by R. K. Thorne
She nodded slowly. Beneral spoke up. “Takar does not have mage slaves—or at least not that we know of—but the Devoted are based there. My merchants say it is not a good place for mages.”
“Evana seemed to have a kill-on-sight policy.”
“Perhaps it is worse than we thought, and they don’t want to return.”
“Ask them. Ask him why he picked those books, how he found them. He said they were in our library—why did he go looking?”
“I will,” she nodded. “Vonen’s power is waning, Aven. This star map, can we see it?”
He turned and picked up the map to show her—and gasped in surprise.
The light had faded, only glimmers of twilight left. But the map was not dim. It glowed with a silvery, shimmering light.
“It’s like… starlight,” his mother whispered. “Moonlight.”
“By the gods,” whispered Vonen.
Looking closer now, he saw the most fascinating thing of all. There had been parts of characters missing. The bottom half of the map was now littered with new and transformed characters that glowed only in starlight, with no ink beneath. He had read the map in the darkness before, and it had never glistened like this.
But he’d never tried outside. Under the night sky.
“A map made with star magic. Very rare indeed,” Beneral muttered.
“Star magic? You’re sure?” Aven asked. The lord nodded. Star magic was a type of air magic—specific, rare, and, in some places, forbidden.
“What does it say?” his mother asked.
“Well, this top part is mostly a standard map of the sky. But you see here—much of this section is written only in the starlight. I couldn’t read it till now! I don’t know what any of it says. Yet.”
New characters lit up with each moment that passed. They sat in silence for a while, watching the letters glimmer and fade into view. Aven looked up. Only a few of the brightest stars were shining. There were many more yet to come out. It had not taken much starlight to activate the map.
He eyed Casel as they watched. At first, there were no marks next to her. Every other star seemed to fill in first. Then one appeared. Moments later, another.
“These,” he said, jabbing his finger at the ones near Casel. “Can any of you make out what those mean?”
They all shook their heads. He gritted his teeth. Another character appeared.
“We can’t stay much longer, Aven,” his mother said. “I will talk to Teron. And we’ll look in the book for answers about this map. And we can try to find what this means, or a translation. Is it Serabain?”
“I think so,” he replied. “Try this word. And these.” He pointed at those near Casel, and another word in the bottom portion of the map directly below Casel.
“Got it,” said Beneral. “We must go, my lady. I’m aiding Vonen, but his energy is fading.”
She nodded. “Be safe, my son.” And for a moment, she placed her hand over his. He felt nothing physically, but the gesture made his heart ache. For a moment, he longed to hug her, kiss her cheek, assure her somehow.
He couldn’t. He swallowed. This was the path he had chosen.
She stood as if preparing to physically leave.
“I will be safe, Mother. Don’t worry. It will be okay.” Ridiculous words, but it was all he could say.
“If we find something, we’ll watch for a chance to tell you.” He nodded. “If we don’t, well, gods be with you, Aven.”
And then she was gone.
He sat there for quite some time in the darkness, feeling the loss of her presence beside him, wondering if he’d ever be in the same room with her again. He watched as more characters faded into view. The earliest ones shone brighter as time passed.
Soon, the whole map was filled. Its maker had tried to cram tomes’ worth of knowledge onto a single sheet. He stared at the words near Casel. More characters had appeared by each, and whole words had solidified since his mother and her escorts had left him. Had they seen enough to go on? He hoped so because all the new characters were foreign to him.
There was one word near Casel that he could have added himself—freedom. But what was the word beside it? He tried to shrug off the crick forming in his shoulders and stared harder at the cryptic glyphs, as if glaring would tell him what he needed to know.
11
New Secrets
Miara awoke. The pain in her head competed with the pain in her shoulder. But the pain was secondary to the binding haunting her dreams—tugging at her—demanding. She had just enough strength to finally let it move her.
She did not know where Aven was. He had to be gone.
For a while she simply lay still, partway awake but too weak to even open her eyes.
She had to find him. Her shoulder ached, burned, urged her on. She struggled to sit up.
The tent flap opened. A woman peered in, disappeared, then reappeared with a bowl and a cup filled to the brim. Miara accepted them gratefully.
Then the woman was gone before she could ask about her captive. Eating the savory stew consumed nearly all her strength, and she lay back down again. Sleep took her in spite of the nagging at the edges of her mind.
She did not know how long she slept. The next time she woke, she was determined to find Aven. The pain in her head had lessened, but her brand’s insistence had only increased. She had to ease it, or it would drive her mad. And she wanted to see his face, make sure he was okay.
She emerged from her tent into darkness. There was nothing nearby but other tents. A hundred paces away, people swirled around three boisterous fire circles, two small and one large. She studied the dramatic silhouettes, looking for his dullish blond-brown hair and sharp jaw amid the sea of dark beards and flowing curls. There was no one like the Akarian. He was not there.
Her shoulder stabbed at her suddenly, so intensely that she stumbled, then fell to one knee.
She was not alone. Someone close by gasped and came to help her. With their hands on her, the pain in her shoulder eased. She looked up through her tangled, sweaty hair to see the brown, old man who had welcomed them.
“Are you all right?” he said. “Some food?”
She nodded. She needed to ask him about Aven—but did he know Aven’s name? What should she call him? Her thoughts whirled, and she was far too dizzy to formulate an answer.
The old man sat her by one of the smaller fire circles and put a bowl in her hand. She ate mechanically. He said nothing of Aven, and Miara didn’t ask. Certainly, it was obvious. He must be gone.
She stared into the stew bowl, shoveling food into her mouth more out of habit than desire. Gone. He was gone. That would mean she had failed. How would the Masters react? What would they do? She did not think the Dark Master would like being proven wrong.
But that was a distant worry. Her future had already been bought and sold long before she was born. Until now, she’d had the present at least. Now that, too, was gone.
And she had failed. She could fail; she couldn’t do just anything she put her mind to. Her confidence in herself had been misplaced. And much worse—until now—she’d had him.
Her heart suddenly ached in her chest. The pang was more sincere and more painful than any in her shoulder could be. The pain was her own. A wave of longing for him flooded her, irrational and stupid, but honest. She had tried not to admit the way he made her feel. How could she, when she was taking him to them? How could she admit the way she felt when he looked at her, or the thrill she’d felt at the wispy tendril of his thoughts, as though she could already feel him kissing her neck? She had already felt it, in her soul. How could she stand those feelings in her mind right beside the knowledge that she was most likely the instrument of his death?
Or… perhaps not. She caught her breath, then hoped no one would notice. She might be defeated, but he had defeated them. She had never had a chance of beating them—but he had. Wasn’t it far better for him to have his freedom, to exact some justice in the world? That was a worthy
failure indeed. If he had escaped her, she should rejoice in her own defeat. Through it, he had defeated her Masters. What more could she want?
Darkly, selfishly, she knew of one thing more she wanted. To have him as her own, to get to really feel those lips on her neck. But she hated herself for wanting him, because she couldn’t have him without his own enslavement. She didn’t want anyone to have to endure that, let alone a man who longed to do so much good for the world, who had the power to do it—if he were free. If he were not with her. She knew his freedom was worth her failure.
The pain in her shoulder intensified to a dull, insistent cramp, but with a touch of burning at the edges. Her bond was displeased. And yet, it did not insist she ride for Mage Hall. Either it knew that was impossible without more rest, or perhaps it was weaker this far from Mage Hall. She doubted that.
In spite of the nagging pain, she felt her heart growing lighter. A weight had been lifted. She ought to be filled with dread. Certainly, the Dark Master would do his worst. Perhaps she would find out what happened to Dekana firsthand. But… Aven was free.
She asked the old man for more food. He told her his name was Regin and brought her a hearty soup, a crust of hard bread, and even some ale. She ate it with relish now and listened as one nomad, then another told stories. She finished eating and sipped the ale as a pair of sisters brought out some drums and a flute and began to sing. The ale was probably a bad idea. She didn’t care. What was a small celebration without ale? But the taste was bittersweet.
As she listened and sipped, she began to feel that someone was watching her. At first, she ignored it. She was surrounded by strangers who had a right to stare. A new person among them was an object of curiosity, especially one that had saved someone’s life. But as the feeling persisted, her eyes darted to the other fire circles. None of the nomads were watching her, all caught up in the entrancing song. Still, the feeling did not pass.
And then—the next time that she glanced around—there he was.
It was as if time had slowed and stopped. Her heart leapt, and she heaved in a ragged breath. Aven stood just outside of the firelight. He leaned against a tree, watching her. Their eyes locked. His twinkled with laughter and the flickering firelight. Was he a ghost? Was she dreaming? Was she delirious and needed more rest? She stood and strode toward him, leaving the circle. None of them seemed to notice. She stopped just short of him.
They simply met each other’s gaze for a long moment. It was as if they were meeting for the first time, as if they were two free creatures coming together in the night. Everything about him seemed strangely clearer and more vivid. A halo of firelight danced across the stubble on his chin, the pale green glitter of his eyes, the cut of his shoulders, and his arms folded across his chest. She could feel his breath, his gaze on her skin.
How would things have been different if they’d met in other lives? Could she have been just another lowly peasant in the crowd around a handsome soon-to-be-king? Would he have noticed her? Could he have been just another farmer in her village? Would they have found each other if either of them had been born free? There was no point to this flight of fancy. They were not free. They never had been. Neither of them had any choice in their fates, whatever they may be.
“What are you doing here?” she said, blurting out the only thing she could think to say.
“What kind of question is that?” he said, laughing. “Where else would I be?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You could’ve run. You’re still here.”
His face grew serious, although he still smiled. He said nothing.
“You didn’t run. Why? You could’ve run.”
He shrugged and looked into the fire. He was silent for a long moment. “You’re right,” he said eventually, now meeting her eyes. “I could’ve.”
“You should’ve run.” She gritted her teeth angrily through the flash of pain.
He shrugged again and turned his eyes back to the fire. “Maybe.”
“But you didn’t. Why?” she whispered, heart aching.
“You really don’t know?” He met her eyes with a small smile.
All of her lightness had evaporated, and the weight that returned felt twice as heavy. The drums of the nomads pounded darkly in time with her heart. The Masters were not defeated. Aven was still here. They would still enslave him or kill him. She would still have to watch. She felt tears forming in her eyes and frantically tried to blink them away. How could he not leave? She rushed toward him then and pounded her fists against his shoulders, feeling the hot tears in her eyes and struggling to hide them. “Damn it, Aven! Why! You should have run—damn it! Damn you!”
He caught a fist mid-thrust, then grabbed her other arm and held her tight against him, trying to calm her. She fought, then collapsed against his chest in defeat, trying to swallow the emotion and exhaustion that overtook her.
Her ear against his chest, she could hear him breathing now. She could hear his heart beating. The beats of hearts and drums steadied her somewhat. She straightened and stared at him. His face was fraught with emotion that she couldn’t read. He had such a noble face—indeed, the kind a king should have. Nothing like their sniveling king in Kavanar. Aven seemed filled with wisdom beyond his years, the weight of heavy decisions on his brow. He was staring hard into her eyes, his jaw tight.
“Everyone would probably be happier if I’d run,” he said. “But I don’t care. I’m not going to.”
She caught her breath at the determination in his voice. It was a voice people would follow to their deaths, a voice that could command thousands. But gods, why? Why was he so determined about this of all things—gods, please, make him run away from me. Ice stabbed into her shoulder, pain shooting along her collarbone and toward her heart at the openly rebellious prayer, sending needles down her leg, up her neck, making her cry out.
“What’s wrong? Are you all right?” he demanded.
“Yes, ignore it, ignore me,” she whispered, wishing he would listen.
“That’s just it. I can’t.”
She forced her eyes open, catching his. What could he mean? His voice was heavy with significance. Could he possibly…
“You should get as far from me as you can,” she said, grunting each word through clenched teeth, steeling herself to the now-savage pain of outright defiance.
“I can’t. And I won’t,” he said boldly. To her surprise, he leaned in and stopped, his lips close but just barely not touching hers. Did he really mean to kiss her? She gasped and then found herself leaning closer too without even thinking. And in response, his lips met hers, and he kissed her on the mouth.
In the same instant, both her greatest wish and deepest fear became real. At first she stood frozen, shocked. Her pain had vanished—her bond approved. The Masters would approve. The thought sickened her.
But there were more immediate things to think about—namely, his mouth. Before she could stop herself, she found herself returning his kiss hungrily. His lips caressed hers, and she felt it all with a sharp intensity—the wetness of his mouth, his hands circling around her body, pulling her close. He pulled her out of the firelight, into the shadow of the tree trunk, and pressed her body against it with his own. She kissed him as though she might never kiss anyone again. Perhaps it was true. Perhaps she wouldn’t. She could not think of how another kiss could possibly be better than this one in this moment.
The flutes from the campfire wove fine melodies around each other, and the drums pounded a driving beat, urging them on. Still, something nagged at her—something was wrong with this, something was wrong, terribly, terribly wrong… And it wasn’t her brand for once.
You fool, you’re helping them.
She broke away from him abruptly and staggered a few steps away. If he thought she loved him, he would never run. He would never get away. He would be bound to the Masters even more surely than she was. This was the problem, the cause of her grief. She could need his kiss like a seedling needs the sun. She could want
him like a drowning woman wants breath. But if he knew she needed him so desperately—how could he ever leave? He never would.
And he had to. He had to get away from the Masters if there was ever another chance. Her shoulder sliced into her with agony, and she lurched to one side.
She had to find some way to drive him away. As much as it would hurt, as much as she would hate it, she hated helping them much more. She would not see him destroyed if she could prevent it. Her shoulder seemed to have sprouted thorns that now ground and twisted and ripped through her flesh. She could not defy the brand, but perhaps she could at least not help them willingly. She would not show him how much this hurt.
“What’s wrong?” he said softly, a note of fear in his voice.
She said nothing for a long while, unsure of what to say. Should she pretend? Could she? Should she lie? Would her bond even let her? Could she stand to break his heart?
“We can’t do this, Aven,” she whispered, her voice rough and breaking. Her voice was made of gravel, it seemed.
“Why not?” he said simply.
She wanted to tell him—well, everything. But there was no way. “I wish I could explain. But I can’t. I am not worthy of this,” she whispered.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Yes, you are.” There it was again, that king’s conviction aimed right at her. She couldn’t help but instantly believe him. And yet, it changed nothing.
“You don’t know what they’ll do to you. You are worth more than this. Nothing is worth what they’ll do.”
“You’re wrong, Mara.” She wished for a moment she had told him her real name.
“I know what they’ll do, and you don’t. How can you be so sure?”
“Tell me, then.”
“I told you, I can’t. There is darkness there. You can’t imagine.”
He circled in front of her and grabbed her shoulders with both hands. His eyes bored into hers. “Don’t you see, I don’t care. Please, please, listen to me. I will go into that darkness with you. I will go into any darkness with you. I swear it to you.”
