A Wizard's Sacrifice

by Amanda Justice

  Slithering footsteps pried her eyes open. Passing through shafts of green-tinged light, a filthy woman descended a rough stone ramp. Using the Woern, she nudged Vic away from the wall and examined her ravaged shoulder.

  “Where am I?” Vic asked, blowing at a fly.

  The woman cringed, and wide eyes shot to a cane grate overhead. “I’m sorry they hurt you, sister.”

  No breeze stirred the air, but the woman’s hair writhed like red snakes over bare breasts. The throbbing in Vic’s temples shifted in time with the twisting hair. Shutting her eyes to the seething, sickening motion, she could still sense it. “Where am I?” she asked again.

  “The People brought you to me, as a gift.”

  Recognition squeezed through the flies and pain and stench. She had dreamed of this place years ago in Fembrosh, and the Kragnashians had told her she was the One—the savior who had freed them from Meylnara the Oppressor. But Meylnara had lived a thousand years in the past. Incredulity wedged past pain. How could she have traveled through time?

  “Eat,” the woman said, motioning to a Kragnashian bearing a bowl of blue gel. It tipped the rim against Vic’s lips. A few sips drained the pain from her head, but her roiling stomach balked and she turned away. Gently pushing her forward, the creature nipped one of its filamentous legs and slathered her shoulder in grass-scented blood, easing the burning agony. Meylnara urged her to rest, and they left.

  Savoring the respite, Vic took deep, slow breaths. The People brought you to me as a gift. She had been Lornk’s treasured slave. She would not be Meylnara’s. She reached for the Woern, and a fiery bolt stabbed behind her eye. Bile, acid, and blue gel erupted, splattering skin and stone. Whimpering, she hung from the manacled arm. Ashel’s smile flashed in her mind like a beacon, and a lump closed her throat. She’d finally turned toward love and life, and now the Kragnashians had spun her about and shoved her back down a path toward hate and death.

  Hours dragged through noxious agony and mourning. Night melted into the dungeon, and Meylnara returned, a faintly luminous ball floating behind her, casting more shadows than light. Vic gathered her legs under her, enduring the breath-splitting tendrils shooting from her shoulder. “Why don’t you kill me?”

  “You are a vessel for my future.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You are a vessel, to bear the child I cannot. The Council denies me. They denied my mother. I defy them!” The glowing ball bounced, jerking shadows as Meylnara mixed human words with grunts and clicks. Without mindspeech, Vic wouldn’t have understood her. “I will have a wizard’s child,” Meylnara continued, “but I will not soil myself with a drudge.”

  “You should have kidnapped a wizard with a cock if you want help with that.”

  The woman inched closer. Flinching, she pressed her palm to Vic’s belly. “Don’t you feel it?”

  Vic’s heart lurched as she recalled the soft, fragile warmth of Maynon and Silla’s child. “Feel what?”

  “My mother took refuge with the People so I would be safe. But she went back to them. They’ll kill you like they killed her, unless you stay.”

  “Feel what?” Vic repeated. There had been that jolt through her womb the night she and Ashel married.

  “Save your child as my mother saved me. I will love it as my own.”

  Energy flooded her nerves, and the manacle snapped open. Pain lanced her brain and shoulder, but fury overrode it. Meylnara shrank away. Vic chased her to the opposite wall. “Is the Council in Direiellene?”

  Eyes wide, Meylnara nodded.

  “Send me home. I won’t hurt you if you send me home.”

  “But they’ll kill your child!” Meylnara’s back struck the opposite wall.

  “I have no child!” Vic seized the other woman’s throat, and fire surged through her hands and up her arms.

  “It’s mine!” Meylnara cried as Vic fell back, her fingers cramped into claws, a sizzle clinging to her bones. Above, the grating slapped back. Heavy shadows swarmed down. Shaking the sting out of her hands, she shot upward, but a blue rope of energy lassoed her waist and hauled her back. Kragnashian legs wrapped round her neck and face. Her teeth tore into spiked filaments, and slick green blood oozed into her mouth, choking her with springtime sweetness.

  * * *

  Sprawled atop a fibrous mound, she blinked awake. It was utterly dark. Sweat crawled through her hair. Shit and piss jabbed her nostrils; the fetid air swept over a parched throat. Groaning, she tried to rise. The nest material swallowed her elbows; pain scorched her shoulder and hammered her head, and she flopped back to her belly, limp as a ragdoll. She had felt like a clockwork doll when she had been in Lornk’s thrall—a thing wholly his, whose very breath and heartbeat he controlled. In a pique of irony, he had called her Kara, naming his powerless slave after history’s most powerful wizard. A bitter chortle slipped out. She was Meylnara’s doll now, and just as powerless.

  A swish brought a spill of light and a Kragnashian. Working with mandibles and multitudes of prehensile legs, the creature rapidly stripped off her garments and washed her, dressed her wound, and placed her on a clean nest that molded round her. Supporting her head, the Kragnashian inserted a tube between her teeth. Gelatin slid past her protests, easing her thirst, and she gulped hungrily. Pain melted into darkness, and she dreamed.

  * * *

  Rosen blossoms fold into the scent of his ardor. She clutches his shoulders, her hair sweeping his chest as he draws her hips toward his. Her ears strain for footsteps, but he hums, the sound passing from his throat into hers.

  Spent, he settles her next to him. The grass yields to them, prickly and soft.

  “We should go,” he mumbles into her hair.

  She nuzzles his throat. “Audience is soon. We should go.”

  Ashel squeezes her shoulder, his right hand so strong, the calluses on his fingertips rough against her skin. Kissing her hair, he pulls his shirt over his head.

  Sighing, Kara tucks sheer silk under the metal belt soldered round her waist. The belt used to pinch, but she’s used to it after so many years.

  Stamping his feet into his boots, he smiles at her. “You’ve got grass in your hair.”

  Blushing, she runs her fingers through it. “You look perfect.”

  His smile deepens. “Ever my aim.”

  * * *

  Kara kneels at the edge of the dais as supplicants stream into the throne room: merchants, miners, minstrels, and weavers. Tradespeople and tinkers. A crew of Caleisbahnin, greedy eyes assessing everything. One smirks at her, stroking his mustaches.

  The inner doors bang open, and the king and queen enter. Head bowed, Elekia walks stiffly, her hands clasped, her eyes hateful as they fall on Kara. Lornk flops onto his throne. Kara’s muscles clench round her spine—she knows that tight smile all too well. Her breath catches, and she blinks fast to dam welling tears.

  The crown prince saunters in and levies a smirk at the minstrels. His humor melts Kara’s worries. If his father knew of their affair, Ashel wouldn’t be so jovial.

  “Citizens.” Lornk nods to the courtiers who take their seats at the back of the room. “Guilders, seamen, before we hear your pleas, we must attend to some household business. Kara.”

  Her name is a hot poker between her shoulder blades. The courtiers stare, eyes wide. Ashel’s beautiful smile twists into a sneer.

  Holding her face still, she kneels at Lornk’s feet. His hand rests gently on her hair. A silent moan clogs her throat as she struggles to keep her breathing even.

  “You have stolen from me.”

  She was Lornk’s distraction, his plaything, a possession to be displayed but never used by anyone else. It would do no good to lie. “Yes, my lord.”

  “And given to my son.” Quiet rage soils the air.

  She nods. “Yes, my lord.”

  His fingers tighten like a vise on her skull. A whimper escapes her throat. She waits for Ashel to stand and cl
aim her, but she hears nothing but murmurs from the Audience. Behind the throne, two giant forms shimmer into being. Gasping, courtiers fall back, but Lornk drags her in front of the creatures. “Master, I ask of you a great favor.” He bows, remaining bent until the antennae touch him on the shoulder.

  * * *

  Spray whispers past her face, drawing her skin into little bumps. Waves crash, a steady white sound with lumps of darker colors. Behind her, forest rises toward the sky, but the shade never reaches her. The sun melts into the sand, and she shivers as the breeze scrapes across skin burnt red as coal. Her wrists and ankles glued to stakes, her fingers and toes are numb. Her throat is dry as this bed of sand.

  Ashel will come for her. Her eyes ache for sight of him. He’ll come with cool hands that will wash away pain. He’ll come.

  She waits. The sun burns red through closed eyelids. He’ll come.

  Others lie staked to the beach to dry. Flesh for the masters. She shuts her eyes against the horror. She believes she’s the only one still alive. He must come.

  Sea spray stings her blisters. Sand grinds into her sores. Her ears hurt, listening for his footfalls. She dozes, wakes, dozes again, hope shrinking. Her tongue laps dry lips. Iron dribbles down her throat. He must come.

  Burning pain shivers down her spine. Worse is the waiting.

  Remembrance of Things Lost

  Water gushed, a solid stream, the splashing strong and heavy. A faucet squeaked as it shut off. Drips plunked. Plunk. Plink.

  There was only one place in Knownearth where water came from faucets, not pumps or buckets. Prying open his eyes, Ashel thrust himself into a morning in Traine, capital of Betheljin. A fortuitous ancestry had made the Korngs rulers of Relm, but their wealth was rooted here.

  “You’re awake,” said a woman aloud in Betheljin. “A servant is bringing up hot stones to heat the bath.”

  “Thank you.” Temples pounding, he sat up. Sunlight edged the curtain hem, a hard, white bludgeon, threatening an agony of brightness. Carefully, he stood, head reeling. Kill you slow—harlolinde slowed everything, especially the day after. Until you became like Erik.

  “You know where you are?”

  He nodded. You want to find your wife? Come with me. He’d stumbled after that promise, slung between Febbin and Joslyrn, drunk but not surprised when they brought him to a Device.

  “Well then, I’ll find you some clean clothes.” Tall with ash gray hair, the woman had a strong, handsome figure and a broad, plain face.

  “You must be Elsa.” Lornk’s cousin had been his housekeeper, but she wore a well-tailored embroidered silk vest and pantaloons, not the shapeless culottes usually worn by servants here. “You seem to have come up in the world.”

  She stared at him, mouth flat. “This is my house now.”

  “And what does Citizen Korng think of that?”

  A servant bustled through to the bathroom, two buckets, radiating heat, yoked over his shoulders. The hot stones plunked into the water, and steam billowed through the door.

  “I am Citizen Korng.”

  They left, and Ashel hugged himself, wishing they were Vic’s arms. Grief clogged his throat as his eyes fell on his reflection. The mirror was his own height, backed with silver and probably worth the Caleisbahn debt that Lornk had paid off.

  “He doesn’t own me,” Ashel said, but his reflection sneered at the carpet pile bristling past his toes, the massive, soft bed, silk-upholstered chair, marble-topped desk. The steaming marble tub offered no respite from shame.

  As he washed, pounding temples ground regret into disgust and mourning, and he wished he had followed the Lathan troopers back to their camp. He’d never have found Erik’s flask and yielded to its temptation. If he hadn’t succumbed to vice in a Caleisbahn gaming house, he could have avoided this entire mess. All the shouldn’t-haves that led him here harried his steps out of the bathroom.

  “You have his frame,” Elsa said.

  He jerked the towel off his head and whipped it around his waist.

  “You favor your mother, but I can see Lornk’s bones underneath. Yet you have your father’s manner. Sashal was ridiculously modest too.”

  Pantaloons and a vest lay on the bed with a porcelain razor, an ivory comb, and a toothbrush. Ashel scooped it all up and retreated into the bathroom.

  Elsa snapped back the curtain and blatantly appraised him.

  “What do you want?” The towel in a tight fist, he arched an eyebrow and straightened his shoulders.

  Her lips curved. “Now that’s your mother. I remember her like yesterday. You’re not the only one in this house to lose a wife to the Kragnashians.”

  “Lornk Korng is not my mother’s husband.”

  “A first bedding is a wedding in Latha, isn’t it? Well, here in Traine, we say bed your lover and wed your financier. Elekia was most certainly not the latter, but Lornk did love her enough to honor your quaint custom and consider her his wife. Because he loved Sashal, he never challenged their marriage. He wanted to spare Sashal the shame of being named a cad.”

  “Am I supposed to be grateful for his discretion?”

  “You’re supposed to acknowledge you don’t know anything about who they were then or who they are now.”

  “I know my father is dead.” He held up his hand. “And I know what Lornk did to me out of perverse, maniacal jealousy.”

  “If you’re so sure of that, why are you here?”

  You want to find your wife? Come with me. Rage vibrated through him. “To find out what he knows about the Kragnashians who took my wife.”

  “Well then, come have some breakfast, and maybe he’ll tell you.”

  After he dressed, Elsa led him to a sunlit room where the outlaws forked eggs into their mouths, but Ashel’s gaze fixed on the young man who stood to greet him.

  “I am deeply sorry for your loss, cousin,” Earnk Korng said. “Whatever aid I can give in finding Vic and Bethniel, you have it.”

  “Thank you,” he said, using manners to carry him through surprise. “How did you get here? The Device in Olmlablaire was buried.” Vic had cleared it so soldiers could take Lornk directly to Latha, but more rocks fell on it afterward.

  “I had it dug out. It’s too valuable as a conduit to the rest of Knownearth. Dear Elsa.” Earnk turned into his cousin’s warm embrace.

  “Tea, Shemen?” Kelmair fetched a pot from the sideboard. A gray silk gown flowed from her shoulders, leaving muscled arms bare but sheathing the rest of her like water. Loosed from her topknot, hair sprayed over her shoulders in a fall of blue-black silk. She heaped pastries and eggs onto a plate and set it down with a steaming cup. His surprise at finding Earnk here drowned in shock at the Caleisbahnin’s courtesy. Dumbly, he sat at the place she laid out.

  “You all right?” Joslyrn asked. Washed free of clay, his hair flared around his head, gray twirling through black spirals.

  “Why are you here?”

  “Waiting for those Lathan soldiers to clear out.” Kelmair slid into her chair. Sheepishly, she nodded at Elsa. “Thank you for the clothes.”

  “You’ll have your mullas this afternoon,” the older woman said, taking a seat with her breakfast.

  Joslyrn’s eyes fell onto his teacup. “I’m sorry for your loss, Ashel. We didn’t . . . You try to do right in the world, but it hardly ever turns out like you planned.”

  Febbin put his fork down and covered his face. Kelmair rubbed the boy’s back, and they whispered about Erik.

  Blinking back his own grief, Ashel focused on the fresco on the ceiling—an image of the daylight sky, pale pink clouds, and Elesendar pulsing as brightly as the sun.

  “Good morning.” Lornk entered, Wineyll on his heels. She stalled at the threshold, eyes wide as they darted between Earnk and his father. Her face flushed, she ducked behind a spill of dark locks and collected a pastry and tea before sliding into a seat beside Ashel.

  “The new cook is inferior to you, c
ousin,” Lornk said, trying the eggs.

  Ashel bit into a scone. It was dry. “I agree,” he said, playing their game of polite small talk. “I had the pleasure of sampling your baking while in Olmlablaire’s dungeons.”

  Earnk flushed, and Lornk grinned. “You can thank your brother for that.”

  “I don’t have a brother.”

  “Elsa, look at this fine pair of sons I have,” Lornk said. “A traitor and a sot.”

  Earnk bent over his breakfast, and Ashel felt a pang of sympathy for the younger Korng. Each evening on the road to Re, he and Earnk had split a wine bottle or three while Bethniel chattered away, gently prying information from Earnk about Aunt Richelle, while regaling him with amusing anecdotes of their upbringing. The ache in Ashel’s hand and heart had rivaled each other during that trip, so he’d left it to Bethniel to charm an alliance out of their cousin. All that effort, and now she was gone. Ashel would not be in his own body—he might even be dead—were it not for Earnk Korng, but that didn’t change the fact these people were his enemies. “I made a mistake coming here.”

  “I thought you wanted to find out what happened to Victoria. I am, by the way, content to let her remain your wife.”

  Ashel’s lungs stoked a smoldering fury. “You have no say in what she does.”

  “The Buzzards’ Roost is a stew of misery, filled with escaped slaves, bliss-addled whores, cutthroats, and starving urchins,” Lornk said. “If not for me, Victoria might have been one of them.”

  Wrath flared. Fists clenched, he shut his eyes and latched onto Geram in the training yard.

  Geram’s foot connects with Drak’s chin. There’s a scrabble of pebbles and a thud as the larger man’s bulk hits the ground.

  “Well done, cuz,” Drak laughs.

  Gravel crunches, and Geram feels a draft. Dodging a fist, he jabs, strikes leather, but a leg twists round his shin and he falls.

  Ashel forced his breath to follow Geram’s rhythm as the other man rose and circled Drak.

  “The Buzzards are Victoria’s people,” Lornk continued, “Oreseekers and their descendants, and Parnden hangs half a dozen a week. He lets his enemies buy their way off the gibbet. All they have to do is pay a fee and supply a substitute. Anyone will do, so long as the fee is paid. And hence, of late, most of the bodies decorating the square are children from the Roost. It’s quite clever, really. He makes the wealthy beholden to him and oppresses the poor. Two birds, as they say.”