Chapter 21
Olivia remained calm as the Crag Company mercenary’s steps faded down the dungeon corridor, along with the sole torch and its scant light. As darkness closed in, climbing the stone walls of her prison, she licked her bloodied lip.
At first, the darkness had been terrifying. Oppressive. She’d screamed, railed against it, pushed against it, and it... It had pushed back. Harder than she. Stronger than she. The yawning chasm of nothing, of emptiness, of oblivion. She’d wept, hot tears trailing down her face. Hot tears that reminded her she was alive.
Then, slowly, reality and the world around her had filtered in. Water dripping. Rats scurrying. Insects skittering. The ravings and screams of a distant prisoner. The faraway rush of a waterway. Even the odors—musty, dank, disgusting, putrid—were dust, mold, filth, death. All real, all present. Darkness was there, but darkness was not all there was.
Her trip to the Hall of Mirrors today had been long, and it had left her beaten, cut, and bruised. But unbroken. It had been the longest and most painful of her visits. She knew what that meant.
James is short of information for extraction... or unwilling to part with it. She swallowed. If the Crag torturers could elicit no more from him, he was not long for this world. Nor I.
She had to escape—to save herself and to find help for James and anyone else left here.
At best, she’d succeed. Escape the palace with her life and bring back a force strong enough to liberate James and destroy the Crag.
At worst, she’d be caught and Gilles would lock her in an arcanir cell, inadvertently cloaking her from any spirit-magic spells. Sparing Rielle from walking into a trap, if she hadn’t asked a spiritualist to scry for her already.
All or nothing.
Tonight. She would implement her escape plan tonight. No one would return until supper, when they delivered her nightly crust of bread and water. Until then, she had a precious few hours to slip her shackles, burst from her iron cell, and escape Trèstellan Palace.
I have to try. At least they’d shackled her hands in front. Flexing her fingers, she grabbed her left thumb. A deep breath, and as she exhaled, she bent the joint inward and kept on pushing until it popped.
She gritted her teeth. Pain shot through her jaw, as excruciating as her hand. Tears burst from her eyes.
She shuddered, panting through the agony. Quickly, she pulled the arcanir cuff binding her hand—
And off.
One more, and she could use her magic. The second one would be worse than the first. This time, she’d know exactly how much it would hurt.
Now or never. She wrapped her left palm around her right thumb and, with another deep breath and exhalation, snapped it inward.
Her mouth opened wide in a silent scream, but she dared not make a sound. She pulled the arcanir cuff down her hand, gasping, tears pouring down her face—
It wouldn’t come off.
The damned thing wouldn’t come off!
No. She pulled harder.
No, no, no. It wouldn’t move! She hadn’t dislocated her thumbs for nothing. The Divine couldn’t be so cruel.
Trembling, she raised her hand to her mouth and dragged her tongue across her salty skin.
Another yank at the cuff.
It went a little farther, but not enough to slip off. Sharp pain lanced through her wrist.
No use. It was no use. On shaking legs, she paced the blackness of the cell and then leaned against the bars.
The bars.
She rested the edge of the cuff against a bar and held it in place with her quivering left hand. It refused to cooperate.
Refusal was not on offer today. She forced it steady.
With all her might, she pulled the cuff against the bar—so hard her arm hurt as though it would pop from its socket.
Come on, come on, come on—
Her hand slipped free. She fell against the slimy stone floor of the cell and listened in horror as the arcanir shackles clattered on the other side of the bars.
No time to waste. She looked inward, found her shining white anima, willed it to her aid. It surged against her inner gates, rising, reaching for use. Unable to focus her healing magic with gestures, she wove it into her words, infusing a simple incantation with her will as she held her hands together. “Sundered flesh and shattered bone, / By Your Divine Might, let it be sewn.”
Her thumbs moved into place and became once more as they had once been, and so did all else, every cut and bruise, with little dimming of her anima. A relieved gasp fled her parched lips.
She jumped to her feet and darted to the bars, then pressed herself to them as widely as she dared. To remove them, she’d need transmutation magic. Non-innate.
Another weaving, a thicker strand of pure anima made will. “Earth to iron, iron to rust: / What is metal, turn to dust.”
The bars gave way to fine particles of rust falling like sand. She staggered forward but caught herself. Such a small charm, but non-innate transmutation magic had dimmed her anima much more than her healing spell.
She shuffled through the fine-grain piles. In the dark, outside her cell of her own volition, she had made more progress than she had in weeks.
A right turn, twenty-eight steps, a left turn, two flights of stairs, a right turn... Daily trips to the Hall of Mirrors had set an indelible route in her mind.
From her cell, she turned right and followed the path, creeping along quietly with as much haste as she could manage.
A stairwell came into view right where it should, torchlight curling around a corner, flickering on the stone floor. Shadows.
Guards. She could pass by them easily, but before they called for help? She clenched her teeth. Too big a risk.
Swift deaths. No mercy.
With an emptiness in the pit of her stomach, she slunk toward the stairwell, each step slow and measured, and ascended along the wall toward the landing. When she heard breaths—two distinct sets—she gathered her courage, prepared her hands to cast, and wheeled around the corner.
Two of them.
She curled the glowing white fingers of both her hands downward.
The guards slumped against the wall, deep in slumber.
Counting her blessings that it had been only two, she continued, cautiously passing over the bodies to enter another stairwell.
At the top, she’d be on the palace’s ground floor. She focused her anima on a winding gesture with her left hand. A protection spell. It would heal her next injury instantly, and she could sustain it for as long as she didn’t cast another spell with her left hand—if she still had the anima.
Or just until I can get out of here.
Voices carried from the hall above, many more than two.
She pressed her back to the stairwell’s wall, biting her lip to keep from making a sound. The conversation loudened, and her heart beat wildly. She could only put two targets to slumber immediately; a spell of calm could extend as far as twenty paces from her position, but there was no telling how far away the last of the voices were.
No choice. She would have to kill them all or turn tail back to the cell. Long ago, Rielle had taught her a deadly pyromancy spell, but it knew no bounds. It would consume everyone and everything without mercy.
Were they all Crag? What if some of them were innocent?
She focused on their discussion as long as she dared—for any sign there might be innocents among them.
They discussed shifts. She exhaled. Definitely Crag.
Knotting anima to lethal intention, she mouthed the incantation of the consume spell. “Fire blazing, fire bright, / Spark to life, burn those in sight.”
She turned the corner. Her spelled gaze alighted on a dozen Crag Company mercenaries.
They ignited like kindling. Fast and violent. Flames consumed their bodies, their screams, their lives, and climbed to the ceiling.
Charred flesh and burnt grease assailed her nostrils. She pressed a grimy sleeve to her nose, looking past the fla
mes to discern the hall. The tapestries caught fire and dropped from the walls in disintegrating heaps.
The Hall of Mirrors is not far. And just beyond would be the kitchens, where she could exit to the garden.
Forgive me, James. Not knowing where he was, she couldn’t save him now, but she could escape. She could bring back help.
Smoke filled the hall, billowing in blackening clouds. Her nose covered, she sidled by, coughing.
“You’re surprising.” A woman’s voice, honey-sweet, came from everywhere at once.
Her stomach hardening, Olivia stiffened, gaze darting around the burning hall. No one was about—the consume spell would burn any who were.
Earthsight. Costly, but she could cast an earthsight incan—
“Not very clever, though.” A giggle.
Too late. If she spoke the incantation, she’d only make a target of herself. Dismiss the consume spell. And likely die before she could finish.
“Show yourself,” Olivia hissed. So that you can burn.
“You can’t tell where I am?” the voice teased. “Perhaps here,” it whispered, close enough that Olivia swatted at her own neck. “Or here?”
The other side, a brush of hair against her cheek. Olivia’s legs weakened.
An illusionist. So frustrating in combat until they revealed themselves. There was no casting anything on this adversary until she could be seen—and focused upon.
There had to be some way to force her to reveal herself.
Olivia continued sidling toward the kitchens around a massive cloud of smoke.
The smoke.
She kicked the burning tapestry behind her until it puffed gray. The illusionist would have to walk through the smoke to follow her. And then I’ll see you.
“What do you want?” Olivia whispered, trying to keep the illusionist talking, hoping to discern her location.
Voices called from the distance.
“What I want is irrelevant, Archmage Sabeyon.” The voice came from all sides, a harmony—a spell.
Olivia studied the clouds of smoke, looking for a figure to break through somewhere as she continued creeping toward the kitchens, gulping down breaths to stay quiet.
Something came, something small—an arrow—
Gasping, she threw herself aside.
Not fast enough. It clipped her arm.
She grasped it, adrenaline spiking, gesturing a healing spell—
No.
Tingling, stinging. She could cast no magic.
Arcanir. It had to be. She rubbed the blood flowing from her upper arm, coating her fingers. The arrow. It must’ve been—
Arcanir poison.
Heart racing nearly to bursting, she turned toward the kitchens and ran.
Arms snaked around her, dragging her back, and she lost her footing.
Together with her captor, she tumbled to the ground, reaching in panic for anything she could grab—hair, flesh, eyes—
An arm closed around her neck. She thrashed, blindly grasping as black dots populated her vision. Dry curls slipped through her fingers, and she clutched them, pulled, but the blackness closed in, dark and unforgiving like a prison.
Chapter 22
Jon urged his horse through the crowd. After this blasphemy with his armor, the option of returning to the Order would likely disappear. But he wouldn’t endanger an innocent life for the sake of his honor. Especially not hers. Never hers.
The city bustled. Here, uptown, there were all manner of fine things, from Kamerish silk to exotic pomanders to shimmering jewels and spices from Sonbahar. Leigh ignored them with all the nonchalance of a wealthy man, although he paused to resupply and didn’t bother to haggle. He even paid to have his purchases delivered to the inn.
The vendors Jon had done business with as a paladin had traded for cuivres, not argents or coronas, and sold simple things like pork, potatoes, rye bread, rough-spun clothes, plain soap, and other necessities. This was another world.
They passed Vindemia baskets of apples and straw, which decorated the city despite the mourning colors displayed everywhere. Farther away, logs were being set in a large fire pit beside a barn while men carried in halved tree trunks to arrange as benches.
Tonight would mark the last night of Vindemia, the three-day celebration of balance and blessing around the autumn equinox.
Although most mages and nobles worshipped the Divine, the bulk of Emaurria’s population—the commoners—still worshipped the Goddess. The villagers would offer thanks to Terra for a good harvest and make offerings to assuage her grief over the death of her consort.
A bonfire would be lit to consume offerings to Terra, cider would be drunk to protect the orchards’ fertility, dances would be offered in gratitude, and wishes would be made. The streets would normally be lively with celebration, but given the grim events in Courdeval, the atmosphere would either be somber with mourning or riotous with escapism.
A blacksmith’s shingle—Forgeron’s—came into view. The Forgerons were well known as descendants of a regional Archon, a leader of witches from the Dark Age of Magic, long before the Divinity of Magic was founded. These days, they were rumored to have ties to heretics, but Joel Forgeron, its current patriarch, was a respected community leader.
Inside, the smithy was small but sunny and clean, although no one was present to greet them. Jon set down his bundled armor on a counter. A short woman entered with a tired frown.
“What can I do for you?” She wiped sweat off her brow with a dirty hand and then glanced at Leigh. “Galvan?”
“Helene,” Leigh acknowledged with a mirthful smile.
“I’d ask what you’re doing in Bournand, but I’d rather not know.” She cast him a suspicious glare. “My father warned me about your uncanny ability to find mischief anywhere.”
If her father was Joel Forgeron, just how familiar was Leigh with him, and why? Archon families were no friends of the Divinity, and the Forgerons were one of the most well-respected Archon families Emaurria had ever known.
“That sounds like something he’d say about me,” Leigh replied with a shrug. “This armor”—he inclined his head toward the bundle on the table—“we’d like it modified.”
Jon flinched. Since taking his vows at eighteen, he had owned few significant things beyond the great honor and privilege of being a paladin: Faithkeeper, his arcanir dagger, a few necessities, his Sodalis ring, and this armor. And with this act, he would lose one of those few things and, possibly, another—his life as he’d known it.
If you continue to look like a paladin, you endanger yourself. If you don’t wear your armor until Monas Amar, you’ll still be in danger, but Rielle will protect you. Either way, you endanger her, too. Leigh’s words echoed in his mind, seeping dread like an infected wound.
The blacksmith moved toward the bundle but didn’t open it. Her narrowed eyes wandered from Leigh to Jon, dropping to his hands—the ring—and back. “It’s paladin’s armor.”
“You’ll keep that to yourself, won’t you?” Leigh placed a corona on the counter.
Helene inspected all the pieces in the bundle. “What modifications did you have in mind?”
“Downplay the arcanir, but don’t draw attention?” Leigh offered.
Helene looked to Jon for confirmation.
The moment to change his mind was slipping away. But he’d already decided. “I trust your best judgment in the matter.”
“Very well. In the interest of getting Galvan out of the city as soon as possible, I can have it ready the day after tomorrow.” Gathering up the bundle, she glanced at Leigh and added, “Try not to break too many hearts in the meantime.”
Leigh smiled facetiously. “No promises.” With that, he led them out of the shop.
“Is there anyone you don’t know?” Jon asked as they mounted their horses.
“You,” Leigh replied. “But since you’ve taken to fooling around with my former apprentice, let’s change that.” He flashed a curious look as he urged his hors
e forward.
Fooling around? Frowning, Jon followed. The mage had proved himself rude, malicious, immoral, and glib, but Rielle seemed to trust him implicitly. If she trusted the man, there had to be some redeeming quality to him.
As he traversed the small city with the mage, Jon’s shoulders slumped. Naked. He felt naked. There was no familiar weight of arcanir, no normal bulk. No arming jacket or cool metal. No shining surface catching the sunlight.
Just a weightlessness on his shoulders. How could weightlessness feel so heavy a burden? He exhaled lengthily, drawing his eyebrows.
He’d allowed himself an unforgivable blasphemy.
No, he’d dared. For the sake of a cheeky witch, he would have to beg the Paladin Grand Cordon’s mercy and, even then, might face rejection.
How much more would he sacrifice for her sake?
When they passed a baker’s cart, he recalled the last time he’d been to Bournand. He’d risked then, too. A couple years ago, he’d helped a young widow reap her wheat fields during harvest. Her husband, a mage, had overdosed on the resonance-enhancing drug sen’a, leaving behind a debt to a local sen’a baron, Feliciano Donati. Because of the debt, when her husband had died, no one in the city would help her with the crops for fear of retribution, even though she had three young children.
When the sen’a baron responsible sent ruffians to collect on the debt, Jon had dispatched them and headed to Donati’s resonance den to negotiate. As soon as he entered, Donati had his dozen mage minions restrain him, broke a bottle, and etched a cut into his eyebrow—what came of looking into private matters. And it had been a mere lesson, enough to mark him without inviting the Order’s justice.
Outnumbered, blood seeping into his eye, he’d had no choice but to leave, and Bournand’s paladin commander had refused to pursue the matter further, citing inadequate grounds.
Jon clenched the reins. Although King Marcus had threatened a ban on sen’a and trux nearly a decade ago, a dominant political faction of nobles, the Emaurrian Knot, had expressed their dissent. Against their massive influence, the king had backed down.
Sen’a and trux merchants, since they conducted lawful business, were immune to the justice of paladins, regardless of how many lives they ruined. The Code had always prevented him from stepping in, no matter how frustrating it was to turn a blind eye.
Blade & Rose (Blade and Rose Book 1) Page 19
