by Beth Alvarez
“No, sir. She was called back to the capital last night.” Rhyllyn walked to the couches with him, then glanced over his shoulder.
Garam raised a brow. “Did I interrupt something?”
“Oh, I just started something for supper. Will you be staying with us to eat?”
“Not likely. Don't let me keep you, though. I'll just sit here and wait.” As if to punctuate the statement, Garam dropped onto one of the couches and heaved a sigh of relief as he sank into the plush blue upholstery.
“With those boots on my rug?” The front door slammed shut and both Garam and Rhyllyn jumped.
“You're home!” Rhyllyn laughed and ran to greet his brother.
Rune scooped him into a bear hug and ruffled the boy's hair with one hand. Then he shoved him back and dropped his bags to the floor with little regard for the parquetry. “Didn't burn the house down yet, I see. Alira here?”
“No, just us.” Rhyllyn dragged the bags to the foot of one staircase while his brother strode into the parlor.
There was no blood shared between the two of them. Their snakelike eyes, scales and claws were all they had in common, but even those differed. Rune's scales were a rich emerald green, his eyes bright violet—the most unnatural color Garam had ever seen. But a lot about him seemed unnatural, both in power and appearance. Garam had always found the man's features unsettling. Too graceful, too symmetrical, like the face of a fine sculpture by a master artist. Only the man's tangled, chin-length brown hair seemed normal.
“Figures you'd come in now,” Garam said with a grunt as he labored back to his feet. “Just as soon as I get comfortable.”
“It's good to see you too, Garam.” Rune met him at the couch to share a quick embrace. Then he stepped back, his hands on Garam's shoulders. “Look at you. Finally gave up and started using a cane, I see. I can't believe how much you've changed.”
Chuckling, Garam shrugged away. “And how much you haven't. You're barely any older than the day I met you. Still couldn't grow a beard to save your life.”
“Ah,” Rune sighed, rubbing the patchy stubble that lined his jaw with a smirk. “Something to thank my maker for, I suppose. Never was fond of how stern yours made you look.”
“Wasn't wearing it to impress you. My wife is still fond of it. That's good enough for me.” Garam sank back to the couch, unable to suppress a sigh of relief. He was tempted to borrow a cushion for the carriage ride home. “How was the trip? Did you find what you were looking for?”
Rune hesitated, then shrugged. “It's been a long time. I'm starting to think what I'm looking for doesn't exist.” He unstrapped his sword from his side and leaned it against the couch opposite from where Garam sat. The fine blade looked like it belonged in the rich manor, its twisted black hilt polished to a shine. It had appeared out of place on its wielder's hip, but Rune rarely went anywhere without it. After the ordeal the man had gone through to keep it in his possession, Garam hardly blamed him.
Rhyllyn put a pair of goblets and a bottle of wine on the low table between them. Garam hadn't even seen the boy leave to fetch them. He nodded in silent appreciation. “They have to be somewhere. Where else is there to look?”
“Not many places. Not without crossing the sea and delving into the hinterlands. And we both know what happened last time I tried that.” Rune scooped the bottle from the table and turned it over in hand. His brows lifted. “Good choice. You haven't been drinking out of my stash while I was gone, have you, Rhyllyn?”
“Anything is a better choice than what you drink on your own,” Garam muttered.
“And less likely to ease my frustrations.” Rune filled both goblets and pushed one across the table. Rhyllyn's shadow crossed over them and Rune lifted his head. “Where are you going?”
Rhyllyn paused at the door. “Kitchen. Bread needs me. You two go ahead, we'll talk when you're done.”
Garam picked up his goblet as he watched the youth excuse himself. “He's a good boy. You're fortunate to have him here.”
“Missing yours?” Rune smirked over the rim of his cup as he sat.
“Ah, they're moving on. The children are all grown now, most have started families of their own. We just welcomed our sixth grandchild, you know. That's the way it is with families. They tend to grow.”
Rune nodded slightly. “And Sera?”
Garam narrowed his eyes and took a slow draw from his cup. “She doesn't like it when you ask about her.”
“I've never let what other people like dictate what I do,” Rune said.
“I've noticed.” Garam paused, glancing into his cup. It was a good choice, a fine red wine like nothing he'd tasted before. Brought back from afar, no doubt. “Either way, she's doing well. Little ones aren't so little any more, but they have another on the way. She and her husband are happy, that's what matters.”
Rune frowned and sipped his wine.
Garam raised one white brow. “What?”
“I'm sure you heard from Rhyllyn when I would be coming home. I appreciate your visit, Garam. I don't see friends often enough these days.” He leaned forward and put his goblet on the table. “Which is why I wonder why you're here.”
Swirling the wine in his cup, Garam stared at the ripples and eddies and avoided his friend's eye. “That easy to see through me, huh?” He hesitated, tracing the rim of the goblet with a fingertip. They were good cups; fine silver with delicate etching, though the pattern was unfamiliar. He studied it as he spoke. “Three days ago, a missive arrived from one of our allies, accusing you of treason and demanding that you be arrested and returned to them.”
Rune rested his elbows on his knees, laced his green-scaled fingers together and closed his eyes. He wasn't surprised. A bad sign.
Garam wet his lips and went on. “Under normal circumstances, I think Vicamros would have laughed at them. But they're too valuable for him to dismiss something like this, and their letter was rather hostile. The council demanded a hearing on the matter.”
“After all I've done for them,” Rune murmured. He took his wine again and drained it in a few swallows.
“It was a difficult meeting. I was there. Vicamros appreciates everything you've done for him, and for his father, but he's trapped in a bad position. He resisted, but the council put a lot of pressure on him. We can't lose Elenhiise, Rune. Not after they've become the most vital port of trade in the civilized world.”
His friend said nothing, merely refilled his goblet.
Garam sighed. “I'm sorry. Offering a warning ahead of the guards' arrival was the best I could do. I got a bit of a head start, maybe an hour, though I'm sure they've gained on me. It's all the time I can give you.”
Snorting, Rune leaned back in his seat. “Time to do what? Pack my bags and get back on the road? Try to make it out of the Triad before every farmhand and mercenary finds out there might be a price on my head?”
“I didn't say it was a good option,” Garam said, “but your choices are slim.”
Rune shook his head. “I'm not running. Not this time.” There was an edge in his voice. A note of determination, frustration, rather than resignation or surrender. The choice of words, however, made Garam pause.
Slowly, Garam reached for the bottle on the table to refill his goblet. “I've made a point of never prying, you know. But the council is... speculating. You know how they are. If any part of this accusation is untrue—”
“There are a dozen different things they can claim to have me hung, Garam. If I deny one, they'll still have me on others. And it seems their reach has grown long. Where else can I go?” Shaking his head again, Rune took the bottle back and filled his cup to the brim. “I fled execution. It doesn't matter that they violated law and custom to see me hang. I still ran. Knowing what happened won't make any of the council want to support me in this. I suppose it was foolish for me to think I'd escaped.”
Garam nodded slowly. “So what now?”
“What else?” Rune stifled a humorless laugh. “We drink. The gua
rds come, and they cart me off to Elenhiise so Her Royal Fickleness can get a noose around my neck.”
“And Rhyllyn?” Garam asked in a hushed tone.
Rune turned his head toward the kitchen. For a moment, something else replaced the agitation on his face. Wistfulness. Regret. “I'll need a favor.”
“He'll be taken care of,” Garam assured him. “He'll always have a place with my family, and I'll fight the council to make sure your lands and title aren't stripped, no matter what happens. As long as my family lives, House Kaith will stand with him.”
Nodding, Rune looked down at his wine. “Thank you.”
“You're going to need to tell him.”
“I think he'll figure it out as soon as the guards show up to arrest me.”
“We'll see if he appreciates the dramatics.” Garam chuckled and lifted his cup.
Rune smirked and raised his to meet the toast.
They finished in a few swallows. A shame, really. It was a good wine.
Outside, the sound of horses and men in armor drove the birdsong to silence.
6
Old wounds
“You did what?” Firal's voice cracked and she fell back into her chair.
“It's the only choice we have.” Vahn paced in front of the tall windows lining her office, one hand on his sword, his knuckles white. “Kytenia said as much herself. We can't do anything without a free mage, and if there's anyone in the world who might help us...” He sighed and paused to look out across the city.
Firal felt weak. Days had crawled by without so much as a whisper from her daughter's kidnapper. No demands—though somehow she knew there would be none—and no hints as to where they might be. She'd cried herself dry each night and worked through the days without rest.
Though she wasn't sure her child was still on the island, she'd ordered the guard and army to action. Men assembled in the courtyard below, preparing to scour the countryside and collect every mage available while they were at it. Many of the chapter houses across Elenhiise were empty now, the mages largely contained in Ilmenhith and the temple. Only a few Masters were still scattered across the island to serve as healers and a voice for the queen. Sending a party to collect them would soothe her nerves for a while, at least. If this came to a fight, every mage they could find would be necessary.
But this? And without so much as asking her? Firal squeezed her eyes closed, suddenly sick to her stomach.
“This is asking a great deal of Vicamros.” Her voice quavered. She'd pretended to be calm and sure in front of courtiers and soldiers, managed to keep herself together in front of her friends. Now her strength was spent and she teetered on the verge of tears. After all she'd been through, this struck too close to betrayal.
It had been ages since her first husband had disappeared into the ether and never returned. The very notion they might find him now, that they could comb the world for him after hope had been long abandoned, made her ill. She couldn't fathom their chances. She'd almost given up on the thought he was alive.
“I haven't asked Vicamros to search, just to watch. That's not overstepping our bounds. He needs us too much now. Considering how easy it would be for us to strike up an alliance with someone else, he won't risk our connection. If Ran is there, Vicamros will give him to us. It's the best chance we have.”
She didn't want to admit he was right.
Vahn glanced at her over his shoulder. “I'm planning to ride with my father to collect mages. I think if word comes, it would be best if I'm not here.”
Firal tried not to frown. There was a deeper meaning in those words, something that made the uneasy churning of her stomach worse. Do what you have to, the undercurrent whispered. His eyes said it, instead of his voice. Just don't make me watch.
She pushed herself from her chair and crossed the office to slide her arms around his middle. Her cheek rested against his back and he tensed in her arms.
They'd married out of necessity, barely friends, certainly not lovers. He'd spent the first year sleeping on the floor beside her bed, more of a bodyguard than a husband. Building a relationship that was any more than that had been difficult, sometimes forced, but she had come to love him.
“It was thirty years this spring,” she murmured. “And besides, he was your friend, too.”
“He was.” Vahn put his hands atop hers to hug her arms to his chest. “And if he comes, I'll speak to him when I'm ready. Until then, as I said, it would be best.”
Firal nodded against his back and squeezed him tighter.
She wasn't the only one hurt by Rune's departure, though she knew it was better than his death. He'd been her first love, Vahn's best friend, and a traitor to the crown. She'd done her best to address her feelings, forced herself to move on and make the most of what she had. But after she'd done so, they'd simply never spoken of him again. It was clear Vahn still struggled, and the relationship they had now made things more complicated. He expected trouble. He expected to be hurt.
“Just remember,” she said, and swallowed hard when her voice cracked. “You're my husband now.”
“Yes.” Vahn laced his fingers with hers, and all his hidden uncertainties spilled out in a single word. “Now.”
A team of mages waited in the courtyard. They stood to one side, idly watching as the grooms checked saddles and hooves while the men prepared for departure. Vahn was grateful for the mages, though he regretted the half-circle of Masters wasn't coming with them. Only one was to ride as part of their group, a woman named Kepha, who Vahn didn't know. Kytenia had chosen her to represent the mages, which was good enough, but he still would have preferred a Master he knew well.
The woman waited beside his father, excluded from the half-circle of mages meant to open a Gate. She was cold and neutral, white-haired, blue-eyed, and clothed in white robes like every other Master he'd ever seen. All mages looked the same, after a while. Perhaps that was what they intended. A unified front, where one was indistinguishable from the rest. He imagined the solidarity was beneficial.
Ennil met him a short distance away from the gathering company. He wore his dress armor, gleaming silver enameled with Ilmenhith's royal blue. His graying hair was slicked back and his face freshly shaven. The side of his face was still healing, which must have made the task difficult, but Ennil had refused to have a mage heal him. No sense in using magic, he said, when a man's body could do the same work on its own. A stubborn viewpoint, but one the man had held for as long as Vahn could remember.
“Are you ready?” his father asked, giving him a look-over.
Vahn wore the plain armor of a cavalryman. Only the silver circlet on his brow set him apart from the other soldiers. Odd, he thought, how his father would stand out instead of the king. “As I can be.” Vahn wasn't eager to leave Firal, but he didn't like feeling powerless, either. He was just a man. One of Eldani blood, but diluted enough that he knew his wife would far outlive him. He had no Gift, no power, no way to fight the forces that had taken his daughter. He couldn't understand the challenges the mages would face in trying to retrieve her. But riding to collect mages, sending them back to serve beneath Kytenia—that was something he could do.
Better still that it kept him out of Ilmenhith, should an answer come from the mainland.
A small part of him thought he should stay. To comfort and support Firal, but also to see his friend if the summons was answered. But that part was drowned by a sense of resentment, a bitter grudge he hadn't realized he'd allowed to grow.
Ran had been his friend once, but Vahn wasn't sure he could still call him that. Vahn had made sacrifices on Ran's behalf. Given up his life, his aspirations, his future. He'd grown content in what he had, but it had taken a great deal of work. Work to make Firal love him, work to build a relationship between the two of them, work to be a good father to a child who could never be wholly his. Some part of him resented that most. He was the only father Lulu had ever known, and he loved her dearly, but there was a voice inside him—a small,
sour, angry voice he hated—that lamented the color of her eyes. The girl was beautiful, so like her mother. But those eyes were a snare laid around her mother's heart, a small reminder of what could have been. Love had always seemed to come so naturally to Ran.
Just like everything else.
Ennil passed directions to the soldiers while the groomsmen gave the horses' girth straps one more tug and handed off the reins. The only thing left for Vahn to do was ride.
He tried to focus on what waited ahead, taking his horse's reins without acknowledging the groom. He needed to be busy. Surely he'd feel better once he was on the road. Riding always helped clear his head, and traversing the countryside could only help more. Or so he hoped. It could just as easily make things worse.
What would happen in Ilmenhith after he left? The thought was unsettling and Vahn frowned as he swung into the saddle. He knew he couldn't stay if things were to go smoothly. He didn't doubt Firal's fidelity. If Ran had stayed the person Vahn knew, he'd never need to. But he didn't know how negotiations would happen, if it would be private or put before the council, and either method could be disastrous.
“Where first?” asked one of the mages.
“Wethertree,” Vahn replied absently. “Theirs is the only remaining full chapter house outside Ilmenhith. We'll speak to them first, make arrangements for Gates as necessary, then round up the mages in that area.”
The mage nodded and retreated to rejoin the others, a few steps back. They spoke a moment in low voices and then began whatever it was they did to open Gates.
Vahn stared at the crackling edges of light that opened in the air before them and drew his mount's reins tight.
Perhaps he was worried about the wrong things. The longer he stewed over it, the more he unraveled the tangled knot of concerns that weighted his heart. It wasn't Ran's return that bothered him. It was that Ran could do things he couldn't. That after so many years of effort, of working to be the father Lulu deserved, he could do nothing to save her. That three full decades after his departure, Ran was the only one who could.
