The Tainted City

by Courtney Schafer

  As if the mutilated corpse wasn’t disturbing enough. I asked, “What, you mean the killer might want to use it later in a spell, like a blood mage would?”

  Stevan looked down his nose at me. “Perhaps.” He turned to Marten. “One thing is certain. If Jenoviann is right, Ruslan would have realized this as well.”

  I didn’t doubt Ruslan knew to the last drop how much blood a victim contained. He might’ve kept silence about the missing blood merely to gain advantage. Or maybe he had a darker reason.

  Talm said slowly, “I know Halassian believes the attacks aren’t Ruslan’s doing. What if she’s wrong?”

  Marten’s gaze rested on the corpse. “When we first entered, we felt no taint of blood magic.”

  “We didn’t get the chance to search properly with a linked harmonic spell, not before Ruslan cast his own spellwork—which conveniently didn’t show the killer,” Talm said. “Now the whole room reeks of blood magic. We’ll never untangle the traces, and Ruslan’s mindburned the only possible witness. It strikes me as more than a little suspicious. I say either Ruslan murdered this man, or he’s allied with the mage who did.”

  Yeah, Ruslan was as sly as they came, and while he might be friendly with Sechaveh, I didn’t think he cared a whit for anyone’s interests but his own. I could imagine him arranging the attacks in hopes they’d bring the Alathians running, and he’d get his hands on Kiran. Only one part of that didn’t quite fit.

  “If Ruslan’s behind the attacks, why would he bother to continue them now?” I asked. “He’s already got what he wanted. Thanks to you.” I aimed the last straight at Marten, but if the bolt struck, he didn’t show it.

  “Maybe Kiran isn’t all Ruslan wants,” Talm said. “Maybe he intends to bring Sechaveh down, in hopes he can gain release from the vow he made not to take revenge on us.”

  Now there was an unsettling thought. Though if Talm was right, and we proved it to Sechaveh—maybe he could turn the confluence on Ruslan, without the need to trick Ruslan into vow-breaking. Hell, even if Talm’s theory wasn’t true, if Sechaveh thought it was—my mind whirled with new possibilities.

  Marten said, “I’d swear Ruslan was as startled as any of us that his spell failed to show the killer. Yet if the killer were another blood mage, it might explain his or her ability to block Ruslan’s spellwork. Talm, the embassy keeps track of the powerful mages in the city, correct? Do you recall the number of blood mages residing in Ninavel from your time stationed here?”

  Talm raked his hands through his curls. “It’s been five years since I was here last, so you’ll want to check with the Ambassador. But let’s see…besides Ruslan’s little group, there was Simon Levanian. But we all know what happened to him, and his apprentices were killed back when he first defied Sechaveh. He and Ruslan were always the flashy ones, and you know how blood mages are, they don’t share territory very easily. I know of only a few others…a female pair who only shows up every few decades, a solo woman who’s said to be positively ancient and live off somewhere in the Bolthole Mountains, and another man whose partner mage died some years back when a spell they cast went spectacularly wrong; he hasn’t cast channeled magic since. None of them have even close to Ruslan’s reputation.”

  Thank Khalmet for that. One Ruslan was more than enough in my book.

  Marten glanced at me. “Have you any knowledge to add?”

  After a moment’s thought, I reluctantly admitted, “Not this time. People tell plenty of blood mage stories down streetside, but the stories never give names, and descriptions are no good—from the tales, you’d think every blood mage was a deformed monster. It’s like demon stories. You tell ’em for a good scare, and embellishment is half the fun.” Every streetsider knew blood mages were real, unlike demons. But it was pretty damn rare for mages so powerful to come streetside, and most of us hoped never to cross paths with one.

  “I’ll set you the task of researching these other blood mages,” Marten said to Talm, who nodded.

  “What of Ruslan’s partner mage?” Stevan asked. “Lizaveta, I believe the name is?”

  Talm shrugged. “We know she came to Ninavel with Ruslan, and she’s never taken any apprentices of her own. She spends time on water duty as all resident mages do, but I’ve never heard of her casting powerful spells aside from that.”

  Marten said, “I saw her in Kiran’s memories at his trial. It seems she and Ruslan were apprentices together under Ruslan’s master, the way Kiran and Mikail are Ruslan’s now. She apparently took a considerable interest in Kiran and Mikail, though Ruslan handled all their training.” He looked at me again. “Has Kiran ever spoken of her to you?”

  “Not really.” Most of this talk of Lizaveta was news to me. The only time I remembered Kiran mentioning her was in the terrible conversation with Ruslan I’d overheard in Simon’s cave. I thought she cared, he’d said to Ruslan, bitter anguish in each word. I should have known she’d be just as soulless as you.

  Stevan said, “It’s obvious Ruslan chose his apprentices for more than their magical potential. Perhaps he learned to prioritize sexual appeal from his own master. In which case, this Lizaveta may be a blood mage, but her talents may lie more in the bedroom than the workroom.”

  And here I’d thought Stevan had nothing but icy brine in his veins. Had he talked this way around Kiran, who flinched and blushed at even friendly teasing over his looks? No wonder Kiran had disliked him so much. I suspected Stevan wasn’t wrong about Ruslan, though. Which put Kiran’s discomfort in a whole new disturbing light.

  “I doubt any master who chose and taught Ruslan would be satisfied with an apprentice of less than extraordinary ability,” Marten said. “Just because we haven’t heard of Lizaveta’s exploits the way we have Ruslan’s doesn’t mean we can safely discount her. Kiran believed she, not Ruslan, was the one who cast the binding he used to disrupt Simon’s spell and destroy him.”

  A horrible thought struck me. “Wait. Ruslan’s vow bound himself and his apprentices, not this Lizaveta. She can cast whatever she likes against us—you threw Kiran to him, and for nothing—”

  “Not for nothing,” Marten said sharply. “Channeled magic cannot be cast without two mages. Lizaveta can cast minor spells against us, yes—but those we have every hope of successfully defending against.”

  “Ruslan’s vow means she can’t cast with him, Mikail, or Kiran, but what if she joins up with another blood mage?” I demanded.

  “It’s no simple task for blood mages to cast together,” Marten said. “Their style of magic requires mental linkage at so deep a level they must train together for years to achieve it. Even if Lizaveta were to take apprentices of her own and mark-bond them as Ruslan has done, she cannot cast channeled magic against us any time soon.”

  Fury took my tongue before I could stop it. “So you bought yourself, what, a few years? In exchange for a lifetime of hell for Kiran. Great bargain.”

  Stevan snorted. “Hell? Hardly. I saw no suffering in him today. If anything, the opposite.”

  My fists clenched. “You don’t know him,” I snarled at Stevan. “If you did, you’d know how desperate he was to escape, how terrified he was Ruslan would do exactly this to him—rip his mind apart, make him into someone else, someone he’d rather have died than be—”

  “There’s hope for him yet, Dev.” Marten’s words were quiet but insistent. “From what you said of him, it appears his will is intact even if his memories aren’t. He can still choose to leave Ruslan. I will make that choice possible, but you must help him remember that Ruslan’s path isn’t one he wants to travel.”

  I crossed my arms tight over my chest and choked back angry words. I didn’t buy Marten would make the choice possible. He just wanted me to turn Kiran back into a willing informant. But I still needed the access Marten could give me, now more than ever.

  “Oh, I’ll help him,” I said. “But if Ruslan’s going to drag Kiran everywhere he goes, then you’ve got to bring me whenever you meet Ruslan, and d
o what you can to distract him.”

  “Gladly,” Marten said. “But to call a meeting with Ruslan, we need a reason. I’d like to send you streetside today to find out what you can on these attacks. If magic won’t suffice to reveal the killer’s identity, perhaps more ordinary means will.”

  “Sure. So long as you agree I’ve already given you something useful, and keep your end of our deal first.” I wasn’t doing any more work for him for free.

  Marten gave me a weary smile. “Yes, of course. Take this back to the embassy and show it to Ambassador Halassian.” He slipped a thin gold disc inscribed with the Council’s seal from a pocket and handed it to me. “Talm, go with Dev, first to the embassy and then down streetside. If the killer decides to hunt us, he might believe an untalented man the easiest target. Your company will be better protection for Dev than any warding charms we could provide.”

  Shit. I’d walked right into that one. But so long I had those thousand kenets in hand, I’d tolerate a watchdog. I could work around Talm’s presence, and I had to admit I wasn’t too keen on ending up slashed to shreds like the dead man on the floor.

  I said to Talm, “Tell me you’ve got some different clothes. I’m not going anywhere streetside with you in that uniform.”

  “Don’t worry.” A fleeting, sardonic grin touched Talm’s mouth. “The embassy has a few sets of streetside-style clothes and charms. Granted, when I was stationed here I didn’t go streetside often, but I know enough to play the part.”

  “Well, that’s a relief.” I headed straight for the door. The sooner I put in that bid for Melly, the better.

  * * *

  (Kiran)

  Kiran studied the channel pattern inscribed in the workroom floor. The spiraling lines were clean, shining silver, the air sunlit and scented with honeysuckle—a far cry from the stench of blood and death filling the murdered mage’s workroom that morning. Yet Kiran’s stomach fluttered with nerves. Ruslan had refused all their questions on the way back from Vaishala district, his expression dark and his manner distant. The moment they arrived home, he disappeared into his study, ordering Mikail to take Kiran through a progression of spellcasting exercises. Until now, Kiran had successfully shaken off thoughts of mangled corpses and mindburned servants. He’d performed each exercise without flaw under Mikail’s patient supervision.

  But exercises were one thing, requiring only trickles of power from his own ikilhia. Now the time had come to attempt true spellcasting, in which he would release his barriers and draw on channeled power for the first time since the accident. The power would merely be stored ikilhia from a zhivnoi crystal, just as Kiran had done countless times before…and yet, the red gleam in the crystal Mikail held unsettled Kiran as deeply as if it were the eye of some slumbering beast, ready to wake and devour him. He scanned the delicate spirals of silver yet again, searching for the merest flaw in their placement. Even a relatively simple illusion spell such as he meant to cast would be dangerous if the pattern wasn’t perfect.

  Or if Kiran lost his focus. He shut his eyes, seeking calm.

  “You’ll be fine,” said Mikail. “You were still waist-high when we first cast this.”

  “I know.” He could recall his own childish excitement, Mikail’s solemn eagerness, the shock of delight when they’d succeeded in linking minds deeply enough to cast together. “I’m ready.”

  Mikail handed him the crystal and stepped back into the channeler’s position, coolly confident. Kiran bent and placed the zhivnoi crystal at the pattern’s anchor point. The red glow heightened, the ikilhia within ready and waiting to flow at Kiran’s direction.

  His unease surged. He blocked it out. He’d cast a thousand times before without harm; this would be no different.

  Kiran released his barriers, opening his senses wide. The life energy stored within the stone snapped into sharp focus as an orb of contained light. Mikail’s ikilhia blazed as bright as a signal fire. Beyond was the glowing shroud of the workroom wards, a steady thrum of energy keeping the raw, wild currents of the confluence at bay.

  Unlike the snarl of violent power Ruslan had forced through makeshift channels that morning, the ikilhia within the crystal didn’t hurt when it lapped against his mind. Far from it. The stored power sang to him, sweet and seductive. His soul ached for it as strongly as if he’d gone years without tasting magic. All hesitation forgotten, Kiran reached out.

  Energy poured into him. Magic swelled in his blood, joy rising with it. He gloried in the sensations for a timeless interval, letting magic eddy through body and mind.

  “Kiran,” Mikail said, chiding but amused.

  Recalled to his purpose, Kiran stretched his senses for his mage-brother. Their minds meshed with smooth ease, far more easily than in his childhood memories. With Mikail’s strength as his anchor, Kiran sent power coursing out into the channels. As he layered the spell into shape, Mikail shadowed his every move, smoothing and adjusting the channels’ flow to support Kiran’s efforts. When the intricate latticework was complete, Kiran narrowed his focus and brought his will to bear. Nothing else existed but his desired result; he commanded the spell to supply it.

  Magic leapt to obey. In the center of the room, the air flared bright, and a shining pillar formed. Gradually, the pillar resolved into a peach tree, the trunk rooted in the stone floor, the branches laden with rosy-gold fruit and the leaves thick and green.

  Kiran called back the remaining power and funneled it safely away into the crystal’s spelled reservoir. As the magic dancing in his blood faded, his link with Mikail thinned and dissolved. Reluctantly, Kiran rebuilt his barriers. His ordinary senses felt muffled, the world leached of beauty and color.

  “Nicely done, Kiran,” Ruslan said from the doorway. A spark of pride warmed Kiran’s chest as Ruslan studied the peach tree. The illusory leaves appeared to quiver in the gentle breeze wafting through the open window. “Ah, snow peaches. Lizaveta’s favorite kind. Shame they’re only illusion.”

  “We could make her some real ones if we cast a higher level spell,” Mikail said.

  Ruslan shook his head. “Enough for today, I think. Kiran, did you feel any discomfort while casting?”

  “No.” Kiran’s inner senses tingled, but in a good way, as if he’d stretched muscles that hadn’t been used in too long. “It felt…” Words couldn’t suffice to explain the glory; he settled on, “Wonderful. Can’t I cast another?”

  Ruslan chuckled. “Patience, akhelysh. Better to do less than you can than too much. You were not so comfortable this morning even with the damping charms, yes?”

  “It only hurt when you neared the limit of what the channels could hold,” Kiran said. “Even then, the pain wasn’t bad.”

  “Still, any pain means you have not yet fully recovered.” Ruslan’s face grew stern. “I have another question about this morning, Kiran.”

  Kiran’s delight withered. Had Ruslan seen how his questioning of the servant had upset Kiran? Or was this about the nathahlen guide? Kiran swallowed and met Ruslan’s eyes, waiting.

  “The Alathians’ guide stood with you while you watched my casting. Did you speak to him?”

  Kiran nodded, his stomach sinking. Surely Ruslan couldn’t be angry over such a brief conversation? “He asked what the zhaveynikh spell would do. I only answered because you said we need to share information with the Alathians.”

  Ruslan leaned against the wall. His hazel eyes bored into Kiran’s. “Was that all you spoke of?”

  “No,” Kiran admitted. “I told him the spell had showed us the time of death. If that was a mistake, I’m sorry—but I said nothing else of consequence, I swear it!”

  “I’ll be the judge of that.” Ruslan’s casual stance didn’t change, but magic slammed into Kiran through the mark-binding link. Kiran choked and fell to his knees, his vision darkening as Ruslan scoured his mind with the implacable, brutal force of a sandstorm. Ruslan found and examined the memory of his conversation with Dev, brushing away Kiran’s instinctive attempt
s to block him with casual strength.

  When Ruslan released him at last, Kiran found himself splayed face-down on the workroom floor, sweat soaking his shirt and stinging his eyes. His muscles trembled and his head throbbed with renewed pain.

  “I’m sorry!” he gasped. “I didn’t mean to disobey—I wouldn’t have—”

  “Enough,” Ruslan said.

  Kiran shut his mouth so fast he nearly bit his tongue. He stared at the stone beneath his nose, trying not to think of the agony in Torain’s cries. He could only hope that Ruslan wouldn’t decide to punish him in earnest.

  “I did not intend you to share information with a mere servant,” Ruslan said. “In the future, I suggest you remember that speaking to nathahlen is a waste of time.”

  “Yes, Ruslan.” Kiran rolled to sit up, shaky with relief. He struggled to silence the voice within that insisted Ruslan’s rules on talking to the untalented were both unreasonable and unfair. Ruslan was never so strict with Mikail.

  “I must leave you for a time,” Ruslan said. “If Lizaveta seeks me, tell her I had to depart on an errand in the lower city, and will return as soon as I may. Kiran, no more exercises. Instead, review the theory behind the zhaveynikh spell you saw cast this morning—Mikail can show you the appropriate volume of the Dyadi codices. Mikail, you may return to working on the spell designs you began last week.”

  “Yes, Ruslan,” Kiran said in concert with Mikail. He couldn’t help wondering what Ruslan sought in the lower districts, but he kept silent, fearful of rekindling Ruslan’s ire.

  Mikail was braver. “Do you seek the killer? I would come, and help you—”

  “No, akhelysh,” Ruslan said. “Finding our quarry will require more than a morning’s research. Have no fear, I’ll call upon your assistance soon enough. For now, continue your studies as usual.”