by R. K. Thorne
Perhaps it was better this way. She’d often heard it was better not to know, that the visions would only drive her mad, that she would lose herself in space and time. Now that word of her visions had spread, it was amazing how many people went out of their way to assure her they did not envy her.
She groaned as her head spun, a wave of nausea rising. She dropped her head into her hands.
“It has been getting rougher,” he said softly.
Bah, as if he cared how she felt. She said nothing.
“Do you think they’ll stop soon?”
“I don’t know. I think I’m going to be sick.” Sweat was starting to prick her forehead. The fever rising.
“Well, that might get them to stop. Or not. They haven’t showed any signs of being hospitable captors so far. Where do you think they are taking us?”
She shook her head in her hands bleakly.
“Anonil, perhaps.” He had a nice voice, soft and sort of gentle, with an educated air to it, like all the syllables of all the words were worth saying and mattered to him.
But Anonil. “From what I’ve seen, I hope not,” she muttered. She suspected the city in the visions was Anonil because it was the largest Gilaren city and one she’d never seen.
“Why?”
She only groaned. “Leave me alone.”
“What have you seen?”
“If I vomit on you, will that get you to shut up?”
He folded his arms across his chest. “You know, this is hardly civil discourse. I don’t see how I’ve done anything to warrant your vociferous glares all day.”
“You’re a mage. That’s enough.” An annoyingly uppity and proper mage, too. And too thin and scrawny and crooked-nosed. And a witness to her terrible moment of weakness. Several moments now, actually. That, she held against him most of all.
“Hmph. I should have left you in that hole.”
“You couldn’t free yourself without freeing me.” Thankfully.
“A shame, really.” He tried to look off into the distance, as much as you could in a tiny, dark carriage lit only by the light of his magic in the Devoted stone.
Of course, just before the boulder hit and the tower exploded, she’d seen a terrifying flash that had told her to dive behind him. Otherwise, she would have ended up just another pool of blood. He had saved her life, albeit without exactly trying, and helped her get across that gaping hole in the stair too. She was being unfair, but she felt too nauseous to muster an apology.
“How do you even know if mages are evil?” he said, apparently not content with staring into space. “How can you be so sure? Have you ever even known any?”
Her father had owned a few mage slaves in her day, repulsive as that had been. But she’d known little about them, except for Detrax, who had guarded her for a time. She shuddered. He was as evil as mages came. It had only taken a single glimpse of that evil before Peluna had gotten her father to send him away. Soon after, Peluna had given her the Devoted stone, a way to detect the danger of mages wherever they might spring up. “In the Dark Days—”
He waved her off. “Answer the question.”
She glared, then, “No, I haven’t known any very well personally, but I don’t—”
“Then what proof do you have?”
“Proof?” She was thrown enough by his line of reasoning to risk raising her head to stare.
“Yes, proof. Actual facts you can verify with your own five senses. Your personal experience. You know, science. Observation.”
“The Dark Days are recorded in great detail.”
“That’s history, not science. And they’re recorded from only a handful of sources that could easily have been prejudiced by time. Or knives at their throats. Other sources from barely two years earlier talk of mage priests. Every source you have could be lies. What actual proof, from your own experiences, do you have that mages are evil?”
She frowned, thinking of Detrax’s sneer, then pushing the memory away. This mage’s face in the vision. Did that count? No, it told her nothing morally, positive or negative. Was the vision an image of the future? A message from the gods? A hallucination caused by some further betrayal of her father’s? What did ‘real’ even mean anymore?
Her senses were liars. She hung her head again. She was too unstuck in time and place to be considered entirely sane. “I’m not sure my five senses or my mind are any more trustworthy than those books.”
She could feel the weight of his perplexed stare. “Oh, that’s right, I see. You probably don’t need proof. You have faith, right? The goddess tells you what to believe.”
She just shook her head in her hands. If only. That would be so much easier.
“Or… do you have proof of that? What the goddess tells you?”
She met his eyes again, then gave up and dropped her gaze. She didn’t want to vomit while looking straight into his face. “There’s no point in arguing this.”
“So that’s a lie too?”
Oh, that was quite enough. Nausea be damned, she shook a fist at him. “I wish it was a lie. I can’t point to my visions or show them to you, so I will not argue whether I have proof. How can I prove to you they exist? I can’t. And people like you never believe me anyway.” She groaned again, loudly, hoping someone outside was listening. That exertion had been too much. She wiped the sweat accumulating on her forehead with the back of her forearm. The fever was growing but not as quickly as it sometimes did. At least she had that much luck.
Silence yawned between them. Her sweat turned cold, the nausea lessening slightly. Would it really abate that quickly?
“What are your visions of? What do you see?” he said, soft again. His tone was almost gentle. She didn’t trust it.
She regarded him coolly out of the side of her eyes. She straightened a little, hoping that the worst of it might have passed. Was this a trap?
“I’ve seen a city—Anonil, possibly. Burning, lost to red-banded forces. Something unexpected happens there, something goes wrong.” She shook her head, trying to rid herself of the swelling memory of the vision. Focus on it too long, and it would return when she least wanted it to.
He frowned. “If Anonil falls, that would be truly terrible. But it would hardly be a surprise at this point, with Alikar’s betrayal.”
She shrugged. “I don’t pick my visions for what will be convincing to you. I don’t get to pick them at all.”
“What else have you seen?”
Would he understand, if she told him? Think her words were a trick? Wasn’t it only fair to tell him that she had seen him before this day, that she had known the instant she’d seen him in that tower that something terrible was going to happen? That it was the sight of him, not nervousness at the vote, that had made her voice falter and shake?
“I’ve seen… lots of things,” she said noncommittally.
“Care to elucidate?”
There he went again. “Excuse me?”
“Like what? What have you seen?”
She hesitated one moment longer, then cast caution to the wind. What did she have to lose? There was nothing left. “I’ve seen you.”
2
HOPE
Aven stopped outside the door to his old rooms. Rooms where his father lay, hovering at death’s threshold.
The dark, polished wood stood out against the white marble, magnificent and ominous, as if it concealed some grand darkness inside. He pursed his lips, trying to gather his thoughts. Servants were absent from the halls, huddled inside rooms, keeping warm with their duties. Faint echoes of far-off chores clanged and thudded in the distance, and the thin, high whistle of a cold wind moaned in the towers above.
He’d left Miara in his suite with his servants, convincing her to stay a little longer before retiring to the rooms the servants had already chosen for her. He needed to hear more of her story—and maybe have her in front of him a little longer. He needed more proof she was alive and safe and whole before he could truly rest.
Here, t
hough, he was alone. His father lay in those old rooms, his mother fretting at his side. Did she know the harsh words father and son had last exchanged? What had been said?
Would he have said the same things if he’d known that it might be the last complete conversation he’d have with his father? Aven couldn’t regret defending Miara, especially since the vote had succeeded in spite of his bold announcement of his intention to marry her. If he and Miara had obediently followed Samul’s instructions, his father wouldn’t even be lying half-dead here in Ranok. He’d likely be all dead. Or being carted off to Kavanar.
And yet… You’re not the king I thought you were. The cruel words floated back to him. Words said in anger, not truth. Aven understood his point of view, his desire to defend Aven and, even more, Thel. Each of them had weighed the threat of civil war versus the threat of war with Kavanar, and both had been most concerned about the conflict they were most familiar with, the one they deemed most likely.
In the end, Aven had been right, either through luck or better information, but it could have easily gone another way. Had Toyl been greedier. Had Asten resented him. Had the lightning strike hit Aven instead of his horse.
Or if Aven had thrown Alikar in the dungeon when they’d first known of his divided allegiances, his suspicious contacts with Kavanar. Regret flooded him that he hadn’t done more. That he hadn’t acted more decisively. With Alikar. With Evana. Even with Daes. If he’d found a way to run a sword through Daes’s gut rather than simply escaping, maybe none of this would be happening. Of course he could also then be very dead.
He swallowed and shifted his weight from one foot to the other, then back. If his father was conscious, what would Aven say him? Should he apologize? No, he couldn’t. But could he make amends somehow?
And if his father wasn’t conscious… Well, Aven was king now. It was time to act, even if he wasn’t sure of the best path forward. Even if he didn’t know what he’d say if Samul was awake behind this door.
He pushed the door open and went inside.
Aven had stayed in his room in Ranok only a few times in his life. Trips away from Estun had never been long, but he remembered the room well. He remembered playing on the soft gray quilt as a child, studying drawings of training exercises they’d traveled to take part in as a young man.
The quilt lay over his father now, along with furs and skins for extra warmth. That hardly seemed necessary, as the room was sweltering. And transformed. People crowded the space, and furniture had been shoved aside. He tried to ignore his things and any memories they’d dredge up. Pangs of old memories would not be helpful at the moment. A second bed had appeared but lay empty.
His mother sat perched beside Samul, her hand clasping his. She looked toward Aven, nodding just slightly before turning her gaze back to her husband.
His father didn’t stir.
Aven strode to her side. “Is he…?”
“He’s fallen into a deep sleep. I’m trying to help, but…” She shook her head, and only now did he notice the dark circles under her eyes.
“You should rest,” he said. “You can’t help him if you don’t rest.”
“I know.” Still, she didn’t move. “Any news on Thel?”
Aven shook his head, unable to meet her eyes. “Not yet.” He rounded the other side of the bed and peered down at his father, not sure what he was looking for. “Why is it so hot in here?” He was starting to sweat. Just what he needed.
A gray-haired man hastily paging through a tome in his arms stepped from the mass of attendants lining the walls, some busy, some waiting for tasks. “Because we’re trying to sweat it out of him, Your Highness.”
“Sweat what out of him?” said Aven.
“The possible poison.” He glanced up once, then back at the book, licking a finger to page faster.
“I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“Aven, this is Nyor Hiresun,” his mother put in.
“Nyor is our healer here at Ranok, Your Highness,” said a refined voice from the corner. As he looked up, the head steward Telidar bowed her head. He’d heard of Telidar, but if he had met her before, he didn’t remember. Her black hair was pulled back severely, highlighting sharp brown eyes. “I hired him when our last healer, Erstik, retired last spring.”
“Oh, excuse me,” Nyor said. “Pleasure to be of service to you, Your Highness.” Nyor jerked into an overly obsequious bow and nearly dropped his book in the process.
Aven gave a small nod of thanks, although he doubted the sincerity of the healer’s gesture. “Anything you can tell me about my father’s condition, Nyor?”
The healer shook his head. “I’m sorry, Your Highness. There hasn’t been much time. Perhaps tomorrow I will know more after additional study. I have much to reference relative to his symptoms, which are common. Weakness, cold, clammy skin, and recent wounds can be indicators of dozens of poisons and some illnesses and infections.”
“They are wounds that won’t heal,” Elise added, a note of annoyance in her voice. “That’s not common.”
“That remains to be seen,” Nyor replied.
“No, it doesn’t. I’ve shown you. I’ve healed them, and you’ve watched them reopen. That’s not normal. It has to be a poison.”
“I can’t scientifically rely on what is happening when you use your… abilities to heal him. I can’t say I understand how they work. So I can’t treat it as fact. Your Highness.”
Aven frowned. Nyor’s tone was decidedly less respectful to the queen. No wonder she didn’t want to rest. Even now, she eyed Nyor with annoyance as the healer continued paging through his tome.
Aven stared hard at his mother, trying to catch her eye as he bent closer to Samul and pretended to be concerned with him. Finally Elise looked his way. Aven tapped his temple, hoping she would get the idea.
She blinked, glancing back at Nyor again. Then she stilled slightly.
What is it? came her voice in his head.
Glad you figured that out. We should really have a signal for this or something.
What’s wrong?
You’re suspicious of Nyor. Can we trust him?
I’m not sure. He seems… overly servile at times, downright disrespectful at others. I don’t think he approves of mages.
Great, another fan.
Yes.
I’ll ask Telidar how he was referred to her. And I’ll send down Siliana or Miara to watch him and Samul so you can rest.
Outwardly she remained poised, but inwardly, relief surged through her. That would be a help. I don’t trust this “sweating” it out. Or any of his methods. How can he know what to do if he doesn’t know the poison yet? And Samul’s too weak to wake and drink all that water he’s sweating out.
So tell him to stop.
What if he’s right? And I say something and Samul dies? Damn this all to hell.
Aven clenched his jaw. All right. I understand. I’ll send someone as soon as I can. If he wakes, will you tell him… I’m sorry?
Sorry for what?
Sorry we quarreled.
I’ll tell him.
Aven ran a tentative hand over Samul’s hair. Had his temples always had this much gray, or was that a new development? Had his forehead always held such deep wrinkles, or was it the illness? Certainly his cheeks were sunken in a little.
It hasn’t been much time, he told himself. Barely hours. He’d lost a lot of blood. He’ll get better. He just needs to rest.
Still… Aven wished his father were awake.
He pressed a kiss to his father’s forehead, then turned toward Nyor. “I want to be informed immediately if there are any changes or developments.”
“Sire, I must focus on my patient—”
“There are many in this room who can carry a message. This is not up for debate.” He narrowed his eyes at Nyor, hoping his expression indicated well enough that he would brook no argument about this. Or anything else.
“Yes, sire,” said Nyor, suddenly meek. Ah, yes, there it
was. Servile this minute, defiant the last. Why?
Aven nodded to them all and then set off for his rooms. He caught a servant along the way to carry a message to Siliana requesting her help with the king and to summon Telidar to his suite later. He also needed to figure out to whom he could delegate things like talking to Telidar. Dyon and Asten would be busy with war planning in earnest now, and Fayton and most of his trusted staff were still back in Estun. But Aven couldn’t possibly handle all this himself. Things would start to take too long, fall by the wayside.
He strode down the hall, soon lost in memories he’d hoped not to get caught up in.
How many times had they ridden away from Ranok? Each time he’d carried a certain mixture of guilt and wistfulness in his heart. Wanting to stay. Knowing they couldn’t. And how had that panned out?
All those years hiding in Estun, all for naught.
He opened the door to his suite and spotted Miara asleep on the couch, still sitting up.
Well, perhaps not all for naught. Perhaps it was all the Balance at work, and he would see an order to the madness in the end. He just hoped that none of it included losing Samul. Not yet, anyway. Not like this. Not without saying goodbye.
Aven watched her sleeping for a moment. In her Kavanarian leathers, she looked much like the first day they’d met, aside from the scar gracing her cheek. Would she keep any scars from today’s wounds or will them all away? Maybe they were already gone.
When they could make it to Lake Senokin, he’d find out for certain. Patience, he reminded himself. Patience. Not long now.
He headed toward her. A servant stirred in a corner, but he didn’t meet their gaze, indicating he didn’t need anything. It was good, though, that he and Miara weren’t alone.
Carefully he cradled her, one hand behind her neck, the other behind her shoulders, and he lowered her down to the couch. She may as well sleep here. His own room was separate from this, and clearly sleep was needed. And he didn’t want to let her go. Or out of his sight. Not yet.
