A Wizard's Sacrifice

by Amanda Justice

  “Yet you interfered with an investigation into the illegal transport of some coal.”

  He glanced round the square. She was alone. “Are you arresting me?”

  “The two constables have been disciplined. In light of your station, the Commissar has decided a warning is sufficient, and he would like to return your money. I am Major Demsch, commander of the Commissar’s personal guard. Follow me, please.”

  She led him straight across the square, into the heart of the death-pall shrouding the gibbet. The nearby merchants wore cloths tied around their noses; their buyers kept theirs buried in nosegays. Ashel coughed into his sleeve.

  “We leave them up three days,” Demsch said. “Make sure the thieving Buzzards see what’s coming to them.”

  “They’re children,” Ashel said, eyes on the little feet dangling above.

  “Chicks grow into birds. They’ll come down tomorrow, and a new flock will go up on Endday.”

  “Did these little ones hang for their own crimes or someone else’s?”

  She cocked an eyebrow. “They’re all lawbreakers, Highness.”

  “Are they? It seems the law is applied capriciously here in Betheljin.”

  “And you should be grateful the Commissar’s mercy is applied to you.”

  At the gate, guards snapped to attention. The major returned their salutes, and they crossed a wide span of cobbles to a marble portico and a bowing servant. The man ushered them inside.

  In the entry hall, a pair of staircases curved around a mechanical lift box. The shaft rose toward a dome of crystal and iron, glittering gold with reflected light. Ashel stared at a chandelier adorned with glowing bulbs, not flickering candles or even gaslights. “Are those electric?”

  “Most people think it’s magic.”

  His eyes traced the braided lines anchoring the fixture to the ceiling. “What are the wires made of? Silver? Gold?” Either conductive metal was more common than iron or copper, but they were still costly. He noticed the wall sconces and other lights also glowed rather than flickered. “This must have cost a fortune. How is it powered?”

  Major Demsch gestured at the lift. “If you please, Your Highness.”

  On the third floor, they trod carpeted hallways to a pair of guarded doors. Inside, Demsch invited him to sit. “The Commissar will be with you shortly.”

  Eldanion tapestries covered the walls, dense erinwool rugs the floor. Woven cerrenil chaises bore silver-threaded upholstery. Each polished granite table supported an electric lamp, each bulb glowing behind colored crystal. The major leaned against a wall, watching him like a cat. Minutes passed, a mantle clock softly ticking. There were few clocks in Latha—the royal Manor had only two—but they were commonplace here, just like running water and iron. All the riches of Traine.

  A door opened, and Commissar Parnden emerged with his arm slung around another man’s shoulders. “I promise, you will be paid, but you must know for a cost so exorbitant, even a sovereign needs time to amass the sum.”

  The second man’s pantaloons were frayed, his vest threadbare, his shoulders hunched and head bowed. “We had an agreement, Commissar.”

  “And you’ll be paid. Here.” Parnden dug into a pouch and dropped some crystals into the other man’s pocket. “For the service you performed this morning. Should tide you over. Major Demsch, see my friend out. Ah, Your Highness! Welcome back to Traine.”

  The stranger glanced at Ashel as Demsch led him out. Black hair, straight and thick, capped features tight with mortification.

  Ashel bowed to the Commissar. “Pleasure to see you, sir.”

  “What has it been? Five years?”

  “Nearly seven.”

  “Oh, indeed. You were such a lovely youth—I’m pleased to see that beauty has matured so splendidly, but why are you hiding it behind that beard?” Parnden’s grip was oily as he clasped Ashel’s hand and drew him into the inner chamber. At the sight of a rumpled bed, Ashel’s pulse quickened under Parnden’s leer. He’d been an odious little man when they’d met before, and he was still wrinkled and bald as a young bird.

  “Let’s confer on the patio,” Parnden said, passing through a glass door and taking a seat on a padded chaise. Servants appeared, poured wine, and left. Parnden dropped a small bag of crystals on the table. “There’s your—or should I say, the Korngs’—mullas.”

  “Thank you.” Ashel pocketed the crystals and kept his features smooth.

  You should assume there’s a Listener nearby, Geram said.

  Parnden continued. “I’m curious why you’re in Traine, residing at the home of your enemy, and spending his money to get Buzzards out of trouble.”

  Ashel sipped his wine. “The money is Elsa Korng’s, sir.”

  “Don’t insult me, Highness. We know who controls the Korng fortune, whichever name is on the Citizen’s registry. Why are you here?”

  “My sister is missing. Elsa Korng has offered to help find her.”

  “Your sisters, if I’m not mistaken. Marshal Victoria of Ourtown was Sashal and Elekia’s ward, was she not?”

  Ashel inclined his head.

  “Your people call her the Blade, and in merchants’ offices here, you call her your wife. Are congratulations in order?”

  “Yes, Victoria and I declared ourselves wed.”

  Parnden’s leer widened. “Marrying one’s sister is a bold choice.”

  “Vic is my foster sister, Commissar.”

  “Of course, that makes all the difference. I understand she’s not such a beauty herself, but I’m certain she has other charms, which certainly captured the interest of Lornk Korng.”

  His smile fixed, Ashel set down his wineglass. “It’s been pleasant seeing you again, sir. Thank you for the return of the mullas. I won’t make that mistake again.”

  “Stay and enjoy the wine, Highness.” Parnden’s fingers locked around his wrist, the grip strong. “Among your bride’s many skills, I’m told she has acquired powers not seen in Knownearth for generations—that is, assuming your mother’s powers are merely a gossip’s fancy.”

  “Gossip always runs thick after a conflict.”

  Parnden chuckled. “Thick as blood, yes. There are other rumors. Older ones, which have reemerged now that you have taken residence at the Korng palazzo.” Tutting, he dropped his gaze to Ashel’s maimed hand. “I suppose the scandal can only harm your mother, while you stand to gain from an alliance with your enemies.”

  Ashel sipped his wine. “Is this from the Eldanion royal vineyards?”

  “King Matthian sends me several cases a year.”

  “With a request for your intercession with the Caleisbahnin, no doubt. Commissar, my only purpose in Traine is to find my wife and sister. The Korngs have offered their help, and I am taking it. It’s that simple.”

  “As a sovereign, I may be better placed to help you than a family of iron mongers.”

  “One of those iron mongers is Lord of Relm, a nation that shares a border with Kragnash.”

  “But which shares only the smallest trickle of trade with them. Although there are rumors—it’s always rumors, isn’t it?—of newly discovered riches south of Relm, in the Plenetor. Just the other day I witnessed Lord Earnk make a very costly purchase without blinking an eye.” Parnden’s lips curled enigmatically.

  Ashel gazed at the golden wine, debating whether he should bite at Parnden’s lures. He’d wondered at the flute Earnk had bought Wineyll, although his thoughts had lingered on the rationale, not the expense. Elekia mentioned the same rumors about the Plenetor, Geram said.

  “Lord Earnk left for Relm,” Ashel allowed. “If there were discoveries to the south, the nomads would control the trade routes.”

  “Indeed they would, Highness. I have always been very fond of your . . . cousin, and so very pleased to see him assume his father’s Seat in Relm. I would very much like to foster an alliance with the younger Korng, but alas the elder stands in the way. I suppose my o
ld school chum and that rabble-rouser Alek Storund have plans I must confront first.”

  “Rabble-rouser?”

  “I understand you met his wife Ellen some weeks ago, a young woman who knows not only your wife but those same Buzzards you helped evade the law.”

  Ashel’s pulse thumped, but he flung an arm along the chaise back and sipped the wine. His glass was nearly empty. “Have you been following me, Commissar?”

  Parnden chuckled. “Not me! I could hardly skulk about the shadows, could I? My predecessor hanged Alek’s father for publishing a seditious journal called The Abolitionist. Rumor says Alek has relaunched the publication, but no one has seen any copies.”

  “You seem to rely a lot on rumor. But I assure you, I haven’t seen, or ever heard of, this publication.”

  “I believe you, Highness. But I would be grateful if you brought me any evidence, should you come across it. A copy would be particularly valuable.”

  “How valuable?”

  The Commissar grinned. “As I said, I hold some sway with the Kragnashians, and I think it may suit us both to eliminate Lornk Korng. It pains me so, to think how he harmed you, and I can only imagine the bile you must swallow every moment you’re in his presence. You must ask yourself, is selling yourself to this man worthwhile?”

  Ashel placed his empty glass on the table. “The wine was very fine, Commissar. Thank you.”

  Parnden did not stop him when he rose, and Demsch escorted him out of the palace grounds without a word. He left the square, eyes avoiding both gallows and Guildhouse as he pondered the Commissar’s offer. The man was vile and malevolent—qualities Lornk shared—but he was grotesquely venal too.

  If that seasnake wants to find Vic, it’s only so he can kill her, Geram said. Any power he doesn’t control is a threat to him.

  And Mother has still done nothing to bring them home.

  The Center refuses to see her, and she’s concluded there is nothing she can do except preserve the throne for Bethniel. We have to trust Elesendar will bring them home safely.

  So she’s given up?

  Shrine, Ashel, come home. Today. Elekia will have to take action unless you come back and show unity with her.

  My Guild expelled me. There’s nothing left for me in Latha.

  Your family is here. Don’t abandon them.

  My family is gone. Stale ale and laughter drifted out a tavern door. Kneading the bag full of Korng crystals, he went inside, his only hope to fill the void.

  Royal Favors

  Dawn warmed Geram’s face. A breeze wafted through the window. Savoring the comfort of fine linen, he stretched. His hand grazed smooth skin, and Elekia sighed awake and snuggled into his arms.

  “Tell me it’s not today,” she murmured.

  He traced her shoulder with a finger. All her limbs were bone, sinew and muscle, as sleek as a racing sloop. “I wish I could.”

  Pinching one of his nipples, she growled, “You never do as I command.”

  His mouth found hers as his fingers swept into the soft cleft between her legs. She swelled toward him, tasting bitter and salty, but her skin smelled sweet as citrus blossoms and his ardor rose. When her angles melted into curves, he slid inside her. “Command me now,” he whispered. Her hands clutched his buttocks and pulled him deeper. They moved together in like rhythm, passion culminating in arched spines and quiet groans.

  Rolling back onto the pillows, he stroked her braids while tears washed his shoulder. She’d gone so long denying joy and grief alike. Now, in the privacy of her chamber, one followed the other in furious bursts that dashed against him like waves on a bulkhead. When they were apart, the counselor in him nagged like a scold, urging him to break off this affair. Your feelings are nothing but the warped perversion of Ashel’s longing for the affection he never got. A little boy who misses his mama. But when they were together . . . Drawing her scent deep into his lungs, he hugged her closer, wanting only to be the shield against the tempest raging within and around her.

  “We could declare,” she said. “I can still bear a child.”

  He stroked her arm, wishes stirring a fancy of an infant held between them. “You know what the Heralds would say about the widowed queen wedding the blind Alnan tomcat who took advantage of her grief? That would only bring more trouble.”

  Chortling, she nipped his ear. “Tell Fensin I asked; I’m curious whether he’d instruct you to declare or not.”

  “Elekia,” he murmured, her name bitter on his tongue, his throat choking with longing and regret. “This . . . you know we will have to stop when Ashel realizes—”

  “Where is he?” she snarled, her body suddenly sharp and hard again.

  Geram released her and felt along the chaise, hunting for his clothes. “Sleeping off another bender.”

  “I suppose I should be grateful. The more he drinks, the more I see of you,” she said bitterly.

  He tugged on his breeches. “He’s desperate and filled with despair.”

  “And I am not? I want my daughters home as much as he does.”

  He faced her direction. “Then why do you have to be so prideful that you can’t share your grief with him? You should be consoling each other, crafting a plan together, and you’ve done nothing but drive him away.”

  “I didn’t make him follow that villain to Traine!”

  “Nevertheless.” Nevertheless, the actions she took today would widen the rift between them, perhaps irreparably. It was exactly what Lornk Korng wanted. She knew that. Ashel knew that, and they plunged into that darkness without a look backward.

  He shrugged into his shirt. “I’m due for practice in Olivet’s yard.”

  “Go,” she said, her voice like steam from an icicle.

  * * *

  The Haulers still on strike, piles of rubbish festered, reeking in summer’s heat, the stench following the royal coach all the way into Senate Square. There, cobbles were clean and colonnades festooned with summer garlands, but the fetid miasma plaguing the city clogged the throat.

  Eager to escape it, Geram hopped out of the coach and handed Elekia to the street. Seen through Drak’s eyes, she looked magnificent in the trappings of her office: her braids woven through a steel circlet, a copper coil draped over her shoulders. Her face was serene as she led Timny up the stairs.

  Geram held his arm out to Cimba. “Will you guide me in?”

  The girl’s hand clasped his. “You can use my vision if you like. I promise I’ll watch the stairs carefully for you.”

  At the Senate entrance, Prime Minister Velbaor bowed first to Elekia, then to Timny. Red blooming on tan cheeks, the boy shook the officials’ hands before the party went inside. The shaded foyer felt hot as an oven, and sweat tickled Geram’s spine as Elekia’s heels clopped across the tiles. The echoes shrank as they passed into the Senate Hall. Guards sweated at every door and under every window. Waving fans, the Senators stood and bowed as Elekia strolled to her seat at the front of the chamber, Timny three paces behind.

  “Geram?” Cimba whispered. “What happens if Bethniel comes back?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She’s robbing her, Ashel snarled. The prince rose in a dark room, filled a glass with harlolinde.

  You’ll kill yourself with that stuff.

  To her, I’m already dead, and so is Bethniel.

  The queen and Timny sat, and Cimba led Geram to stand with Drak and Olivet before she took a seat beside her brother. Above, observers—merchants and tradespeople—filed into the galleries. On the floor, Prime Minister Velbaor called for roll. Senators usually spent most of the summer at home; many seats were empty, but they managed to meet a quorum. Velbaor announced they could continue.

  Heat swept past Geram’s throat as Ashel slammed down a draught.

  “I come before the Senate begging two favors,” Elekia called out to the floor. “To assuage a loss in my family, I ask that Timnon of Narath, son of Navael of Narath, who was s
on of Rivern, Ruler of Latha, be named Heir to my throne.”

  Velbaor stood and asked formally, “The designee has the claim of Blood. What can he offer the people as King?”

  “The schooling of a Lathan. The wisdom of the Loremasters. The justice of the Arbiters . . .” She listed the courses Timny had taken at the Academy and promised that once he was out of Fembrosh, he would take a clerkship in the Prime Minister’s office.

  Like Bethniel? Ashel hissed, swallowing more liquor. Geram’s throat burned. He felt like a man balancing on driftwood, a sea serpent on one side, a whirlpool on the other.

  Elekia stepped away from the podium. Striking his gavel three times, and three times more, Velbaor called Timny forward and tied the Heir’s diamond round Timny’s brow. The jewel Bethniel had worn had been lost, but the Miners had supplied another in a bid to win royal favor and keep the Manor’s weaponry contract. The new gemstone was large and ungainly on the boy’s head.

  Timny bowed, then turned to the Senate. “I, Timnon of Narath, grandson of Rivern, Ruler of Latha, accept this honor in my fifteenth year with reverence for the old mothers and Elesendar and gratitude to the people of this nation. If elected to the throne, I vow to be a just and wise Ruler. Like my Uncle Sashal before me.”

  Gasps and murmurs rippled through the Senate and gallery, hushing as Timny cleared his throat. “I am designated Heir today because my cousin Bethniel, who was Heir before me, is missing. Bethniel has the same right of Blood as I to the throne. I vow that I will relinquish the Heirship to my cousin, should she be found well and alive. I command every effort be made to find her.”

  A babble erupted as the boy left the podium, his jaw set like he expected a whipping.

  Velbaor struck his gavel and called for the Senate to approve Timny’s proclamation, the only one he’d be allowed until elected Ruler. While the ayes rang through the chamber, Timny retook his seat. Cimba clasped his hand. “It wasn’t fair,” he whispered. “Who cares who Ashel’s father was? It’s got nothing to do with Bethniel.”

  Elekia scowled, and Velbaor called her back to the podium.

  “I ask that the Senate try Ashel of Narath, Recorder of the Minstrels Guild and Prince of Latha, for the treasonous act of aiding Lornk Korng’s escape.” She swallowed, but her voice rang clear and loud. “Should he be found guilty, I ask that the Senate banish him from Lathan soil, on pain of death.”