by R. K. Thorne
With just three or four boulders, the mage had cleared the gate. All of those who’d been preparing to kill them were dead.
He dragged her forward again, and she ran now with him as fast as her feet could move her. If he’d killed those people to get them free, she’d not worsen their deaths by spiting him, or making them meaningless. That was not hope kindling in her chest. She did not hope.
Hope was a fatal flaw. Hope would get her killed. Hope would get dashed when seemingly kind and valiant men proved their true mettle. It was inevitable.
“MIARA, this is Priestess Gerana, High Priestess of Nefrana, Elii Temple. Priestess, this is my betrothed, Arms Master Miara Floren.”
Miara bowed her head and slightly at the waist too. How deeply was appropriate was entirely unclear at this point. Those were a lot of fancy titles Aven was dishing out. Her blood pounded in her ears. Elise would probably tell her to act like the queen, even without the informal title, but the last thing she needed was to give a priestess of Nefrana one more reason to not support them.
“A blessing to meet you, Arms Master. And betrothed? Congratulations.” The woman’s voice held a tint of disapproval, but her eyes darted to the emerald and then up to Miara’s face.
“Yes,” Aven countered. “We haven’t had time with the king’s sickness and a few other issues—and the war on top of that—to celebrate the matter formally. But in due time, we will. We all thought it best the arrangement be formalized, however, with the rest of the chaos.” Ah, it was only the lack of due ceremony she objected to, not the betrothal itself, Miara hoped.
We all thought? she whispered into his head, laughing silently. Did you actually consult anybody?
The corner of his mouth twitched up in a very slight smile. I decided you agreed with the proposition when you were kissing me earlier.
A fair assumption.
“And how is His Highness Samul?” the priestess said smoothly.
Aven looked to Miara. She swallowed her nerves. “No better, I’m afraid. We are searching for medicines, but it is a long process, requiring time we may not have.”
The priestess frowned, eying Aven sideways. “You are charged with his care? I hate to point it out, but it would seem to your benefit if he did not improve.”
Miara gritted her teeth. “Ranok’s healer is charged with his care. I am simply assisting him and Queen Elise.”
“Miara has spent most of her life as a healer,” Aven cut in. “And she also rescued my father from a Kavanarian ambush only two days ago, for which he granted her her title. Her loyalty to the Lanuken family runs deep and has been proven time and again.”
Miara’s shoulders relaxed slightly. When had she started clenching them? Aven’s words were spoken with conviction, though, and by no means stretched the truth. She was an accomplished healer… even if it was mostly of horses.
“I am glad to hear it,” said the priestess, but Miara was hardly sure of the truth of that. “I don’t mean to monopolize you, sire. I see others waiting to greet you. But I do have more questions. Given your confidence in the arms master’s loyalty, perhaps she could accompany me for a walk around the grounds? It’s growing icy in here. Some walking would do our blood good, don’t you think?” She smiled at Miara, a vague expression that brought little warmth to her face.
Aven looked to her for approval, eyebrow raised.
Is this a trap? she spoke into his mind again.
Perhaps a social one, but she’ll have words for you one way or another, now or in the future. Your preference when to spring it.
Miara smiled as warmly as she could muster at the woman. “Agreed, it would. If you don’t mind my brief absence, my lord?” Miara said, with a slight emphasis on ‘brief.’
Aven nodded. “I’m sure others will want to meet you, but a few minutes couldn’t hurt.”
The priestess headed for the hall, and Miara fell in step beside her.
“You know, many of us thought that young man might never marry,” Gerana said, a touch sentimental.
Miara groped for a response. “I have heard he had many suitors,” she replied woodenly.
“I can’t imagine what you must have done to capture his interest.”
Miara almost laughed. Capture was exactly right. But it hardly seemed prudent to point that out just now. She only smiled to herself.
“What were you seeking when the two of you became acquainted? How do a healer and a prince cross paths? Was he grievously injured and we didn’t hear of it?”
Miara took a deep breath. No avoiding this conversation, was there? She should have rehearsed something. “I spent much of my life as a healer, but I am not only that.”
“And what else have you been?” Gerana’s voice was patient, as if to say, she could play games like this all day and all night too, if Miara insisted.
“A slave,” Miara said coldly.
Gerana stopped short. “Pardon?”
Miara folded her arms across her chest, frowning back at her. “How do you feel about mages, my dear High Priestess of Nefrana?”
The woman tensed, but said nothing.
“And how about the Devoted? Are you fond of them?”
Gerana frowned. “Hardly. Their faith is admirable—”
“Is it?” Miara’s voice was sharp as the Great Stone itself.
“—but the goddess would never justify murder.”
“And what about slavery? Would she justify that?”
Gerana blinked, her lips parted but no words coming out. Finally she managed, “You are… a mage, I hear?”
“As is our king,” said Miara flatly. “I’m certain you’ve heard by now.”
The priestess swallowed and glanced around. Calculating her response? It had better be a good one. “I’d never heard of the Devoted practicing slavery,” Gerana said softly, “but how could anyone do anything but condemn it? Especially in Nefrana’s name.”
Miara eased slightly. The words sounded as sincere. Gerana could be a good actress, and what else could she say, with a mage suddenly king? But the words rang true.
Miara turned and restarted their walk, preferring to train her eyes on the marble instead of the priestess’s face. The priestess followed her lead, and they strolled out of the main court hall and onto the raised walkway that overlooked the barracks and its yard.
“I had the misfortune to be born in Kavanar,” Miara said. “When I was five years old, my mother gave me up to the Devoted upon discovering I was a mage. I was enslaved with magic, branded with fire, bound with a spell I couldn’t resist, even in my mind. I was forced to work as a healer. As I grew older, I began receiving other, more dangerous assignments.” She paused, waiting to see if Gerana was keeping up.
“I am sorry to hear you suffered at your mother’s hands.”
Miara frowned, caught off guard at the sudden lump in her throat. Were these sincere condolences or simply a way to tear open the first wound she could find, to throw Miara off-balance? She glared down at her feet and said nothing.
“Tell me, are all mages enslaved in Kavanar?”
Miara nodded, surprised but relieved at the factual question. “And any they can kidnap from neighboring lands too, via the efforts of the Devoted.”
The priestess covered her mouth with a concerned hand, and for the first time Miara realized Gerana was deeply disturbed, her brow furrowed and eyes crinkled almost as if in pain. A far cry from Alikar’s reaction, at the very least.
After a longer moment of silence had passed, Miara continued. “And that is how our paths crossed. My assignments started off trivial, spying on the Kavanarian king for the Masters, but eventually I was tasked with kidnapping a very prominent foreign mage. You might know him.”
Gerana caught her breath. “That… is a far cry from marrying him. Or courting him.”
“I did not intend to court him. I hoped he’d defeat me. I had no reason to hate him, and indeed every reason quite the opposite.”
“Apparently. How? How did you es
cape your task?”
“Long story, but suffice to say, I failed.” That was not precisely true, but it might be the more diplomatic and easier-to-accept story. “Aven freed me in the process, and I have been fighting at our king’s side ever since.”
She paused, but Gerana said nothing as they walked, sun streaming in and bathing them in warmth for a moment.
“I will continue to fight for him, as long as I am able,” Miara continued, softer now. “I owe him everything.”
“Well, that explains it.” Gerana was nodding now, although still frowning.
“Explains what?”
“How you attracted him.”
“You say that like I had some scheme to gain the throne, and nothing could be farther from the truth,” Miara said harshly.
Gerana smiled at her now. “I know. And it puts my mind at ease. Forgive the phrasing, force of habit.” She waved her hand as if shooing away a leaf on the wind. “But you must tell me more—these slaves. Something must be done.”
Miara’s eyes widened. “These mage slaves?”
“Yes.”
“Surely as a priestess of Nefrana you might have some… opinions about the use of magic. You’ve quite deftly avoided outlining them so far. I can’t say I blame you as you stare down a king and future queen clearly on one side of the debate, but…”
“But what?”
“But I would rather know your true opinion and respect it than deal in lies.”
Gerana’s jaw clenched. “The church’s opinion on… mages… is evolving,” she said haltingly.
“You can do better than that.”
Gerana raised an eyebrow. “You’re even more straightforward than he is.”
Miara smiled mischievously. “Straightforward, frank, blunt, lacking in subtlety… I think I will choose to take that as a compliment.”
“My personal opinion is not terribly relevant,” Gerana said. “The official stance of our church is weighed by six separate temples, each with varying exposure to mages and the Devoted. Here in Panar, I have the benefit of seeing many different types of people. Some of the more remote temples may not even hear of this war until it is nearly over. Our Panaran temple also has the greatest, oldest library of any of the city’s temples, even those temples to Anara and Mastikos.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“We have records that date back before the Dark Days. Personal accounts. Journals. Illustrations. The accounts of the Dark Days themselves vary wildly, but if you go back far enough, there are accounts of mages of great faith and service. I have read some of them myself.”
Miara frowned. “Mages who abstained from using their magic, you mean?”
“No,” Gerana said quickly. “They specifically recount using it in the goddess’s name. Alongside something they called the holy connection.”
Now Miara did not know what to say. If only Sefim were here. “I’ve never heard of that before in my life.”
Gerana waved it off. “My point is, the church’s stance has been evolving for decades, centuries even, and it continues to evolve. My personal opinion is I do not know what to believe. I don’t presume to know Nefrana’s will ever, except when she speaks through my conscience, through guilt, through kindness and charity. I do know that the future queen who stands in front of me has already bestowed remarkable acts of kindness on the Akarian people. And I also know my conscience clearly says enslaving anyone is wrong, and it is our duty to help them.”
Miara stopped abruptly and smiled at Gerana, who looked startled. “You are a refreshing change of pace, you know that? When you take the straightforward route.”
Gerana smiled back tentatively. “Thank you. I think?”
Miara nodded and began walking again, this time back toward the court hall. It was high time she returned to Aven’s side. “We are working hard already to free slaves. Progress has been slow to nonexistent. Our techniques are limited, but it’s better than the nothing we had this time last year.” Miara shrugged. “I do not know how this war will go, but I hope it brings an end to it all.”
Nodding sternly, Gerana stared down at the marble. “I don’t suppose there is much my temple can do to help.”
“You can follow our orders and send any willing mages to me. You can support our king and his war. And me.”
“There was no question of that.”
That had certainly not been clear from her first words, but Miara didn’t doubt it now. Why the word games, though? Maybe someday—decades from now—Miara would understand how these people worked. But for now, her first altercation seemed to have gone rather well. Had it been too easy? Miara had employed about as much subtlety as a battering ram. If she caught people off guard with blunt frankness, perhaps that was a courtly game in and of itself. In fact, now that she thought about it, Aven and his parents had used it quite often, even on her. Verbal ambushes. Maybe Miara wasn’t as out of her element as she’d thought.
“I will keep your interest in helping in mind and advise the king to do the same,” Miara promised. “Anything you can do to ease the stigma against mages would be a boon. I have heard rumors your Third Temple is more friendly with the Devoted than you seem to be.”
The priestess paled. “You can’t be serious.”
“It may be only rumors. But it would certainly earn my gratitude if such collusion were stamped out.”
“I will speak with Ediama and do what must be done.”
Miara smiled as sweetly as she could. “Thank you for suggesting this walk, Priestess Gerana. It has been very thought provoking. And pleasant. And good for the blood.” While awkwardly stitched together, Miara thought that wasn’t a terrible attempt at courtly etiquette.
Gerana smiled and bowed, more deeply than before. “My sentiments as well, Arms Master. I will not keep you from your betrothed’s side any longer. Good day to you.”
“And to you as well.”
AS GERANA LED MIARA AWAY, Aven had to wonder if this was some kind of concerted effort by the holy women of Nefrana because, of course, Priestess Ediama stepped up next. He’d sent a stern warning to the Third Temple, also known as the Matron’s Tears, reminding them that working with the Devoted to kidnap or kill people was completely unacceptable, not to mention against the law. It would not be tolerated.
He didn’t know if they’d take heed. They might not understand the force of his conviction until the unit he’d left in charge of the matter had to arrest someone.
If any of this ruffled Ediama—or had even reached her ears—she showed no sign. She smiled and curtsied gracefully, radiating warmth, but also power. Young to be high priestess, she had always been a dark beauty, her olive skin and long, curling, black hair striking against the white robes of Nefrana. Somehow she had managed to finagle an audience with Aven every time he’d visited Ranok. All four of them. Not an easy thing to do.
“Priestess Ediama,” he said, giving the slightest bow and head nod in return. “How have you fared?”
“Your Highness,” she said a little too grandly. Her wide smile never slipped. “Congratulations on your ascent to the kingship.”
He blinked, then nodded again. “Thank you. How fares the Third Temple?”
“As Nefrana wills us,” she said dreamily.
His expression had hardened each time she’d spoken, and he glared now. “Does Nefrana will you into the arms of the Devoted?”
She tilted her head, feigning confusion while her smile remained firmly affixed. “Is this about that nasty rumor? Must we talk about such nonsense on such a momentous occasion?”
“Rumor or no, I’m happy to remind you of Akarian law.”
“Of course, Your Highness.”
Don’t roll your eyes, don’t roll your eyes. “I’m also happy to enforce it,” he said, the edge in his voice so hard he could’ve sliced with it. She had by no means denied anything.
“Of course, Your Highness.”
Just how nonsensical of a statement could he utter and
still get her to respond the same patronizing way? He was tempted to try it, but it likely wasn’t the best way to assert his authority as a new king. When he was gray in the beard, he could try stunts like that. If he lived that long. Still, he couldn’t crush the desire to punch through that smiling façade to the truth of her. He sighed. Maybe he did prefer Estun to this courtly sort of life, dark cavern or no.
“Did you know I recently had a run-in with the Devoted myself?” he said slowly, hoping to catch her off guard.
And indeed, her smile faltered. “N-no, Your Highness. I have heard no such news.”
“Of course. You are one of the select few I’m sharing it with.” He smiled even as he wanted to roll his eyes at himself now. That technique might turn his stomach, but it worked. “I had the misfortune of tangling with them in the Gilaren forest, not long ago.”
“Oh my,” she breathed. If her mix of concerned and impressed was an act, it was quite a good one. She flopped one hand over her heart. “Was anyone injured?”
“They were. All of them.” He eyed her hard, and she simply returned his stare, unsure how to respond. “So you see, this Devoted thing is personal. Listen. I know you may have mixed opinions on mages. Even within the temples of Nefrana, I know there are differences in thought on what the goddess approves and does not approve. But I’m a mage, and this is war. Dozens if not hundreds of mages are headed to our doorstep.”
Her eyes widened, but she remained frozen.
He lowered his voice. “You don’t have to agree with me. But if you want to survive this war with Kavanar, you better make sure no one in your temple is persecuting mages. Or working with the Devoted in any way. If I find out they are, I will hold you personally responsible. Understand?”
“Of course. Your Highness.”
He would have laughed at the same words again, but her tone had sobered and was now more frightened than smooth and buttery. Something about the words “if you want to survive” tended to get people’s attention. “If you hear of any mages, I want them sent to Ranok, to the future queen, as the proclamation said.”
