Kiran knew that tone well. Ruslan had little patience with those he considered fools. Kiran hesitated, then nerved himself up to speak, his curiosity too great for him to remain silent.
“How is that possible?” He kept his voice low, but the Alathians all turned to look at him.
To his relief, Ruslan’s answer was calm. “You feel no magical residue, and this confuses you, yes?”
Kiran nodded. He glanced at the Alathians. Ruslan made a slight encouraging gesture, and Kiran went on. “Why would his defensive wards not trigger, with an attacker casting such lethal magic against him? And why do we not feel traces of the attacker’s spellwork? Wouldn’t such a powerful spell leave residue?”
“Ordinarily, yes. But there are ways…” Ruslan turned a hand palm up. Feeling the Alathians’ eyes on him, Kiran knew why Ruslan wouldn’t elaborate. “While speculation might be interesting, it is unnecessary. We can find out easily enough what happened here.” He waited expectantly, as if Kiran and Mikail were in a lesson.
“By casting a zhaveynikh spell,” Mikail said.
“Exactly,” Ruslan said, the word warm with approval.
Dismay seized Kiran. He didn’t recognize the spell name, didn’t know how Ruslan might discover the truth of the man’s death—proof of all he’d lost.
Ruslan caught his gaze. Kiran twitched in surprise as Ruslan’s mind touched his, deep at the core of his ikilhia where the mark-binding link lay. Death gives power, Kiran. While that power remains, it can be manipulated to produce a scry-vision of the originating event. In design, the spell is similar to those you cast in childhood to create simulacrums.
Simulacra spells, Kiran remembered. They required more delicacy than power, fine control of the spell essential to its success. Yet even so, to shape a scry-vision from the miasma of energies in the room, Ruslan must require the assistance of channels.
“You intend to cast a channeled spell,” Captain Martennan said, echoing Kiran’s thoughts. His voice was flat, his round-cheeked face gone hard.
Mocking amusement gleamed in Ruslan’s eyes. “Have no fear for your delicate sensibilities, Captain. This death is yet recent enough to taste. I have all the power I need, right here.” He flicked a hand at the savaged corpse.
They are afraid of real power, Ruslan had said. If Martennan was afraid, he hid it well. His black eyes showed only distaste. Ruslan had warned Kiran to be wary of Martennan in particular, and now Kiran had seen the man, he understood why. Despite Martennan’s polite speech and apparently sunny disposition, something about him made Kiran profoundly uncomfortable.
Equally discomforting was the way the nathahlen with the startlingly green eyes kept staring at him. No name had come to Kiran from Ruslan’s binding, though he felt the same warning inhibition against casting as he did for the Alathian mages. Ruslan had mentioned in passing that the Alathians had hired a local man as a guide and informant. Still, Kiran was surprised Ruslan’s binding included a mere servant. Strange, too, that the Alathians hadn’t hired someone older, with more experience. The green-eyed guide looked only a few years Kiran’s elder, and his callused hands and rough clothing seemed more suited to menial labor than Ninavel’s embassies. Kiran thought it odder yet that the Alathians had brought a nathahlen with them into the dead mage’s workroom. Still, what did he know of Alathian customs?
“We don’t have enough silver, or even copper, to lay proper channels.” Mikail eyed the workroom shelves with a dubious expression. Kiran shared his mage-brother’s concern. Lesser mages like the dead man lacked the talent to channel power properly with blood and precious metals. The workroom shelves contained only stone chips, crystals, and glass cases of vividly colored liquids. A few bloodspattered bars of silver lay on the table behind the corpse, enough to make charms with, but nowhere near enough to lay channels.
“For a spell of this nature, blood alone will suffice as the conduit if care is taken in the casting.” Ruslan skirted the body to scan the workroom floor. He nodded in satisfaction. “We have enough space here to set the pattern.”
The Alathians were whispering to each other. Watching them, Ruslan’s expression darkened. His head lowered as if he weighed some decision. Silent words echoed once more in Kiran’s mind. Mikail will channel. Kiran, I want you well outside the pattern. You are still healing, and I do not wish to risk disrupting that process. Wait outside the workroom’s wards and keep your barriers firm.
Kiran couldn’t hide his disappointment. True, his senses remained raw, and proximity to channeled magic was certain to bring pain. Yet he badly wanted to see Ruslan cast. The theory of the spell might have been torn from him by his accident, but he could deduce much of it simply from observation.
A faint smile lifted Ruslan’s mouth. You may watch, akhelysh. I would never deprive you of a learning opportunity. Leave the workroom door open and you should have a fine view.
Gratitude leaped in Kiran’s heart. Ruslan’s smile grew. He stepped close and slid out a set of silver bracelets from a pocket. The sigils incised in the silver proclaimed them simple damping wards; wearing them would further muffle Kiran’s senses. Ruslan handed the bracelets to Kiran, and said, “Go, then,” his voice soft. He turned away, his expression settling into mocking condescension.
“I suggest you and your people remain and observe, Captain,” he said to Martennan. “Do not touch the pattern, and look to your defenses. Your safety is your own concern.”
Martennan inclined his head, brightly cheerful once more. “I believe we can handle ourselves.”
Ruslan began pacing out a pattern, his face intent with concentration. Kiran started toward the door, only to stop short as Mikail caught his arm.
“Watch yourself, little brother.” Mikail cut his eyes in the direction of the Alathians, who had ranged themselves in a line against the wall. Even as Kiran looked, Martennan glanced their way, his black eyes assessing.
“I will.” Kiran’s unease returned. He pushed it away. With blood as the medium, preparing and casting the spell shouldn’t take long. He could handle the Alathians if any of them chose to leave the room. He’d be happy to prove that Ruslan’s faith in him was justified.
* * *
(Dev)
I sent a swift prayer of thanks to Khalmet as Kiran walked out of the workroom. I had no clue why Ruslan had sent him outside, but the reason didn’t matter. I sure as hell meant to seize the opportunity. I caught Marten’s eye.
He didn’t miss a beat. “The energies during this casting will be dangerous, Dev. We’ll cast our own protection, but as you are untalented, I think it safest if you wait outside the workroom’s wards.”
“Sounds good to me.” I headed along the wall for the door. Marten and the others took up a chant that swelled and ebbed in a sighing rhythm like wind through pines, their eyes shut and their rings glowing.
Mikail blocked my path. The murdered mage’s blood darkened his hands; to my disgust, he and Ruslan had started using it to paint spiraling patterns about the man’s body. I stopped myself from looking back for help from the Alathians. Mikail couldn’t touch me, bound by Ruslan’s vow. Or so I prayed. Besides, Mikail might be as good a source of information as Kiran. He’d been talkative enough the previous time we’d met—hell, he’d been the one to give me the Taint charm that’d let us escape Ruslan.
“What has Ruslan done to Kiran?” I kept my voice low, hoping the Alathians’ chanting would mask it. The last thing I wanted was to attract Ruslan’s attention. He was kneeling beside the body, his back to us. One hand was sunk deep within the dead man’s gutted stomach.
Mikail gave me a small, ironic smile. “Far less than could have been his fate, if Ruslan’s love for him did not temper his anger.” His words were as quiet as mine, as if he were equally eager to avoid Ruslan’s notice.
So Ruslan had done something to Kiran, then. Good to get confirmation Stevan was wrong.
“If you think Ruslan loves Kiran, you’ve no fucking idea what love is.” That wouldn’t s
urprise me, given what I’d heard from Kiran of their childhood. “But you…I know you care about Kiran. Otherwise you’d have let him die fighting Ruslan in Simon’s meadow. Are you going to help him now, when he needs it most?”
Mikail’s gray eyes grew hooded. “Help? Kiran needs none. He’s home where he belongs. If you call yourself Kiran’s friend, you’ll accept that and leave him alone.”
Fuck that. If Mikail was too much of a coward to help on his own, I’d happily give him some incentive. “Tell me exactly what Ruslan did to Kiran, or I’ll tell him who gave me that Taint charm.”
Mikail huffed out a nearly silent laugh. “Oh, he knows it was me.”
I felt as if a seemingly solid ledge had broken off beneath my feet. “He does?”
“You know nothing if you believe I could have hidden it from him.” Mikail’s hand rose to touch his heart, in an unconscious gesture I recognized all too well.
“Khalmet’s bony hand,” I muttered. My eyes went to Ruslan, whose hands were black with blood. I couldn’t even imagine how pissed off he must’ve been at that little revelation.
Mikail’s expression turned ironic again. “Ruslan was angry, but not for the reason you imagine. When he questioned me, he saw in my mind my intentions and understood. His anger was for my miscalculation.”
I frowned, thinking back to how I’d knocked Ruslan unconscious with the Taint in Simon’s meadow, and my desperate run to the border with Kiran afterward. My stomach hurt at the memory, for more reasons than one. I’d been so exultant to have the Taint back, even as the charm tore my innards apart…oh, shit. Of course.
“You sadistic little fuck! You knew exactly what that charm would do. You never intended for us to reach the border.”
Mikail shrugged. “I knew if I could prevent Kiran from killing himself in the fight, then given enough time his mark-binding link would restabilize. With the link in place, Ruslan could bring him home safely.” He inclined his head to me. “I thought the charm would kill you faster. I underestimated your strength.”
He sounded wistful about it. I bared my teeth at him in a smile. “I hope Ruslan expressed his anger properly.”
Mikail’s eyes slid away from mine. “Yes.” A fine shudder, barely noticeable, ran over him. “I won’t underestimate you again.”
A threat if I’d ever heard one. A shiver prickled along my nerves. The Alathians were still chanting, but Ruslan had pulled his hand from the body and looked about to stand. His back remained to us, but he might turn any moment. I wanted the conversation over before then.
“I’ll keep that in mind.” I fixed Mikail with what I hoped was a look of cold dismissal. “Now get out of my way.”
I thought he wouldn’t move, and I’d have to call on Marten for help after all. But he stepped aside, with a mocking little flip of his hand. “Have a care for your safety when we perform the spell. Magic can be so dangerous to the untalented.”
He couldn’t cast against me. I repeated that all the way out of the room, but it didn’t stop my skin from crawling at the feel of his eyes on my back.
* * *
(Kiran)
Kiran watched through the open door as Ruslan cut a sigil into the skin of the corpse’s forehead. Mikail wasn’t in view. He must be finishing the outermost channel lines, meant to safely contain the spell’s power. The Alathians were also out of Kiran’s sightline, though he could hear soft chanting and sense a thin veil of protective magic building within the room’s wards.
Dark lines of blood laced the stone around the dead man like a great black web. Kiran had been afraid he wouldn’t be able to read the channel pattern, too much of his knowledge lost. But no; he could visualize the spell structure, a construct fascinating in its elegance. He couldn’t immediately follow all its intricacies, but he could see well enough how the spell would take the death energies and trace them back through time, like reversing the ripples from a stone thrown into a cistern.
He was glad to analyze the spell’s design. Thinking of it, he could look at the corpse as an abstract component of that structure rather than a hideously mangled remnant of a living, breathing man.
The Alathians’ guide walked out of the workroom. His arms were crossed, a sharp line between his dark brows.
Kiran straightened, nervous. Yet none of the Alathian mages followed, and their song continued apace. They must intend to watch Ruslan cast from within the wards, and had only sent this man out because he was nathahlen and lacking in innate protection.
The guide leaned a shoulder against the doorframe. “What exactly is this spell supposed to do?”
Kiran blinked in surprise. As a child, he’d grown resigned to the way most nathahlen in Ninavel were too afraid to speak to a blood mage, even an apprentice one. Ruslan’s servants refused to meet his eyes and spent as little time in his and Mikail’s company as they could. He’d never liked it, but Mikail always said it was for the best. Ruslan had warned them countless times that associating with the untalented was a mistake.
The guide met Kiran’s gaze without a shred of fear, his expression expectant. Kiran hesitated. The man was nathahlen, yes. Yet Ruslan had said they would need to share information relating to the investigation with the Alathians, and the question was relevant.
“It’ll show us the victim’s death,” Kiran said. “Like a scry-vision, except of the past. The vision will appear in the center of the pattern.” He pointed at the air over the body.
The guide’s brows lifted. “You mean you can use this spell to see anything that’s ever happened?” He sounded quite eager over the idea. Probably he imagined it could provide some form of monetary gain. Ruslan had told Kiran that nathahlen lusted after coin, in pale substitute for the magic they could never have.
“No, not at all.” Kiran couldn’t stop a wistful sigh. If spells could so easily reveal the past, he wouldn’t need to worry over his missing memories. “Events that create power leave traces. The more the power, the stronger the trace. It fades with time, but in this case the death was so violent and recent that a spell can use the trace to recreate the original event.”
“Huh.” The guide looked disappointed. His green eyes stayed on Kiran’s face. “My name’s Dev, by the way. In case you didn’t know.”
Kiran looked away, feeling oddly guilty for not having known the name. “Oh,” he said. And after another moment, “I’m Kiran.”
“I know.” The dryness of Dev’s tone made Kiran flush. Of course Dev knew his name. Ruslan had introduced both him and Mikail to the Alathians in the courtyard.
“Nice to meet you, Kiran.” Dev wore a wry little half-grin. “So how come you’re not in there, working magic with the others?”
He asked the question casually enough, but Kiran tensed, suspicion rising. Did the Alathians suspect his handicap? They might have ordered Dev to speak with him in hopes of learning the extent of his weakness.
“Only two mages are needed to cast a channeled spell,” he said shortly.
Dev cocked his head, studying Kiran. “Yeah, but how come you’re standing out here? Wouldn’t you get a better view from inside?”
Kiran had never been good at lies. Instead of attempting one, he shrugged dismissively.
“Hey, if you want to stand out here, I don’t care,” Dev said, with a shrug of his own. He grinned at Kiran, his eyes lighting. “More fun with company, anyway. Otherwise I’d have no clue what was going on. I don’t know shit about spellwork.”
Dev’s grin was infectious. Kiran’s suspicion ebbed, despite himself. Dev wasn’t an Alathian, or even a mage. Kiran got none of that deep sense of unease that the leader of the Alathians inspired; on the contrary, he felt oddly comfortable in the guide’s presence. Dev’s coarse language and clothing suggested he didn’t ordinarily spend time in the upper city. If he knew so little of magic, that might explain his unusual friendliness—perhaps he simply didn’t know to fear blood mages as nathahlen in the wealthier districts did. The Alathians might have deliberately sought out
such a guide, thinking his ignorance would keep fear from clouding his loyalty to them.
Inside the workroom, Ruslan and Mikail paced around the pattern, surveying it with focused concentration. Ruslan flicked a hand at the workroom walls, and wards sparked to life. Magic shrouded the room in a protective cocoon.
“They’re about to cast,” Kiran said to Dev.
“Finally.” Dev glanced through the doorway. “Are they going to, uh…clean their hands?”
Ruslan and Mikail’s hands remained black and crusted with the blood they’d used to create the pattern. “No,” Kiran said. As Dev grimaced in disgust, he tried to explain. “The blood gives them a physical connection to the pattern. It makes the spell easier.”
Dev slanted him a glance, but didn’t speak. Kiran ran a finger over the warding bracelets on his wrists, sending a thin thread of power from his own ikilhia into them to spark their spells. The world dimmed as if a veil had been drawn over his eyes, his inner senses fading.
Mikail and Ruslan stopped on the opposite side of the workroom. Lacking an anchor stone, Ruslan knelt and placed his bloody hands on the outermost pattern line. Mikail backed a few paces. He shut his eyes and extended his hands.
Even through mental barriers, workroom wards, and damping bracelets, the surge of power hit Kiran with a force that left him dizzy.
The lines of blood blazed into crimson life. Unlike the smooth glow of properly conductive channels, they flickered with ghostly flames, energy bleeding off into open air. Kiran held his breath, watching Mikail’s intent face. His mage-brother would have a difficult task to control the magic with makeshift channels like these.
Ruslan held perfectly still, his gaze focused on infinity. Translucent flames leaped higher, power cresting. Over the corpse, air shimmered and blurred into a pale wash of shifting colors. The colors spread to the inner boundary of the pattern, obscuring Kiran’s view of Ruslan and Mikail. Slowly, they cohered into an image of the workroom.
The Tainted City Page 18
