But Ruslan had never forbidden them access to the plenitude of books housed in the study’s ordered ranks of bookshelves; he only demanded they be quiet about it. Kiran tiptoed across the patterned rug to a set of shelves containing treatises on the mental aspects of magic. Sharp silver light from magelights set in iron sconces illuminated even their deepest recesses. He traced a finger over the spines, scanning titles.
“Try the Lernis.”
Kiran winced and turned. Ruslan was watching him, half-twisted in his chair. To Kiran’s relief, no hint of anger showed in his eyes.
“The fourth section of the treatise contains a discussion of the effects of backlash energies upon the mind of a mage,” Ruslan said, with a little, knowing smile. “Though I fear you’ll find it confirms that when damage is severe, memories cannot be recovered.”
Kiran flushed. “I know I ought to take your word for it. But…I’ve lost so much. I can’t just accept those memories are gone, not without even trying to find if there’s some spell that might recover them.”
“I would be disappointed in any apprentice of mine who gave up before researching a problem,” Ruslan said. “A mage should never assume a solution is beyond reach. Though a mage must also have the wisdom to move on if a problem proves intractable.”
Kiran nodded, though his determination didn’t falter. There had to be some hint, some suggestion lurking in a book that would show him the path to regaining his memories. Ruslan’s talk of patience and moving on was all very well, but he couldn’t know the frustration of having years of life and knowledge vanish.
Ruslan bent back over his books. Kiran pulled the Lernis volume free and retreated to one of the padded chairs near the study door. He settled into comfortable pillows and opened the book to the section Ruslan had mentioned.
Lost in a dry but chilling analysis of mages whose minds had been shattered, he barely registered the sound of the study door opening. Lizaveta’s voice broke his concentration.
“I brought the Valsadd codices from my library.” She padded over to Ruslan’s desk, bearing an armful of thin, yellowed parchments. She set them down as gently as if they were spun glass. “Your description of the blurring of the zhaveynikh energies reminded me of a description one of their sages wrote of a Jularian adept at work.”
Ruslan eyed the parchments with keen interest. “Which sage?”
Lizaveta lifted one bare brown shoulder in a shrug. The motion rippled the floor-length folds of her violet and black dress, held clasped at her neck by a ring of silver. The dress’s open back exposed the curve of her spine from neck to waist, and the soft fabric clung to the swell of hip and breast in a way that left Kiran short of breath. A fragment of memory slipped past, of fingers gliding over his chest, a woman’s low, delighted laugh in his ear. His face heated. Had he and Lizaveta…? He remembered seeing her caress a teenage Mikail with possessive languor while Ruslan looked on, but Kiran had been too young then to think it much different than the affection she’d lavished on them both throughout their childhood. Perhaps he was only imagining the implications in hindsight. Though if he wasn’t…he swallowed, his gaze caught by the smooth perfection of her skin.
“It might have been Keldar Severius,” Lizaveta said to Ruslan. “He went to Jularia, I believe. Or perhaps Mordan of Ishelhaut. It has been a long time since I last read the codices.”
Ruslan’s mouth twitched in amusement. “Some hundred years, I would think. You never liked the Valsaddi formal court style.”
“So longwinded and so boring,” Lizaveta agreed, with a delicate little shudder. Ruslan reached for the top parchment, and she caught his hand in hers.
“You’ve been working for hours, my brother. Will you not join me in a glass of wine, and relax for a few moments?” Her kohl-lined eyes were limpid in entreaty. Kiran didn’t know how Ruslan could resist agreeing.
Indeed, Ruslan looked tempted. But he shook his head, sighing. “You know the stakes in this, Liza.”
“I know what you fear,” she said. “I think you are being overly pessimistic. Have we not weathered greater storms than this?”
Curiosity pricked Kiran. He’d have to seek out Lizaveta later and beg her to tell him what she meant. Ruslan didn’t often speak of the past, but in the right mood, Lizaveta could be persuaded to share tales of their travels. As children, Kiran and Mikail had listened entranced to many a story of long-lost cities both wondrous and strange in their customs.
“Best to stamp out small problems before they grow into large ones.” Ruslan brought her hand to his lips and kissed it. “This, I learned from you.”
Lizaveta laughed and withdrew her hand. “As long as you remember that the tired mind often misses what it seeks. But if you insist, I will leave you in peace.”
“Thank you,” Ruslan said, his voice dry.
Lizaveta turned, her gaze lighting on Kiran. He hastily bent over his book, embarrassed at being caught listening instead of reading. He stared at the words without seeing them, aware of Lizaveta’s approach in his peripheral vision.
“Ah, Kiranushka. Studying so hard already?” Her voice was barely audible, but even so, rich with teasing warmth. She settled on the arm of his chair and leaned over him to examine the page.
“You worry too much, little one.” She trailed her fingers through his hair and pulled it away from his neck. He shivered, as much from her touch as the cool air on his bared skin. Warm hands settled on his shoulders to knead tight muscles with expert precision. Tension leaked away even as his heart sped up. He let his head fall forward, the book sliding closed in his lap.
“That’s better, is it not?” Her scent surrounded him, jasmine with a hint of spice. She drew the neck of his shirt open, her fingers tracing slow patterns on his skin. Kiran shifted in the chair, torn between the warmth coalescing in his groin and a nagging sense that somehow her touch felt wrong, as if his body expected different hands.
Lips touched the nape of his neck, feather-light but hot as a brand. Kiran twitched and gasped. A tug deep in his ikilhia made his head fly up. Ruslan was looking straight at him, his palms laid flat on the open book in front of him.
But Ruslan didn’t look angry this time, either. Instead, his eyes held a heat that made Kiran’s stomach jump and his heart race for another reason entirely. Another flash of childhood memory came: Mikail, wide-eyed and serious, asking Ruslan, When we come of age, we’ll be your partners, just like Lizaveta? And Ruslan, smiling benevolently at them both: Just like Lizaveta, yes—though our bond will be deeper yet.
Was it Ruslan’s touch his body remembered? His unease didn’t fade at the idea; indeed, it increased, even as he grew painfully, achingly hard.
Ruslan stood, his eyes holding Kiran’s. He moved around the desk with predatory grace, and Lizaveta smiled against Kiran’s skin. She slid off the chair as Ruslan approached, her fingers trailing upward through Kiran’s hair.
“Do you always get what you want?” Ruslan murmured to Lizaveta.
“Always.” Her pearly teeth showed in a sharp smile. “Think of it as a gift, my brother. I know how difficult these last months have been for you.”
Difficult…how, and why? Kiran opened his mouth to ask, only to halt, all thought arrested, as Ruslan slid his hands into the black coils of Lizaveta’s hair and drew her into a deep, passionate kiss.
Kiran could imagine the lush warmth of Lizaveta’s mouth, taste the sweetness of the lira berries she loved to eat, feel her body soft and pliant beneath his hands. Was it memory? The sensations grew in strength, drowning his disquiet. His hands clamped on the chair’s arms, his breath coming fast. It was almost as if he were the one kissing Lizaveta, not Ruslan.
Ruslan pulled back from the kiss, his hazel eyes locking with Kiran’s again. All at once, Kiran understood. Ruslan was using the mark-bond, channeling all that he felt straight into Kiran.
The link has many advantages, Ruslan agreed in Kiran’s head. He smiled, slow and sensual. Answering heat bloomed in Kiran’s body, hi
s mouth gone dry as ash.
As if she’d heard the silent communication, Lizaveta twisted to look at Kiran. Her dark eyes widened, and she laughed.
“Hardly fair, my brother, when I have no such advantage. Don’t worry, little one. I have another way.” She slipped from Ruslan’s hands to straddle Kiran, twitching the folds of her dress aside as she settled onto his lap. The warm weight of her on his groin destroyed the last fading vestige of unease. He gripped her hips, pulling her hard against him, his mouth seeking hers.
She kissed him hungrily. To his surprise, the salt taste of blood mixed with sweetness. She nipped at his lower lip, brief sharp pain, and he rocked backward with the shock of power as his blood met hers within the kiss.
Lizaveta slid into his consciousness with the blood contact, deep violet tendrils spreading through his mind. Ruslan joined her there, voracious flames coiling over the tendrils until Kiran arched in the chair, a strangled moan torn from his throat. Lizaveta’s mouth left his, only to be replaced by Ruslan’s, fierce and demanding, as hands pulled his clothes open. Their power rose to enfold Kiran, spiraling upward until his vision was all sparks and light. Bodies pressed against his, one all soft heat, the other hard strength. He yielded to the hands that moved him, gripped him, stroked over him as he writhed, pierced by pleasure so sharp it shattered his innermost defenses. His mind and ikilhia bled into theirs, all boundaries gone, the pleasure building until it caught Kiran up in an inferno that burned through the deepest well of his soul.
When the world reformed around him, he found himself lying on the floor before the chair. His head lay pillowed in Lizaveta’s lap, the silk of her dress smooth against his cheek. Ruslan sat beside her with his shirt hanging open and his trousers half-laced. Ruslan’s fingers carded through Kiran’s hair, the motion soothingly repetitive. Kiran’s mind felt white and empty, his body near boneless.
“He’s well on the way to recovery, don’t you think?” Ruslan said to Lizaveta, with a lazy, satisfied smile.
“What did I tell you, brother?” Lizaveta leaned her head on Ruslan’s shoulder. “Sometimes patience yields the best results.”
“Hmmm.” With a last caress of Kiran’s hair, Ruslan stood and refastened his clothing. “Now that you’ve had your way, I really must return to my work.”
“By all means.” Lizaveta helped Kiran sit up, her dark eyes gleaming with amusement. “No more distractions this night. I give you my word.”
Kiran fumbled his way back into his own disheveled clothes. His fingers felt slow and clumsy on his shirt laces, his muscles full of a deep languor. He staggered to his feet and let Lizaveta guide him out of the study and down the hallway to his room.
Halfway there, they met Mikail leaning against his own open door. Kiran hung back, a spike of nervousness piercing the fog in his head. His mage-brother had surely felt all that raw magic, and Kiran’s rumpled clothes told their own tale. Would Mikail be jealous? Or was this commonplace for the both of them, and Kiran just didn’t recall it?
Mikail’s mouth quirked. “Magic’s not the only thing he’s ready for, I see,” he said to Lizaveta.
Kiran ducked his head, embarassment rising. Lizaveta laughed. “Oh, yes. An invalid no more.”
“Good.” The fervent tone of Mikail’s answer snapped Kiran’s head up. His mage-brother’s amusement had disappeared, replaced by an intensity of joyful relief as rare to see as his earlier anger.
Kiran peered at him, wishing his thoughts didn’t feel as sluggish as sun-warmed honey. Had Mikail truly been so concerned for his health after the accident, or did this have something to do with whatever had prompted his anger in the workroom?
“Next time, you’ll not be left out.” Lizaveta bestowed a kiss on Mikail and murmured something too soft for Kiran to hear. His gray eyes alight, Mikail nodded and withdrew into his room.
Next time. Kiran shivered, conflicted once more. The pleasure had been staggering, and yet…now that the tide of desire had ebbed, an icy core of unease remained, accompanied by something that felt strangely like shame.
Lizaveta drew him gently onward. She opened his door, and said softly, “Sleep well, Kiranushka.”
He wanted nothing more than to fall into his bed, but instead he braced a hand on the doorframe and faced her. “Khanum Liza, does your library contain any books that discuss ways a mage might see the past?” He couldn’t be the only mage who wanted to see more than a zhaveynikh spell could show.
She looked taken aback. He tried to explain. “If my memories are truly gone, I thought…perhaps there’s another way I could at least glimpse what they contained. I know you say I can relearn all my spellcraft, but that’s not all I’ve lost. Besides, I don’t want to wait years, and waste Mikail’s time, and Ruslan’s…I want to be all that I was. Akheli, not a half-trained apprentice.”
Lizaveta stroked his cheek. “So impatient,” she said. “Ah, Kiran, sometimes you are so much like Ruslan it steals my breath. As if you were the child of his body, not just his heart.”
He began a protest; child was not his relationship to Ruslan, not after tonight. But Lizaveta put a finger to his lips. “Never mind, ardeshka mayei. I only ramble because I, too, am tired. I do not know of a specific book that may help you, but you are welcome to come to my home and use my library any time you choose. I will also speak to Ruslan…he knows my library as his own, and will know best how to guide you.” Her dark eyes lingered on his face, her expression unaccountably solemn.
“Thank you.” Kiran kissed her hand in imitation of Ruslan, and was rewarded with the flash of her smile. She inclined her head to him and left. He shut the door and threw himself onto his bed, sinking gratefully into down pillows. He’d intended to consider further the oddity of Mikail’s reactions and his own curious reluctance, but sleep claimed him before he could form a single thought.
* * *
(Dev)
I perched on the edge of a rounded cupola. All around me, terraced roofs glimmered pale in the light of the horned moon rising over the eastern mountains. According to the hushed tales of multiple Julisi residents, the flat roof before me was the spot where an eggseller seeking swallow nests had found Benno’s deathdealer in a mutilated heap. The roof’s stone certainly had a shadowed look to it darker than could be accounted for by mere grime, though maybe the stain was my imagination. Talm was crawling around with his nose nearly pressed to the roof and his rings glowing silver. Every now and then he stopped to stroke the stone, or chant a soft set of incomprehensible words.
“Haven’t you found anything yet?” Impatience drove the question from me. Talm had announced he was seeking spell traces and insisted in a tone just short of an order that I wait and not wander off. But dawn wasn’t more than an hour away, and I still hadn’t seen Cara. Damn it, where was she? I’d thought she might have trouble narrowing in on us with a find-me charm as we navigated Julisi’s maze of alleys, but I’d been sitting still on this roof a good hour now.
“Not so far,” Talm said, without looking up. “Nor will I, unless I can properly concentrate.”
I sighed. I’d hoped the spot would provide a lead significant enough for me to pry another payment out of Marten. I’d have to cajole more of Benno’s men into talking. The murder couldn’t be random. The deathdealer must’ve seen or heard something, or maybe he’d been sent after someone the killer wanted to protect. I’d already spent much of the night haunting taverns in hopes of finding out those details, but so far all I had was a bunch of conflicting stories about the identity of the deathdealer’s target.
Maybe Cara had thought better of helping me. The gods knew I hadn’t exactly been appreciative at our last meeting. The sawtoothed black outline of the Whitefires drew my eye. Cara must miss them as badly as I did. Maybe even more. She disliked cities and crowds, to the point that when winter’s snows turned the Whitefires impassable, she signed on with convoys traveling the desert routes. She’d never understood how I could stand to live in Ninavel all winter. After two mont
hs stuck in the city hunting Pello, followed by me insisting I wanted to work alone, maybe she’d decided to wash her hands of this entire mess in favor of returning to the Whitefires before season’s end.
If so, I should feel relieved, even though it’d complicate my plan to bid for Melly. After all, it was what I’d wanted: Cara safe, and me free to bury the dismaying tangle of hurt and regret that afflicted me every time I thought of her. Instead, I felt as tense and twitchy as a lionclaw addict deprived of a dose. When a soft scrape sounded at the roof’s edge, I twisted so fast I nearly fell off the cupola.
A dark figure levered itself onto the roof with familiar, long-limbed grace. Talm jerked upright, one ringed hand rising.
“Talm! Wait.” I hastily vaulted down off the cupola. “You remember Cara, right? I asked her to check around for me streetside. No need to stop your search. She and I can talk behind the cupola and keep it quiet.”
Cara had frozen on the roof’s edge in a wary crouch. Talm sat back on his heels and lowered his hand. “Very well,” he said. “So long as talking is all you do.” His teeth showed white in a grin.
“Wouldn’t dream of disturbing you,” I said dryly. “Still nothing?”
“No.” He sounded far more sanguine about it than I felt.
I led Cara around the cupola’s back side. The sky was lightening already, the triplet of stars known as Noshet’s Tears bracketing the Aiyalen Spire’s five-pointed summit.
“Marten set you a watchdog, I see,” Cara said, in a voice pitched to carry to my ears and no further. “But what’s he looking for?”
“I’ll explain,” I replied, equally quietly. “But first…” I shifted on my feet, hating how awkward I felt. I missed the uncomplicated ease of our old friendship. “Thanks for coming.”
The Tainted City Page 22
