A Wizard's Sacrifice

by Amanda Justice

  The merchant nodded. “They’re better able to help you than we are, Highness.”

  Dimming hope lured him down paved avenues and muddy byways toward the docks. Commerce swelled and ebbed around him: everyone after something, from the beggars who flicked a rag at his boots and demanded a penny-crystal for the shine, to the master courtesans who raised finely styled eyebrows and beckoned with gem-studded nails. At one corner, a coal wagon blocked half the intersection. A man and a skinny youth heaved at a wheel mired in sludge, while horses strained in harnesses, flinching beneath the lashing whip of a bone-thin woman.

  A pair of constables strolled over, slapping clubs into their palms.

  “Move this lot now,” said one.

  “You’re blocking traffic,” growled her partner.

  “Soon,” said the wagon driver. “We go when wheel free.”

  “Not soon enough.” The first constable peeled back the tarp to reveal the load of glistening black chunks. “Where’re your papers for this haul?”

  The other officer grabbed the youth, pinned him against the cart, and fished a hand into his culottes. “Hey, pretty birdie, you got the papers? Or did you Buzzards steal this load?” The boy yelped and squirmed as the grinning constable churned his hips against him.

  Buzzards. Vic’s people. “Let him go,” Ashel said.

  “Don’t trouble yourself over these birds, my lord,” the first constable said, her eyes skirting over his embroidered silks. “They’ll be on their way to the Commissar’s gibbet soon enough.”

  “They’re late delivering this load for me. Do not delay them further.”

  The second constable stepped away from the boy but kept a fist clenched round his collar. “You have proof, my lord?”

  Ashel fished in his pouch. “What’s the fine for missing paperwork? I’m afraid I left it up in the Circle.”

  The first constable named a sum, and he handed it over, watching in silence while the pair strolled away. After they’d disappeared into the crowd, Ashel nodded at the horses’ scored withers. “Keep wearing them down like that, and they won’t be pulling coal or anything for you.”

  The freckles on the woman’s nose paled. “Horses good for draft, Citizen. You buy?”

  “No, I want you to take care of them.” He dug more crystals out of the pouch and handed them to her. “Get some gravel to put under the wheel and some fodder for the horses, and be gone before they come back.”

  Their eyes were fixed on his lone thumb, snagged through the pouch strings.

  “You Prince Ashel?” asked the woman.

  With yellow fingernails and furtive eyes, the trio looked like they might kill a wealthy stranger who stumbled on them at the wrong time and place. But he’d already stuck his foot in it. “Yes.”

  “For your loss.” Together, they bowed their heads, placed their hands over their hearts, and extended their palms toward him.

  The youth swiped a sleeve across wet eyes, smearing dirt over his cheeks. “I’m Fred, and he’s Michael,” he said, dropping the Buzzard patois for the Oreseeker’s tongue. “We’re from Cairo.”

  Michael looked up and down the block, then whispered, “The same ship brought us here, with her.”

  The woman handed Ashel back his money. “We’ll take care of the horses. I’m Mary. I didn’t know her, but we all revere her. She was our hope.”

  Was. “She’s not dead,” he said, his faith as solid as a cerrenil trunk. But a creeper of doubt grew among the roots of his convictions. Before it could flourish in their sorrow, he strode away.

  In the square before the Commissar’s palace, teahouses and booksellers crowded between guildhouses, all the buildings facing a teeming marketplace. Cafe tables buzzed with chatter. Market stalls bustled with haggling shoppers, laden porters, merchants, crafters, tradespeople, and laborers. In the center of it all was a gibbet decorated with four small bodies. A bitter, sulfurous reek coiled through the breeze.

  Parnden lets his enemies buy their way off that gibbet. Ashel stared at the gallows, blood boiling as he watched the throng ignore it. When he’d visited Traine as a youth, he’d barely noticed the Buzzards and thought the scaffold was merely a stage, one where he’d performed the night he first saw Vic. A wide-eyed, timid girl, naked, alone, and collared. Property. Of Lornk Korng.

  Throat tight, he veered toward the sturdy wrought iron fence separating the palace grounds from the market. The lane alongside was cleared of passersby, and there he moved swiftly, his gaze lingering on the Minstrels Guildhouse on the other side of the square. The day after his failure to get answers from the Kragnashian Center, he’d gone to the Guildhousemaster and told her everything that had happened. Master Jovial had suggested he try the slotaen merchants. She’d also invited him to come and use the practice rooms any time he wished. Squashing the temptation to lose himself in music, he quickened his steps.

  The palace gates squealed open, and the Korng carriage rattled out, Relmans flag aflutter. Ashel crossed his arms as the carriage approached. The driver tugged on the reins, and the carriage shuddered to a halt. Earnk leaned out the cab window.

  “Are you headed to the docks? We can take you.”

  “I’ll walk, thanks.”

  “You’re awfully conspicuous with that murderous scowl, cousin.” Earnk hopped out of the carriage. “Especially when you’re stomping alone through the pomerium. Parnden keeps this lane clear for a reason.”

  “Why were you there?”

  “I am a head of state,” Earnk said drily. A subtle tremor marred the glib answer, and Ashel noticed the tight set to the Relmlord’s jaw. Earnk’s eyes flicked to the gibbet, and his larynx bobbed as death stench wafted over them. “Care for a drink?” he asked. “I know a place near the docks. Won’t take you out of your way, and we can walk if you like.”

  Throat aching, he shrugged. “I suppose I’m thirsty.”

  A pair of guards dropped off the back and shadowed them into the market. Ashel fingered the note in his pocket as they meandered past brimming stalls. The crowd parted for their silks, some muttering respectful greetings. Most avoided Ashel’s gaze, but the shabby ones who glimpsed his hand stopped, touched their hearts, and flashed their palms before hurrying off. For weeks Buzzards had signaled him this way. Weeks of dead ends, slim hopes, and sympathy from strangers. Slaves and former slaves, like Vic.

  The noise of the square fell behind them as Earnk took them down deserted alleys into rougher districts lined with tenements. Squalling babies, banging pots and cutlery, bickering and lullabies filtered from windows as he walked beside this man who was enemy and ally, cousin and, possibly, brother. Oaths and prayers that Lornk was not his true father whirled and settled into the dank and foggy moor of his grief.

  “Why do you support him?” Ashel asked in mindspeech. “From what I can tell, you’ve suffered more than most at his hands.”

  Earnk’s jaw bunched. “My father is cruel and utterly without remorse for his actions. But . . .” He chuckled bitterly. “But he protects those things which, in his eyes, belong to him. He thinks the world belongs to him, and he is determined to save it.”

  “By ousting Parnden?” Ashel sneered.

  “He will be in a much better position to defend humanity if he controls Knownearth’s foundries and smithies and is officially allied with the Caleisbahnin. But this coup is also an act of vengeance.”

  “For what?”

  “For me.” Red tinged the tips of Earnk’s ears, and they quickened their pace to the pier. As they walked past the slips, Ashel looked for the Lisette, but he felt hollow inside, devoid of hope. On the north rim of the bay, shanties snarled over marshland like a wart on a gangrenous finger. The Buzzards’ Roost, where Vic’s people lived short, miserable lives. What did Fred, and Michael, and the rest want from him, when they offered their condolences? He was empty. He had nothing to give them.

  An alehouse sign creaked overhead: The Logkeeper. A dry laugh cracked his thr
oat. An Oreseeker establishment.

  Earnk pulled the door open. “This is the place, and there’s someone here you should meet.”

  The barwoman gave half a smile and nodded them toward the booths in a far corner. Scattered patrons murmured over drinks in pairs and threesomes. As they slid onto a bench and the guards settled at a nearby table, the barwoman brought over a tray of frothy steins. She served the guards first, then slid onto the bench beside Earnk.

  “This is Ellen Storund,” Earnk said, raising his mug to their host before drinking.

  The lager had a mild, sweet flavor, but it was strong. A few swallows and Ashel’s head felt like it was floating off his shoulders. He offered his left hand to the woman and introduced himself.

  “Your Highness, I’m so pleased to meet you.” Young and handsome, Ellen had a strong grip. Blonde hair wound into a bun atop her head. Spectacles magnified blue eyes with pale lashes.

  “The Storunds are important allies to the Korngs,” said Earnk. “Have been for years, since my father was a boy.”

  “I married into the family,” Ellen answered Ashel’s raised eyebrows. “I’ve lived in Traine for only the past seven years.” Her forehead creased over a wooden ring she wore on her third finger. Meeting his gaze again, she touched her heart and laid her palm on his chest. “I came here with Vic, from Cairo.”

  He stared, trying to breathe through the blood pounding up his neck. What were the odds, in this city of half a million, that he would meet three people who had known Vic within the space of an hour?

  “Slim odds,” Earnk muttered, and Ashel remembered he was a Listener.

  “I was incredibly lucky,” Ellen said, responding to Earnk. “The man who bought me from the slavers was kind, and his goal was to set me free. The Storunds don’t believe in slavery, you see, and they have a tradition of picking someone from the slave markets and becoming their patron.”

  “Would there were more Storunds,” Ashel said, trying to work out how his encounter with Michael and Fred could have been set up.

  Speaking directly in Ashel’s mind, Earnk said, Does it matter? For Ellen’s Hearing, he added in mindspeech, “If my father succeeds, he will ban slavery in Betheljin. That’s why the Oreseekers support our rebellion.”

  “How will he keep his Caleisbahn allies if he eliminates their main source of revenue?”

  “They’ll be compensated.”

  Ellen clasped Ashel’s hand. “My husband Alek and Lornk Korng have spent years planning this uprising. They began long before Vic or I arrived. I know Lornk was not kind to her, as Alek was to me, although I believe him when he says he did what he thought was necessary.”

  “Necessary?” Ashel’s mug smacked the table, ale slopping over the polished wood.

  “Please, Highness.” Ellen’s eyes darted toward her customers. “Our children—Oreseeker children—are dying. On the gibbet, on the street, in galleys, in mines. My good fortune leaves me aching to help them. I knew your wife only a few weeks in a pitch-black slave hold, but I’ve never forgotten how she helped me endure it. For her sake, do what you can to help her people by supporting Lornk Korng.”

  His left fist curled tight round his stein, he fought the urge to throw the thing.

  Earnk gazed at him calmly. “Whatever you think of my father, I assure you Parnden is worse.”

  “That may be so.” He stood. “But my only purpose in staying here, in this accursed city, is to find Vic and my sister.”

  Outside, people swarmed the quay, empty carts rattling along the wharves, full ones creaking into the city. “Hoy theres” peppered the air. A crew of porters trotted past, burdens strapped to their heads, a litter borne on their shoulders. All the business of Traine. Ashel leaned against a wall, his face in his hands, wishing he could fold time backward to the scent of the flowers wreathing her hair. The grip of her hand, the robust, hearty music of her laughter.

  Come back to Latha, Geram urged. Lornk is mad. Insane, and you’re becoming infected with his obsession. It isn’t helping you find them, Ashel, it’s only making you lose the best parts of yourself.

  And what are those? I can do nothing at home, and apparently, neither can Mother. At least here . . . if she is alive, I know Lornk wants to find her. You Heard Earnk—Lornk protects his own. That sick, mad bastard of a man is the only one in Knownearth who wants to find her as much as I do, and he’s the one person who might have a chance of succeeding.

  You cannot remain there, Geram said. People are saying you helped Korng escape. Fensin is stirring that pot, and there is talk of charging you with treason. Elekia won’t be able to protect you—you know Fensin is trying to push her off the throne. Come home before things get out of hand.

  Ashel stood with head down and fists clenched. A tempest raged within him, swirling around a well of grief for all he’d lost: father, sister, wife, music. Different parts of his soul had been ripped away and cast down that hole, and he couldn’t find the means of dredging them up and stitching himself back together. His right hand, its four fingers butchered and thrown away, butted against his forehead. Tell my mother I cannot fix what she broke.

  New World, New Enemies

  A path arrowed past rows of sharply staked tents, from a black and white scrolled pavilion anchoring Thabean’s camp to a massive edifice bedecked with banners and striped in patterns of scarlet, verdant, azure, violet, black, and white. A fancy silk robe enveloped Vic, dragging on the ground and snagging underfoot. Leaning on Bethniel, she hobbled down the lane with the vigor of an ailing crone. A few paces ahead, Thabean’s cloak billowed as if caught by a breeze, but there was no wind and they moved slowly.

  “Are you doing that?” Vic asked.

  Thabean stopped. The cloak undulated. “I’m doing many things, madam. Thinking, breathing, talking to you. I was walking—would you like some other means of transport?”

  She realized the cape floated just above his shoulders. His hair looked fresh and dry, while everyone else’s locks clung to damp foreheads. She stepped closer. “I’ve been sick ever since I got the power. Is that what I’ve done wrong? Meylnara’s hair moves on its own, like serpents. Your cloak billows, and you don’t sweat.” Using the Woern, she lifted her hair off her neck, swallowing nausea while tingling spread up her torso and into her head.

  His lips toyed with a smirk. “Come to the Council. Think, breathe, madam, and do just enough.”

  Dropping back to Bethniel’s side, she held her hair off her shoulders. Blood pounded behind her temples, and she gnawed on her tongue to keep from falling to her knees. But that small thing—holding her hair off her shoulders, walking behind that billowing cape, drawing each breath into her lungs and blowing it out again in concentrated effort—wrung black starbursts out of her nerves, and with each pulse, the pain in her temples faded a little and the shaking began to leave her limbs. By the time they reached the Council’s pavilion, her head was floating, and Bethniel’s arm, twined around hers, felt as distant as a cloud.

  A guard drew aside the canvas flap, and Thabean nodded an aide toward Bethniel. “Fainend will take you up to the gallery. Victoria?”

  She took the arm he offered, felt a little jolt when she touched him. His smirk shifted to a grin. “Brace yourself.”

  Inside a small anteroom, the air was dry and cool. Thabean’s aide led Bethniel toward a circular staircase while another guard parted a fabric doorway for Thabean. Vic followed him into a narrow passage carpeted with plain knotted wool. Thabean waved at undyed canvas walls. “It’s a nod to Samovael. He paints.”

  She glanced at his floating cape. Mild nausea clung to the back of her throat, but the headache was gone. “What do the others do?”

  “Grunnaire spins. Nelchior twists. Csichren floats—but he’s lost to the Woern. Don’t do too much, only enough. Darien sings and is lost as well as bothersome. Saelbeneth does nothing, but she is immune.”

  Swallowing, Vic held him back. “I knew the Waters might kill
me when I took them, but I thought it would happen immediately, or not at all.”

  His sneer softened into a bitter frown. “We all die, Victoria. In time. Saelbeneth is fifty-two. The rest of us are . . . younger.” He shook his head. “You can’t be more than twenty. Too young for the Woern. You hadn’t yet lived. I’m sorry.”

  A laugh burbled out of her throat. “I’ve lived enough,” she said, starting for the next opening. “You can’t guess.”

  “Madam, protocol!” He rushed ahead to beat her through the doorway.

  Be damned, she thought, stepping through before him. He slid into the hall after her, cheeks red. Murmured conversations died, and nine faces round an oblong table turned toward them. Two wizards did not look; one stared blankly ahead, the other at the ceiling. A buzz nagged at the edge of Vic’s hearing, and she felt the hairs on her arms stand on end.

  A handsome woman at the head of the table stood. Saelbeneth had a mass of dark brown curls that framed a symmetrical face, her skin the same color as her hair. The other wizards blended together—dark and light—as Saelbeneth held Vic’s gaze. Vic bowed her head slightly, trying to copy the way Thabean greeted the Council leader. Saelbeneth frowned. “She hardly looks better than she did this morning, Thabean.”

  “She’s well enough.” Directing Vic to stand at the end of the table, he took a seat on Saelbeneth’s right. The wizards exchanged glances up a chain leading to their leader, then back down to the last of them, the one who stared at the ceiling, a soft round man reclining in the air above his chair, his eyes half-closed. They wore no uniforms, but their places at the table showed their ranks as clearly as the stripes on a trooper’s sleeve. Vic straightened, recognizing a martial court.

  “Tell us why you’re here, Victoria.” Saelbeneth sat.