity of Kiran’s emotions, the currents ate ever deeper into the spellwork around Mikail. All at once, Kiran understood—this was what the scarred demon had meant about wielding the currents by instinct. All the calm, cold control that Ruslan had taught him did nothing in the demon realm, because here it was emotion that forged the link between ikilhia and magic.
The realization broke him free of anger. Had he not promised Teo, Lena, even Marten that he would act with care? Yet here he was, so terrified of becoming what he hated that he’d let Mikail goad him into nearly destroying his mage-brother’s protection. Only a thin scrim of spellwork remained. Already, Mikail was gasping with agony. He was trying to embrace the pain and welcome death, but beneath that, he was terrified, lost.
Kiran hastily reached for the human realm. He had learned to use earth-currents themselves as anchors for the crossing; each one tasted different, as unique as a mage’s ikilhia.
This current tasted of snow and cold and musk. Kiran yanked Mikail out of the demon realm and into a snowy expanse surrounded by low hills of black, craggy rock. A sledge stood nearby, piled with furs. In the distance, a great herd of antlered, long-legged animals milled across the snow.
Mikail toppled into the snow and leaped up with a startled yell. He was already shivering, goosebumps stippling the skin of his bare arms. He wore only a loose cotton shirt and trousers.
“Here.” Kiran tossed him furs and a pair of boots from the sledge.
“What is this?” Mikail demanded. “You don’t wish to kill me yourself, so you’ll freeze me to death?” For all his stated eagerness for death, Kiran noted he was quick to shove on the boots and wrap himself in a fur.
“You don’t recognize where you are? You’ve been here before,” Kiran said.
Mikail’s brow furrowed. He looked around again, more slowly. Anguish crossed his face, sudden and sharp. “How did you know? Ah—Dev told you, didn’t he, and you’ve brought me back to where I should have died as a child. How inventive, Kiran. Ruslan would be proud.”
Kiran said, “It wasn’t Dev, Mikail. When Ruslan and I were dying, I saw his memories—I saw where and how he took you as a child. Did you never stop to consider why he came to you when he did?”
“What do you mean?”
“He ordered those warriors to attack your clan. To steal you and your brother and the other children, tell you that your parents and all your kin were dead, and kill your brother on the ice. All so you’d see him as a savior. So you’d bond with me the way he wanted.”
“You’re lying.” Mikail had gone sallow.
“I’m not. You’ll see.”
Riders were approaching from the herd. Their mounts’ antlers were wrapped in colorful ribbons; the riders themselves wore thick furs, brown and tan and sable-tipped. Only their faces were visible: broad-cheeked and weathered, with almond-shaped eyes of slate gray or moss green. Wisps of pale hair poked
from under the thick ruffs of their hoods.
Mikail watched them come in stubborn silence. But when the lead rider swung down—a woman, middle-aged, with a careworn but proud face—he backed a step.
“Do you recognize her?” Kiran asked.
Mikail shook his head. Not in negation, but disbelief.
The woman was staring at Mikail. She shut her eyes, her breathing quickening; then her shoulders firmed and she strode up to Kiran.
She pointed at Mikail. “Ikkisho alva qida utkagi?”
The language was far different than any Kiran knew, but the woman was nathahlen, lacking in all mental barriers. Easy enough to touch her thoughts and see her meaning: Is this the man you told me of?
He spoke directly into her mind so she would see the meaning behind his own foreign words. Yes. This is the son who was stolen from you.
The woman took a step toward Mikail. Her eyes searched his face. Like a glacier melting in the sun, her reserve cracked to reveal pain and wondering hope so bright that Kiran could hardly bear to watch.
“Minuq?”
It was Mikail’s birth name. Kiran had seen in Ruslan’s memories that Mikail himself had begged Ruslan to give him a new name. He’d wanted to forget; to bury his pain.
The woman reached a hesitant hand to Mikail.
Mikail recoiled. “No. No. This can’t be.”
“It can,” Kiran said. “She’s your mother, Mikail. She survived the warriors’ attack, and afterward, Ruslan never bothered to kill her. He already had what he wanted. You.”
Mikail’s mother spoke another phrase and eased closer. Mikail stood rigid, breathing like an animal in a snare. She touched his face, gently. He shut his eyes, but not before Kiran saw the glitter of tears. He spun away, one hand outflung in rejection.
Kiran spoke again to Mikail’s mother. It’s as I warned you. He’s been much hurt in mind and spirit. Recovery will be long and not easy. He needs compassion. Can you give it to him?
The Labyrinth of Flame (The Shattered Sigil Book 3) Page 64
