Mage Strike (The Enslaved Chronicles Book 2)

by R. K. Thorne

  As the last part of his ritual, he tossed in a nail for the god Mastikos. Mastikos received little worship in these regions compared to the two goddesses, but their only god of the trio was important nonetheless. The priestesses taught the value of all aspects of divinity, not just Nefrana’s golden light, as well as all the holy languages, the ancient alphabets. He would make a fine priest, if he chose.

  He was something like a priest, in his own way, although he had no intention of taking any vows of celibacy anytime soon. His dreams the night before had been proof enough of that.

  He shook his head at himself. He also had far more important work to do in Nefrana’s name than coordinate worship in the temple. The idea felt more like fact than conviction, like something he could sense. Even now, bathed in the holy connection, something somewhere urged him on.

  Important work waited. Here. Now. The mage.

  Why did his thoughts stray so easily to her? Were they really pushing him toward helping her, or was it just his own mind wandering back, as mischievous as his dreams? Was she a merchant, as she claimed? Perhaps she had been in the past. Had she come from Mage Hall itself and escaped, or was it merely a terrible coincidence that they hunted her so close to this evil place?

  Had she gotten away, or had she not yet been captured? That was the real question, the real answer he needed to wheedle out of her. If she had been branded, there was less that he could do, if he could help her at all. But was it even possible for them to escape while branded? He thought not.

  The nail was red-hot. He had been lost in his thoughts. Standing, he murmured the final holy words. With tongs, he lifted out the nail and placed it aside.

  He said the last remaining prayer sadly, the holy connection reluctantly closing. He set off with a spring in his step for the cold cellar behind the house, gathering cheese and a slab of smoked meat. What did he have to be springing about? He shook his head at himself.

  When he opened the door, she whirled, expression sheepish. She stood by his cupboard, leaning on her good foot. “I—uh—put back the salve.”

  He said nothing but smiled, wordlessly putting the cheese and meat on the table. Silence was often the best way to get more information. Did she think he might worry she’d stolen something? Had she been stealing something? He didn’t think of any of these things as his. They were all given to him, mostly unearned, by the order. They were all simply in service of the mission and therefore ultimately free to her to take. But of course, she didn’t know that yet.

  “Are these… your books?”

  Ah, was that what the fuss was about? “Yes.”

  She eagerly examined their spines. “You are a strange fellow.”

  He snorted. “You’re not the first to tell me that.”

  “How many other blacksmiths do you know who’ve read The Book of the Vigilant?”

  He laughed outright. A clue for her. What would she make of it? The books were one of the few things he kept that hinted there might be more to this story than that of a simple blacksmith. Mostly, he couldn’t manage to part with either the beautifully crafted leather or the precious knowledge. “You told me I was different, I didn’t deny it.”

  She smiled and returned to looking at the books.

  “Have you read it?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “The Book.”

  “Oh. No.” Of course not, her tone said. Who read obscure philosophical texts for fun? Crazy blacksmiths? And she was right. Why the hell did he feel disappointed by the knowledge? He already knew she wasn’t the religious type, and he could thank the Devoted for that. Of course, the volume spoke mostly on the value of integrity, the nature of suffering. It was an important work in ethical and spiritual understanding, not just another tome of predictable parables. Although he liked those too.

  And he was staring at her back like an idiot. He strode to her side and reached to the top of the cupboard, where his remaining stash of bread lay wrapped in linen. Two loaves still—plenty left until next market day. Then, bread in hand, he offered her his arm. She hobbled with surprising speed with his assistance, and they sat and began to eat.

  He’d waited long enough. Time to get the truth out of her. “You know, you haven’t told me your name,” he began. That seemed like a fair start.

  Was that a blush? She hesitated. “Jaena.” It had the ring of truth to it.

  “Well, you know all about my childhood—”

  “Hardly.”

  “—what about yours?” How deep did her cover story go? How good of a liar was she going to be? She didn’t seem like much of one, compared to the many thieves and charlatans he’d known in the past. But sometimes that, too, was an act.

  Her brown skin faded a little, lost some of its rosy, blushing hue. He smiled to soften the question. He was just making conversation, after all, right? But he would get his answers out of her today. Too much time had already passed. “My father—is a diplomat in Hepan. But I always hoped to be a merchant. No endless parades of silly affairs, fancy festivals, and interminable banquets if I can avoid it, thank you very much.” She sounded like she’d sat through more than a few of those. If this was a lie, she was very convincing. “I am starting my own shop with the help of my brother. Starting off on this journey, looking for items to trade back in Hepan.”

  He raised his eyebrows. Not even a native to Kavanar? How strange. And even as a foreigner, many would guess she’d be from Farsa from the darkness of her skin. She probably got that a lot, but she had no touch of the relaxed, jovial culture of the gulf about her either. “Hepan? You’re a long way from there, indeed.”

  Her face fell. “Is it so far?”

  “Well, we are much closer to Akaria. But if you’ve come on foot from Hepan, you must know how long it’s taken you better than I.”

  She tore her gaze away and took a hasty bite of a hunk of bread. Yes, she had not come directly from Hepan on foot. He let none of his knowledge show. He knew he shouldn’t even have called out the discrepancy, as it could put her on the defensive, but he’d been unable to resist. He would stop there, though. He’d been a street rat long enough to learn to hide a myriad of emotions on his face, and that calling people out on their lies was not always the fastest path to the truth.

  “We’re close to Akaria, though. With a horse, you can be in Anonil in a day’s ride.” Her face brightened at that. Anonil was certainly her real destination, if everything else in her story was falsified. He thought much of it was true, though. Maybe he was merely sensing an important omission?

  “Do you have a horse?” she asked.

  He nodded, pretending not to notice the edge of excitement in her voice. “Oh, yes. A good one, strong enough to pull a wagon.”

  “Where do you keep it? I’ve… always loved horses. I didn’t see a stable about.”

  Nice try, but you’re not getting away without me that easily, he thought. He stifled a laugh and realized even his smile was probably letting on too much. “Oh, nearby,” he said as casually as he could. “Done eating? Good. Now—how about we look at that craft work I mentioned? I’ve got a few things worth selling, I’m sure.”

  She nodded reluctantly and took another too-long gulp of mead.

  Thel ran up to them, Elise tagging alongside him. “Something’s wrong,” he said breathlessly.

  Aven and Miara had hung back, trying to figure out the storm and failing. “Wrong with what?” Aven said.

  “The mountain.” Thel’s eyes were trained on Miara.

  This was very, very bad. She pushed away from Aven’s embrace, grabbed Thel’s hand, and pressed it against the wall. “Close your eyes,” she ordered. He complied. “Feel for the mountain—the heartbeat, the breath of it.” He nodded. His thin lips parted as she knew he was starting to sense it. “Now try to expand out, feel the rock in larger and larger areas. Which direction is the problem?”

  “Like you’re looking out over the horizon,” Elise chimed in, “but one inside your head. Go out farther and f
arther, as far as you can.”

  “You feel it? Something off?” Miara wished at least one of them knew this art. Damn arrogant fools, living under here with no defense whatsoever.

  He nodded. “Vibrations. Something is—shaking. It’s unnatural. It’s—angry. The rock is angry. It’s been this way for ages. It doesn’t want to be disturbed. It’s… that way, I think?” He pointed back toward the storm—and the main entrance to Estun.

  She looked sharply from Aven to Elise and back. “This is the area of the hold that’s farthest from the Great Stone, correct?”

  Aven nodded.

  “And where are the most people gathered?”

  “Well… What are you getting at?”

  “If I wanted to do the most damage—kill the most people—and do it farthest from the Stone so I had the least resistance—”

  Aven’s gaze snapped to his mother. “The gate.”

  Elise nodded.

  “Send word,” Miara snapped. “Tell them to get out of there. Go out in the rain or wherever—but out of the mountain.”

  Aven didn’t exactly listen. He turned and ran back toward the gate.

  “Aven!” she shouted, reaching after him.

  A hand on her shoulder stopped her. Thel’s eyes had snapped open. “We need to get back. Come on.” His voice was deadly serious, a tone she hadn’t heard it take before.

  “But Aven—” Elise started.

  “Will kill me if I let you two get crushed along with him.” He ushered them both back, eying the ceiling. Miara thought she could hear a distant rumbling. The thunder from the storm, or something else? A hundred paces back, they found an archway of keystone granite, more separate from the mountain. “Here,” he said. “This rock is different from the others, and hopefully far enough away.”

  Miara looked back down the hallway, searching for Aven’s running form. “Are there other exits out?”

  Elise frowned. “Of course. Three. Not all convenient to travel, but they are there.” She glanced around, but it appeared to be just the three of them. “There are also two others known only to the king.” Her voice implied that perhaps others knew—her, Thel, Aven? Were there really even only two? The important part was that there were escape routes, and they were not all going to suffocate down here. She hoped.

  Wunik trotted up beside them, spectacularly out of breath. “I heard shouting. What’s wrong?”

  “The mountain—” Thel started but was cut off by a sharp crack splitting the air.

  “Aven!” Miara shouted into the dark, empty hallway in spite of herself and their stupid promises for secrecy. What would that matter if they were all dead?

  Derk caught up to them. Others. She glanced at them in annoyance. Lady Toyl and one of her guards. Dvora Renala. What were they doing here? They were no help.

  “They’re attacking the mountain,” she said as if only to Wunik.

  “Who?” demanded Toyl.

  “Who else?” she said through gritted teeth. “I’d wager Kavanarian mages. But it’s not like they sent us a letter.”

  “This is because of that demonstration—the gods will punish you—” a voice started. Was that Alikar? Some other priest? She couldn’t see who spoke in the throng, but the voice sounded familiar, almost like Sorin’s. But that was insane; he was far away in Mage Hall.

  “Derk, up here with me,” Wunik ordered. “The rest of you get back. Get out of here.”

  The crowd didn’t listen to him, but Derk did. The two mages braced themselves against each side of the tunnel. What were they planning? They seemed to know each other well enough to not need explanations.

  Rumbling began again, then grew louder. Then another crack sounded, and another.

  Where in all the gods and heavens was he?

  She started forward. Elise caught her arm. She was probably right, but Miara was tempted to tear her arm free and run forward anyway.

  Fortunately, before she had to, Aven’s form sprinted around the corner. Another man, a woman, yet another followed. How many were there?

  Another crack, lower in pitch this time and closer to them. The earth above the hallway shifted.

  “Now,” Wunik snapped.

  The air vibrated bizarrely, strange and unnatural and moving away from them in a rapid wave toward Aven and the gate guards. Several of them started to cough—whether from the dust falling through the cracks in the hall or the strange spell, she wasn’t sure. The air snapped back and forth in space, but not going anywhere; it vibrated in the tiniest bits, but all around them, pulsating toward the people running up the hallway. It tickled the hairs inside her ears, and she stifled a sneeze. It was like the air almost hardened, shifting back and forth every moment. Like the wind blew back and forth endlessly on the tips of her fingers.

  The next crack, and the ceiling visibly began to sag. Wunik, too, sagged against the wall. Elise let go of Miara and ran to him.

  He needed help. She had little energy left, so she reached for those around her, dug deep, and closed her eyes, demanding the strength of the oak to sprout before them, for its branches to grow low and wide and help hold up the mountain. There—she’d done what she could. That was all she could muster. She opened her eyes.

  Aven was close now. Twenty paces.

  A thick tree was pushing its boughs and tendrils up against the rock above, but she could also hear the wood snap. It was not enough. Most creature magic was not strong enough to withstand the weight of a mountain above it. Could she mend the tree? No, nothing left. And she couldn’t pass out now. She had to know if Aven made it.

  The loudest rumbling yet shook the earth beneath and the walls above them. She stumbled and, in her weakened state, fell to her knees. When she straightened and looked up, to her horror she saw that much of the hallway before them had collapsed.

  Only a small tunnel at the bottom remained. She glanced at Derk, who was still bracing hard against the wall and sweating profusely. Wunik, too, had crumbled quite a bit, but they still strained.

  They were holding up the tunnel with only the air.

  It seemed like a lifetime passed before she saw that sandy hair crawl out of the tunnel, shaking dust off his head and reaching an arm back to help out the next person.

  She wanted to shout at him to get the hell out of there, with her voice or her mind, but really she had hardly enough strength for either.

  You can’t help anyone if you’re dead, prince, she finally managed.

  He glanced at her with a twinkle in his eye. After a few more were free, he got to his feet and staggered to them, collapsing into her arms.

  Six more men came out, eight women. The last one looked back for a moment, but then said with a voice that suddenly knew death, “I am the last, I fear.”

  They held the tunnel for a minute longer, maybe two. But no one came.

  “How many guards were there?” she whispered to Aven.

  “Some may have gone out into the courtyard,” he said, his voice hopeful. “But twenty.”

  Into the courtyard where an air mage waited, brewing a storm likely designed to keep them from running out into it. Those guards were likely no safer out there.

  Miara had no doubt that slaves from Mage Hall must have caused this. Mages had finally been sent to attack. How many? And to what end? Had they hoped to trap the Akarians inside? Kill the guards? Perhaps they hoped to shake Akarian confidence, show them that even their strongest fortress was not impenetrable. Perhaps they were simply trying another tactic to provoke war. Or was there some other goal they had in mind?

  Whatever they were seeking, it could not be good.

  9

  Disguises

  Jaena hopped along irregularly beside Tharomar as he headed for the smithy. Could she really play the part of a merchant? It had been a long time. She’d have to bluff her way past having no coin, although in this bartering community, that didn’t seem like it would be a huge obstacle.

  “What is Hepan like?” he asked as they strolled. “I hav
e never journeyed so far.”

  “Have you traveled much?”

  “Not outside of Kavanar. And even inside, I’ve only lived here and Evrical. But I’d like to someday.”

  “Use those languages you know.”

  “Indeed.”

  “What languages were those, by the way?”

  “Are you dodging my question?”

  “No.” She smirked.

  “Takaran and Farsai.”

  “Were those your best guesses or just the only languages you knew?”

  He narrowed his eyes at her, although he was smiling. “You ask a lot of questions to answer one simple one.”

  “My curiosity outweighs my loquaciousness, I guess.”

  “I speak about a dozen languages. Scraps of others. Can read a few more.”

  Her eyes widened. “That’s—a lot for a blacksmith.”

  “And you?”

  “Just this common tongue. I knew ancient Hepani once, but nobody uses it anymore.”

  “Finally something about Hepan.”

  She snorted as they arrived at the smithy, and he her found a stool. “Oh, it’s not that different from here.”

  He took a key from his belt and made quick work of a lock on a cabinet on the far wall. “Not much pride for the motherland then?”

  She shrugged. “We spent a lot of time traveling. To Detrat, Sverti, Farsa, here. My father spent some time delivering relatively unimportant diplomatic treaties.”

  “Which was your favorite?”

  She raised an eyebrow. “My favorite of the treaties?”

  “Of the kingdoms. Would you go back to one of them? Someday in your merchant travels?” Something about his voice made her think that he did not completely buy her merchant story. Or possibly any of it. If that was the case, then why was he playing along? He was drawing pieces out of the cabinet onto a long table perpendicular to it.

  Hmm. She struggled to remember. It had been a long time since she’d thought about those days. About being able to travel if she liked. If she made it away from here—if she could destroy the damn brand—could she somehow make it to the other side of Kavanar?