The Price of Survival (Journey of an Arbais Mage Book 2)

by Meagan Hurst

  Zyrhis shrugged. “You are so very hard to read. And something happened while you were gone. I believe my suspicions have just been confirmed. You didn’t even truly try to harm me. And as Shalion is currently not here, someone else needs to … ah, fill his shoes on the occasion.” His smile was cool and surprisingly distant. “Did I break our friendship?”

  Glaring at him, Z sighed tiredly and shook her head. “No,” she finally told him. “But if you try anything like that again you will, and you will be dead.”

  “I wouldn’t expect anything less,” he agreed gravely. “But, Zimliya?” he called as she moved around him and began walking away. “I will not be the only one to try that.”

  Closing her eyes, she leaned against the wall and nodded slowly. “I know,” she replied softly. “That is the other reason you are still alive.” That, and he was not the first person to kiss her. Especially not within the last couple of months. She left him then, and managed to make it around the corner before she slammed her fist into the nearest wall. She expected branches to appear. Yet when all was still even minutes later, the only thing Z sensed was a swift and bitter understanding from the tree instead of the anger she had almost sought.

  Apologies.

  She managed a smile. “I believe I am the one who should be saying that,” she replied as her hand touched the amulet that was still pulsing as it rested over her heart.

  Pushed. Tired. Injured.

  She wished the tree spoke with sentences, but even with all the magic the Syallibions had invested into their home, it could only barely communicate. Nodding absently, she sighed. “Still,” she breathed. “I know better.”

  Perhaps. She felt a sudden surge of power and emotion from the castle’s walls. Help. Injured. Danger.

  What the hell? Z turned and drew a weapon at the sound of footsteps coming rapidly, without a careless grace. Immortals of some kind then. Three Syallibions dressed in the uniform of the outside guards rounded a corner at the far end and practically sprinted to her. She’d never seen any of the Syallibions so uneasy, and she was surprised they addressed her directly. Zyrhis had obviously kept his word when it came to strengthening the relation between his people and hers.

  “Zimliya, there is a wounded—She asked for you,” one of them told her urgently.

  Well, that narrows it down, she thought darkly before signaling she would follow. Relief touched all three faces as they turned and ran back the way they had come. Z followed, and was grateful for long years of training, fighting, and moving alongside the immortals. Syallibions were far faster than they appeared—they checked their speed as a courtesy to her—and they led her through the back ways. These were passages she wasn’t supposed to be taken or even know about, but she had sadly traveled them in haste before.

  Even at a full out sprint, it took the better part of thirty minutes to reach the outside world. From there, Z found herself handed off to two scouts who then led her on another sprint that went deep into the forest. It wasn’t a trap—she could sense it—but if it had been it would have been very well set up. Relief over the lack of a seizure was both brief and strong. Twenty minutes following the first sprint, Z finally saw what she was being led to, or more accurately who she was being led to. Sprinting past the scouts as they slowed to let her pass, she paused just outside the circle the rest of the small group had made around the bloodied figure on the ground, checked her emotions, and then strolled forward.

  “Balsish,” she greeted the young immortal softly. She was the heiress-to-the-heiress of the Dralations, though she was centuries younger than Dyiavea. “I have seen you looking better.”

  The Dralation managed a weak smile, but her eyes were frightened and her face was bruised, bloody, and thin. “You have as well,” she told Z with forced calm.

  “Humans have always looked better,” Z replied with a thin smile. It faded quickly as she knelt beside the very young immortal—Balsish wasn’t even twenty yet. She would be considered a child by her own race for another century and a half. “What happened?”

  “He has my father,” Balsish said slowly as she looked at the scouts. Z waved them away with a silent signal and once they had vanished into the forest background once more the Dralation relaxed further. Z, on the other hand, tensed.

  “Who does?” she asked in a low tone as her heart sank at the thought of the only person who probably could have done this. The Dralations would have just killed the Thinyen if they had wanted a new ruler.

  “Midestol.”

  Z cringed, hating she had been right. “How long?”

  “We’ve been his captives for weeks. He let me go when he heard you had returned a second time, but he still has my father and my sister.”

  Z had a lot of questions, but there was only one that mattered. “Are they alive still?”

  The young immortal nodded tiredly and closed her eyes. “But Dyiavea is badly wounded. Midestol knows she is the heiress, and he knows she’s on your side.”

  “I do not have a side!” Z corrected irritably and sternly. Seeing anguish in the immortal small being’s eyes—despite their closeness in ages, Balsish’s maturity wouldn’t come for years—Z clamped down on her anger. “Forget it,” she muttered darkly. “Why did Midestol release you?”

  “To find you.”

  “Yes,” Z sighed, “I guessed that much. Why does he want you to find me?”

  Balsish hesitated and Z considered shaking her. “He said you wouldn’t like it.

  “I generally don’t. That’s not the point. What did he ask you to ask me?”

  Another hesitation and Z almost lost her control. Licking her lips in a show of human-like nerves, Balsish finally spoke. “He wants you to trade your life for Dyiavea’s and my father’s.”

  And there it was—what a surprise. Growling softly with annoyance, Z glanced at Balsish and shook her head tiredly. “Tell me where to find him then,” she advised as she hid a scowl. She could only hope she didn’t have a seizure while discussing whatever it was that Midestol wanted to discuss, he wouldn’t spare her life again.

  Chapter 9

  He was waiting for her on a hilltop about fifteen miles south of the lands the Syallibions claimed. They were considered no-man’s land by most, but they were actually held, farmed, and lived on by Rangers—they just weren’t in plain view. The fact no one had bothered to inform her about Midestol’s presence told her much. This part of the Ranger community still didn’t want to get involved with outside races just yet, and she couldn’t blame them.

  For all the forward steps the kingdoms had taken to repair the damage they had done to their relationship with the Rangers, very few of them had come out directly to apologize. As a result, several of her people were ignoring most of them in return. Z had managed to gather a fairly good-sized group willing to put the grudge aside, but she often wondered if she could ever fully repair the damage between the Rangers and the races who had abandoned them to Tenia’s hunt. As she approached Midestol, she wished angrily some of the Rangers who had forgiven the rest of the world had been stationed in these lands. She would have been able to counter Midestol’s moves so much sooner.

  “Zimliya,” the dark mage greeted with a cool and smug smile. His orange eyes flashed with delight, and he immediately let his eyes scan her. His smile faded slightly in response—she assumed—to her slightly changed presence, but while his eyes narrowed, he did not so much as threaten her. “I am pleased to see the rumors of your demise are false.”

  “No, you’re not,” she replied tightly. “It would have saved you a battle, a great deal of men, and a lot of time if I had expired.”

  His smile returned. “That it would have,” he agreed. “But it would not have allowed me the satisfaction of personally killing you, and I would not have been able to ask you what I need to.”

  So, he really did want something from her again. Curious. She could count on one hand the number of times he had truly wanted something from her. Some of their other exchanges had
occurred when he had wanted to make a deal in which both of them would benefit in some way. This time, though—she could already tell—he was willing to risk a lot to gain his information. He’d kidnapped the ruler and the heir of a kingdom she cared for just to catch her attention. They were the bait, but they were not the offer. Nor did they have anything to do with what the mage wanted.

  “I’m surprised, you do want my assistance once more,” she breathed. “Show me proof of life—or better yet release them—and I will be happy to answer your questions.”

  That smile turned dangerous. “And why would I let them go?” Midestol inquired softly as he approached her. Z raised her chin in silent defiance, but she held her ground. “I have you within my grasp, and I could make you talk.”

  She offered him a cool, mocking smile. “Like you have in the past?”

  His strike was with enough force that her head snapped hard to the left and her vision greyed briefly before returning. Tasting blood in her mouth, Z scowled at him but said nothing more. Raising her chin again, she met his eyes icily and held them, silently challenging him to try his luck with her. Mocking his so-called control of the situation. She would let the Thinyen and Dyiavea die before she allowed him to have the upper hand. The kingdom would be weakened briefly—a civil war would ensue for a few years—but it would not fall, and when the time came Z suspected they would still rise to arms at her call—if Balsish rose to power or still theoretically held it. Midestol had nothing to hold against her, and he knew it. She just waited for him to give in.

  It took a while, but eventually Midestol inclined his head when he accepted that she could play the game possibly longer than he could. “As you say,” he answered tightly. His anger was apparent in even his stance, and Z fully expected him to lash out again. “Follow me for proof of life.” Without waiting for her to reply he spun abruptly and headed off down the hillside. With little in the way of choices Z followed him with annoyance.

  He led her in silence for about a mile. Z relished the quiet, but she felt the slightest twinges of a possible seizure and hid her unease. Having one right now would be catastrophic, and she couldn’t afford the results it would wreak on everyone else. Apparently Nivaradros’s blood would only be able to help her so much, and obviously it hadn’t entirely stopped time for her. She had managed to privately hope for a few months; she now doubted she had a few weeks.

  Pushing the thought away to focus on what she could do now—and more importantly what Midestol wanted—she continued to follow him through terrain she had a feeling he had made difficult on purpose. While she was more than up for it in general, she could feel it setting off her condition, and she finally forced herself to stop.

  “How much farther are you going to insist that I follow you to some unknown destination that is probably heavily manned by your forces and undoubtedly has hundreds of captives for their amusement?”

  Midestol paused several feet ahead of her and turned slowly. “A couple of miles—” he began slowly, but his orange eyes narrowed. A smile appeared as his eyes suddenly widened. “Oh, what a surprise and a gift,” he breathed happily. “You are very, very injured. Hiding it quite well, but you wouldn’t have paused if you weren’t.” He approached, and circled her like she was something to be bought or sold. “Perhaps the rumors were not entirely untrue then. Has the price for waking the Shades truly come to call you away?”

  She met his eyes in a silent challenge. “Want to find out?” she demanded coldly. It was a bluff, and if he called her on it Z knew her seizure would strike, but if he didn’t and he waited long enough, she would be fine. She could only hope the second option was the way this went.

  Midestol’s smile was cold, but amused. “No,” he said after a long pause. “Because if it has come—and it is waiting to strike its final blow—I don’t want to lose you before I get what I want.” He turned and began to walk again. “It’s only a couple more miles, Zimliya.”

  Exhaling silently with relief, Z continued to follow him, but a small amount of concern covered her curiosity; just what did Midestol seek? She ran possibilities through her mind, but none of them would require this much preparation, and certainly didn’t require her presence. She was tempted to give up on the Thinyen and Dyiavea and demand the mage tell her what the hell he wanted when she sensed movement to her left.

  Throwing herself to the ground, Z rolled to her feet and managed to strike her attacker in the small of his back with a dagger—though it was a poor hit—before he grabbed her. Breaking free of his grasp, she spun on her left leg and did a high kick at his right shoulder. It knocked him off balance, but before she could finish knocking him unconscious she felt a prickle of magic and threw her hands up in front of her face as he exploded. The blast sent her back a good five feet, and Z landed on her side before rolling to her back and closing her eyes.

  Not here, she thought desperately as the seizure she had avoided began to start lightly—small tremors only.

  “Sorry about that. I didn’t think he would be foolish enough to attack you when you were clearly with me,” Midestol said from above her as he approached. She kept her eyes closed and struggled to keep from getting any worse. “What is this …?” she heard him whisper as he presumably watched the small shakes that ran constantly through her body no matter how still she tried to hold.

  She heard him kneel beside her and hissed softly. “Stay back,” she warned.

  “Or you’ll what—transfer your condition to me?” Midestol wanted to know. She felt his hands touching her for a second, and then she couldn’t feel him at all as his touch sealed her fate. “Easy,” Midestol said in a surprisingly soothing tone as he took the position Nivaradros had been filling for so many days. Holding her down firmly, he let the episode run its course before slowly releasing her.

  She opened her eyes slowly—still waiting for his attack. His orange eyes weren’t watching her face. Knowing he had felt Nivaradros’s amulet pulsing against her heart, she grimaced. “Believe me when I say you don’t want to know.”

  A brow rose sharply, but he didn’t say a word. Instead he simply stood—brushing off his knees—and offered her a hand. When she hesitated, Midestol’s cold and cutting smile returned. “I cannot have you appear unduly weak, Zimliya. Let’s at least make it into camp without announcing anything. I can kill you very easily later, after all.”

  “Only if you trigger a seizure,” she told him softly as she accepted his hand at long last and let him pull her to her feet.

  “Well, I am certain I can figure out how to do that with little difficulty,” Midestol assured her with a threatening smile.

  Z shrugged. “Possibly.” Her curt reply got her the desired result; Midestol started walking again.

  By the time they made it to the camp, Z was sweating and shivering slightly from the damage the seizure had inflicted on her already weak system. Nivaradros’s gift was pulsing against her heart in a rhythm that was just slightly faster than hers, and she could feel it working hard to control the immortal blood that managed to neither mix with nor damage her blood. And it was helping. She could feel the worst of the seizure’s work already gone, and the rest of it would be erased soon, but it did little good as Midestol already knew she was prone to falling to the ground in convulsions.

  They were stopped no less than eight times from the time they reached the perimeter to the time they reached what was clearly Midestol’s tent—if something that large could be called a tent. It was possibly more proper to call it a pavilion. Midestol had curtly dismissed all aid as it had been offered, and he hadn’t let anyone leer at her for any length of time. His answers had also been abrupt and to the point. No, she wasn’t a prisoner. Yes, she was a guest. And no, they were not allowed to touch her. By the time he had pushed the flap to his tent aside, Midestol’s temper was noticeably short and he was supporting most of her weight.

  She expected him to drop her once the flap closed behind them. Drop her or strike her. It therefore came as a shoc
k when Midestol nodded stiffly to a poorly designed cot that had been shoved over in a corner of his very full temporary house as if it were an afterthought. Since Midestol was a human—immortal or not—he still required sleep, so she knew it meant he spent most of his nights elsewhere. She shoved the knowledge of where out of her mind.

  “Go,” he ordered coldly when she didn’t move. “Rest. I will not harm your immortal … whatever you want to term them … while you recover. I cannot have you appear too weak before them, or they may make this whole thing much more complicated and costly than it needs to be. I won’t touch you,” he added. “Nor will anyone else be permitted into this area while you sleep. You need it, Zimliya. I cannot have you suddenly dying on me just yet, perhaps tomorrow you can have that luxury.” He eyed her again and scowled in obvious dislike of her condition.

  She, in turn, watched him closely, searching for the trap she suspected. He met her eyes boldly and held them. Seeing no hint of deception in the depths of orange, she finally nodded stiffly and made her way to the cot. Or, she tried. Midestol ended up aiding her again as her balance was still lacking.

  “I may be hard to wake,” she warned him without thinking, but the minute her head touched the pillow, it ceased to matter.

  He awoke her through rough shaking. “Get up!” he hissed urgently. “Before your stupid immortals bring the camp down around our ears!”

  “I keep telling you not to capture immortals,” she told him dryly as she awoke instantly, and rolled out of the cot. He steadied her—surprising them both—and then grabbed her upper arm and dragged her from the tent.

  “You won’t come for mortals,” Midestol growled. “And we kept them contained without issue until my moronic guards decided it was time to do less than what was needed to keep them imprisoned!”

  Well, there was definitely a problem now. The Thinyen and Dyiavea stood back to back with glowing hands of lightning mixed with fire, and the ground was scattered with the remains of former structures and bodies. The Thinyen’s eyes were at his coldest rose color, and they snapped with energy from both magic and rage. The ground also trembled on occasion, and Z knew the immortal had been holding back this whole time, waiting for her arrival.