by Beth Alvarez
Garam scoffed. “With the look on her face, I thought the queen meant to throttle you with her own hands.”
Rune couldn't help but chuckle. “It wouldn't be the first time.” In some ways, seeing Firal's anger had been a relief. He'd tried to rekindle contact with her when the alliance was forged between Elenhiise and the Triad. Silence answered his efforts, making her wishes obvious. So he'd kept his distance. After so many years, he'd feared something worse than anger would greet his return. He'd feared she wouldn't feel anything at all.
And how beautiful the fire in her eyes had been. She'd changed so little, her face a bit rounder and her figure fuller than when he'd seen her last, though that might have been for the better. She'd lost weight during her time in Core. Their time together. The memory made his throat grow thick, and he swallowed hard.
“So are we abandoning your escape plan, or do we wait until we see what her proposal is?” Garam asked.
Rune twitched and barely caught the scowl that tried to form on his face. The question was posed casually, relating suspicious information in mundane tones so the guards wouldn't think anything was amiss. He made himself study the ceiling as they walked and replied as if bored. “What makes you think I have a plan?”
“Because whether or not you expected a gallows, you wouldn't walk straight to it.”
Of course Garam would expect him to be prepared. They'd been friends too long for anything else. “I have something, I just wasn't positive it would work until just now, when I spoke with Firal.”
“Care to enlighten me?” Garam asked.
Rune shrugged. “It's complicated. I'll explain everything when I can, probably after this council meeting. No time now, we're to your rooms.”
“Your rooms, Lord Kaith,” one of the guards said as he stopped to open a door.
Garam gave Rune a suspicious look.
He smiled in response.
“Thank you,” Garam said. “Send my men and my mages to me. I will need to speak to them before we meet with the queen.” He peered through the doorway and arched a thick white brow. It was a good room, one of the finest guest suites. Better than what Rune suspected he would be staying in.
“Of course, Lord Kaith. Shall we call for serving staff as well?” the guard asked.
Garam nodded. “Please.” He paused to frown at Rune. “And be mindful with my prisoner. Don't forget he's my responsibility until after that meeting is held. My king would not be pleased if something were to go amiss.”
Both guards bowed.
“Be safe,” Rune said in the trade tongue.
“Be careful,” Garam replied, then slipped into his rooms.
Despite their respect for Lord Kaith, the guards shoved Rune back into motion, their grip on his arms rougher now that Garam was out of sight. He wasn't surprised. They were men of Ilmenhith’s army, both old enough that they were likely on the field when the war took place.
They backtracked a good distance before the men turned him down a smaller hallway. The rooms in this part of the palace were slightly better than the servants’ quarters, meant for the low-caste attendants of visiting nobles. Better than the prison, so he wouldn't complain. He’d braced himself for the possibility of staying there again, though the memory alone made the scars on his back burn. Anything was better than that.
One of the men pushed a door open with his shoulder and shoved Rune into the small room. “You’ll wait here. Guards will be up with serving girls to bathe you.”
“Blonde ones, I hope,” Rune said. “I'd prefer not to see any that look like the queen.”
The man scowled. “Mind your tongue.”
“Or what? You’ll cut it out? I think Her Majesty would be displeased if we couldn’t converse during that little meeting she’s called.”
The guard cast a glance to his companion. “Are we going to have a problem?”
“We might.” The second guardsman stepped back into the hall and pulled the door closed, dulling their voices to murmurs.
Alone, Rune allowed himself a sigh.
The room they’d put him in had no windows and only one other door, which led to what he assumed was a small privy or bathing chamber. The only means for escape was the door they’d brought him through, and with the shackles on his wrists, they obviously didn’t think he was a threat. The room's furnishings were sparse, but the rickety table and chair in the corner could have armed him with a club. Not that he thought escape was feasible, but until he had a solid plan, any idea was worth entertaining.
Rune sat on the edge of the narrow bed and twisted his wrists inside their shackles. So far, the only option that seemed to have merit was his first idea. Had their walk been longer, he would have explained it to Garam before they were separated. He didn't like the idea of springing surprises on his friend, but there was a chance that could work to his advantage, too. If the reactions of the spectators in the throne room were any indicator, it wouldn't be hard to stir up an outcry.
He hadn't said it outright, but he'd said enough for the clever to piece it together on their own. He'd spoken of Kifel as his father, announced his right to the throne. But there were pieces to the puzzle he didn't have yet, and how Firal had managed to hold her position as queen without explaining what happened to Ran was one of them.
Strange to think he'd need the name again, after working so hard to bury it. Even Alira no longer called him Lomithrandel; she'd adopted his new name long ago. A name Firal had given him, but one he'd grown into on his own. It was a part of him in more ways than one. From the sigil the Underling queen had etched into his hand to the rune-stone game piece that bore the same mark, which he always carried in his pocket. Not for luck or any sort of power. He wasn't superstitious. Instead it was a reminder of who he was, who he'd become, and what he'd built for himself.
Ran, he supposed, was still a part of that identity.
It wasn't long before more voices murmured outside his door, announcing the arrival of more guards. A mage, too, from the feel of it. Rune pushed himself up from the bed as a pair of serving girls and a white-robed mage he didn't recognize stepped inside. A single guard moved in behind them. A handful more waited outside.
The girls kept their heads down to avoid looking at him. They slipped through the smaller door in the back corner and the mage followed.
“Disrobe,” the guard said as he closed the door behind him. “The girls will bathe you and provide fresh clothing. The queen will wish to speak to you as soon as you're clean.”
The sensation of magic prickled behind him and Rune turned toward it. Magic to heat bath water was a shameful use of power, one the court mages wouldn't stand for unless it was desperately needed. For Firal to want to see him that urgently painted a grim picture of what he could expect.
“Hurry up,” the guard snapped.
“Oh, excuse me. I didn't realize I'd have spectators.” Rune took hold of his shirt's hem to peel it off overhead. The chains on his shackles rattled, and he paused. He couldn't undress. He turned and held out his wrists.
The guard made a low sound of frustration and opened the door just enough to request the key. A second guard stepped in with the key ring.
“We'd be fools to leave you,” the first guard said, posting himself beside the exit. “A man could have any number of weapons tucked up his sleeves.”
The other man sorted through the keys twice before he fit one to the irons.
“Do you trust King Vicamros's men so little?” The moment the shackles fell away, Rune shrugged out of his shirt and cast it to the floor. He wouldn't say as much, but he'd be grateful for the change of clothing. He hadn't planned on leaving home with weeks of travel still on his skin.
“Don't trust anyone much, these days,” the guardsman with the keys muttered. He positioned himself beside the door with one hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
“That's probably wise.” Rune raised his hands, palms out. “Especially since I don't need weapons.”
The men looked uncomfortable. Ri
ghtfully so, considering he'd killed their king with his claws. Hiding his morbid amusement, Rune crept into the bath chamber.
The mage gave him one quick, appraising look before she left. If she or the two serving girls heard what had been said in the other room, they didn't show it.
Rune closed the door before the guards could join them. The chamber was small, made cramped by the claw-footed tub pulled to the middle of the room. A bucket and stool waited beside it. Finer guest baths had shelves for soaps and oils, but here, there was just a plain brown bar of soap and a shabby towel atop the stool. Impressive for peasants and low-ranking servants, he supposed, trying not to think of his private bath back home. It had been a masterpiece, a marvel of engineering ideas he'd culled from his time with the Underlings. It couldn't compare to the luxury of their communal baths, but it came close.
“I'm capable of bathing myself.” He shucked off his pants and slid over the edge of the tub to sink into the water. It was a perfect temperature, just hot enough to be comfortable. One benefit of a mage-heated bath.
The girls said nothing as they moved to the edge of the tub. They were both young and pretty enough, one auburn-haired and the other a dark blonde. The auburn-haired one took the soap from the stool and the bucket from the floor, scooped water from the surface and poured it over his head. Neither responded, and they avoided his searching eyes.
“Do you want one of the guards in here with you?” Rune asked, tilting his head back as the auburn-haired girl lathered her hands and worked the soap into his hair. He would have preferred to be alone, but he wouldn't insult them by refusing to let them do their jobs, either.
The blonde girl glanced at him, then lowered her eyes. She rolled her sleeves a little higher and reached to take one of his hands from the water. He lifted it for her, watching as she produced a stiff-bristled brush from her apron and set to work scrubbing crusted dirt from the claws on his fingers.
He frowned. “Not very talkative, are we?”
“We were told not to speak with you, milord,” the fair-haired girl said.
“Why not?” he asked.
She bit her lip and gazed at him from beneath dark lashes. “They say you're dangerous.”
“Bree!” the girl behind him snarled. She returned to his side, scooped water into the bucket again, and shot a glare across the tub.
Rune raised a brow, unable to hide his amusement. “Dangerous,” he repeated. He pulled his hand from her grasp and twisted a curl of her hair around his finger. “And who told you that?”
Bree ducked her head. Her cheeks turned rosy. “Her Majesty's orders, milord.”
“Firal?” He barked a laugh and dropped his hand back into the water. “Your queen never found me dangerous when she was in my bed, squealing like a hungry piglet at—”
The auburn-haired girl slapped him before he could finish.
Bree squeaked and recoiled.
A low growl welled in his throat and Rune turned his head slowly. The slitted centers of his eyes narrowed. He'd never learned to block out the magic. Though he couldn't seize it or wield it as he once could, it still reacted to him. The crimson glow that flooded his eyes made the girl yelp, but he caught her wrist before she could escape.
“Perhaps things have changed since I was here last, but I don't recall that being the proper way to treat guests.” He held her fast as she tried to pull away, his grip firm but controlled, tight enough to trap her without letting his claws pierce her skin.
He drew her closer. “You,” he said, low and clear, “will not touch me again.”
“Forgive her, Lord Daemon,” Bree pleaded, grasping his other arm. “Mera has a bad temper. She won't do it again.”
“No,” he said, loosening his grip and relaxing into the tub again. “She won't. She'll stand back and assist you today. Nothing more. After that, we won't cross paths again.”
Mera shrank back, wide-eyed, and clutched her wrist.
“Now,” Rune sighed and ran a hand through his soapy hair. “Where were we?”
Bree bowed her head as he offered his hand and she resumed her scrubbing, but she said no more.
It was just as well. He was in no mood for idle chatter anyway, and the girls had already served their purpose. Serving staff were useful when one wanted people to talk. In moments, they'd provided a chance to prove he was a threat, as well as a chance to stir rumors about Firal's connection to the Underlings—and him. It wasn't much, but it was a start. Dissent was a powerful tool. He could think of no better way to draw the attention he needed. If he was going to escape Elenhiise with his hide intact, he was going to need a lot of it.
10
Corruption's heights
Against the backdrop of the setting sun, the village was nothing more than blocky shadows. The dark shapes sat low to the ground, save one narrow building that loomed between Vahn's riders and the village proper. A guard tower, he supposed, though it reminded him more of a shepherd watching over the smaller structures beneath it.
Their stay in Wethertree had been brief, just long enough to explain their mission and order the mages back to Ilmenhith. The city's people weren't happy to see the mages go, even though he'd promised their return after their job was fulfilled. He expected the same response everywhere.
That trouble was Firal's fault. She'd been tight-fisted with the distribution of mages after she took the crown, even after Kytenia became Archmage. It was better to keep the mages close to the temple, Firal had claimed, to foster unity and prevent them from splitting into factions again. When things had settled and she finally agreed to redistribute mages across the countryside, every village had clamored to have one of their own. Not every village had been granted a mage, and the resentment between settlements was thick. On top of all that, the Grand College's interest in acquiring temple mages had been an unpleasant additional burden.
No matter how Vahn wished they could fulfill every request, the temple couldn't spare more mages. Each year, fewer people sent their children for training, and the number of mages stationed in the temple had begun to dwindle. Every village wanted one, recognizing the value of a Gifted healer, but the temple's first Archmage still cast a long shadow.
Mages had been a driving force in the war, people said. Some even claimed they were responsible. They weren't wrong, but it was foolish to leave their children with Gifts untapped. Magic had a way of breaking free eventually, and without proper training, mages were a danger to themselves and everyone around them. Even if the temple had possessed the numbers to spare for it, one mage to a village wasn't enough to teach anyone. Much less enough to contain the threat of wild magic.
“We should be close to Eldril,” Vahn said, hoping conversation would chase away his dark thoughts.
His father and the mage Kytenia assigned to the party rode at his side. For his safety, Ennil claimed, and Vahn thought he might be right. He trusted his military, but if it came to an ambush, no one could keep him safer than a mage.
Ennil made a small sound in his throat. “Near enough, but I don't think we'll make it tonight.”
“We might, if we press.” Vahn squinted at the guard tower. “There are several mages stationed in Eldril, aren't there, Kepha?”
The mage blinked, surprised to be addressed. “Yes, Your Majesty.” Her eyes traveled farther southwest. “But I believe he’s correct. I don't think we'll reach it tonight. Tomorrow, most likely. Before noon if we get an early start.”
“How many mages are supposed to be there?” Ennil asked. “Enough for a Gate?”
Kepha pursed her lips. “Have you need of a Gate, Lord Tanrys?”
Vahn frowned. He'd wondered the same thing.
“Not now, no. I just wonder if we would be better served to have a group of mages ride along with us. We'd be able to Gate those we collect straight to Ilmenhith.” Ennil stretched in his saddle, groaned and pressed a hand to his lower back. “Gates to move us from village to village would be better, too.”
“I don't think
you realize how much a Gate takes out of a mage,” Vahn said, satisfied when the Master beside him nodded. “We would exhaust them within a few minutes.”
“Aside from that,” Kepha added, “you're assuming the mages we'd have with us would be able to reach the destinations we wanted. Any of them can get us to Ilmenhith or the temple, but unless they're familiar with a place, they can't open a Gate to it.”
“So riding is the only way to reach a lot of these small outpost villages,” Vahn concluded. “If there were a better way, I would have found out before we left the palace.” A hint of an edge worked its way into his tone, and Ennil regarded him through narrowed eyes. Not a frown, but a look of displeasure. Vahn didn't care. He didn't say it outright, but his father understood the words not spoken: I'm not a fool.
“Wishful thinking,” Ennil said after a time, still rubbing his back. “I'm not as young as I used to be.”
Vahn snorted. “Then perhaps you should have stayed home.”
Kepha bit her lower lip. No one said anything else.
They rode on for some time. The sun set before they reached the village's edge.
It was there the mage leaned forward in her saddle. Her brows drew together. “Strange,” she murmured.
The single word made Vahn's skin prickle. “What?”
“I didn't think there were any mages at this outpost.” Kepha paused, and her look of bemusement slowly melted into one of concern. “Have you had any reports of illness from this region?”
He straightened in his saddle, willing himself to ignore the fatigue of travel. “Why? How many are there?”
“I'm not sure,” the mage said. “I can't distinguish them. More than one, but some are odd. They feel... untrained, maybe. Gifted children, perhaps.”
“Can you be sure?”
She shook her head. “My assumption is temple mages. Perhaps magelings assisting Masters.”
“We will exercise caution, then.” Ennil pulled his mount to a stop and signaled for the rest of the group to halt behind him. “One man to investigate and ask about disease before we ride in. That way, if he's exposed to something unpleasant, there's only one person for Kepha to tend. Rather than the whole group.”
