by Beth Alvarez
“I ordered your capture, the night that...” Ordin trailed off. “I've cursed myself for that breach of conduct many times over the years. None so violently as this morning, when I realized it was you I wronged.”
Rune snorted. “How does that make it any different?”
The captain shrugged and clasped his hands together behind his back. “Because I helped train you when you were young. Before I replaced Ennil Tanrys as Captain of the Guard. Because I always told your father you were too soft on your opponents in combat. I don't believe the young man I knew was capable of killing in cold blood.”
“Would that I were still the same young man,” Rune murmured. “Time changes all of us, Ordin. Hardens us.”
“But you never intended to usurp your father's throne.”
“No,” Rune said, shaking his head. “My father's death was a tragedy, but there's little to be done about it now, and... that's something I'd rather not discuss. Tell me, did the queen inform her council what she has asked of me?”
“Not all of them,” Ordin admitted. “She spoke to me, but only because I insisted.”
“And what do you think of the princess's disappearance?” The title felt odd as it rolled off Rune's tongue. He wouldn't incriminate himself as the girl's father just yet. He still wasn't sure he believed it. Garam seemed certain, but Garam's life wasn't at risk of being upended over such a discovery. Selfish as Rune had become, he acknowledged that the secret protected Firal, too.
The captain's mouth twitched with a suppressed frown. “I think I wish it were a simple kidnapping. A scoundrel after a ransom. Something like that, I could understand. But this...” He trailed off and shook his head.
“There are always motives,” Rune said.
“I didn't say there weren't. The problem is that whatever this one is, I have a feeling it's greater than I—or any of my men—are ready to deal with.”
The man's candor was a surprise, and strange. Rune never expected he'd be able to slide back into any of the positions he'd held before, but Ordin spoke as calmly as if he'd never left. They'd never been friends, the captain plenty of years his senior, but they had worked together a number of times. As the captain said, he had been responsible for overseeing some of Rune's sword training, on top of instructing him in military strategy. Such things were expected of a potential heir. Ordin sounded no different than he had in those days, speaking as if he were sharing battle strategy with a student, though the weight of his words was greater.
“I think you're right.” Rune didn't like to think about it at all, but if Firal had told Garam the truth, it made more sense than he wanted to admit. “I do think it's the beginning of something. But I don't believe we're in real danger just yet.”
“What do you know?” Ordin asked in a murmur.
“I trained with mages of similar strength during my time on the mainland. But they—the Alda'anan—were pacifists, and after what I’d learned in the temple, our skills were incompatible.”
Ordin nodded. The man remembered Rune's short-lived position as a court mage, then. Good.
“Over the years, the Alda'anan disappeared.” Rune bit the inner corner of his lip and worried it in thought. “I think the princess's kidnapping has something to do with that.”
“With disappearing mages?” The captain sounded skeptical. “She's just a girl.”
“Yes,” Rune said, “but her nursemaid was Alda'anan, using the island as refuge. Medreal was killed before the girl was taken. From that, it's probably safer to assume that Medreal was the real target.”
“And the girl was just an additional complication,” Ordin concluded.
Rune nodded. “That's a guess, at least. I won't know anything for certain until I can speak with the temple mages. I believe they'll be able to answer some of my questions.”
“It's difficult to catch them for a meeting these days,” the captain said, rubbing his chin in thought. “But I might be able to help. Let me go speak to Temar.”
The name surprised him. “Temar is still alive?” Somehow, when he'd heard Medreal had been killed, he'd assumed other palace mages would have suffered the same fate.
“And as lovely as ever.” Ordin chuckled and smoothed back his dark hair. He'd always fancied the mage, but for reasons Rune had never determined—or cared to find out, truthfully—he had never acted on his interest.
“That's a start, then. I'll need to speak to one of the high-ranking Masters. Nondar, maybe—”
“Archmage Nondar has been deceased for nearly thirty years,” Ordin interjected.
Rune paused. They'd named Nondar Archmage in Envesi's absence? Likely the best choice they could have made, but he'd never expected the old man would have passed away. He'd never gotten along well with Nondar himself, but he recalled the mage's fondness for Firal, an element that would have been useful in gaining the temple's favor. As much as Rune resented the mages—for their treatment of him, for his exile, for his very existence—he couldn't deny that he would need their cooperation if he was going to do anything. Of course, whether he was going to do anything or not, he hadn't yet decided.
“I apologize,” the captain added. “You've been gone a long time.”
“Who leads the temple?” Rune asked.
“Archmage Kytenia was raised immediately following Archmage Nondar's death.”
Rune froze in the middle of the hallway. “Kytenia is Archmage?”
Ordin stopped a few paces ahead and turned with a frown. “Is there something wrong?”
Rune could have laughed. For the first time since his arrival, something worked in his favor. “No, no,” he said hastily. “It's just I've been gone a long time, as you said. I studied alongside her in my days as a mageling. She's come a long way. Is there any chance I may have an audience with her?”
“The Archmage is very busy,” the captain said. “But... well, Temar may be able to do something. I will send word.” He shifted on his feet, hesitant to leave. “Where are you going now?”
“My quarters,” Rune said, shifting the bundle under his arm. “I trust Firal hasn't given them to anyone else.”
“Not that I am aware of, your—” Ordin stopped short, suddenly flustered. He'd barely caught the title before it rolled off his tongue.
“No titles. Not anymore.” Rune offered a sympathetic smile and clapped the man on the shoulder.
Ordin rubbed his forehead, troubled. “What am I supposed to call you, then?”
“You could try Rune,” he suggested, lifting his scarred left hand. “It's what most people call me now.”
“Odd,” the captain said. “Though I suppose times are odd as well, aren't they. Very well. Make yourself comfortable in the palace. I'll send word as soon as I know something.”
“Thank you, Ordin,” Rune said earnestly.
The man only nodded, then trudged back the way they'd come.
The last branch of the hallway turned into a wide walkway lined by graceful doors. Firal’s private quarters would be halfway down the corridor, if she’d moved into the ruler’s suite. Rune tried not to think of her sleeping arrangements as he strode past the double doors without allowing himself to look at them. His quarters had been farther down, near the end of the hallway where the serving staff had their narrow access staircase hidden behind a tapestry. He’d made use of the passage often, slipping through the back ways to escape his father’s watchful eye.
He lingered outside the door for a time before he tried it. He didn’t expect his old rooms to be locked, though he did expect they’d be in use. When the door groaned inward on stiff hinges, the darkness and dust on the other side came as a surprise.
Furniture loomed as ghostly shapes, draped in pale muslin and barely illuminated by the narrow shafts of sunlight that peeked in through the curtained windows. Dust motes swirled in the air as he stole inside and pushed back a curtain. He blinked away the sudden blindness and left his belongings on the floor. Then he pulled a covering off a tall shelf, coughing as stale dust filled his throat
and nostrils.
Nothing had changed, so far as he could tell. Books and trinkets still lined his shelves, and a peek inside the wardrobe showed all his clothing was still there, too. He coughed into the crook of his elbow as he waved away dust clouds and pulled the wardrobe doors wide. Once his throat cleared, he dug for the small box he kept in the bottom.
It wasn't locked—he rarely locked it—but that the box proved empty was still a slight frustration. The amulet he'd worn in his youth would have been useful, with its strange illusory magics that hid his true form, but he couldn't recall what he'd done with it. He vaguely remembered putting it away, though that could have meant here or in Core.
“Shouldn't expect an easy way out,” he muttered to himself, clapping the box shut and putting it back.
“Looking for something?” a man asked from the doorway, an edge in his voice.
Rune glanced to the guard and frowned. “Yes, actually.” He stood and closed the wardrobe. “Catch a maid in the hall and have a handful of them sent up to clean. I've not looked at the private bath yet, but I expect it's no better. And have one fetch a seamstress. If I'm to be held here for any length of time, I'm going to need new clothing.”
The guard opened his mouth, but Rune went on before he could voice his anger.
“Oh, and I'll need a handmaiden for the afternoon, to manage errands for me since I'm evidently not supposed to leave the palace. Have Bree sent to tend me.” He smirked and brushed dust from his sleeve. “I liked that one.”
Flustered and scowling, the man stormed off.
Rune doubted he'd do as he'd been asked, but it got the man out of his way. He pulled the wardrobe open again as an afterthought, took a coat from inside and drew it on. As he expected, it was too snug through the shoulders and chest, the sleeves were much too short, and the standing collar didn't quite make it around his neck. He removed it with a rueful chuckle. Strange to recall he'd thought himself a man when last that fit. He tossed the garment onto a covered bureau as he made his way to the bed.
The cloth canopy had been removed, likely at the same time the furniture was covered. The fine down mattress and bedding were still there and draped with more muslin, which he folded back so he could inspect the blankets underneath. Discolored with age and as stale as the dust floating in the air, they'd have to be replaced. That was work for the maids, then. He left it alone and turned to pull the covering off the low table beside the bed instead.
A book still lay there, pages open and facing down to keep his place, just as he must have left it thirty years before. He barely glanced at the title on the spine—some history of some sort that he didn't recall—as he opened the table's drawer and fished inside. There were a few things he had to push aside to open the false panel in the back but, when he did, his claws found the fat coin purse just as he'd left it. A small relief; he doubted he'd be allowed such easy access to the royal vault as he'd been blessed with in his youth.
“Your lordship requested me?” a small voice squeaked from the doorway.
Rune turned, surprised. He hadn't expected anyone so soon, especially not the maid he'd asked for. Bree stood just beyond his quarters, fidgeting with the edge of her apron, her face a mix of eagerness and apprehension.
“Yes,” he said after a moment, bouncing the purse in his palm to make the coins jingle. “I did. Are there more maids coming?”
“They've been called for, m'lord. They'll be off fetching cleaning supplies, I expect.” Bree dipped in a curtsy before she shuffled forward. She was small enough to be childlike, shorter even than Firal. “Do you wish me to wash your hair again?”
“No. I need you to manage some business in the city for me. I've already requested a seamstress, but I need you to take care of a special job.” He opened the purse and sorted through coins as he spoke. She'd do what he asked, even without payment. That was her job, for as long as he was a guest in the palace. Coins simply had a way of making the world work smoother. He drew a slim silver coin from the pouch and rolled it between his claws. “I need you to find a silversmith. One who can complete something for me as soon as possible. I'll need the smith to come here, of course. I trust you can see to it before the day is out?”
She eyed the coin, nodded and inched close enough for him to lay it in her palm. “I'll have one to meet you within an hour, m'lord.”
“Perfect,” he murmured as he drew the strings on the purse tight. “I knew I was right to pick you.”
Bree blushed, but curtsied again before she scurried back into the hall.
Rune watched her go, weighing the money in his hand. He thought about putting it back, but slid it into his pocket instead. He crossed to his long-abandoned desk and chair to wait. The cleaning staff would be there before the seamstress. Who knew how long it would take Bree to find a smith who could fit in a rush service, much less for a price that wouldn't empty his hidden savings in a single swoop. He'd have to remember to pay the seamstress first. But it would be worth it.
Looking back, he realized he should have commissioned such a piece long ago.
16
Unhappy reunions
Gripping her skirts until her knuckles grew pale, Kytenia hurried past the mages in blue-trimmed white that clustered in the Gating parlor. Temar would be close on her heels. The court mage could deal with the lollygaggers on her own.
Kytenia had been surprised when Temar and a handful of other mages in Ilmenhith's colors appeared at the temple. Court Masters were not messengers, yet Temar carried an urgent message for the Archmage. After Kytenia heard it, she understood why the woman had chosen to deliver it herself. There was no doubt that Temar's visit to the temple would set tongues wagging in the palace, though, and Kytenia didn't envy the task of putting a stop to whatever new rumors emerged.
Despite Vahn’s insistence their trip to the Grand College would prove fruitful, Kytenia had doubts about whether or not their request would yield any results. She had suspected who he might have called, but it had been too long, too quiet, to think such a call would be answered. Especially so soon after it was delivered. Had it even been a week since their meeting with Arrick?
Ordin Straes waited in the hall, just as Temar said he would. The man bowed with his fist pressed to his chest. “Archmage.”
“Captain.” Kytenia offered a stiff nod in response, her fists curled tight in her skirts. She should have changed into proper robes before coming. She’d been in her quarters copying notes, and her old yellow work dress was stained with ink in half a dozen colors. Hardly fit for the Archmage of Kirban Temple.
The Captain of the Guard was as tight-lipped as Temar had been. He turned to lead the way without another word. She didn’t blame him. Word that the Archmage had jumped to visit a prisoner in the palace would spread soon enough on its own. They didn’t need the rumor to spark before she even made it upstairs.
Guards and serving staff looked at them oddly as they passed and, belatedly, Kytenia realized her shabby dress might have been more of a blessing than a burden. Not everyone in the palace knew the Archmage well enough to identify her at a glance. Without the white robes and ink eye-markings of a high-ranking Master, she didn’t stand out. All they saw was a woman with white at her temples creating snowy rivers that disappeared into the curls of her auburn hair. For once, she was relieved her eyes hadn’t yet changed to mage blue.
Though she silently wished the captain would move faster, they reached their destination soon enough. Instead of knocking, Captain Straes walked straight to the door and thrust it open, to the surprise of the people inside.
A handful of maids paused their work to peer at her with expressions of befuddlement. Farther from the door stood her girlhood crush, his arms spread, the seamstress beside him frozen mid-measurement.
“Kytenia.” Ran—or should she think of him as Daemon?—smiled as he spoke her name. He lowered his arms and waved the seamstress back. The woman looked annoyed, but she held her tongue and turned her attention to her pad of notes.
Kytenia lingered by the door and cleared her throat. “So you are here. Shall we speak in private?”
Catching the hint, the serving staff gathered their supplies and slipped past her to wait in the hall. The seamstress started to leave, but Ran put up a hand to stop her.
“Just a moment. Let her finish.” He spread his arms again and the woman lifted her measuring tape to take the last handful of measurements.
“Did you have colors in mind?” the woman asked as she went over her notes one more time.
“Blue.” He shifted on his feet as she finished, twisting his wrist to indicate the cuff of his sleeve. “And silver embroidery, with scrollwork at the cuffs and collar, as well as across the shoulders.”
Kytenia raised a brow at the choice.
The seamstress nodded. “Is that all, my lord?” She gave Kytenia a sidewise glance. She didn't seem to recognize her, as Kytenia feared the serving staff might, but the way she looked at her seemed troubled.
“For now. Thank you.” He passed the woman a small velvet purse and waved her away before he turned to Kytenia again.
The Archmage straightened where she stood, but didn't move until the seamstress stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind her. Then Kytenia paced forward, more calmly than she felt, and wrapped him in a hug.
He seemed surprised, but closed his arms around her and chuckled. It was the first time she'd ever embraced him. The solid feeling of his muscled form against her only served to make it more surreal. His arms tightened around her slender frame, just slightly, and for a moment she suspected he was just as grateful for the contact as she was.
“I didn't believe it when Temar told me,” she laughed, despite herself. “All these years, not knowing if you were even alive—”
Frowning, he pushed her back. “Firal never told you?”
Kytenia wiped her eyes and regarded him curiously. That was an odd thing to say. “We never knew. We didn't even know if you'd made it off the island. Vahn seemed to think you'd be on the mainland, but...” She trailed off, swallowed hard and leaned in to hug him again. “It's just such a relief to see you in one piece, after all these years.” She didn’t want to admit she’d given up the thought she ever would. Firal had avoided speaking of him after his disappearance, the hurt too deep. Out of respect, Kytenia never asked.
