A Wizard's Sacrifice

by Amanda Justice

  Dropping the satchel in a gap between roots, Bethniel laid her palm on the trunk and prayed that Vic would find it. “She’s all right,” she said aloud. “She has to be. She still has a destiny to fulfill.” But history had already changed. No records told of a ‘Lady Bethniel,’ a latent wizard who had been Thabean’s lover and heir. History said he had died with honor and glory in battle, not that he was unceremoniously executed for violating the Code he held sacred. Even Meylnara was not the evil witch history painted her but a scared, lonely woman, sentenced to death because her mother committed the same crime as Thabean and Vic. Where was Vic? What if she’d been killed by the storm? I might be alone now, Bethniel thought, dread twisting.

  Clicks blurred behind her. Two warriors stood in the clearing, their tattoos marking them as Caldera tribe. Antennae waving, they bent their heads toward her.

  Her fear turned over once again to anger. “The Sacrifice is dead,” she clapped.

  The two spun round and vanished into the forest. Bethniel gazed at the screen of vegetation. “Thabean didn’t die for the Kia, he died for me!” she shouted. “He shouldn’t have died at all. None of this should be happening at all!”

  Growling, she swiped at tears born more of fury than sorrow. Hunting a last time for Vic, she prayed to find her sister asleep under a bush.

  The Caldera Center emerged from the forest and bowed. “We erred.”

  Her pulse beat in her throat. “How—” She wanted to ask how they could have erred so badly, but her father always said, casting blame does nothing to correct mistakes. “How did you err?”

  “We did not anticipate that two would be one. The Concordance has begun. You are the Fulcrum; events shall turn about you. You must choose.”

  “You said the Fulcrum was passive.”

  “We erred,” the Center repeated. “The Concordance is in your hands.”

  “What about Vic, the One?”

  “The One will play a role. But you will choose the future of your people and ours. The lineage of the Child seeks dominance over all lineages and peoples. We follow the Treaty of the First and seek to coexist.”

  “And you will send us home when Meylnara is dead,” Bethniel reminded them of the terms Vic had made.

  “If the Sacrifice is made, those from history will be returned.”

  “But the Sacrifice is dead!” she shouted, clapping a moment later.

  “The Child moves toward the camp of the Council. We will await the One.” Like a ghost, it melted back into the forest.

  * * *

  The quiet heat inside her tent pressed into Bethniel’s pores. She’d always lived in quiet, among people who used their voices only to express the most urgent or profound emotions. Because she’d always known it, she’d never associated silence with solitude, until now. In a day, she’d lost her husband and her sister. She’d inherited a title she didn’t want to own, a people she didn’t want to command, and a power she would have refused if given the choice. “You must choose.” The words haunted her. “If the Sacrifice is made.” She wondered why she wasn’t curled up in a ball, weeping her eyes dry, but she had nothing to give over to weeping. She had nothing.

  The tent flap rustled as Lillem came inside and stood at attention.

  “Out,” she commanded.

  “What are you going to do?” he asked.

  “Mourn!” she spat.

  “There must still be a sacrifice.”

  She waved him off. “Fine, sergeant. You’re dismissed.”

  “Highness—”

  “It’s madam, now.”

  “Madam . . . Thabean is gone. Your sister is likely gone. We must do this thing.”

  “I don’t know how,” she said bitterly. Vic had been convinced her experience with the soldiers in the training yard was the key, but Bethniel had no idea what had happened there. Her only hope was to Listen to Meylnara and find a way to shift her connection to the forest through mindspeech.

  Lillem knelt beside her. “There must still be a sacrifice.”

  Tears streamed at last. “I know.” Elesendar help me.

  “I will help you.”

  Wiping her nose, she rose. “The Caldera Center told me Meylnara is on her way here.” She drew back her shoulders and raised her head. “I don’t know how long it’s going to take me to do it. I’ll need you to guard my back and get Gustave from the hospital. If I . . . you’ll need him to talk to the Kragnashians, so you can go home.”

  The lieutenant saluted. “Yes, Highness—madam.”

  “Tell Fainend I want to see him.”

  Lillem left, and Fainend arrived soon after. “Meylnara’s on her way,” Bethniel said. “I need to know what happens if I do not designate an heir to my seat on the Council?”

  “If you died without a clear line of succession, the next Candidate for the Elixir would be chosen from the educated by lot. But in that case, Nelchior could claim the northern reaches for himself.”

  “No wonder he and Thabean were at odds.”

  “That was one reason, madam. For the others, one need only be acquainted with the wizard.”

  She snorted. “Before Thabean bequeathed everything to me, did he have a roster of candidates?”

  “He did, madam.”

  “Come with me to Saelbeneth’s, and tell me about them on the way.”

  * * *

  Vic reached the caldera when the sun stood halfway to its zenith, heat beating out of a cloudless sky. It was as if the storm had dumped every bit of moisture from the air and the forest had sucked it all up, leaving nothing but brittle bark and sandy soil, ripe for fire. Panting, Vic landed in the clearing where they’d faced Meylnara. There was no sign of Gustave—she’d been a fool to think he’d be capable of standing, much less walking the fifteen leagues between here and the Council’s camp. Defeated, she collapsed to her knees and spotted a leather strap near the forest edge. In a hollow at the base of a trunk was a satchel holding supplies. “Bless you, Bethniel,” she breathed, opening a canteen. The water was hot but wet. She drank in sips, restoring moisture slowly, so she wouldn’t vomit it all back up.

  Soap and a comb folded into fresh clothing teased out a fleeting chuckle. “That’s my sister.” Yet as she scrubbed blood and dirt from her hands, her mouth twisted down. Joseph. Sucking in a breath, she pushed the sorrow away and changed into a tunic and trousers. The silken robe stank of iron and death. She rolled it up and stuffed it in the hollow. Joseph was a soldier in this war. She would mourn him when it was over.

  She swallowed more water and bit into a pome, staunching her hunger. Some cheese sated the devouring emptiness in her belly. She ate slowly, chewed and swallowed carefully, gaining strength for the fight ahead. When she finished and was wrapping up the remaining food, the Caldera Center flowed into the clearing and clicked at her, tossing its head. Two warriors flanked it, their mandibles heavily tattooed, and added their clicks and whistles. Wishing she understood them, Vic held her hands before her and bowed.

  Staccato chirps and long burrs flurried from the Center. Wing covers snapped open and shut, and the creature’s mouthparts made a giant circle in the air. It lowered its head and thorax to a height Vic could mount.

  All her life, she had railed and fought against fate. She’d followed it too—even chased it. But she had never surrendered to it, until now. The creature was incomprehensible, but she trusted it with that same certainty she had trusted Fembrosh a thousand times before. The Kia had steered her toward this moment, and the Kragnashians would see she met her destiny. Bowing again, she climbed onto the Center and settled between split wing covers.

  They swept through the forest, gliding through brambles, glossing over logs, melting between trees. She huddled within the Center’s carapace, safe from whipping branches and nettles while she fretted over the blood weeping from her womb, mucking her trousers and staining the silky gossamer wings beneath her. Her abdomen throbbed, and her body ached as if a fever were c
oming on. Fists clenched, she called upon the Woern and cooled the air round her skin. Do just enough. Aches receded, and she felt nerves and muscles come alive, preparing for the long day ahead.

  Concordance

  Cooled by the deluge, the lava was covered with a cracked, blackened shell, an easy ford for the People that swarmed across like a tsunami. Ranks of pikemen contracted before the onslaught, and the soldiers fell upon their larger foes like harriers on a lupear. The Kragnashians died like lupears too, each taking a dozen harriers with it. The air stank of offal and cut grass.

  Bethniel hovered above the moat, waiting for Saelbeneth’s signal. A whistle shrilled, and she sliced into the crust and dug out a lump of molten rock. She caused the molecules within to vibrate, and an explosion blasted Kragnashians into the air. All around the moat, the rest of the Council dug through the crust. Fire roared along the channel, and Kragnashians drowned in churning rock and flame.

  Below, the infantry pressed the creatures back toward the lava. The Kragnashians’ numbers thinned, and the troops fanned after them. Above, the Council stirred the molten earth, churning up the hotter masses from below. But the earth was stiff, as if the rains had cooled deep down into the magma. It felt like trying to stir molasses in the dead of winter. Bethniel’s shoulders and eyes ached from the strain, but as the Woern coursed through her, they enlivened every corpuscle, and she felt alive. If she closed her eyes to the carnage, all she felt was joy.

  “Meylnara!” Saelbeneth cried, and a flaming ball hurtled toward a dense clump of Kragnashians at the edge of the forest. The fireball crashed into a giant messernil, and the tree burst into flame. The crust reformed over the moat, and Kragnashians streamed into camp.

  Meylnara was the important one. Bethniel flew clear of the smoke, looking for a disturbance in the canopy that could be the rogue’s Kragnashian escort. Other wizards left the moat, descending to fight with their troops or hunt their enemy. Bethniel zigzagged across the forest until she saw leaves seething near the edge of a clearing.

  “If the Sacrifice is made.” She froze, her skin prickling as a wave of terror spilled out of her eyes. “No,” she whispered. Her heart beat wildly; there was a ringing in her ears, and her breath came in short gasps. She wanted to go home, complain about Heralds’ gossip with her brother, play with her baby nephew. She wanted to assume the throne of Latha and be remembered as a Ruler under whom her nation prospered. She wanted to see her grandparents again and her cousins. And Mother. She longed for her mother’s warmth and pride, like the day they’d arrived home from war.

  Mother graces them with a rare smile. “I am glad—very, very glad—to see you all safe. Welcome home.”

  Her arms are warm and tight. A tingling scatters over her skin like sunlight sparkling on dark sand. Bethniel gathers every moment of her mother’s open affection, stowing it away to carry her through the long frigid time that will follow.

  A red streak singed her ear, dissipating in a shower of sparks. Leaves wriggled as the mass moved off. Bethniel wiped snot from her nose. If the Sacrifice is made. She wanted to fly the other way and hide until this was over. But if she failed, Ashel would be alone. He’d never again see the woman he loved, his wife. My sister. His son. My nephew. Heart thudding, Bethniel swooped toward the canopy. Ashel and Geram, Vic and Wineyll—it could be done. She was no Listener, but Meylnara had no mindspeech. She was no Listener, but she’d been reared by Selcher, had lived with that strong Listener all her life. The trick would be how. And when.

  * * *

  As the Caldera tribe passed Dealn’s grave, the warriors coalesced into a rolling knot. Vic hunkered under the Center’s wing covers as it scuttled onto its warriors’ backs. Others piled on top. Their heavy springtime scent choked her. Her skin crawled with the sensation of creeping insects, a feeling that stretched a thousand-fold as more creatures piled into the mass. Her ears shrank from the scrabbling of tarsi on chitin, her muscles cringed at the hundred hundred half-sheathed cat claws that tickled her spine, and she gulped one shriek after another.

  Tendrils snaked beneath the Center’s carapace, wrapped round her waist, and yanked her up into the dark, seething flow of chitin and silky, spiked legs. She screamed until they thrust her head and shoulders out of the crown. Coils slid round her legs and hips, holding her fast, but fresh air and light washed over her. Relief was short-lived. At the base of the knot, titans wrestled, mandibles crunching and slashing as Meylnara’s warriors burrowed into the mass and were crushed and ejected by the Caldera defenders.

  Vic drew on her Woern. The Kragnashians released her, and she rocketed clear of the canopy. In the distance, a pair of fireballs burst out of the green, just missing a lithe, dark figure floating above the treetops. Bethniel. In the air. Magnificent. Vic’s heart rose into her throat, pride cutting through grief.

  The princess dove into the forest. What is she doing? Vic surged after her, crying her name. Flames and smoke erupted from the forest, the columns thick and black. “Bethniel!” she yelled again.

  There was no answer. Vic dropped into the understory, feeling for Meylnara’s waveform, for a new pattern that would be Bethniel’s. Leaves and branches blazed. Heat and smoke billowed in black, heavy clouds. The forest had been saturated only that morning, but now trees flared like dry tinder. Coughing, Vic sailed to the ground, her ears itching with the keening of the damned.

  * * *

  Bethniel heard Vic’s call, glimpsed her flashing through smoke and fire. She lived! Thank Elesendar, she lived.

  She shoved that joy aside—it would lead to wishes, and wishes would unravel her resolve. She’d ordered a massacre to save her brother; to save her sister, she would prevent one. First, she had to catch Meylnara’s soul.

  The Blind Charge

  The Manor’s main defense was the steep-sided hill upon which it sat. A cliff on the west flank, on the north and south grew dense woods thick with brambles, each with a single narrow track. Only the eastern slope, with its switchbacking road up from Narath, could accommodate a large host. So the builders had planned. Yet the army climbing sheer stone or scrambling through tangled underbrush had fought in the Kiareinoll for a generation, and they knew very well where the stockade surrounding the Manor could be breached.

  Geram crouched next to a gap between the earth and the interlaced whole logs that formed the wall. The Kragnashians had remained within the grounds—a puzzle as well as a relief. Elekia had speculated the creatures waited for the Concordance, and Geram wondered how Vic fared in Direiellene. Could they succeed if she failed?

  Ashel was with the Buzzards, marching on the square in Traine, but Geram fixed his mind on the dry soil under his fists, the scent of evergreen and sweat, the motion of the men and women bouncing on their heels beside him.

  Passed from Listener to Listener, the all-clear signal flew fast as thought round the wall. “Ready,” he whispered to Henrik. The fieldmarshal motioned they should advance, and Geram passed the order to every Listener in the host. Half a dozen troopers scuttled through the gap. Squirming on his belly, elbows digging into the earth, Geram followed the sound of knees scrubbing dirt, of soft curses and hissed orders. Inside the wall, he waited with Henrik and Drak while troops wormed through and fanned out along the perimeter. They would kill as many sentries as they could.

  A whistle pierced the night. The Lathans broke for the Manor. Geram ran after the noise of boots on turf and gravel, his steel-bladed pike held like a javelin. At the gate, an explosion blotted the night, the flash bright enough to penetrate the murk of his vision. His squad hauled up, trying to blink the stars from their vision. “Move,” Geram ordered, grabbing Drak’s arm and dragging him toward the Manor. He knew these grounds, had memorized the feel of every path and flowerbed, and now the troopers relied on him to guide them.

  “Shrine’s bitch,” Drak swore. “They’re coming.” Drak’s vision, still stained with the afterglow of the explosion, fixed on the Kragnashians bearing down on them
like frigates. Pike butts hit the earth, and troopers braced. The Kragnashians drove into them, mandibles swinging, knocking past the weapons and bowling over the troopers. A second rank rammed steel tips into oncoming thoraxes. Bodies twisted. Tails lashed. Mandibles bashed and snapped. Troopers dove and rolled, struck and dodged, and the dead lay heaped.

  “We must reach the throne room,” Geram panted. Pain spiked through his scarred thigh, and he breathed deeply to quell a racing heart.

  Drak grabbed his wrist, and they skirted the melee and raced toward the Manor, troopers on their heels. Half a dozen Kragnashians defended the entrance. Mandibles sliced and crushed. Pike blades jabbed and scraped chitin. Kragnashians wrenched the shafts away, snapped them into sticks.

  Elekia and Breon ran up, skidding on cobbles as they joined Geram’s party. Trousers hugged her hips, and sleek curves stirred an uncanny need to hold and taste her. Drak’s vision swung to the Kragnashians, and Geram blew the ill-timed desire from his lungs.

  “Use the windows,” Elekia said, and they ran round the corner. Sashes flew upward, and Geram boosted Drak to a windowsill. His cousin disappeared inside; other soldiers launched each other through other windows. Thumps and rolls, a crash and shrieks poured out. His muscles quivered at every crunch and scream.

  “Take my hand!” Drak shouted, and Geram jumped up and grabbed his cousin. The big man hauled him inside, hoisting Elekia and Breon next.

  Kragnashians flowed toward them and jolted against an invisible barrier. “Now,” Elekia said, and Drak drove his pike into a thorax. A massive body fell over.

  A rush prickled against his neck, and Geram dove, rolled, and swung his pike up through empty air. Tarsi skittered near his ear. He spun the pike around, entangling it in the curtain-like legs, and yanked as a mandible plunged toward him. The creature tumbled forward; he scrambled away, breath short and heart fluttering like a trapped bird.

  Their scent jabbed his fear, and it rose snorting and mad like a bull. His thigh quivered, the muscles jumping as if caught again in the vicious slicing grip while he lay buried under the dying creature. He’d fought in hundreds of battles, faced enemies armed with lethal blades and bows, watched the entire Dagger die around him, and he’d never known terror like this. He wanted to piss. He wanted to cry. He wanted to shrink into a ball with his hands over his head and lie still until it was over.