Talmaddis turned to the scar-faced mage. “We’ll leave at dawn. Aiyadaren, please inform the minemaster we’ll require three horses and a pack mule; and tell Captain Jevardanos I’d take it as a great favor if he could spare someone to sit watch on the barracks for me until morning. I’d prefer not to trust solely in Dev’s collaring charm tonight.” He cast a jaundiced glance at me.
“Oh, I’m not going anywhere,” I assured him. Not yet. But once we rode out into the wild, I sure as hell didn’t mean to let them get me within spitting distance of Tamanath.
* * *
“Welcome to Tamanath,” Talmaddis announced, in a voice so bright I wanted to hit him. My fists clenched as our carriage passed under a freestanding stone arch patterned by crystalline swirls that reminded me all too well of the wards on Alathia’s border gates. Behind us, unadorned black carriages waited in a patient, orderly line to undergo inspections just as thoroughly nosy as those at the border. We’d bypassed the line and gotten waved through after a quick exchange between Talmaddis and an officious young mage. Aiyadaren had slept through the whole thing, propped against the carriage window with her mouth slack and her breathing heavy. She hadn’t so much as twitched since we exchanged our horses for the carriage at a guard outpost a mile back.
Shaikar take her, and Talmaddis too. For ten days they’d stuck closer than river leeches, traded off shifts watching me day and night, and worst of all, they’d done something to my snapthroat charm so it strangled me unconscious the moment I got more than ten feet from the one on duty. Bruises still ringed my throat from the last time I’d tried.
Beyond the arch, rolling fields changed over to whitewashed houses half-hidden by trees and neatly trimmed hedges. I slumped in my seat and fixed my gaze on the shining, jagged line of peaks barely visible above the eastern hills. Longing and frustration twisted my heart. The Whitefires had never felt further away.
“No need to look so sour,” Talmaddis said. “Tonight, not only do you get to sleep in a real bed, but you’ll be spared the pleasure of our company while you do it.” He flicked a hand at himself and Aiyadaren with a wry little grin.
“Khalmet’s hand, you mean you’ll actually let me alone for two heartbeats? You’re not worried I’ll slink through your border the moment your back’s turned?”
“Not from a properly warded room, you won’t,” Talmaddis said. “Preferably one far from me. You snore like a rock bear.”
“You’ve got me confused with her.” I jerked my chin at Aiyadaren, who chose that moment to let out a bench-rattling snore. Talmaddis laughed.
My mouth twitched, despite myself. Aiyadaren’s glacial reserve would’ve fit right in among Jathon’s coal haulers—the whole trip, she’d spoken to me only in terse orders—but Talmaddis was different. His dry, easygoing humor seemed completely unfeigned, and he had a repertoire of outrageous campfire stories that rivaled a convoy man’s. He’d said he spent some years with the Alathian embassy in Ninavel before ending up as Captain Martennan’s second lieutenant. His time in Ninavel might explain both the stories and the lack of a stick up his ass.
Friendly or no, I never forgot he was my jailer—and neither did he, damn him. I scowled out the window as hedges gave way to tidy storefronts with flowers trailing from windowboxes. If I couldn’t slip my leash to cross the border, I needed a new plan to get myself free of this mess.
We’d had three more quakes on the journey here. None of them as strong as the one in Cheltman Gorge—the last tremor had been hardly enough to rattle a cup—but I’d seen the grim glances Talmaddis and Aiyadaren exchanged afterward. They were worried.
So was I. If the Alathians got desperate enough, I figured all the Council’s sanctimonious talk about refusing to bow to demands from foreign mages was worth less than mule piss. Bargains or no bargains, they’d toss Kiran and me to Ruslan in an eyeblink if they believed the alternative was Ruslan raining magefire down on Tamanath. I thought of Ruslan’s cold, cruel smile, and shuddered.
Our carriage turned into a broad square with a central fountain carved of golden stone. Beyond loomed a forbidding gray hulk of a building. No flowers brightened its rows of tall, narrow windows. Instead, the stone surrounding each slit bore the black whorls and spirals of inset wards.
“Ah! The Arcanum, at last.” Talmaddis leaned to look out the window with the eager relief of a man delighted to see home. He elbowed Aiyadaren, who twitched and straightened mid-snore. Her stern face softened when she caught sight of our destination.
I eyed the Arcanum with a lot less cheer as our carriage pulled up to the arched entryway. Talmaddis had told me it served as both a military barracks for the mages on active duty in the seven Watch companies, and a scholars’ institution for those charged with maintaining Alathia’s defensive magic.
A single mage waited to one side of the heavy wooden doors. Instead of holding himself piton-straight, he slouched against the wall with his thumbs hooked in his belt. His face was hidden in shadow, but the braided silver cord signifying a Watch captain encircled the gold seal of the Council on his uniformed chest.
I recognized that deceptively casual stance. Our greeter was Captain Martennan of the Seventh Watch, who’d first arrested Kiran and me. Not that I remembered it, having been unconscious at the time. I’d had my fill of Martennan in the days afterward. He played the sympathetic advisor, but I’d seen the cool calculation lurking behind his show of good humor. I’d bet a thousand kenets he’d been the one to suggest me as the Council’s lever to make sure Kiran did whatever they asked.
Talmaddis bounded out of the carriage the moment it stopped. He bowed, hands crossed over his chest, as Martennan emerged from the archway. Martennan’s dark hair was longer than I’d last seen it, standing up in soft spikes instead of cropped close to his head in typical Alathian style, but the bright smile on his round face was as irritatingly cheerful as I remembered.
Martennan made a bow of his own and pulled Talmaddis into a brief, laughing embrace, saying something I couldn’t hear.
“Out. Now.” Impatience tinged Aiyadaren’s voice. No doubt she couldn’t wait to wash her hands of me.
“I’m going,” I muttered, and climbed out into the courtyard, Aiyadaren close on my heels.
Martennan turned to me, all warm courtesy. “Dev. I’m delighted to see you safely back in Tamanath. I hear we’ve many lives to thank you for.”
He spoke with a drawling accent far different than the usual clipped speech of city Alathians; I’d learned in the mines the drawl was common to those born in the rugged hills lining Alathia’s distant coast. As ever, the sharp intelligence in his black eyes set my stomach jumping. If the Alathians meant a word of all this gratitude, they’d be aiming it at Jathon, not me. Jathon’s idea had saved those men; I’d only been the pack mule.
“You want to thank me, Martennan? Then let me talk to Kiran.” Let me make sure he’s not so naïve as to trust you, I added silently. Last I’d seen, Kiran had been lapping up Martennan’s helpful act.
“Of course,” Martennan said. “I’ve arranged for you to stay with Kiran while the Council reviews your case.” His smile brightened. “Kiran’s quite eager to see you. I’ll take you straight to him.”
Easy as that, huh? My nerves buzzed all the louder.
Martennan stepped in close, ignoring my flinch, and ran a finger over my snapthroat charm. He glanced at Talmaddis and Aiyadaren. “Clever work. But, here…” The metal tingled against my skin. “He’s in my charge, now. Go on, you two—get some rest. I’ll hear your reports later.”
He urged me toward the carriage, not even waiting for Talmaddis and Aiyadaren to finish their bows. Before I could climb in, the Arcanum door thudded open and a young mage scampered out.
“Captain Martennan, wait!” She waved a folded square of paper as she panted up to us. I caught a glimpse of a thick wax seal marked with a familiar design of interlocking circles.
My gut went cold. A missive from the Council? This couldn’t mean anything
good.
Martennan broke the seal and scanned the paper’s contents. His eyes widened before his expression smoothed back into its usual cheerful mask. The cold hole in my gut grew larger.
Martennan balanced the letter on his flattened palm. His rings flared silver, and the letter vanished in a rush of pale flame.
Damn. No chance of sneaking a look. “Show-off,” I muttered.
The flame winked out, leaving not even ash behind. Martennan let his hand fall. “Thank you, adept. Tell Councilor Varellian I shall call upon her within the hour.”
The little mage bowed so deeply her knot of braids brushed the flagstones before she dashed back into the Arcanum. After a brief, low-voiced exchange with the driver, Martennan herded me into the carriage and settled himself on the seat opposite.
“Want to share what that was about?” I asked Martennan, as we rattled off.
He slanted me an amused glance. “No. Though I have another letter I’d like to share with you.” He pulled another folded paper, this one unsealed, from within the front flap of his uniform and offered it to me.
I took it warily. But when I opened the letter, my heart leaped. Cara’s bold handwriting sprawled over the page.
To Captain Martennan of the Seventh Watch:
You said you owed me a debt for warning you of Simon Levanian. If you’ve any shred of honor, you’ll see Dev gets this letter. He’s the one you truly owe, and he deserves news of home.
A brief blank space, and then:
Dev, you needn’t worry for me—I’m safe and sound in Ninavel. I’m writing this from the Blackstrike, listening to a bunch of drunk Varkevians try and outdo each other on tabis drums. They’re not very good. Reminds me of that stonemason two years back who thought it’d be fun to learn to play a shrike whistle while crossing the Whitefires. Thank Khalmet old Nuli saved our ears by tossing the damn thing off a cliff.
Yeah, I remembered that trip. This truly was from Cara, then, and not some trick of Martennan’s. She must’ve sent it by one of the hard-riding merchant house couriers that traveled the Whitefire route in summer.
I looked up your cousin. She and the kids are all fine. The oldest is growing fast. Your cousin thinks she might be ready to apprentice out by the end of the season. I’ll give them what coin I can, in your stead.
So Red Dal’s den minder Liana thought Melly would reach her Change by summer’s end. I’d known her time was running out, but the confirmation still hit like a fist to the gut. Six weeks, maybe less, until Red Dal sold Melly off to men who’d force taphtha down her throat until she was nothing more than a compliant, empty-eyed jenny, her mind gone forever.
Speaking of, I’d thought to find your drover friend, the one you’d said might buy your Whitefire maps, but he hasn’t yet returned from his convoy job. I tried to talk with his boss, but he’s apparently too busy a man to see a simple outrider like me. I’ll check with some of your other streetside friends, see if they’re interested.
Oh, shit. I struggled to keep my face blank, my breathing even. Cara hadn’t found Pello, the shadow man who might’ve arranged Melly’s freedom in exchange for the full tale of Simon Levanian’s destruction. She’d tried to go direct to Lord Sechaveh, the ruler of Ninavel and the man Pello claimed as master. But without Pello to smooth the way, she’d likely been turned away by guardsmen who knew nothing of Sechaveh’s interest in our convoy trip.
Now in desperation she meant to try and find someone in the employ of one of Ninavel’s streetside ganglords to act as a shadow broker. Ganglords dealt in information same as any other commodity. But while a ganglord would gladly sell Cara’s tale to Sechaveh, they’d also sell her out to Ruslan for the chance of profit on the side.
I miss you, Dev. Remember what you said to me after I fixed up your head in Kost? I feel the same. So keep your head down, and don’t do anything stupid. Things’ll come right in the end.
A lump in my throat joined the lead weight in my stomach. I won’t ever abandon you again, I’d said, while her fingers traced lazy circles on my skin. And then, we’d—
No. If I thought too long on that one glorious night, I’d crack like hammerstruck granite. Instead I meticulously refolded the letter, aware of Martennan’s gaze on me. He was too clever not to realize Cara’s talk of cousins and drovers held a deeper meaning. I just prayed he knew too little of my past to understand it.
“Can I keep this?” I asked. Thank Khalmet, my voice came out steady.
“By all means,” Martennan said. “You have a good friend in Cara. It should set your mind at ease to know she’s looking after your interests in Ninavel.”
Damn his eyes, he’d seen my dismay, despite my attempt to cover it. I shrugged, carefully noncommittal. “I’d feel better yet if I could join her there.” A truth that was no secret.
Martennan was the very picture of sympathy. “You may yet. The Council will need some weeks to review your case, but when they finish, the outcome may be a happy one. It’s hard to wait, I know, but give it time.”
“Right.” I didn’t even try to keep the sarcasm from my tone. A happy outcome, sure—but for whom? And time was one thing I didn’t have.
Chapter Three
(Kiran)
Kiran shoved aside the leather-bound book, tempted to cast it straight into the slate fireplace on the study’s far side. The text contained yet another overly dramatic, maddeningly vague account of Alathia’s founding. Pages upon pages of praise for Denarell of Parthus’s vision in convincing a few hundred families of Harsian descent to leave the decadent cities of eastern Arkennland, cross thousands of miles of wilderness, and carve out a new country; and not a word about what supplies they’d brought or artifacts they’d discovered. So much for his hope of finding clues to what materials Alathia’s mages had used when they first cast the spells powering their border wards.
In her chair beside the fireplace, Lena lifted her gaze from a slim volume. The title proclaimed it a naturalist’s discussion of the deserts of Sulania.
“It’s lovely outside today.” She indicated the arched window behind her. Late morning sunlight streamed through the patterned glass, turning the polished wood of the study’s bookshelves to cinnamon and amber. “Have you considered a walk in the back garden? You’ve been huddled in here for days.”
“If I’m forbidden from useful work, I’d prefer to read.” Kiran struggled to keep his tone civil. Since the day he’d felt the tremor in Stevannes’s workroom, he hadn’t been permitted to return to the Arcanum. He’d been kept cloistered in the lavishly appointed guest house that had been his quarters since his trial. For all its expansive library and beautifully manicured garden, the wards lurking within the property’s walls were powerful enough to make it a perfect prison.
“Have you any news of Dev?” he asked Lena. Ten days ago, Captain Martennan—or Marten, as he’d asked Kiran to call him—had told Kiran of the disaster at Cheltman. He’d assured Kiran of Dev’s survival and claimed the Council would bring Dev back from the mines for safety’s sake. Yet since that visit, Marten had been conspicuous in his absence. Kiran feared it meant the Council had changed their minds about Dev’s recall—or worse.
Lena shook her head. “If Talmaddis left the mine with Dev right after the order was relayed, they should arrive any day now.”
Kiran sighed, hoping she was right and his fears unfounded. He moved to the shelf and pulled free a compilation of tales from early Alathian trading expeditions.
“I didn’t realize you had such an interest in history.”
Though Lena’s words were mild, Kiran’s nerves tightened. “Ruslan didn’t teach us much of Alathia. I’d like to remedy that, to learn more of your culture and history. I thought it best to start with the earliest texts I could find and read onward.”
It wasn’t a lie. Yet his true urgency ran far deeper. He had to find something he could offer the Alathians to prove his value to them. After hearing about the loss of life at Cheltman, a completed design for Simon’s charm n
o longer felt nearly enough to ensure both his and Dev’s safety. Far better if he could offer the Council methods to counter attacks on their wards from blood magic. But to predict spell interactions and develop countering patterns, he needed to know the materials used to bind and direct the spells in question.
He’d asked if he might help shore up their wards, and been flatly refused. But he couldn’t simply sit around hoping the Council held to their promises. If he could just develop some definitive spellwork to offer…
Lena regarded him steadily. “Us…I assume you’re speaking of Ruslan’s other apprentice. Did you and Mikail always have lessons together?”
She sounded honestly curious. Kiran looked away. “Yes.” Longing pierced him, swift and poisonous as a viper’s tooth. All those hours he’d spent learning with Mikail, magic unfolding before them like a neverending chamber of wonders, their only concern to earn Ruslan’s approval…and even when they suffered Ruslan’s darker moods, it was together, their bond as mage-brothers as solid and unchanging as Ninavel’s stone…
Nausea twisted Kiran’s stomach. Mikail was as much a monster as Ruslan. He’d betrayed Kiran’s trust, given Kiran’s beloved Alisa into Ruslan’s hands—had been glad of her death, afterward. How could he be so traitorous to Alisa’s memory as to miss Mikail?
“My apologies,” Lena said softly. “I didn’t mean to cause you pain.”
“No, it’s just…” Kiran stared at the sun-dappled tree branches outside the window. “Have you ever wished you were nathahlen—born without mage talent, I mean?” He regretted the foolishness of the question the moment he asked it. Calm, reasonable Lena, with her place assured in Alathia’s hierarchy…what cause could she ever have had to regret her magic?
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