Color Mage (Book 1)

by Anne Marie Lutz

  “Ar’ok took you in at the Castle. The ku’an’an talks to you. Maybe you are right, and you are no spy. You ku’an are beyond me. You seem to despise the ku’an, yet here you are, one yourself. How do you justify that? Now I talk to you, and for all I know, I’ll be sent to prison tomorrow for it.”

  “Not by me,” Callo said. He sensed Ha’star’s cooperation waning, the man’s bitterness growing. He should draw this talk to a close before Ha’star turned against him. He drained his mug and stood.

  “You have my thanks,” he said. “You will not lose by talking to me. You have courage.”

  “I’m a fool,” Ha’star said, but he was grinning again. “But I know you did not influence me, my lord. Mayhap you’re different.”

  “I hope to be different.” Callo nodded to the warrior, tossed another coin on the table, and walked out through the curtained section.

  Gri’nel was invisible in the dark. Callo stopped a moment, waiting for his eyes to adjust. “Damn if I know how you can see in here,” he said.

  “It’s a gift,” Gri’nel said. “No hard feelin’s now?”

  “No, I suppose not.” Callo began to walk toward the outer door, visible now as a faint gray line of light.

  “Beggin’ yer pardon, ku’an,” Gri’nel said. “Ha’star seems to like ya, more fool he, so for his sake, I’ll tell ya. There’s men outside, waitin’ for someone. Could be you.”

  His heart leaped. He grasped his sword, unsheathing it with a faint hiss of steel. “My thanks,” he told the old man. Then he eased open the door, just an inch, and peered out.

  Chiss no longer leaned against the opposite wall. There was no one within his field of vision. The alley had grown dark, lit only by a torch at the nearby intersection. The paving stones were still wet, as if it had rained again while he was in the Black Duck; they reflected the torchlight in a wavering shine that made visibility even more difficult. The hush outside seemed odd for a dockside alley with three taverns in it.

  For just a second the thought of re-entering the Black Duck occurred to him; perhaps there was another door. Then he decided it would be better to get this over with. Assuming the men were along the wall beside the door, he bent low, sword at the ready, and leaped through the door, out into the alleyway. He slammed up against the wall on the other side and braced himself.

  The men were there, backed up hard against the wall next to the tavern door. His low profile and fast exit caught them by surprise. The first man leaped at Callo, swinging his sword.

  Callo easily countered the wild swing. His knife hand stabbed at the other’s wrist. His attacker’s sword clattered to the ground. The man grabbed his wrist and ducked back out of Callo’s reach as Callo kicked the sword away.

  “My lord! There are six of them!” It was Chiss’ voice, shouting from farther up the alley. The men must be restraining him, Callo thought—no easy task, for Chiss was ready with a weapon.

  Callo balanced on the balls of his feet, centered, ready. He knew he had only a breath before the next attack.

  A man with a red beard, built like a barrel, lunged from the doorway. His sword was bigger than Ha’star’s. His strike came down like a boulder as he tried to crush Callo by mass alone.

  Callo barely evaded the blow, slashing for the man’s sword arm. Their swords crashed together, ringing loud in the wet alley. The other men stood back, waiting for Redbeard to subdue Callo, staying out of the way of the man’s huge sword.

  Redbeard raised his sword again, then swung into a powerful downstroke. Callo barely blocked the hammer-like blow.

  Callo blocked the next strike, but his back was against the wall and he had no room to fight. His sword was no match for the massive battle sword. His arms ached and he knew his time was running out. The next time Redbeard drew up for a strike, Callo stepped forward and slammed the heel of his boot into Redbeard’s knee. The man screamed as his kneecap shattered. He fell back, sword dropping from his hand.

  Two more were on him before he could catch his breath. Callo backed against the wall, trading strikes. One of the men swung a heavy mace. Callo had no choice but to block the blow on his upper arm. Then he struck back hard, slashing into the man’s shoulder. Blood spurted from the wound.

  The mace was gone then but Callo’s shield arm—if only he had had a shield!—would not move as it should. Pain raced up to his shoulder. He wished he could protect it, but the first man, the one he had disarmed, was back. He and two others came at Callo in a semi-circle. He tried to attack without leaving himself open but knew it was impossible.

  He tried to move, to gain some advantage. His feet slipped on blood, and a sword that would have sliced open his neck flashed over his head as he stumbled. Another sword flashed in his peripheral vision as he scrambled to rise. He struggled up, dodged the strike, and cut hard to the left. He was rewarded with a spurt of blood from the other man’s arm. But he was out of breath, and this newly-wounded man kept fighting; the wound had not disabled him.

  Nearby, Redbeard still screamed with the pain of his shattered knee.

  Callo was struggling now. Three men still pressed around him. One stood by, ready; the other two fought. If his attackers were not impeding each other, he would be dead by now, Callo knew.

  His nearest opponent, a lean man with a black raven tattoo on his cheek, still pressed him. That one moved fast and Callo felt the bite of steel into the upper part of his sword arm. The blood came, fast but not the spurt of an artery. Nevertheless, it flowed down his arm and slicked his sword hand. He felt lightheaded, and his left arm was now refusing to move at all.

  “My lord!” shouted Chiss, sounding alarmed. And well he might. All at once Callo felt as if he might fall to exhaustion and the shock of his wound. Forcing himself to stand, he took one desperate action.

  Still warding off blows with a weaker arm, Callo reached for the barrier in his mind that he had built to keep himself from using his ku’an ability. For the first time in his life, he consciously dropped it. Then he let his own sense of desperation fill him, gave it free rein until it loomed like a monster. He sent it like an arrow into the minds of the men around him.

  When he had a breathing space to work with, he reached for the worst thing he could think of, something that would stop his attackers cold. He remembered what the fear of a child’s nightmare felt like, added it to the mix, and forced it away from him, hoping it was enough to stall the attack. Then he released the terrifying pressure.

  The blows stopped. No more swords whistled about his head. He staggered back against the alley wall. Two men had fallen to their knees on the paving stones, arms clutching themselves as if they were trying to protect themselves from something. One man—Raven Tattoo—ran off down the alley, arms windmilling, moaning. He had dropped his sword. Two lay in limp postures that suggested they were dead or unconscious. The last was nowhere to be seen.

  Callo slumped against the wall.

  A hand gripped his shoulder. “My lord, stop now,” Chiss said. “Please stop.” His voice quavered.

  “You feel it too?” Callo asked. He closed his eyes and pulled the emotion back into himself, then buried it deep. He built the wall again, stone by stone. It took a few moments but felt much longer. When he reopened his eyes, Chiss leaned against the wall beside him, pale as an egg. Callo thought he saw tear tracks on the man’s lean cheeks.

  “I’m sorry.” Callo moved his left arm—the one that had been struck by the mace—and tried to use his left hand to hold onto the bleeding wound in his right. The arm moved slowly, shooting pain up into his neck and back. He put his head back against the wall. Things seemed to be very dark in the alley, as if the torch at the corner had gone out in the rain.

  “My lord.” Chiss’ voice sounded stronger. “We must get you to the castle. I will tell one of these tavern people to go for a carriage.”

  Chiss left him. While the man was gone, Callo decided he’d best sit down if he didn’t want to fall. The blood flowed faster than he had th
ought, slicking his fingers. He found himself incapable of looking around to see what had become of the two kneeling men. They were still there, hugging themselves on the paving stones. He supposed they could strike him down whenever they wanted, now that he had withdrawn the fear. When Chiss returned, he asked, “Where are the other men?”

  Chiss looked aside and said, “No need to worry about them. They’re gone.”

  “Good.”

  “A carriage is on its way, my lord. Hold on.”

  Callo closed his eyes. Chiss’ hand was on his shoulder, giving him strength. He thought of what he had done to the attackers and how Chiss had seemed affected by it too. He said, “Chiss. I am sorry.”

  Chiss said, “Here is the carriage, my lord.”

  “I did not mean for you—” Then Chiss and someone else had hands under his arms, lifting him, and he forgot what he had meant to say in the wave of pain.

  When he recovered his equilibrium, the carriage was moving. Chiss was wrapping something around his upper arm, where he had taken the sword cut. The cloth was torn from something blue-gray; he thought it was part of Chiss’ cloak.

  He put his head back and looked out the window at the rain-swept streets. The carriage jolted and pain washed up his arm. He looked out, trying to distract himself, as they approached the castle walls. Guards stood before the gate. They strode forward to stop the carriage from entering the walls.

  Callo heard voices—the coachman and the guard—then saw a face peer in at him. He looked at the man but said nothing. The guard made a slight bow, then shouted to someone to admit them. Callo kept looking out the carriage window in spite of the rain that now spattered his face. He could see the muddle of makeshift camps where people awaited admittance for an audience. Far above, and away from the main gate, he saw spikes on the top of the castle wall. A few of the spikes wore the severed heads of capital criminals, displayed for all as a warning. Through the haze of pain he saw that one of the fresher heads had pale yellow hair threaded with streaks of gray.

  Chapter Twelve

  Kirian was eager to get Sara’Si into her adjoining alcove and out of her sight for a while. She tried to follow the rules of this place, but the woman’s constant, judgmental presence annoyed her. Neither the King nor the Queen required her presence, Lord Callo was out on the town somewhere, and there was not a book anywhere. Kirian curled up on the bed and closed her eyes.

  She had no idea how much time had passed when she heard tapping on the door. Sara’Si emerged from her alcove, pulling her veil over her face. How odd, Kirian thought, that she had spent all this time with the woman and only now for the first time saw her plump, attractive face.

  The guard outside spoke to Sara’Si in a low voice. Sara’Si gave a heavy sigh and turned to Kirian.

  “The ku’an’s man wants you. There is some crisis.”

  “I’ll go,” Kirian said. She scrambled out of bed and pulled on a robe, belting it over the tunic she had worn to bed. She ran her fingers through her hair, pulled the veil over her face, and grabbed her Healer’s bag.

  Her chaperone waited. The guard stepped back and looked away as they walked the few steps to Lord Callo’s chambers.

  Chiss opened the door on her knock, as if he had been waiting right there. There were weary circles under his eyes and lines in his face Kirian had not noticed before. The room was lit by a good fire and several candles.

  “Hon Kirian, I am glad you brought your bag,” he said. “It is in your Healer’s capacity we need you. Sara’Si, please come in.”

  Kirian’s heart started beating hard enough that she felt it in her throat. She said, “Who is hurt? Is he all right?”

  Chiss nodded. “The physician has been here. I thought it would be advisable to have you look at him as well.”

  “Not having a high opinion of the physician?” She took a deep breath and forced her heart rate to slow. What a reaction, for a Healer! She ignored Sara’Si, who stood like fate near the door, guarding Kirian’s virtue. “Where is he?”

  “In the chair over there,” Chiss said. “My lord was in a fight. He has quite a few scrapes, but it is both arms and the area near his collarbone that you will particularly want to examine.”

  Callo was leaning back in a large soft chair, his feet up on another chair. His head relaxed against the high back, and his eyes were closed. He wore a loose gray tunic and breeches. The arms of the tunic had been slit, and one arm was wrapped in white cloth bandages. A mug on the table next to him held a small amount of liquid—originally wine, she thought, but from the milky swirls and the distinctive aroma she knew it had been mixed with mellweed. He had not drunk it all.

  “Lord Yun’lar was here? Or was it someone else?”

  “It was Lord Yun’lar. He gave my lord the mellweed. He said he would not work with an injured ku’an unless he was sedated—too dangerous, he said.”

  Kirian remembered trying to help Lord Arias, in SeagardCastle, after his violent Collaring by King Sharpeyes. She recalled how, as Arias’ feverish dreams had intensified, he had lost control of his color magic. She supposed a ku’an in pain might be even more perilous.

  “I am surprised he drank it.” She sat down next to the drowsing man. “Still, I suppose it is for the best. My lord? Callo?”

  “Hmm?”

  “It is Kirian. I have come to see how you are doing. Where are you in pain?”

  Callo opened his eyes and smiled in a sleepy way. “No pain.”

  Perhaps Yun’lar had given him more mellweed than she had thought. She said patiently, “I must examine your arms and chest, my lord. That is where Chiss said you were wounded. Will you let me help you?”

  Sara’Si hissed from the other side of the room, but Kirian ignored her. With unexpected gentleness, Chiss helped Callo withdraw his arms from the loose tunic and pull it off. Callo’s chest gleamed in the candlelight. There were bruises and cuts, but nothing serious there. His left arm, the one not wrapped in bandages, was already purple and swollen from shoulder to elbow. She probed with gentle fingers.

  “He has had the mellweed, so I’ll not ask him to move it around,” she told Chiss. “Did Yun’lar do that?”

  “He checked my lord’s range of motion. It wasn’t a pleasant experience. Lord Yun’lar said the arm was not broken.”

  Kirian unwrapped the bandage on Callo’s right arm, trying not to disturb him as he had closed his eyes again. The stitches closing the wound were crude but adequate. The thick brown stuff coating the cut would protect the wound from any infection. She rewrapped the arm and let Chiss draw the tunic back over Callo.

  “My lord?” she said.

  Callo looked at her. His eyes were slightly blurry in the candlelight. “I feel fine,” he mumbled.

  “Yes, indeed. I will have them bring ice for Chiss to put on your left arm so it does not swell so much you cannot use it. I will also have the kitchen send you blood broth to help restore you. You lost a fair amount of blood, it seems.”

  “My sword arm,” he said, frowning a little.

  “We shall see. If no infection begins, your arm should be fine. You must rest and recover. You look as if five men tried to beat you.”

  “Six,” he said. He looked up at her and gave her an unusually sweet smile. “Thank you for coming. Yun’lar . . . was afraid.”

  “Well, you have been very cooperative,” she said. He reached out and took her hand, drew it to his lips, and kissed it. She felt a shiver go through her at the sensation, even as his eyelids dropped over the amber eyes. His grip loosened as the mellweed took over, and she withdrew her hand. Callo’s breathing slowed and he slept.

  She avoided Chiss’ glance as she gathered up her bag. “Blood broth, Chiss, and ice for the left arm. I have never seen such severe bruising. I assume they have an icehouse here?”

  “Yes, and much fresh ice, Hon Kirian.”

  “Good. Yun’lar will examine him for infection.”

  “My lord does not care for Lord Yun’lar,” Chiss said.r />
  “He will have to do,” Sara’Si said from the doorway. “Hon Kirian cannot continue to visit Lord Callo here in his rooms. She has been immodest in the extreme. You see, it only causes my lord to take liberties!”

  “He is wounded and drugged,” Kirian said. “I am a Healer, Sara’Si, and you are here, after all.” She said in a low voice to Chiss, “We must talk. Who attacked him, Chiss? You must call for me tomorrow after Lord Callo awakens. I expect he will be in some pain.”

  “You will not set foot back in this room while I am your chaperone,” Sara’Si objected. “I will call the lord high priest. It is wrong for you to be with a ku’an in his room!”

  “Sara’Si—nothing happened,” Kirian protested. The chaperone continued her complaining on the way back to Kirian’s room. She went to her alcove and snapped the curtain shut behind her.

  After Kirian was in bed and the candle doused, she lay awake, remembering the feel of Callo’s lips on her skin. He was not himself tonight, she reminded herself. She should forget the sweet smile, the kiss. It was all due to the shock, the drug, gratitude for her care. But she thought about his lean swordsman’s body, his amber eyes so full of light, his deep voice . . . and she wanted him.

  Sara’Si left the room after breakfast. Kirian was left alone for the first time since she had been in Las’ash. Foreboding plucked at her nerves; she remembered that modesty was a religious matter here. Pacing in the room, she welcomed the messenger sent by Chiss around noon.

  Chiss opened the door. “Hon Kirian,” he said. He looked behind her and frowned. “Sara’Si?”

  “She has abandoned me,” Kirian said lightly, ignoring her own apprehension about this very subject. “How is Lord Callo?”

  “He will not take Yun’lar’s mellweed, so he is in no very pleasant humor. Will you come?”

  She nodded. She could no more refuse than she could stop breathing. Her eyes craved the sight of him, unpleasant temper or no. She gathered up her bag, slid on her shoes, and followed Chiss next door. Her guard was still there; he said not a word as she passed him.