Kiran might only recall scattered threads of recent years, but he still possessed a wealth of earlier memories that proved the truth of Ruslan’s words. Mikail’s steadfast patience, his fierce protectiveness, his dry, deadpan humor, the rare brilliance of his smile—even now, Kiran’s knowledge of his mage-brother ran heart-deep.
“I’m just glad I didn’t lose all my memories.” To forget Mikail entirely would be a loss so terrible Kiran could scarcely bear to imagine it.
Mikail swatted Kiran’s head. “We’re all grateful you didn’t lose more. It’s hard enough to tell you have a brain in there as it is.”
Kiran shoved Mikail away in mock indignation, but couldn’t suppress a smile. Mikail had always teased him for being too excitable and emotional, unlike his coolly logical mage-brother. “I like to keep your life interesting.”
“There’s such a thing as too interesting.” Mikail said it lightly, but his eyes were grave. Kiran sighed, one hand drifting back up to his temple. Memory loss certainly was far more frightening and disturbing in reality than it had ever seemed in the tales of magic and adventure he’d loved as a child.
Better to change the subject, lest Kiran make his mage-brother feel worse over the accident than he did already. “I’d say this confluence instability qualifies as worrisome more than interesting. What’s causing it?”
“An excellent question,” Ruslan said from the doorway. Kiran and Mikail jumped and straightened as one. Ruslan waved his hand, and the magelight brightened until the furniture cast sharp-edged shadows across the flagstones.
“Lord Sechaveh is quite anxious for us to discover the answer, in fact.” Ruslan paced to the window, brushing a finger across each ward in turn as he went. “Mikail. You instructed Kiran not to drop his barriers?”
“Yes, Ruslan.” Mikail backed to stand beside the chair. “The change in the confluence energies woke us, but the wards held, and afterward I made sure he kept his barriers up.”
Kiran shifted in the bed. The spike wasn’t why he’d woken, but he hesitated to bring up what was likely only a lingering remnant of some forgotten nightmare.
Ruslan turned. “Kiran, you wish to speak?”
His voice had softened, but Kiran still felt strangely tongue-tied. “I…right before the confluence spiked, I woke and thought I heard…whispers. Too faint to make out, and unsettling, somehow…but probably it was just a dream.”
“Interesting.” Ruslan tapped a finger against a ward, his eyes on Kiran. “When a mage’s mind has undergone trauma like yours, it sometimes results in a heightened energetic sensitivity that can manifest in odd ways. If there is a change in the confluence energies prior to an upheaval that can be detected, this could be quite useful.” He nodded to Kiran. “You’ll tell me if you hear these whispers again, yes?”
“Yes, Ruslan,” Kiran said. “Then—we don’t know yet what’s causing this?”
“Not yet, but I have confidence we soon will.” Ruslan left the window to stand by Kiran’s bed. “However, there is one complication we must discuss. For diplomatic reasons, Lord Sechaveh requested that we allow a team of Alathians to aid our investigation.” His tone made it clear that aid was the last thing he expected from Alathians.
“Alathians? Why would they concern themselves with Ninavel?” What little Kiran knew of Alathia said their ruling Council had as little to do with Ninavel as possible, despising Sechaveh for the freedom he allowed mages.
Ruslan shrugged. “The instability in the confluence causes corresponding fluctuations in the veins of earth-power that extend throughout this entire region. The wards the Alathians cower behind are too poorly designed to handle the fluctuations, and are near failure. Sechaveh wishes to gain trade concessions, so he asked me to humor the Alathians when they begged to participate in our search for answers.”
He spread his hands. “Lord Sechaveh might be nathahlen, but his sister was not, and she once provided a great service to Lizaveta and me. For the sake of that debt, I’ve granted Sechaveh’s request…but be warned, the Alathians are not to be trusted. They hate and fear the akheli, jealous of our power, and continually seek ways to undermine us. I have experience with them of old.” His deep voice was stern, and sorrowful. He laid a hand on Kiran’s shoulder. “As the youngest of us, Kiran, they will believe you to be the most vulnerable, and will concentrate their efforts on you. You must be on your guard. Although they have little real power, they are experts in the use of lies. They will try to make you distrust us, distrust yourself; and by any means they can, try to turn you against us.”
“I won’t listen to them,” Kiran assured Ruslan. If the Alathians mistook his youth for weakness, he’d prove them wrong. His ties to Ruslan and Mikail ran deeper than any outsider could understand. Unthinkable, to turn against them.
Ruslan’s smile was warm. “Good, akhelysh. I have faith in you. Should you ever be troubled, you have only to come to me, or even Lizaveta, and we will help you.”
Kiran nodded, and Ruslan squeezed his shoulder. “There is one last matter…I promised Lord Sechaveh we would refrain from casting any spells with intent to harm the Alathians, regardless of provocation. I know you and Mikail would not knowingly disobey me, but I must ensure no mistakes happen. I set the stricture in Mikail already, but you…”
Red fire cascaded through Kiran’s head. He cried out, arching backward, as a binding pattern seared deep into his ikilhia. Strong hands caught him, lowered him to the pillows. Through a haze of pain and dizziness, he heard Ruslan’s voice.
“There, I am sorry for the discomfort, Kiranushka…I know you are sore yet.” Fingers stroked disordered hair back from Kiran’s brow, as Kiran shuddered and twitched in helpless aftermath. “I would have waited longer to cast the will-binding, but we are to meet the Alathians this morning.”
“You intend to take Kiran with us?” Mikail sounded startled. “But…” His gaze flicked to Kiran before it returned to Ruslan. “He’s still recovering. Wouldn’t it be better to leave him in Lizaveta’s care rather than expose him to the foreigners’ attention?”
Kiran struggled back upright, steeling himself not to wince away from Ruslan’s touch. His master hadn’t wanted to cause him pain; it wasn’t Ruslan’s fault the accident had left Kiran’s mind so horribly raw. Kiran should act as an adult, not a whimpering child.
“I don’t need coddling,” he announced. “I’ve lain in bed long enough! My barriers are repaired. I’ll show no weakness in front of the Alathians.”
Ruslan gave him an approving look. “Exactly. Best to show the foreigners our unity from the start. Besides…” He held Mikail’s gaze. “With Kiran not fully recovered, I prefer not to chance any mishaps while I am away.”
With a last pat to Kiran’s shoulder, he stood. “Back to sleep, akhelyshen. I will reinforce the wards to keep aftershocks from disturbing you. Mikail, you may return to your room, if you choose. I think we need not fear another major disturbance in the confluence this night.”
Mikail’s gray eyes faded back into colorlessness as Ruslan dimmed the magelight. “I’ll stay. I don’t mind.” He looked at Kiran, the skin seeming to tighten over the flat planes of his cheekbones. “I’d rather make certain he’s all right, with no aftereffects from the accident.”
Mikail’s voice hitched on the final word. Kiran swallowed the exasperated protest he’d intended to make. His mage-brother’s guilt over Kiran’s injuries wouldn’t be assuaged by simple words. If it made him feel better to hover at Kiran’s bedside, so be it.
“Stay if you like,” he told Mikail. “Though you don’t have to. I’m telling you, I’m fine.” The fire in his mind had faded, though the will-binding lurking deep in his ikilhia nagged at him with a faint, phantom itch.
Mikail only shook his head and settled back into the chair.
“As you wish, Misha.” Ruslan ran a hand over Mikail’s hair in a swift, light caress. Kiran was glad to see the tightness in Mikail’s face ease at the touch.
Kiran lay back down
and watched as Ruslan moved around the room, wards flaring at his touch. Ruslan worked so deftly that Kiran could barely sense his casting, only the resulting shift in energies.
Unlike when Ruslan had bound him. Kiran shivered. The ease with which Ruslan had cast the will-binding, without any blood-to-blood contact, as if Kiran were nathahlen and utterly lacking in mental barriers…he must have used the mark-bond to bypass them. Kiran trusted Ruslan, of course he did, but he couldn’t help but feel uneasy at the demonstration of the depth of power Ruslan now had over him. He resisted the urge to rub at the akhelsya sigil on his chest. No; he was proud to bear Ruslan’s mark-bond, to be akheli in truth as Mikail was. Anything else was mere childish nerves on his part.
* * *
(Dev)
“Dev.”
I woke to see Lena standing in the doorway holding a magelight. I sat up, bleary-eyed. “Early, aren’t you?” The window was shuttered, but I was pretty damn sure it wasn’t dawn yet.
“We just received a message from Lord Sechaveh. Another mage has been killed, and he’s requested that we come at once. Marten wants you with us so that if Ruslan also comes, you and I can take the opportunity to seek Kiran.”
Cobwebs cleared from my head as thoroughly as if she’d thrown a bucket of glacial meltwater over me. I threw off the sheet and reached for my shirt and boots. The plain but sturdy set of clothes I’d brought from Tamanath, not the delicate highsider silk crap somebody had left folded on a chair. If Marten didn’t like it, too bad. I wanted clothes I could climb in, not something that’d rip if I brushed against a wall wrong.
Lena lingered in the doorway. She didn’t look like she’d slept well—or at all, maybe. Shadows dark as coal smudges lay beneath her eyes. As I dressed, once or twice she drew breath like she wanted to speak, but no words escaped her.
I ought to try and draw her out, seek some advantage. Yet anger still coiled in my gut every time I looked at her. Oddly, I’d found it easier to rein in my tongue speaking with Marten. Maybe it was because I’d never seen him as anything but a cold-blooded viper. With Lena, after two sentences I feared I’d break and start shouting. I concentrated on donning my boots and tried not to look as unfriendly as I felt.
When I joined her in the hall, I paused, surprised. Two male voices raised in song drifted from the receiving room at the hallway’s end. A deep, rich baritone and a warm tenor, both sliding and diving around each other in a wordless, oddly compelling pattern.
Lena said, “Marten and Stevan are casting to map out Ruslan’s wards before we leave.”
Curiosity drove me to ask, “Sometimes you sing when you cast, sometimes you mumble, sometimes you don’t say a damn thing…why the difference?”
Lena looked relieved to hear me ask an ordinary question. “We use sound when we build a complex spell without the aid of pre-existing patterns like those bound in charms or amulets. The more complex the spell and the more mages involved in casting, the more variety and precision of sound is needed. If a spell is simple enough, it can be patterned by will alone—though even then, we often use chants as aids to concentration.”
Magic always sounded so damn complicated. “The full-on singing is your version of channeled magic, then.”
“In a way,” Lena said. “Though we use our own soulfire to fuel the spell, never that of an unwilling victim.”
It sure didn’t stop them from fucking people over. I managed to keep that behind my teeth, barely; but Lena surely saw it in my face. She led me into the receiving room without speaking again.
Marten and Stevan stood before the great arched window, their eyes closed and their rings glowing bright as they sang. Marten was the tenor, Stevan the baritone; flickers of colored light chased over the window’s wards every time their voices met on a note. The sky outside was growing pale with the approach of dawn, the towers ghostly in the low light.
Talm leaned against a table laden with glazed ceramic cups and a tray of fruit and flatbread. His expression was odd as he watched Marten and Stevan: wistful admiration, but a hint of something darker lay in his eyes. I hoped it meant his anger with Marten hadn’t faded.
I stalked over to the table. The cups proved to contain mint-scented water. I downed one and snatched up a handful of food.
Talm said to me, “They’ve almost finished.” He looked at Lena as she reached for a slice of rockmelon. “Impressive how smoothly they cast together, isn’t it? I’m not sure I could manage that with my old training partner from the Arcanum.”
Or maybe all I’d seen was simple jealousy. Maybe Marten and Stevan had been something more than training partners, back in the day.
Lena said softly to Talm, “It’s my hope this mission will revive their friendship. For Stevan’s sake, if not Marten’s. I remember Stevan in his adept days…in the final year before his commissioning, he used to demonstrate spells for my year-class. He was so different then; as quick to laugh as to criticize, passionate about all manner of things along with magic…”
Talm nudged Lena, grinning at her with the casual, teasing ease of long-held friendship. “Had a crush on him, did you?”
The corner of her mouth lifted. “Plenty of us did. To see him now…” She shook her head, her amusement vanishing. “He’s been so angry since Reshannis’s trial.”
“I can imagine.” Talm’s eyes went back to Marten. For an instant I caught a flash of sadness so deep it startled me, before his expression settled into his usual wry humor.
“What trial?” I asked.
Lena looked away. Talm shrugged and said lightly, “Sorry. Nothing more boring than hearing other people reminisce, is there?”
Marten and Stevan stopped singing. Marten turned with an air of satisfaction. “We have a good idea of Ruslan’s outer wards. Enough for Stevan to key a spell for Lena’s use—yes, Stevan?”
Stevan nodded, as icily impassive as ever. He pulled a jeweled golden disc from a pocket and shut his eyes again, his lips moving soundlessly.
Ambassador Halassian stumped into the room, her gray hair pinned up in a loose bun instead of intricate braids. “Haven’t you left yet, Captain? Sechaveh will expect a prompt response in this.”
“We’re nearly ready,” Marten said, glancing at Stevan. “We’ll hurry, the moment Stevan completes his spell.”
Talm asked, “Did Sechaveh’s message say the manner of death, or any information about the victim?”
“No,” Marten said. “It was rather carefully phrased. I suspect Lord Sechaveh didn’t want the messenger to know the details. We were simply requested to go to a certain residence in Vaishala district as soon as possible, in regard to a fatality related to our purpose in Ninavel.”
I swallowed a lump of flatbread, frowning. Vaishala district was highside, the next district over from Seltonis. The residents were wealthy families high up in the hierarchies of mining guilds and banking houses, with a sprinkling of mages to boot. As a Taint thief, I’d been sent there on jobs by Red Dal a couple times, but not often. The residents of Vaishala could afford seriously powerful wards, and many families were what counted as old wealth in Ninavel. From Red Dal’s perspective, that meant they weren’t as apt to brag over their possessions, making it tricky to know which houses were worth the risk. Not that any family was truly old wealth in Ninavel, since Sechaveh had only built the city a little more than a hundred years ago. But the families who’d lived in Ninavel a few generations were a bit more wise to the ways of Taint thieves than those who’d come more recently.
“Jenoviann can guide you,” Halassian said. “Before she came to Ninavel, she spent several years working with the healers of the Sanitorium. You’ll want her expertise in anatomy if you have the chance to examine the body. You’ll want to walk, not take a carriage; if you climb the Ramhorn stair as a shortcut to Vaishala, that’ll get you there far faster than traveling the causeways.”
“Stairs.” Talm sighed. “Of course it would be stairs. You’d think this city was built by mountain goats.”
&
nbsp; Marten chuckled. “The exercise will help us all shake off sleep.”
I noted with contempt that he and the rest wore their usual uniforms. They’d regret all that heavy blue and gray fabric fast if we had to spend any time out in the sun. Unless they could use magic to keep themselves cool? Out of reflex, I looked around for Kiran to ask him; and then I remembered. I thumped my cup down on the table hard enough to make the tray rattle.
Marten and Lena both glanced my way, but neither said anything. Stevan opened his eyes and pocketed his charm. “The spell is complete.”
Marten didn’t waste any time heading for the door. I slid up close to him as Jenoviann released the wards. “You’d better have gotten authorization for that little show of good faith.”
Marten said quietly, “A thousand kenets, yes. The money’s yours, the moment you give me something of use.”
Thank Khalmet for that. I’d get that money in my hands by tonight, and put in a bid straight off with Red Dal.
Two bridges and one hell of a lot of stairs later, we reached the steep stone causeways of Vaishala, spiraling up past courtyard walls glittering with elaborate mosaics of agate, amethyst, and quartz. The rising sun tipped the spires above us with gold, the air clear and already warm. Scattered groups of people moved along the causeway, most of them servants heading for the morning markets before the midday heat took hold.
A few watercarts creaked past, bearing fat storage barrels with merchant house crests emblazoned on the sides. A small horde of scowling, wary-eyed guards accompanied each cart, deadly charms glinting on their wrists and palms. Highsiders had house cisterns they refilled with water purchased from the main district cistern. Sechaveh’s men guarded the district cisterns and took payment for water rations, but once beyond the cistern gate, protection from theft was up to the buyer. Highside, merchant houses rented out their private armies to guard water in transit. Down streetside, anyone who dared to leave a cistern with so much as a jug’s worth of water rations had to pay a ganglord’s protection fee. Either that, or fight off the ganglord’s entire crew, and thirsty opportunists besides.
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