by Ann Fisher
“Aliri never had any quarrel with you, only with your father. She was once as close as a sister to your mother. You can’t afford to keep your father’s prejudices. She’ll help you.”
“I’ve never even met her. Mother rarely spoke of her and then…it was always with regret. If there was love there, I saw little evidence of it.”
“You’ll have to take my word then, won’t you?”
Caden shot him a glare, but there was a hint of a smile in the turn of his lips and that was promising.
Aliri wouldn’t turn Caden away, but the boy was perceptive to doubt it. He was truly his father’s son. Caden might actually be more intelligent than Asil had been at the same age. After all, young, foolish, headstrong Asil had seduced the lovely Aliri only days before his father announced that he was to wed Aliri’s aunt, Gisel. At the time, Gisel was the more politically advantageous match. Asil had argued against it, but in the end had obeyed his father’s decision. Aliri had been furious. She’d never blamed Gisel, but she’d never forgiven Asil. It would be interesting to see how she received their son. Janek didn’t believe she’d turn Caden away from the palace. Whether she would actually help him remained to be seen.
“Don’t worry.” He turned Caden toward the waiting group. “At the very least, she’ll hear us out. And Demir won’t expect us to beg help in that direction. Come, we need to leave this place.”
Caden hesitated. “We should bury them.”
“We can’t spare the time, and the Noreghs don’t bury their dead.”
“Burn them then.” Caden’s mouth firmed. “We can’t leave them to the vultures and jackals.”
A shadow crossed the young emperor’s face, revealing for an instant the child he truly was—frightened, determined, and still grieving for his parents. Demir had placed Asil’s head on a spike atop the battlements. By the time they’d reached the capital, there’d been nothing left of it but a skull and a few scraps of hair. Janek would never forget the expression on Caden’s face when he’d spotted the damned thing. No child should ever see something like that.
Janek thought of Conri and felt a pang that made him touch his chest. Lorel’s stone was warm against his skin. Her heartstone. He didn’t share her faith, didn’t truly believe that the stone held the spirits of her ancestors, but sometimes it seemed to him that he could sense her through the uncut gem.
Taris’ son was down there, the young princeling. All the men down there belonged to someone. He let his gaze wander once more over the cold battlefield and looked beyond it toward Noregh. The plains extended for miles before rising sharply to the mountains. The Sithean Wall—a nearly solid expanse of rock with only a single narrow path through it to the small kingdom of Noregh. The sorcerers who’d done this would still be about. The likeliest place for them to wait in ambush would be at the pass, fifty miles distant. He cast his sight briefly into the nexus and saw only the spirits of their own party and the scavengers waiting for them to leave.
He bowed to Caden and moved toward the ghastly battlefield. Proximity wasn’t needed for the spell to work, but the distance from Caden would help him to concentrate. The fire was an easy enough thing. Making sure that no one noticed it was the more difficult magic.
He drew on the power that lingered over the place like the stench of rotting flesh. The crows who’d committed this atrocity had already absorbed most of the energy, but there was enough left for his purpose. He called the fire with a thought.
Dry grass and clothing caught first. Thin tendrils of smoke rose from the field like mist. He pushed power into the fire and it flared blisteringly hot, incinerating the corpses where they lay. He kept the blaze as contained as possible. The smoke he forced low to the ground instead of letting it rise into the clear sky as it wanted to do.
After the flesh had seared from the bones, he snuffed out the flames and turned away. Caden had withdrawn with the rest of their small party. The group from the Raven stood a half a mile distant now, huddled out of sight of the battlefield and the fire. Caden might command him to use sorcery, but he had no desire to witness it in action. He was like his father in that respect. Like every master Janek had ever served.
He shouldn’t resent that. A sorcerer stood alone—that was what his old master had taught him. People feared them. Hated them. Envied them. He wondered if Lorel would have pulled away if she’d been here. She’d seen him use his power, but only in small measure. Would she accept him still if she were here to see this, or would she be like the others—using him but never entirely trusting him?
Touching the stone on his chest, Janek started back the way he’d come, cold ash drifting down to land on his shoulders and in his hair like snow.
Coming December 2017
Copyright © 2017 by Ann Fisher
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