A Wizard's Sacrifice

by Amanda Justice

  “Your only goal is to gain power for yourself.”

  Eyes glittering, Lornk scanned the crowd. “I will share that power with you and all those allies gathered here. If I don’t, Betheljin has a long history of coups and rebellions. Perhaps with the Caleisbahnin sworn to you, and these good people ready to die for a cause, you could bring me down.”

  “And what about Vic?”

  “I swear, before all these people, that if it can be done, I will bring her, and your sister, and the others lost in time with them, back to the here and now. Haven’t I wanted Victoria as my ally all along? What say you, Ashel? You’ve agreed to lead these people. Will you do so as my son?”

  Torchlight and shadows played across desperate, hopeful faces. Could he sacrifice his name and his homeland for them? For Vic? There was only one answer. “If it will help the Oreseekers, I will accept your surname,” he said. “But my father died a year ago in my arms.”

  Latent Potential

  Rotten eggs jammed Thabean’s nostrils, the stink wedging deep in his sinuses. Mucus gummed his eyelashes, and sweat streamed like tears. Mopping his face with a stained sleeve, he sucked in another choking breath. He could spare no Woern for cooling skin or clearing eyes; every joule went into the bubbling, sulfurous mud in the channel below. Around the perimeter of the camp, the earth heaved and steamed as the Council dug deep, crushing sulfur into basalt, hammering through rhyolite hard as granite, drilling vents down into magma. Siphoning lava into the perimeter ditch had been Victoria’s mad idea. After the last Kragnashian attack, not a single wizard had argued against it. And here they were, six at a spell, barbecuing themselves over a pit.

  Yet the plan seemed to be working. On the first day, when they’d barely begun the work, a force of Kragnashians had come as far as the treeline and halted. Horns had blown, troops had assembled, but the stink of sulfur was already thick enough to drive the creatures back into the forest. Six days later, camps had been rebuilt and troops rested and restored. The hospital staff had washed linens and rolled bandages. Farriers made new supplies of arrows and spears, and the artillery crews had restocked their stores of stone and obsidian. But the Council was worn to a frazzle. Saelbeneth no longer worked on the moat, saving her Woern to restore the others, and even she was weary and spent.

  Shrine, his nerves sizzled. A shiver twisted his spine; nausea clogged his throat. His temples pounded. Grunting, he ignored the hammering and poured energy into the mud. His lungs ached, stuffed with mucus thick as wool. Coughing, he drove Woern at the earth. Below, a bubble oozed to the surface and popped; spray hissed on charred grass lining the channel.

  “Ho, Thabean!” Victoria flew to his side. “You look like shit.”

  Bile churning, his gaze slid from her swollen belly to her ankle, splinted and tightly bandaged. One day, the Council would have to confront the hypocrisy of permitting her to fight alongside them while she committed the very crime that had brought Meylnara into this world, but that day would not be today, or soon. “I feel worse than I look,” he replied.

  A hard laugh cut the air. “I’ve said the same more times than I can count.” Her mouth softened. “And how many times have you told me, don’t do too much, only enough? You’re violating your own rule, sir. Let me take over.”

  “Your shift begins in two hours—you should rest while you can.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “If you don’t rest, you’ll be taking a dip in scalding mud.”

  He glanced at her belly again. “The vapors here cannot be good for the babe.”

  A hand stroking her abdomen, she grinned proudly. “Look what I’ve learned to do, Master.” A shimmering membrane formed around her head, and an iridescent hose snaked toward the forest and fresh air.

  His eyebrows rose. “You can maintain that while you dig?”

  Her waveform surged toward the rocky sludge, turning it over like cake batter. “I set it, just as you taught me to set light globes, so I don’t have to think about it.”

  He shook his head, chortling softly. “Madam, you may be the strongest wizard Knownearth has seen in a long while.”

  Her pride melted into a frown, and she clasped his arm. “Please, Thabean. You’re our haven—don’t burn yourself out and leave us friendless here.”

  “I have no intention of self-harm.” He ceased pouring his Woern into the mud, and dizziness rolled over him. His head lolled backward, and he blinked at his feet firmly planted on the ground, Victoria’s arm around his shoulders.

  “Shrine, you almost did have a very hot dunking. I’ll take you to Saelbeneth.”

  “No, no, thank you, madam.” He stepped away. “Saelbeneth is severely taxed—I’ll be fine with some rest.”

  “Well, come here, at least.” She palmed his cheeks and brushed her tongue against his eyelashes. Energy spurted between them, and his knees steadied, but she scowled as she released him. “You taste . . . sick. Not just tired, but sick. You should go to Saelbeneth. Or Bethniel,” she added.

  His eyes flashed at the tents surrounding them, but they were alone. “That, madam, is a crime. Not only by Council law—it was outlawed long before the Council’s existence as a deed no less wicked than rape or murder.”

  Brows knit, she hissed, “She helps me all the time.”

  “I know, madam. But you must understand, a carrier such as she cannot defend herself should the wizard’s need become greater than the wizard’s will. Your love for your sister enables you to resist harming her, but someone who did not care so deeply for her might do so.”

  Her mouth quirked, she patted his arm. “Well then, I’m not worried about you. Rest up.” Waveform blooming, she shot upward, and the earth boiled.

  Cheeks hot, he walked fast to wring the giddy feeling from his gut. He had no time or inclination for forbidden fruit. Bethniel’s mien was a pleasant distraction, her conversation an engaging diversion, but affection was out of the question. Still, he regretted the rude disdain he’d shown her during the months Victoria lay ill and helpless. He’d spent that time full of anger and resentment—and shame—at having been ordered to play host for people who ought to have been imprisoned. Yet he’d come to welcome Victoria’s courage in battle, and her strength in the Woern was undeniably useful, especially at times like these.

  His heart laboring, his steps slowed. Fatigue descended on him like a sledge, and the air felt thick as liquid earth as he forced one foot before the other. By the time he pushed aside the draperies covering his doorway, his muscles and bones trembled beneath the shell of his skin, and he had to use the Woern to hold himself upright.

  “Sir, you are ill.” Fainend rose from a table littered with open volumes. Bethniel stood too, a single finger marking her place in a book.

  Thabean’s Woern vibrated, their need for succor driving him toward her. “Leave us, my lady,” he said hoarsely.

  “Fainend was tutoring me in the nuances of Council law,” she replied, slipping a ribbon into the leaves of her book.

  He fought the Woern itching for her touch. “That is well, but I must rest.”

  “Of course. My apologies, sir.”

  As she passed, his Woern shifted toward her, like iron to a lodestone. He braced his backbone against the pull, but rigidity torqued into a rictus. Every muscle clenched at once. His head jerked back, his hands became claws, and furnishings and draperies spun. His head smashed the floor.

  A paper crinkles. Teeth crunch and lips smack. “It’s a shame, Pip.”

  Thabean nods, eyes glued to the furrowed brow, the hand urgently gesturing at the twisted body on the floor. “I brought her here for you to woo, brother. Yet you never spoke to her, so far as I know.”

  Dealn chuckles. “Pip, don’t lie to yourself. I know what you did and why you did it—which is why I never sought the lady’s favor. Now, look at that.”

  Fainend motions Bethniel out, but she shakes her head and points toward the camp center. After a moment’s hesitation, Fainend du
cks through the tent flap and is gone.

  “And oh, now, what’s this?” Dealn says. Bethniel pulls a short dagger out of her pocket. Yanking off the sheath, she slices her thumbs. “Oooh,” Dealn teases. “She likes you too.”

  Thabean’s gut clenches in terror as Bethniel kneels beside his body.

  Wet heat stung his eyes. Fire flooded past his eyelashes, seeped through his tear ducts and into his sinuses. His spine relaxed, arms flopped still. No, the word formed in his mind, but he lay prone, his muscles released from contraction but heavy as lead. Stop, he begged, but the blood—her blood—ran down the sides of his face, into his ears, while his protest bloomed and popped like the molten earth. No. Stop, he said, trying to remember how to translate thought into speech. “No, stop,” he said silently, hunting for that clarity of purpose that would permit her to Hear him. “No,” he mumbled aloud, his tongue and lips finally obeying. Gentle fingers pressed his skull, her thumbs still nestled into the hollows around his eyes. He strained to lift his hands and move hers aside. “Stop, please.”

  “Is that enough?” she asked.

  “Yes.” Swallowing a groan, he pushed himself up and clasped her thumbs. Thriving Woern pulsed along his nerves as he probed her wounds, drew the tissues together, and knitted the skin closed. “Thank you.” He pressed her hands between his. “Don’t ever do that again.”

  Her brows drew together. “Why?”

  He closed his eyes and expelled a breath. Woern fizzed between them; the hairs on their forearms stood straight as grass, ripples echoing each other’s motions. Each moment, he grew stronger, more hale, but touching her, he only wanted more. “It is too much a temptation.”

  “Thabean! I’m glad to see you well,” Saelbeneth said.

  “Your steward interrupted a private conference,” Nelchior drawled, entering on the Council leader’s heels. “Elesendar, is that blood?”

  All eyes locked on the red smears staining her skirt and his face, and Fainend snatched a towel from a cupboard and tossed it to him.

  “I had a seizure and bit my tongue,” Thabean said, mopping his cheeks. “Lady Bethniel was kind enough to pillow my head, until the fit passed.” Standing, he handed her up. “Thank you, my lady.”

  “Who’d have guessed Thabean’s mouth would contain something sharper than his tongue?” Nelchior raked his eyes over Bethniel. “How fortunate you were on hand, my dear.”

  “Sheath your wit, sir,” Saelbeneth said. “You were retching into my commode not half an hour ago. I thank Elesendar Thabean recovered so quickly without my help, as I have few Woern to spare these days. My lady, how are your studies progressing?”

  “Well, madam.”

  Saelbeneth nodded. “Good. Thabean, rest. I saw that Victoria has taken your place, but we must keep a close eye and be sure she does not overtax herself as well. Nelchior, let us return to my pavilion, so we may resume your restoration.”

  They left, and Thabean stared after them, blood boiling at Nelchior’s temerity.

  “I’ll let you rest.” Bethniel bowed over an armload of books.

  He expelled a breath and relaxed his scowl. “Thank you, again.”

  She paused at the threshold. “What did you mean, it’s too tempting?”

  A tightness seized his throat as he met soft brown eyes. “You possess the gift of life, but it is a forbidden treasure, both for you to have and for us to use.”

  “In the Purge, they killed people like me, didn’t they?”

  “They did. It was a horror, but a necessary one to prevent Woernplague from covering the world once more.”

  “They had no other option?”

  “At the time, they felt they did not.”

  Swallowing, she looked at the books in her arms. “I understand.” When she met his eyes again, hers were haunted. “Sometimes the only way to stop one horror is to commit another. Rest well, sir.”

  Citizen

  Yelps, charred flesh, and insidious whispers drove Ashel upright. Panting, he took in the silence. He sat upon a soft bed, wrapped in fine linen. Peeling off a soaked nightshirt, he lay awake while black air melted into gray. Dawn on Landing Eve—midsummer. A year since he’d sat howling while Sashal’s blood soaked his clothes and skin. He’d been howling inside since.

  The door creaked, and Kelmair slipped into the room. Footsteps brushed the carpet. Her robe dropped into a silken puddle, and she wriggled between the sheets. Her body warm and firm against him, her fingers combed through the hair on his chest, circled his nipples, slid down his belly. His cock rose to meet her hand, and she straddled his hips and nipped his ear. “Would you like some comfort, Shemen?”

  He pushed her off, but his body followed, desperate for the solace she offered. Her legs slid along his flanks as her eyes lured and taunted him.

  “Why?” he asked.

  She stroked his beard with the backs of her fingers. “People are depending on you now. You cannot help them if you sate your longing with drink or bliss.”

  Gall tainted his breath, but every exhalation exchanged disgust for desire. His cock was alive against her belly, aching to thrust inside her. Kelmair squirmed her hips and caught him, drawing him deep inside. “You cannot let despair rend you,” she gasped. “She needs you whole.”

  Vic. Shrine, what was he doing? He yanked out and flopped onto his back. “Why do you care? What is she to you?”

  Tears glistened in the growing light. “I was a maen in the First’s harem when I first heard of Vic the Blade, the mistress who fought a war of revenge against her master, and I wanted to go and fight with her! But to be chosen as a concubine of the First is a high honor and comes with a large dowry for your family. Everyone despised me for wanting to forsake my duty, but I thought of nothing else. My family would not return the dowry, so I could not leave, but I tried to go anyway. I was caught three times. The last, the First sold me as a sea-mistress.” She stroked the scar around her neck. “The tattoos are a sign of great shame.” Two streams trickled down the shaved sides of her head. “Gustave helped me escape when we put into port at Alna, and I took asylum with the Weavers. Along with refuge, they gave me their contempt. Judgment is the warp within the weft of their kindness. I left them and tried to join your Lathan army. They would not take a Caleisbahnin, so I went east until I met Erik. The herders never despised me for my scars, and they wanted to use me for my muscle, not my loins. But until I pledged myself to Victoria and she agreed to claim me, I always had to fear that I would be caught and returned to my captain.”

  “And that was Thiellin?”

  She shook her head. “No. Thiellin is a cousin.”

  “You have a lot of cousins.”

  “We have big families in the Archipelago.” The last vestige of hardness melted away. “I want to comfort you. Please.”

  Tears spilled down his cheeks. “I can’t betray her again, Kelmair. You can sleep here if you like, but I want nothing more from you.”

  She kissed his palm. “As you wish. Ashel.” Flopping down, she closed her eyes, and her breath fell into a steady rhythm while the dawn bled through a crack in the curtains. The light swelled, gleaming lavender, rose, and orange. A finger of amber crept across the carpet and kissed the door. He imagined Vic’s light in his arms again, the room bright with Bethniel’s merriment. His palm cupped an infant’s head. A tiny fist clasped his finger. But these fancies evaporated when Kelmair sighed and shifted, and he looked around this room, with its silk draperies and brass fixtures. If he ever saw Vic again, would she forgive him?

  A sharp knock interrupted his thoughts. Cursing, he opened the door a crack to find both Korngs in the hallway.

  “We need to talk,” Earnk said. “Can we come in?”

  “I’ll meet you in the library,” he said as Kelmair rose on an elbow behind him. The muscles of Earnk’s jaw quivered, and Ashel wondered if his cousin Heard her.

  A vicious smile enlivened Lornk’s face. “The palazzo isn’t yours yet
, but you’re already giving orders. Well done, son.”

  “I’ll meet you downstairs.” He slammed the door and went into the privy chamber. His stomach churned, worse than a hangover. Vic, Bethniel, and his child. The towel snagged on the ragged beard. His eyes lingered on the frizzed spirals capping his head. How long since he’d even combed his hair? “You’ve really let yourself go,” he said to his reflection. And you’ve no idea how to get yourself back.

  * * *

  In the library, a small coil of copper gleamed upon the table, as bright as Vic’s hair in the sun. Ashel blinked, trying to keep his eyes in his head. Copper! More valuable than gold, silver, or iron. One of the ores Vic’s ancestors had sought and never found.

  He looked at the Korngs. “That’s what you’re doing in the Plenetor—mining copper.” His mind leapt from astonishment to possibility. Heat, light, freely available. Electricity—how the Ancients had lamented its loss.

  The lamp burns and sputters

  Its smoke blears

  Eyes squinting, blinking

  Head aching

  Memories of clean, pure white light at my command

  Like God’s hand.

  Samantha Farrak had written those lines before she went to the Shrine and finalized the Erin Alliance with her own blood. Some scholars considered it a suicide note.

  “The rights came at great cost,” Earnk said, his face and neck turning red.

  Suspicion boiled into ire, and Ashel grabbed the coil. “You sold Vic for a bit of metal?”

  “Not the metal. The power,” Lornk said, placing a shallow porcelain bowl on the table. White and adorned with gems, it resembled the sconce of a Device. “The Commissar has an engine he stokes with charcoal night and day to generate the power for his lights.” Setting a small glass globe inside the bowl, he pressed a gem and a light shone forth, bright as a hot lamp. “I didn’t trade Vic for economic or political power. I traded her for energy.”

  “You admit you traded her!”