“I don’t care about that,” Bethniel said. “How are you—how is . . . ?”
Vic rolled her head around to blink at her. She looked about to pass out, but she fished under her skirt, brought out bloodless fingers. “No worse.”
“That’s a surprise.” Prenlin, the Healer, pushed through the tent flap and began unloading beakers and vials from a basket. “Get her into bed, then go order a bath and clean linens for her.”
Bethniel blinked at the Healer.
“You heard me, girl,” the woman snapped.
“Go fetch me a bath, your royal Highness,” Vic teased as she slid onto the mattress. Bethniel stuck out her tongue, but it turned into a grin as she left to find a servant.
When she returned, Vic was alternately swallowing and coughing as Prenlin tipped a potion into her mouth. Pounding Vic’s back, the Healer handed her brown slivers of dried fruit. “That’ll ease the stomach. It’s the same we give the wizards in the first weeks after the Elixir. It’ll help with the brooding sickness too, for as long as that lasts.” The woman frowned. “Sick as you are, were you a normal woman, I wouldn’t give the babe a week. With the Woern in you . . . I can’t say.”
“It’s the Woern that are making me sick.”
“They’re healing you too—giving you unnatural endurance, no? Tell me, before, could you have fought for hours if you felt like this?”
“The soldiers fought just as long today.”
“They’re not sicker than a cat either. There are limits to what a body can do; the Woern stretch those limits, even while they’re killing you. They’re parasites; they want their host to live. Like as not they kept that babe alive during your fever. Now eat.”
Vic nibbled a brown sliver, grimaced, but kept at it.
“We need help at the hospital,” Prenlin said to Bethniel.
“I’m not a Healer.”
“You’re a pretty face. You’d find a use for yourself, helping to cheer the wounded.”
Thabean entered, holding the flap open for Saelbeneth. Both wizards wore clean garments, their skin and hair as fresh as their silks. Gustave and the Caleisbahn commodore followed them; Gustave’s hair was plastered to his head, his shirt stained green, but his commander had washed. Next battle, Bethniel vowed, she’d have hot water and soap ready for Vic. Her sister needed to be seen as the wizards’ equal, not a dirty outlaw.
Prenlin gathered her things and left, with a final order for Vic to keep eating the fruit and to drink as much watered wine as she could.
“I understand you have a new story to tell, about your origins.” Saelbeneth sat with Thabean next to her, like a pair of judges. The two Caleisbahnin stood silently behind the Council wizards.
Bethniel settled beside Vic on the bed. “Why should our story matter?” Vic asked. “If you’ve granted me clemency, why not Bethniel?”
“Because you have proven yourself able in battle,” Saelbeneth replied. “Your sister, on the other hand, presents only a threat and offers nothing of value.”
“I speak Kragnashian,” Bethniel said.
Saelbeneth and Thabean exchanged dubious glances. “My lady, your insistence that Meylnara’s creatures are more than dumb beasts is absurd. You have the Woern. Explain how this can be.”
Vic squeezed her hand. “I think you should tell them.”
Bethniel took a breath, heart thudding. “Madam, I speak the truth and will mask none of my thoughts if you choose to Listen. We are from the future. My mother traces her descent through almost thirty-five generations to your daughter, Taelniel of Narath.”
“Taelniel is no wizard. I bore her before I received the Elixir, and as my daughter she is excluded from receiving it now.”
Bethniel nodded. “My mother is your descendant, madam, but she acquired the Woern from the Kragnashians. In our time, they are a civilized race with whom we exchange goods and live in peace. They also guard the only known supply of the Elixir.”
“If this is true, your time must be rife with chaos.”
Bethniel offered a diplomatic smile. “No more than any other time, madam. The counties of the Kiareinoll united with the lands west of the Lathalorns some four hundred years ago, and Latha has been one nation since. The Relman counties united within the past two hundred years. Wizardry is exceedingly rare, but it made the difference in a twenty-year war Latha won against a Relman tyrant who sought to conquer us. Victoria risked her life to acquire the power to defeat this monstrous man, and she risks it still, as you can see.”
“Why is wizardry rare if there is no Council to control who may become a wizard?” Thabean asked.
“Look at me, and you see why,” Vic said. “People fear the effects of the Elixir more than they crave its power. Most who risk it die.”
“Your mother did not?” Saelbeneth asked.
“She seems to have inherited your immunity, madam.”
“And if she has the Woern, why did she not use their power to defeat this tyrant?”
Cheeks hot, Bethniel glanced at Vic. What Mother had done—condemning Vic to this dreadful illness, and eventual exile, when she herself remained safe in the Manor—how could Vic ever forgive her?
Flashing a hint of a smile, Vic replied, “Queen Elekia assumed Latha’s throne when Bethniel’s father was murdered. As commander of the Lathan military, she directed battles; she didn’t fight them.”
“My sister is trying to spare my mother’s honor, but in truth, Victoria’s power—her infection with this condition—was not a thing she sought but which was forced on her.”
“That makes no difference to her status under the law in this time,” Saelbeneth said. “Or yours.”
“I had no idea I had the Woern until recently. My mother never told us we might inherit it, and my brother and I have never manifested any power.”
“For that you can be grateful, but in this time, being a carrier of the Woern puts you in grave danger.”
“I understand I am now subject to the same penalty as Vic.”
Thabean’s scowl softened. “Not quite, but it is dangerous for you nonetheless. In the age before the Council, some wizards would take latents such as yourself captive, to keep as a reservoir of healthy Woern. They would bleed them like cattle, or use them in other unsavory ways to gain their Woern.”
Bethniel shivered, and Vic narrowed her eyes. “I would kill anyone who harmed her.”
“You say the Kragnashians of your time are a civilized race,” Saelbeneth interjected. “Why did they bestow the Woern on you?”
Vic replied, “The War of the Council was a momentous event for the Kragnashians. When they gave me the Elixir, they called me the One and said it was my destiny to kill Meylnara. We thought they spoke metaphorically and that it was a coincidence that I have the same name as a woman mentioned in Lathan histories of the Council. I never expected to actually be here.”
“Nonsense,” Thabean spat.
Saelbeneth glanced at the commodore. “I believe they speak truth. Our Caleisbahn allies have made similar claims regarding the Kragnashians. Perhaps we erred in dismissing any possibility that Meylnara may have enemies among them.”
Scowling, Thabean leaned forward. “How did you become Meylnara’s prisoner?”
“What I told you before was true,” Bethniel said. “Kragnashians allied with Meylnara attacked us, although this happened in our own time. They captured Victoria and took her through a Device to Meylnara’s keep. Gustave, Lillem, and I followed.”
“Meylnara wanted me to join her, and when I refused, I believe she kept me prisoner rather than kill me because she wanted the child I carry.” Vic cleared her throat. “Thank you for rescuing me.”
“This is preposterous,” Thabean cried. “Time travel? How?”
“A Portal,” the commodore said.
A tickle in her gut, Bethniel asked, “You don’t know about the Devices?”
Saelbeneth’s brows drew down. “There is a Portal in the
Archipelago and one in Narath.”
“There are others, madam. Did you never wonder about the spokes round the knob?”
“Of course, but they lead nowhere, except death.”
“The master Device is here, in Direiellene,” Vic said. “In Meylnara’s keep. Whoever controls it can control Knownearth.”
“And we know the location of three more Devices, or Portals, as you call them,” Bethniel added.
Gustave nodded, lips curved, and Vic squeezed Bethniel’s hand. “We’ll tell you exactly where they are,” Vic said, “if you permit us to leave via the Device once I’ve killed Meylnara.”
“Once you’ve killed her?” Thabean guffawed. “Madam, I found you in her thrall.”
Vic’s lips pressed together. “Don’t underestimate me, Thabean.”
Saelbeneth stood. “I am satisfied. Thabean, see that Bethniel’s condition remains secret.”
“Madam—”
“Let us not throw away what providence has given. Continue to protect them, treat them well, and begin training Victoria in the power. She almost burned herself out today.” Signaling the Caleisbahnin to follow, Saelbeneth ducked out of the tent.
Thabean scowled after the Council leader, then turned to them, lip curled. “We will begin immediately. My lady, the lesson will be better learned if you . . . gave your sister some assistance.”
Pink bloomed on Vic’s cheeks, and Bethniel’s face warmed. What she’d done the other night, feeding Vic her blood—it had felt so intimate, it was mortifying to consider doing it in front of Thabean.
He reclined in his seat, a boot across a knee. “We find the exchange of Woern best accomplished through the eyes. A moist kiss upon the tear duct for a wizard only slightly out of sorts, but bloody thumbs may be best for one so ill as Victoria.”
“Blood in the eyes?” Vic asked. “That’s . . . disgusting.”
Thabean smirked. “There are other ways to exchange fluids of the body, madam. From your condition, I assume you know them well, but Lady Bethniel cannot help you in that manner, and I will not.”
“She could ingest,” Bethniel said.
“She could,” Thabean replied. “But ingestion is the least efficient, as many of the Woern do not survive the digestive tract. Hence, the Elixir is first delivered by spinal infusion.”
“Painful,” Vic said. “My first time, I drank it.”
“And how was it?” Thabean raised an eyebrow.
“Disgusting.” A corner of Vic’s mouth tilted upward, and a smile ghosted across Thabean’s face before he turned toward the wall. Bethniel retrieved a knife and nicked her thumbs. Grimacing, Vic lay back. When Bethniel touched her lids, Vic jolted up and jammed Bethniel’s thumbs harder against her skull, gasping. Bethniel’s thumbs tingled, as if candle sparks landed upon her skin, and a tremor traveled up her arms to her chest.
“That’s enough,” Thabean wrapped his hands around hers and pulled them away from Vic’s face. Gently, he kissed each wounded thumb, and she shivered. “There, sealed with a kiss,” he said, his eyes meeting hers before he released her and returned to his seat.
Vic sat up, toweling off her face and Bethniel’s thumbs. Sliced skin had knitted together, the knife sting gone. “How did you do that?” Vic asked.
“One of many things I have to teach you, madam,” he replied. “We should begin. My lady, you will excuse us.”
Vic smiled wanly. “I’m better now, Beth. You can go.”
She returned the smile and left, her footsteps strangely light on the grass, and her thumbs still tingling where his lips had touched them.
* * *
Thabean’s eyes followed the princess, their color turning darker, a shade closer to Lornk’s. Vic took another bite of the sour fruit. The ache in her head had drained away, and her stomach growled with hunger. Her shoulder was sore, but it was a normal, expected soreness, considering half the muscle was eaten away.
Servants hauled a steaming tub through the flap, and Thabean allowed them to place it behind the privacy screen. Knowing very well how the elite viewed a dirty face, Vic dunked herself into the tub, blushing as she washed off sweat and Kragnashian blood while Thabean paced on the other side of the screen. Shrine, he was supposed to fall in love with her, if you believed the songs and stories. Thinking of Ashel’s baby, she wondered whether it was wise to get herself presentable. Perhaps a little contempt from this wizard might not be such a bad thing.
Yet when she emerged wearing a clean shift, braiding damp hair, he gave a perfunctory nod. “How long have you had the Woern?”
It had been the beginning of autumn when they’d met the Kragnashians in Direiellene, and now it was nearly midsummer. “Almost nine months out of twelve.”
His eyebrows went up. “That you’ve survived nine months with no training is a wonder. You must be more resistant to the Woern than many.”
She grimaced. “I’ve been sick the whole time.”
“Evidently.” He sat and waved her into a chair. “And how much of the Elixir did you drink?”
A foul memory of the slimy, grainy brine scalded her throat. Choking, she lunged toward the chamber pot, but Thabean caught her and kissed each of her eyes, his tongue brushing her tear ducts.
She shoved him back. “What do you think you’re doing?” She’d been alone with the man ten minutes and he already couldn’t control his passion?
Blue eyes paled, and his mouth struggled to remain straight until a laugh burst out of him. “Not what you imagine, madam! Trust me, I would not violate the Council’s laws for you.” He swallowed another snigger. “How do you feel?”
She paused, realizing the nausea had subsided and every muscle in her body had relaxed. “How does it work so quickly? Elekia—Bethniel’s mother—told us, any fluid of the body, but why does that work?”
He licked his fingers; saliva glistened in the lamplight. “Just as you are sick, madam, so are your Woern.”
“But why? Elekia said it was a matter of compatibility.”
“She is correct. Everyone who receives the Elixir risks death, and most die within days. A very small few remain hale and gain power, and fewer still are entirely unaffected and their Woern become dormant. The small plurality of us who become ill and yet survive have an intermediate compatibility with the Woern, and the only way to coexist with them is to feed them a steady stream of our power. When we fail to do so, they sicken and die themselves, and our symptoms worsen. A small infusion of healthy Woern eases our suffering as well as theirs. We must treat our friends well, feed them properly, give them rest. As I’ve already told you, do just enough. Now, please answer my question.”
She framed the size of the cup with her hands. “About this much.”
His mouth fell open. “Elesendar. You drank all of that?”
Sheepishly, she nodded. “Afterward, I learned most people manage only a sip.”
“You are lucky it did not poison you. Yet—” He frowned. “You appear quite strong, perhaps as strong in the Woern as Kara. She nearly destroyed Knownearth.”
Heat flashed into Vic’s cheeks, and she heard Lornk barking that name, the one he’d called her while she was his slave. Shrine, would she ever be free of those vicious memories? “I was taught she died fighting an evil wizard who wanted dominion over the world,” she said to cover her distress.
Thabean snorted. “Kara was hated and feared, her power nearly limitless and unconstrained. You at least are not immune to the Woern, and even should you learn to control it, I fear your lifespan is much shortened. But Kara was immune—an entirely compatible host. She inherited the Woern, as did nearly all wizards in the age before her. It was because of her that the Council formed and established the Code.”
“What did she do?”
“What do all those who seek power and dominion do? She built a fortress and sent armies to subjugate all the peoples of Knownearth. Even the Caleisbahnin feared her, and they made an alliance with Shamar of
Alna, who led a group of wizards against her. Together, they created a phantasm that defeated her, but in doing so, they all burned themselves out and died soon thereafter.”
“Burning out—I can guess what that means, but suppose you tell me.”
His face resumed its mask of composure, unreadable. “You have seen Darien?”
“The one who floats, or the one who sings?”
“Sings. She burned herself out and has no real power. We did not expect her to live so long without it, but you can see what it has done to her—she is an imbecile. Meylnara blocked you from your Woern for the three or four days you were with her, and it took you two months to recover. Once you have the Woern, madam, your fate is theirs. They remain healthy if we feed them a little all the time, by using the power they give us in some small way. And we are able to do larger tasks with their help, but just as the glutton kills himself slowly, they will sicken if too large a feast is forced upon them. Particularly when they are made to fast for long periods between the uses of power. Mayhap many of your Woern have died, and you do not have all the power you had once, nine months ago. In any case, even with your sister’s help, if you do not begin to control what you do with their power, your Woern will all die, and then so will you.”
“But you said I’m going to die soon anyway.”
“It’s a choice between years spent in comfort, or months as you are now.”
During their conversation, Thabean’s boots had slowly shifted in color. Vic lifted her braid, holding it off her neck. After a moment, a tightness she didn’t know was there melted from her temples. She placed her hand on her belly, thinking about Ashel and his child. One way or another, she’d find a way back to him, and she’d do whatever it took to get them as many years as she could. “So what do we do first?”
Interlude
Wineyll jolted awake when her book slapped the floor. Rubbing a sore neck, she retrieved it and sat up in the chair, hunting for her place.
“You don’t have to stay with me,” Lornk said from a desk piled high with documents and ledgers. He tapped the quill on the ink jar and scratched out a note.
A Wizard's Sacrifice Page 23
