by R. K. Thorne
He folded his arms, a smile still wide on his face. “It’s a handy skill I use happily at the goddess’s direction.”
“They teach you that in temple? They seem good at lies. Or omissions.” She winced inwardly at the edge of bitterness to her voice.
“No,” he said, expression darkening. “I learned how to lie long before that.”
She cursed under her breath. “Sorry,” she muttered. She should change the subject. “You want me to show you how? To heat the charcoal?”
He shifted his weight uneasily. “Is that where mages usually start?”
“Sort of. Feeling the energy move is the first step. Absorbing, losing, expending energies. A heating spell is a good place to start expending energy.”
“Hmm,” he hesitated. “Maybe let’s start tomorrow.”
She quickly tucked her disappointment away, nodding and forcing a smile. “Sure.” Damn, her voice sounded far from the casual she’d been going for.
“We shouldn’t get distracted,” he added.
“Of course,” she muttered.
The time passed slowly, but as the hour wore on, Ro’s nonchalant shell started to crack. As bells in the city rang in the beginning of the second hour, he was outright frowning.
“What is it?” she said slowly.
“It’s… still black.”
“What? Is that not normal?”
“It’s just a thin rod of iron. I don’t know how much faster you’re hearing that furnace, but… it seems a great deal hotter than it should be.” He paused, rubbing his chin. “I have a bad feeling about this.”
She raised an eyebrow. “About what?”
“Let’s give it a little longer.”
After another hour inside the heat and more charcoal shoveled in, the furnace was raging. Sweat dripped from both of them even after backing away as far as they dared.
Still the brand sat, quietly and defiantly black, stoic amid the hell of charcoal surrounding it.
She reached out with her senses. She’d hesitated to since the very first time she’d felt the writhing horror locked in its branding end, but there was no bypassing it now. And there it was—twisting agony locked into the metal. Who could have created such a thing? That bit was blazing and ready to sear its mark into innocent flesh. But it was far from hot enough to change shape. And the rest was barely warm. In fact, she could almost feel the evil thing pushing the heat away, defending itself from the onslaught.
“It’s not going to work, is it?” she said softly.
“No. I don’t understand how it’s possible, but it’s not acting like iron should.”
“By the gods. This must be part of its spell somehow.” She swore under her breath. “Let’s give it a little longer.”
He nodded. “What else do we have to do?”
“I can think of one thing.” She barely stifled a laugh.
He elbowed her. “How can you think of that at a time like this?”
She sobered. “It’s…” Emotion welled up unexpectedly, stealing the words from her throat. It—he—was all she had to remind her that this world wasn’t as terrible as it seemed to be. Whatever tenuous connection they had, however long it lasted, she would cling to it, especially in the face of defeats like these.
In spite of the heat, he pulled her closer. If only she could read him as well as he seemed to be able to read her. She rested her head on his shoulder, and it was enough. The wave of emotion subsided, and her determination to destroy the brand took its place. If this didn’t work, they would find some other way, even if she had to carry the brand with them all the way to Evrical and back. It had to be destroyed.
It had to.
Still, three hours later, they returned to Ranok, sweaty and exhausted. The now-cool brand sat once again in her stolen knapsack, very much intact.
MIARA CLUNG to Aven’s arm as they followed his escort through the bustling streets, on foot as the temple wasn’t far. Arm clinging was convenient for gawking—or maybe gawking gave her an excellent excuse to cling closer. As it was, she didn’t have to watch her step across the uneven cobblestones. She could catch herself from the inevitable trip and simply take in the beauty of the White City. She had been to Evrical, of course, and several of Demikin’s palaces, but this was something different. At the very least it was not quite so filthy as the Kavanarian capital.
Dappled sunlight caressed red slate roofs, brown awnings, and flower boxes bare with dark earth for the winter. On many a door hung a slender sheaf of wheat, others a vial of water swaying in a cool wind, a few a nail suspended from rough twine. The wheat must honor Nefrana, and such offerings had appeared in Mage Hall often, but of the others she wasn’t so sure. Many a door and wall were pale yellowed bricks or white stucco, ricocheting the sunlight around the streets.
The temple of Anara awaited them near the city center, sitting low and squat across from a wide cobblestoned market with a long and slender pool in its center. Or was it some kind of watering trough? No horses loomed about, even amid their small party.
Blue paint adorned the temple walls, and a white door beckoned to them beneath a black slate roof. Balls of evergreen adorned benches outside that would be more inviting were it not growing chillier by the hour, by the day. Nothing hung on the door of the temple, but the faint tinkling of bells and the sweet, spicy smell of incense reached her.
The lead of Aven’s escort—well, also her escort—approached the door and knocked three times.
The door revealed a dark-haired woman dressed in a black robe trimmed in bright cerulean. Her eyes grew alarmed. “Can I help you, sirs?”
“May I present King Aven Lanuken and his betrothed, Arms Master Miara Floren.”
The guards parted neatly as their leader bowed off to the left, leaving a wide berth between the woman and the two of them.
Miara tightened her hand around his elbow but tried to smile.
“Your Highness, may the goddess keep you and the Balance protect you,” said the woman, curtsying deeply, and again Miara wondered if she had ever breached that protocol at some point. She really ought to remember to inquire about it further, but they’d had so many other things to worry about.
“Greetings, my lady,” said Aven smoothly. “And who might you be?”
“Priestess Kawe, Your Highness. Is there some way our humble Sapphire Temple can be of service to you? We regularly receive noble worshippers at the Emerald Temple to the south. As I’m sure you already know, sire.” She added the last bit hastily, as if worried she might have caused offense.
“Yes, of course, and I’m sure our visits will take us there eventually. But for today, we are here. Priestess, we’ve heard there is an infirmary here. Is that correct?”
“Indeed, sire. This temple does not serve open worship but houses those in need, in particular the ill and injured. Not a place for someone such as yourself.” She had braced herself in the doorway a touch protectively, Miara realized.
“Ah, but I’ve brought a great healer with me, and she’d like to see if there’s any good she can do your patients.” She elbowed him in the back, moving as slightly as she could. His polite smile only grew to a grin. “That is, if you don’t mind a mage doing the healing.”
For a moment, the whole entry was frozen still, as if waiting to see how this bit would turn, how their luck would play out. How deep did the fear—and hatred—of mages go? Kawe’s dark eyes flicked from Aven to her and back again repeatedly, almost panicked. She hated mages, certainly, or she’d have answered quickly. But she had either gotten word of the new king’s mage powers or was starkly tempted to accept help, hatred or no.
“You can heal people?” Kawe said slowly.
“Some people,” Miara answered. “Injuries, especially. If you show me, I can tell you for certain.” Hopefully she could avoid explaining all her weaknesses to this priestess who likely hated her.
A long moment passed, and Kawe took a step back. “All right. Come in.”
“Is your high
priestess here today, Priestess Kawe?” said Aven as they followed the woman into a white tiled entry.
The priestess smiled sweetly for him. Just like Renala had. He had a way of getting women to do what he wanted, didn’t he? It had certainly worked on her, now that she thought about it. Come to think of it, the only woman Miara could remember not quickly striving to please Aven was Lady Toyl—and perhaps herself, at least outwardly. Inwardly had been another matter, and even then she’d caved to teaching him. Funny how it took seeing him around others before she really understood this about him—and about herself.
“Yes,” the priestess said, attention fully on him now. “Shall I fetch her for you?”
“If you can see us to your patients first, we’ll look around and then I will speak to her about further work we can do for you when she’s ready.”
“Of course.” Kawe turned to Miara with a slight bow, her smile noticeably fading. “If you’ll follow me, my lord and lady.”
They followed Kawe, and to Miara’s surprise, two of the guards followed on their heels.
The infirmary was down a long, dim hall filled again with the sound of bells tinkling, louder this time. Kawe opened the door, and Miara peered inside. Two rows of cots, one on each side, holding maybe thirty. Not many, really. Blankets of faded and assorted colors covered each small cot, and cheerful plants sprung up between each patient. A few faces turned toward the door, but most slept. Natural light filled the room from a row of high windows, giving it the feel of an atrium.
“These are some of our ill,” the priestess murmured. “What is it that you can and can’t do?”
“Injuries. Cuts, breaks. Abscesses.” Wait, did humans get abscesses, or only horses? “I can’t heal things that occur naturally. Like aging. Getting old isn’t something anyone can heal.”
Now Kawe did smile slightly. “If only. I’ll return with the high priestess and to help if need be.”
“Yes, thank you,” said Miara. Aven had fallen quiet, studying the room carefully. “That will do fine.”
Two others in black robes trimmed with azure were bringing water. A boy and a girl. They bent over patients, murmuring to them and tending to basic needs.
She approached the first cot quietly. Aven stayed back, leaning in the wide doorway and studying the room. She examined the first woman as she slept. No visible injuries plagued her, and reaching out, Miara could sense nothing in particular either. Not a promising start. She glanced at the plant at the bedside, lively and green. A small purple bud peeked out on the right side, ready to bloom.
This late in the year? Hmm.
She glanced around at the other plants. All were lively. Unnaturally full and lush. Several held forth small pink and orange blooms, some as grand as springtime.
Miara cautiously let her senses sweep the room. Her eyes locked on the girl, who was keeping herself busy at the far end of the room, head down, fixed on the water basin she was refilling. A sandy-brown braid fell down her back, and her face was smudged with dirt here and there. Much dirtier than Miara would have expected a girl with her job should be.
“There’s already a mage here,” she said softly, glancing at Aven. He looked up.
The girl froze, then turned to peer over her shoulder. Her dark eyes were wide as if she were a mouse caught in a trap.
In a blink, she bolted. The pitcher she’d been pouring from crashed to the ground as she raced out. Several patients started in surprise from their sleep.
“Wait!” Miara rushed after her, jumping over the shattered pieces and darting into the far doorway. But it was too late. The girl had vanished.
Miara turned back, frowning. Aven had raced after her, and now he looked out the doorway too. Just empty street and alley back there, no fleeing girl.
The boy was staring at her, stunned. “How did you know?”
“Because I’m a mage too. Do you know where she lives? Where she might have gone?”
He mutely shook his head. Miara probed cautiously but sensed no spark of magic in him.
“If you’re done creating a ruckus, you could look at my leg,” grumbled an old man who’d eyed her from the first.
She glanced over her shoulder at Aven. He shrugged, as if to say, what’s done is done. They’d lost the girl. For now.
“I can take a look,” she told the man. He had a long, bushy gray-and-black beard and lively eyes. “But I can’t promise anything. Any injury resulting from age won’t be something I can help.”
He frowned. “Hey! My leg’s not old just because I am. It broke and didn’t heal up right, years ago. Aches every damn day. See for yourself.”
She took a step closer to the man but hated to admit defeat. She eyed the boy a moment longer. “What’s your name?”
“Reed,” he said simply.
“And hers?” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder at the alley.
“Wessa.”
“You see Wessa, you tell her I’m looking for mages. They can train to be healers too if they want. Got it?”
The boy nodded, but his face was pale, as if the mission she’d charged him with scared him.
Grudgingly, she stepped forward to examine the old man’s leg. “Gods, was this even set by a healer?”
“No. Long story. Skirmish on the Takar-Shansaren border, pretty far out.”
“I could heal it, but we’d have to rebreak it first,” she said, wincing. “I’m sure you don’t want to do that. It will hurt a great deal. And then it’ll hurt even more when I repair it. The healing works, but it’s immense agony while it lasts. Are you sure you’re up for that?”
He frowned. “I asked, didn’t I?”
“Does it hurt right now?”
“Damn thing comes and goes.”
“Your choice.”
“I can stand a few minutes of pain to make the nag go away for a while.” He locked his gaze, as if daring her to admit she couldn’t really grant him that.
Miara took a deep breath, hoping she was right in her analysis. She glanced at her two guards. “Which one of you wants to help me break his leg?” she said with a smile.
Their eyes widened, terrified. “We dare not touch a citizen like that, my lady.”
She frowned.
“Guess that leaves me,” said Aven, stepping up to her side.
She picked up a stool and pantomimed cracking him in the leg with it.
“Ah,” he said smoothly, taking the nearby stool from her hands and eying it speculatively. Then he looked to the man. “You ever have your leg broken by a king?”
“Can’t say I have, sire.”
“Not many can claim that, so cling to it, my good man.” Aven grinned.
Kawe had returned and was eying them warily from the doorway.
“Do you have something you do for pain?” Miara called to her.
Kawe fetched a round peg of wood bound with leather and handed it to the old man, who propped it between his teeth. “Ready when you are,” he said, muffled but still managing a grin. He grasped Kawe’s hand.
Grimacing slightly, Aven positioned the side edge of the stool’s base along the break, then backed up, holding out a hand to one guard. “Your truncheon? Unless you’d rather part with your sword?”
“Here you go, sire.”
Without warning, Aven swung the short club overhead and brought it down hard on top of the small stool.
The bone broke with a sickening crunch.
Barely realizing he’d already swung the truncheon, Miara hastily poured energy into the leg, inundating it with power. She snatched a bit from Aven along the way; the practice would be good for him.
“Hey, stop that. Isn’t there a chipmunk you can rob?” Aven grumbled.
“Try and stop me.” She grinned wickedly at him, but sobered quickly. Possibly not the best expression to have shortly after willfully breaking someone’s leg.
The old man, to his credit, didn’t scream. He hardly let out a shout. His face contorted, he dug his teeth into the leather and wood,
but he didn’t attempt to knock Miara across the room.
A good sign.
Finally, the bone snapped back into place, nerve and muscle weaving themselves around it once again. The need lessened, then lessened again. She inspected the rest of him, shooing away a festering heat near his lungs. Otherwise, he now appeared in fine shape.
She took another apprehensive breath and inspected the wound. “It should be healed now,” she said calmly. “There may be some bruising, but the bone should be mended.”
The old man stared at his leg, rapt. He rotated his foot around his ankle, then bent it at the knee. “It seems… good as new.”
Miara nodded. “Yes, it should be. Well, close to it anyway.” Now did not seem the appropriate time to point out that he was not exactly new.
A cry came from the far room. Miara turned and rushed toward it instinctively.
At one end of the room, in a closet full of basins and other tools, Reed stood clutching his hand as blood oozed through his fingers.
She knelt and studied the boy’s hand, brows knitted. Odd. The shard looked as though it had been directly jammed into his hand on purpose. His eyes studied her, calm and intent. Then they flicked warily to Kawe.
Ah. He wanted a chance to speak with her quietly, alone, and was willing to stab himself with a shard of pitcher over it.
“Ah, Kawe, can you get me some towels for the bleeding, please?”
“Of course, my lady.” She hurried away.
As Miara closed her eyes and channeled energy into his little fingers, his cheek brushed hers.
“Wessa knows others. Mage friends. They meet sometimes. They keep hidden. The Third Temple will send Devoted after them if they know. They can’t reveal—” The words came out in a torrent and stopped abruptly.
It was just as well that Kawe had returned because the spell took hold. Reed gritted his teeth with admirable stoicism and watched eagerly as the wound healed up.
Miara accepted the towels from Kawe and began mopping up the blood.
“Allow me, my lady. I’ll not have it said that a future queen was forced to servant’s duty on my watch.”
