by R. K. Thorne
“Evana.”
“Why don’t you take some time to rest and then join me in the Proving Grounds? Camil can show you the way.”
The princess nodded, her jewels sparkling, catching rare bits of Estun sunlight. Aven bowed and took his leave.
The smell of the Proving Grounds hit Aven steps before he was inside. No amount of cleaning could rid the place of the dank, sweaty, wood-smoke scent. Why the Takarans liked this place so much, he had no idea. They were not warriors, but perhaps they liked feeling like ones for a little while. Aven certainly enjoyed the place at times—but to fight, not to watch. If there was no sword in his hand, it was pointless.
Except that it was his job to entertain. He surveyed those in attendance, trying to figure out where to sit. Should he sit on the usual royal benches or with one of their guests? Should he leave room for the princess to join him, or would he prefer she didn’t? Seeing no useful opportunities, he headed toward his mother and his usual seats, which should leave space for Evana to join them.
“So?” his mother asked as soon as he’d sat down.
“So what?”
“So what do you think?”
“The east fire could use some more wood, I suppose. Should I send someone?”
“Quit toying with me!”
He snickered. “Your description was very accurate. You weren’t wrong. She’s very beautiful and no timid mouse, either. She’s a little… strange, though.”
She nodded, not taking her eyes from the current competition. “Cold as ice.”
His turn to nod.
“Oh, before I forget to warn you, Jerrin has specifically requested to fight you today. He says he can’t leave Akaria without beholding your legendary skills himself.”
Aven tried not to groan. He heard her slight emphasis on leaving and understood. So perhaps Jerrin did know he had overstayed his welcome a bit. But why would he want to fight Aven? Jerrin was an ambassador, the highest-ranking member of the delegation now that their king had taken leave. Jerrin couldn’t hope to actually kill or hurt Aven, nor did that seem terribly advantageous. They had been nothing but friendly and had hashed out six detailed trade deals, which would all be rendered useless with a war. And Takar was known even less for its armed forces than for the martial skill of its ambassadors. Takarans made a great deal of money out of trade with Akaria; they did not need to attempt to control Aven’s supposedly uncultured, warlike people. Even the thought that they might be able to was ridiculous.
Perhaps it was indeed personal curiosity. What else could it be?
“Well, perhaps today is the day, then. What do you think, Mother?”
Her look said, if it makes them leave, by all means, do it. But there was also a streak of worry in her eyes. She, too, did not understand it. Well, he would not seek it out. If Jerrin came and renewed his request in person, Aven would accept. If he did not, Aven would let it conveniently slip his mind. These competitions were so engrossing, after all.
He watched one battle conclude and another begin between two young Akarian knights before Jerrin appeared.
“What do you say, my lord? Has your mother passed on my request?”
“I have, good sir,” she said, a slight edge to her voice.
“And what say you, sir?”
Aven smiled up at him. “I cannot say I share your zest for battle, Jerrin, but what kind of host would I be to leave you unsatisfied? Certainly, if you must see me fight before you leave us, I will not deny you,” he said, adding his own gentle emphasis. Aven stood. He was half a head taller than the man and twenty years younger. “Let us fight.”
Jerrin clapped him on the shoulder and grinned as they turned to enter the fighting ring. Murmurs of excitement swept through the crowd. The prince and the head Takaran ambassador were going to fight.
At least he hadn’t worn his favorite tunic.
The fighting area was nearly the size of the great banquet hall and could accommodate ten or more sparring pairs. At either end of the fighting area stood fireplaces that rose twelve hands high, blazing light for the fighters and warming the hall. Four more stone fire pits were placed throughout the fighting area, providing even more light to the cavernous room. The two men headed to the casual practice armory in the corner, donning mail for fairly serious protection. Aven helped the older man select his armor and appraised the various weapons at their disposal for the rapt ambassador.
“As our guest, what’s your pick?” Aven asked.
Jerrin seemed sincerely excited. “Well, my people have always been more apt to fight with staves, but I hear that is not so popular in Akaria.”
“Indeed,” Aven said. “Most young men focus on sword and ax, or sword and shield.”
“What about you? What was the focus of your training?”
“All of them.” Aven grinned. “We hold princes to a higher standard.”
Jerrin seemed a little flustered. “But, well, you must have a favorite.”
Aven let his smile soften, a little more puppy than wolf. He’d intimidated the man enough. “A favorite? That would be the weapons of our flag—the sword and shield. A classic combination. Shall we go for those?”
Conveniently, they would also make it easier for him to avoid killing the fool by accident.
“Yes, let’s!” Jerrin quickly agreed. “Akarian weapons for our Akarian prince! I will do my best, but do go easy on me.”
“It would not be very good hospitality to cut your arm off,” Aven laughed, “so I shall sincerely try.”
Jerrin laughed, too, but a tad uneasily. What was he after?
As they each tried a few swords and shields, Aven noticed the princess joining his mother. Aven saluted her briefly with his shield before returning to his task. He selected a sturdy, undamaged sword and shield pair. Of course, he had his own personal weapons, but it wouldn’t be fair to use those finely tuned works of art against these impersonal, public weapons. And these were much duller.
He headed for the center of the grounds and waited for Jerrin. The crowd hushed as his opponent joined him. They both bowed, solemn and respectful.
And then it began.
Jerrin mercifully began the fight with a quick lunge, easily dodged and deflected. Aven returned with a slash also conveniently easy to block with Jerrin’s shield.
The Takaran staggered back. Aven pressed forward. He dare not disappoint.
He brought down a high slash. Jerrin’s sword clashed with his, knocking it aside. Another swing from the side, this time blocked by the shield. The old man took a good stab toward Aven’s left side, which he danced away from, sidestepping.
He backed away now. For a moment, a standstill. Then Jerrin surprised him by taking the lead with several slashes easily blocked, Aven backing away each time and being nudged gradually toward one of the fire pits. He could feel the heat on his skin behind him.
Enough defense. Aven made a new charge toward the Takaran. Jerrin blocked and sidestepped away from his advances, skirting around him oddly. It brought them even closer to the bonfire.
Perhaps the ambassador has a flare for the dramatic, he thought. Or perhaps he is hoping to kill me but make it look like an accident.
Either way, he seemed to be deliberately forcing them closer and closer to the fire pit.
Aven sidestepped outward so that Jerrin was between him and the fire before lunging in again. Jerrin dodged by leaping to Aven’s left but this time brought up his shield and slammed it into Aven’s side, sending the prince staggering.
Aven caught his balance—on the edge of the fire pit, his eyes focusing just in time to see flames raging before him. Cries and mumbles were going up from the crowd.
Aven turned back and had barely enough time to block the next swing coming at him from above. Jerrin pressed on, pushing Aven back and into the side of the stone fire pit. Aven could feel the flames licking behind him, and then suddenly—to his horror—a strange wind picked up before him, sweeping the flames back, keeping him safely clear w
hen the blaze should certainly have caught his hair alight.
No! Gods, not now.
He had to end this, and he had to end it as soon as possible, or who knew what his magic might do.
He heaved himself forward with all his might, throwing Jerrin back and knocking the man to the ground. Enough playing nice, he thought. Jerrin’s hair whipped left and right as if moved by some random, impossible gust of wind.
Before the Takaran could recover, Aven gave a swift kick, and his foe’s shield went flying.
Looking scared now, Jerrin brought up his sword before him.
Aven gathered his strength and focused his mind one last time. He knew these public practice swords well, and he knew his own strength even better. If he hit the sword just right…
He gave one mighty blow with all his strength at just the right spot midway up the sword, and it shook in Jerrin’s hands before clattering to the ground.
The crowd burst into applause. Jerrin was disarmed and therefore defeated. The ambassador looked a little shocked for a second, probably at the way he’d lost his sword, but he recovered quickly and grinned at him. Aven held out a hand to help him up.
“Well, you lived up to your reputation, young prince,” Jerrin said. “Thanks for taking a spin with an old man like me.” He clapped an arm around Aven’s shoulder.
“I am honored,” Aven said, steering him away from the fire and toward the armory. He could still feel the air whipping around them, but Jerrin did not seem to notice. “That was quite a blow from your shield! I think I must beg your pardon if I retire to recover.”
“Of course, of course. I’m sorry to surprise you there.”
“That is all the fun of sparring, is it not?”
“Thank you again, Aven. Sometimes I need to show my men I still have a bit of fight left in me,” Jerrin said with a chuckle.
But the words did not ring true. Jerrin was sincerely thankful for something, but that was not the real reason he’d wanted to fight.
Aven felt the air calm as he hung up his sword, and by the time he’d removed his chain mail, it was as still as it ever was. Inside, though, he was badly shaken.
He glanced up into the crowd, searching for his mother’s gaze. Before he could find it, he found Evana’s eyes instead. Strangely, she had risen and was speaking urgently with Jerrin.
Aven forced a smile at her. She forced a smile back, but there was something new hidden in her eyes, a secret behind their dark glitter, a deeper frostiness that hadn’t been there before.
Had she seen? Did she suspect? Could she know… ? Was she the reason why Jerrin had wanted to fight?
Suddenly, Aven felt quite sure that he had just walked into some kind of trap. And now something was in motion. But what, he had no idea.
“Have you told Father yet?” Luha asked, her walnut-brown eyes peeking around the doorframe. Hair of the same color was tied half up and matched her cloak.
Miara jumped, then shook her head. “Shouldn’t you be in the stables?”
“What about you? Shouldn’t you be, too?” Her sister was persistent, as many twelve-year-olds were.
Miara glanced up, looked back at her work, and then nodded. “Don’t worry about it, okay?” But she did not meet her sister’s eyes as she spoke.
“If there was nothing to worry about, you would have already told Father.”
“He worries about everything.” Father was not really Luha’s father, nor was she Miara’s sister, at least biologically, but they had chosen each other and become a family when Luha had first arrived at Mage Hall, five years old and all alone.
“When do you leave?” Seeming to relax a little, Luha slunk into the room and cuddled beside Miara on the bench.
“Tomorrow or the next day. Won’t be gone long. A week, perhaps two. I’ve got no problem handling myself out there. Don’t fret for me, okay? Promise?”
“You never tell me what the Masters ask you to do. It’s never good. How can I not fret?”
“They are not good, so how could their chores be any different? But we’re still here, aren’t we?” She squeezed Luha’s shoulders in a one-armed hug. “You’ve had a full day of hard work. I’ve just been here studying books and maps. You should go get some dinner before the evening prayer starts.”
“And you really should tell Father,” Luha said, eyes twinkling. “But I won’t do it for you. See you at home, then.”
She was gone with a nod.
Miara hurried to finish her preparations. The itch on the back of her neck grew worse, and her shoulder panged occasionally, urging her on. She worked through dinner.
Only the dreaded clanging of the evening prayer bells roused her. She’d even forgotten to light more than a single candle, and the sun had nearly set.
She hastily got to her feet. Every night, when the prayer bells rang, all mages were forced to bow and worship. If she didn’t get off the bench, she’d be in for an uncomfortable time.
She held herself poker straight even as the compulsion to kneel swept over her. Her hands tightened into fists, her nails digging in and drawing blood, as she resisted.
They wanted her daily routine to be supplication to the goddess Nefrana, who told them magic was evil. Or so they claimed.
Instead, her daily routine was resistance.
It pained her father to watch her struggle, so she was glad he wasn’t here. As much as he, too, hated slavery, he feared Nefrana did not understand. He feared the Masters could be right. Miara was fairly certain she didn’t need any goddess who thought she was evil when Nefrana herself had made her this way. Perhaps in Akaria she could find a temple of Anara to worship at instead of this foolishness.
With time, the pain became too great. She relented and fell to her knees, bowing her head to rest on her forearms against the dark stone floor, listening as the crystalline chimes echoed down the halls of Mage Hall.
As soon as it ended, she finished the last drawing, gathered her books and notes, and headed home. Drawing the map had taken forever, and much of Mage Hall slept. She grabbed a leftover roasted chicken leg and a pastry, eating like a roguish bard while she walked. She would miss real food that someone had actually cooked while on the road.
When she reached their rooms, she found Luha and her father were already asleep. She tiptoed to her room and collapsed onto her bed, opening Gargoyles in the Sky. Who needed rest, really?
Every Akarian fortress was described in agonizing, ultimately meaningless detail. Her heart sank at the descriptions. These were not fortresses for show, they were made with folks like her in mind. Well, more likely they were made with armies in mind. She would have to find a way to convince someone to let her in willingly—and then somehow, crazily, let her see the prince. Alone. Sure, that should work out just fine.
Maybe this was going to be even harder than she’d thought.
She thought over her past conquests, looking for inspiration. She had stolen treaties from beside the Estaven ambassador, listened to dozens of conversations that she shouldn’t have been able to hear, even planted an envelope in the king’s own chambers. She’d absconded with a handful of treasures. But every target had been much less rebellious than a full-grown man, and certainly much less fortified.
She skimmed and skimmed, and just as she was nodding off, her eyes caught on a passage about Estun.
Estun Hold is sometimes called the “Seat of the Sky Kings,” as Akarian kings have from time to time chosen to take up residence there, especially in turbulent times. Estun itself was designed and built to prevent the assassination of King Irark III amid political upheavals in Akaria and beyond in Takar, which were ultimately settled peacefully. The hold is almost entirely underground. In exchange for this security, it gives up a great deal of natural light and air circulation. The fortress includes palatial accommodations for the king and a large family, as well as high-ranking visitors. Kings may rule for long periods of time from this hold. Estun has a full complement of servants and stockrooms that can hold seve
ral months’ worth of wood, coal, grain, salted meat, and other dried foods, as well as cold chambers that keep perishable foods and provide ice. As a result, Estun can operate comfortably without opening its doors for several months at a time.
She groaned inwardly. Couldn’t they have started her on a kidnapping mission a little easier than this? By the gods. What were they thinking? This was a suicide mission. If the hold didn’t open its doors for months at a time—and had no windows—there was nothing she could possibly transform herself into that could sneak into cracks that weren’t there. Would she have to become a groundhog and dig her way in?
Estun also has a tiny mountaintop garden terrace that is only accessible from inside the hold. Using this garden, servants can grow winter vegetables. The terrace is highly inaccessible, with steep ascents on all sides. The innovation in the addition of this terrace lifts Estun to one of the finest Akarian holds, and its independence serves the greatness of our king.
Her heart skipped a beat. Oh, now this was something. She skimmed frantically for more details, but that was the only mention of this terrace. It was enough. A servant’s entrance was an excellent target for her to get inside. Highly inaccessible meant fewer guards. Or possibly no guards!
Except that it was accessible… if one could fly.
She breathed a deep sigh of relief. Finally, some semblance of a plan. Exhaustion hit her, and she blew out her bedside candles. Had it been her own worry driving her or the compulsion? Perhaps it didn’t matter. This one clue eased her mind enough. She lay down and drifted off to sleep.
2
A Way In, A Way Out
“You wanted to speak privately again—well, here we are. This is as private as it’s going to get.”
Aven had strolled around idly with Evana for some twenty or thirty minutes this morning, struggling to make conversation and analyzing the tension in her jaw, before she’d finally requested they retire to somewhere less public. Privacy had obviously been her aim all along, but had she seemed to think her façade was worth it. Perhaps she’d hoped the delay would make him uncomfortable. They had finally retired to her room, Fayton the head steward in tow.
