by R. K. Thorne
None of it mattered. Nothing could be done now. She had to focus on what she could control. She couldn’t save Dekana or stop the Masters from what they did.
But she could get revenge. And if the gods were willing, she would.
Without really intending to, exhausted mentally, physically, and emotionally, she drifted off to sleep.
Aven eyed the circling crows as he rode with the procession toward Panar. A month ago, he might not have thought anything of them. Knowing what he’d learned in the last few weeks, he couldn’t help but wonder if they’d been sent by mages to watch him. Or perhaps were mages themselves.
Miara could have sent them. Wunik, his mother, or Siliana could be keeping watch via these friends from within the carriage.
Or they could not be friends, but enemies.
He sidled his way forward and to the center of the group, where the carriage bounced along, to ask if they had noticed the crows too. An annoying, icy rain fell over the group as they made their way. Too bad that it was against the Balance to twist the weather for his own convenience. It was one thing to tolerate an icy mist flying into your face with each gust of wind; it was another to know you could do something about it but probably shouldn’t.
Aven had been riding toward the back of the procession, and his father toward the front. Thel swayed on his mount toward the middle of the pack, trying to read a small book even in the rain. Dom had stayed behind, as it was pure folly to have all three heirs on the road together at the same time. He would join them in a week or so, when the cave-in repairs were complete. Their mother rode with Siliana and Wunik in a carriage, but what kind of leaders would he and his father be if they relaxed in relative comfort while their men slogged along in this shit?
That said, he was regretting his “leadership” at this point. This far into the fall—almost winter—the cold of the wind and the rain combined could seep into your bones. He’d slept barely three hours, and most of that had been filled with feverish dreams, stoked to greater intensity by recently holding Miara in his arms. On top of it all, his boot would not stop rubbing his calf raw.
If Miara had been with them, she’d have figured out what the damn crows were about five minutes ago. He’d better get on that.
He finally reached the side of the carriage. “Any of you notice those… overhead visitors?” he called.
His mother leaned toward the window, peered up, and frowned.
“I’ll take that as a no,” Aven muttered.
She didn’t reply to him but turned toward the other mages, though he couldn’t make out what they were saying.
He ran his eyes along the mountaintops on either side of them. Three roads led out of Estun, and all of them took rather risky paths through the valleys and passes, curving their way down into the somewhat flatter forests. Following the riverbeds down the valleys was often easier riding, and it was also easier to keep the roads travel worthy, even this late into the year, when the rain turned them muddy but they hadn’t yet frozen.
But what Estun gained in security in its mountain home, the roads gave up in exchange. They were not the safest way to travel. This was not a position any of them would have picked for a battle.
Since his mother hadn’t yet replied, he extended his senses outward, as Miara and Wunik had begun to show him, to sense for mages. Not toward the crows, as his carriage-bound companions were already concerned with them, but rather toward the ridges above and down the hills on the other side.
His father had sent scouts ahead, of course. But they were ordinary soldiers. All their scouts needed to be mages from now on, Aven realized, or there could be forces in hiding that an average soldier was simply unable to sense. Unless they could find some kind of stone like those Devoted used to repress magic, but one that would detect it instead… He pushed the idea aside for now. He needed to deal with the task at hand.
On the range to his right, he felt nothing but the usual wind sweeping over the crags. But on the left one… What was it? Was something there? He couldn’t specifically identify what he felt, but he caught a whiff of something… wormy, maggot-like, squirming. Could it be that peculiar yet familiar taint?
Slaves.
He couldn’t feel them for certain, but he didn’t need to to know they were there.
“Those crows are mages, aren’t they.” Gods, he hoped they were coming up with something.
His mother reappeared, face white. “At least three creature mages overhead—not animals under their control, mages shifted into crows. We think there are more—”
“Over that ridge?” he pointed.
She frowned. “We’re not sure—there’s something odd about their location. There are definitely more not far away.”
As much as he wanted to press her for details—how many more, what type?—he urged his horse forward instead, weaving through the procession till he reached his father.
“We may have a problem,” he told the king.
Samul raised an eyebrow.
Aven glanced pointedly up at the crows overhead, then bent to adjust where his boot rubbed his calf. Damn thing. “Mages. At least three overhead, more maybe beyond the next range. They haven’t been able to—”
He never finished his words. A sudden bolt of lightning cracked somewhere close by. Aven’s horse flung his head back, slamming her neck into Aven’s forehead, knocking him backward off the saddle. Another loud crack sounded behind him.
Aven hit the ground with a thud, left shoulder first, his breath flying out of him.
Bloody hell. What was that?
He blinked, but all he could see was white. Another blink, then another, and the world came back into view, although the world seemed muffled and dimmed. The deafening sound left his thoughts and hearing cloudy.
He struggled to sit up. Another sharp crack, then another accompanied by a roll of thunder. Aven cursed, a sharp pain diving into his left side as he tried to right himself. Broken rib? Broken shoulder? Damn it, this was not the time for an injury to slow him down.
His mind raced as his pulse quickened. Lightning. Way too late in the year for storms with lightning. The storm—it must be unnatural. Damn it, he should have tried to sense for such a thing.
He may have only been trying to use his magic for a few days, but he needed to get better at this, and in a damn hurry.
He finally made it to sitting. His horse lay on the ground before him, convulsing. To his right, his father readied his weapon. Thel and three more soldiers to his left drew their swords and readied their shields, swinging their mounts outward to face the ridges surrounding them.
What good was that going to do?
The thunk of an arrow bouncing off a shield made him eat his words. He should get to his horse—get his shield, or at least roll behind it for some shelter. He twisted onto his hands and knees with a groan as pain shot through him, and he had to stop for a moment and catch his breath.
“My lord—take my shield!”
Words finally cut through to his mind, and he looked up in time to catch the shield tossed by a lieutenant, who dismounted and came toward him.
“You’re hurt?”
“Rib, maybe. Hell.”
The soldier heaved him to his feet as Aven let out something between a growl and a cry. He gritted his teeth, but glancing at the horse, he knew it could have been worse.
That lightning had probably been meant for him but had struck the horse instead.
“You six, Asten—with me, up that range,” Samul shouted. “Dyon—with Aven, Thel, and the rear platoon, secure the carriage and the far side. Go!”
Dyon trotted up on his horse, ushering them back. Aven let the stream of curses come, if it helped him get there faster.
“At least a dozen mages,” his mother was calling as they ambled up. “We just found them. Mostly creature and earth. Just one air.”
“One was enough, apparently,” Aven grunted. “Can Wunik—”
“He’s out cold, Aven. Derk too. The other bolt
hit them both.”
Aven winced. Those targets were not accidental. Someone had sought to take out all the air mages before the battle had even begun. “Can you save my horse?”
“I’m sorry, Aven. Wunik may be all right, Derk is breathing, but I don’t think I can help—”
May be all right? Gods damn those mages, they would pay for this. “Get me inside the carriage,” he barked.
He would be no good for fighting now. But he had a better idea.
Another stream of cursing later, and he was collapsed inside. Siliana leapt toward him. “Don’t heal me,” he said. “Keep it for the fight. It’s just a broken rib.”
She froze for a moment as if checking if his claims were true. Which, come to think of it, was probably a good idea. Every breath ached, so perhaps the rib was too close to a lung. But if the earth mages that had filled Estun with rock could also fill this canyon, Aven would much prefer Siliana and the rest save their energies for battling their enemies. If they even could.
Aven had something else to do.
Siliana turned back to the carriage window. Outside, vines thick as his torso shot from the ground and clenched around the carriage, then suddenly froze. Did his mother and Siliana have a way to stop their attackers? He had to trust that they did.
He slumped against the back carriage wall and closed his eyes. He had no idea if this would work, but there was no time like the present to find out. He drew himself out and up, toward the sky and the storm that the air mage had probably wrought. Even if the mage hadn’t, it didn’t matter.
He reached the rumbling energy of the clouds and the pattering energy of the rain, nearly turning to ice at this temperature. Outward, upward, a little farther and…
It was his.
He pushed the storm back, away from the carriage and his warriors and toward the mages. He poured energy into the cloud, stealing it as quickly as he could from what wind and sun he could find, rolling and tumbling the storm larger, the rain heavier, into a downpour.
The mountain floated by underneath him. A handful of archers were perched at the top, but he ignored them. He drifted along as the land fell away. There, at the edge of the forest—a dozen people hunkered down behind boulders and fallen trees.
Could he find the air mage?
A collision with the carriage snapped him back into his body. He was flung to the side—his left, of course—and groaned at the fresh agony. The carriage seemed to have slid several feet, and light peeked in from the corner up and behind his right side.
“Damn it,” his mother snapped. “We’ve got to stop that, or we’ve got to get out.”
“Weave a protective barrier. They’re not the only ones with vines.”
“No—trees.”
Aven closed his eyes and seized control of the storm again. He had to trust them to try to protect him—and if they couldn’t, to rouse him with the vicious pain of dragging him out of the carriage.
There—he found the mage force again. As quickly as he could, he ignited the fallen trees.
They burst into flames. Mages scattered, running. He threw flame after them without aiming or seeing if he made contact. He had to keep his mind on something else.
One mage remained still.
Then, for the first time, he felt something like what he’d felt battling Derk, but inside the storm. The other mage reached for control of the storm and nearly took it.
He shoved them back. They thrust forward again.
Aven ignited the ground beneath the mage, the tree behind him, but the mage snuffed out the flames. Damn. Aven had a lot less practice at this. What could he do to stop this mage once and for all?
The image of his horse convulsing on the ground flashed through his mind.
No—the thought turned his stomach. To kill with his magic? How could he claim magic was not evil if he took a life with it? How could he—
Another loud crack snapped his concentration like a twig, whirling his mind back into the carriage. Did he smell… smoke?
No. He couldn’t let go yet. He hurled himself back into the storm and again found the mage, who had by now seized much of the storm for himself.
He had to stop hesitating. He had to act. He knew the Code. This mage had nearly killed him, and this mage’s companions were fighting to kill the rest of his family and all of their forces. If he’d had a sword in his hand, he would not have hesitated. To kill in self-defense was not evil. Indeed, he could not help anyone if he was dead, struck by this mage’s lightning.
Still, he hesitated.
“Samul, no!” his mother screamed, breaking his concentration again.
Aven’s eyes snapped open. His father rode toward them. Abruptly, the earth cracked apart, yawned like a gaping mouth before him.
The king and his mount almost made the jump. Almost.
Instead, they tumbled down into the earth.
Aven closed his eyes. There, the mage. Aven gathered all the energy he could muster and struck. Lightning sizzled through the air, once, twice, three times. Flames danced up from the earth.
The world whirled and went black.
Tharomar awoke to sunlight blinding him from a fresh new angle. The sun had been rising higher as the day wore on. Still, he lay unmoving with his eyes shut, hoping to sleep just a little longer if he could.
Next he became aware of the warm body curled next to him. Jaena. Her slow breaths meant she was asleep. A cold wind blew across them, and he was glad for her warmth. He opened his eyes for just a peek and discovered her arm stretching over his chest, wrapped around him. Her dark, elegant fingers rested against his ribs, an unfamiliar but beautiful sight.
Well. It was too cold for sleeping outside comfortably. He, of course, would never take advantage of such a situation. But he allowed himself a moment’s flight of fancy, imagining sweeping her into his arms, pulling her close, burying his face in her neck and her braids, feeling her body against his. He noticed now, suddenly, details he had somehow missed before—a small scar above her left eyebrow, a tiny silver earring in her ear, the way one side of her mouth curved just slightly higher than the other.
Nefrana’s blooms. He forced himself to sit up abruptly. Enough, Tharomar, enough. Not now.
He stalked away to relieve himself behind a tree.
When he returned, she was rubbing her eyes and showed no sign of remembering she’d slept with her arm around him. Good. They didn’t need that awkwardness on top of everything else.
Or was it already too late?
No, damn it, he told himself. Get the brand out of Kavanar, get this woman to safety, and then you can find a dozen girls to sleep with. But not this one. Not that finding someone else sounded at all appealing at the moment.
Unless… unless it was her idea. He hadn’t been the one putting his arms around her, after all. With that ankle, she was depending on him to get out of here, and he refused to put her in any kind of tough situation.
But if she put her arm around him again, he wasn’t going to push her away either.
“Ro? Everything all right?”
Gods, he was just standing there, staring. “Uh, yes, just listening for the road. Ready to get going again?”
She stood, although it required a bit of lurching. “Listen, before we go one step farther, you are going to tell me what in all the gods’ dreams is going on. Why are you helping me?”
He scowled. “Can’t it wait until we’re away from them? On the road?”
“No.” Her voice was suddenly cold. No, she most definitely didn’t remember throwing her arm around him last night.
Damn Devoted. “Well, can we talk while I roll up these bedrolls?”
“Yes.”
He nodded and set to work. “Look, I apologize for not explaining myself sooner. But I didn’t want to press you so hard that you ran away, and I needed to understand who I was dealing with. I serve the Order of the Silver Grove, a sect of Nefrana’s worshipers whose mission is to find and protect mages and to end the Devoted
blight.” She blinked, incredulous. It was probably a big jump to make, he couldn’t blame her.
“The Devoted… blight?”
“These ‘Devoted’ corrupt Nefrana’s good name. They preach evil. They commit heinous acts in the goddess’s name. They will be punished in their day.”
“The Book of the Vigilant. The pendant.”
He nodded. “The pendant is a symbol of my order. We keep ourselves secret until we are poised to take on the Devoted menace more fully. But in the meantime, we help folks like you. I was stationed at Mage Hall four years ago, waiting for my chance. But there’s been nothing in all that time. That is, until now.”
She blinked again, clearly struggling to sort through his words for truth, for any incentive to lie. He hoped she would believe him.
“Now can we get on the horse?”
“So you’re telling me you’re a priest of Nefrana who doesn’t hate mages. And in fact, you hate the Devoted instead.”
“ ‘Hate’ is a strong word. But yes.” He shrugged.
She rubbed a hand over her face and looked as if she wanted to say something more but then stopped and shook her head.
He pointed at the horse, and she finally nodded.
Once they were on the horse and on the road, all packed again to go, he remembered one more thing. “Oh, and well, I’m not a priest.” Definitely needed to be clear on that. There were no vows of celibacy for him.
“What are you then, exactly?”
“Oh, I’m just a blacksmith.” He grinned.
“With a really dangerous hobby?”
“You might say that. But it led me to you.”
“As I said, dangerous.”
He smiled. “Danger has been a bit… lacking in my life as of late.”
“Well, I happen to have an overabundance. I’m happy to share.”
“Nefrana blesses you, my good woman, for your generosity.”
She winced. Hmm, her definition of Nefrana did not include a benevolent, loving deity. He would have to work on that. Another example of the Devoted blight, driving a wedge between mages and the gods. “I don’t think she’ll bless me if I get you killed or captured by these Devoted.”
