The Border

by A. H. Lee

  “Like someone torturing a puppy.”

  “—I’d strangle the bastard with my own hands if I had him here and damn the consequences.”

  “Don’t care if he’s a bleeding sorcerer. It’s what he’s done to poor Jack that makes me—”

  “Did you see his face?”

  Roland shut the door. He realized he was in danger of sitting down in the middle of the room and weeping. “No,” he told himself fiercely. “It’s here. I know it’s here.”

  It isn’t, murmured the nasty voice of reason. If he hid a note this well, he must not have cared whether you found it.

  Roland went over to the chalk circle where Sairis’s body had been lying when Roland last saw it. He stood in the circle for a moment, examining the room and the mirror. Finally, he lay down. He was a bigger man than Sairis, and his body did not fit. A voice in his head whispered that this might be a dangerous thing to do. Sairis had nearly killed him two days ago. Roland wasn’t sure what actions might renew the magical resonance, but he probably should find out before he placed himself in one of Sairis’s summoning circles.

  “Never let a necromancer touch you.” Roland nearly choked on a laugh. It’s a bit late for that.

  He stared at the ceiling, half expecting to find himself sitting up on the other side of the glass the way Sairis had done two days ago. Maybe the message was in the world of the mirror. He would sit up, a note would be lying on the bedside table, and it would explain everything.

  Nothing happened. Nothing good, nothing bad. Just nothing.

  Roland swallowed the lump in his throat. I need to go back to the palace. I need to pack my things and consult with Anton about troop deployment. I am shirking my duty while chasing after a man who does not wish to speak to me and who may have tried to kill me. Roland’s chest ached, but he mastered the feeling. I need to set aside this business with Sairis. If I could organize a retreat with Marcus’s blood still on my clothes, I can do this.

  Roland started to sit up...and something moved in the mirror. He froze, staring so hard it made his eyes water. You imagined it.

  No, I didn’t.

  He lay perfectly still for so long that his hip began to ache from the awkward angle. Then, slowly, a pearlescent shape crept out from under the dresser within the reflection. It was so faint that Roland was afraid he would lose track of it if he looked away. The mouse came cautiously to the edge of the mirror and seemed to stare mournfully at him.

  Roland’s stomach sank again. The little creature did not have a note clamped in its phantom jaws. It seemed utterly dejected. “Did he abandon you, too?”

  Roland moved carefully towards the mirror on hands and knees. The mouse backed away, poised to flee, but it seemed curious at the same time. Roland could not understand why he’d ever been afraid of the pitiful thing. “I am sorry,” he whispered.

  He touched the glass, and the mouse came forward to sniff his fingertips. Its ears perked forward. “I don’t have any blood for you,” said Roland. “I don’t have the right kind.”

  The mouse seemed to agree, because it sank back down, disappointed, but still watching him. Then it turned and whisked across the floor to disappear under the reflection of the bed. Roland couldn’t help turning to look for it under the real bed, but of course there was nothing to see. He was about to get to his feet when a glint from the shadows drew his attention.

  Roland squinted. He’d already looked under the beds. However, from this angle, he could just make out something lodged in the crevice between the wall and the floor at the head of the bed where Sairis had been sleeping. Like many buildings in the old section of town, the Tipsy Knave had been remodeled on numerous occasions. The floor was uneven and had probably been laid several times.

  Roland got up slowly. The object didn’t look like a piece of paper. It looked like... Wire? It certainly didn’t look like a note.

  He crossed the room and tried to move the bed, but he was still damnably weak. He had to get down on his stomach to pluck the object out of the crevice between the wall and the floor.

  Roland knew what it was as soon as his fingers touched it, even before he lifted the object into the lamplight.

  Sairis’s glasses.

  Roland stared at the round lenses, the delicate silver frame. They were folded. Roland remembered that Sairis often held them that way, clutched in one fist, while he slept. Such a strange way to treat glasses. Had he been holding them when he lay down in the circle? Roland couldn’t remember.

  If he’d dropped them when he sat up from the summoning circle...if he’d been frantic and weak and disoriented...he could easily have kicked them under the bed by accident. Roland imagined Sairis racing around the room, gathering his things, wrapping the sword, searching for his glasses, then giving up. Glasses could be replaced.

  No.

  The wrongness of it sat like a brick in Roland’s stomach. He slept with them like a soldier with his sword. He wouldn’t leave them.

  Then what? If the demon had gotten him, there’d be a mess here. His glasses wouldn’t be the only thing left behind. He certainly wouldn’t have gone into the kitchen and collected his shoes.

  This isn’t a note, whispered a plaintive voice in Roland’s head. He didn’t leave these for you. He didn’t leave anything for you.

  Roland turned the lenses over in his hand. They should be scratched the way Sairis treated them, but they weren’t. Roland supposed Sairis could repair them with magic. If he could heal himself from a sword thrust, he could surely fix his own glasses.

  Why would he leave them?

  Roland walked from the room, hardly seeing where he was going. November came up beside him and took his hand. “Jack,” she whispered. “You know we all love you, right?”

  Roland smiled at her.

  “Did you find what you needed?”

  Roland hesitated. “I’m not sure.”

  Chapter 3. A Word with Anton

  Roland hardly saw the narrow streets of Chireese as he rode his nag back towards the palace. It was less than three hours until seven o’clock. He had to fight the insane notion that if he just went back to the Tipsy Knave and waited on a stool in the corner, Sairis would appear. Roland thought about finding him there, impossibly alive, after Hastafel’s wolf demon had stabbed him.

  He was hurt and alone, but he didn’t miss our appointment...

  “Roland, I am so weak right now, you wouldn’t need a mage collar to take me to the border.”

  I asked if he had somewhere to sleep...

  “The wards I placed on the inn room where I was staying have been breached. I daren’t go back there.”

  Roland had completely forgotten about that. Someone was looking for him right after the strategy room burned. Could it have been Candice’s leopard demon? That was possible, but Roland could think of another possibility.

  As soon as he reached the palace, he went to the infirmary, hoping to find some of the university magicians. Many of them specialized in healing. It was safe, respectable magic. When Roland found one, he asked, “Do you know where Marsden is? I’d like a word with him.”

  The magician looked surprised. “Magus Marsden departed with Lord Winthrop’s caravan, Your Highness. They left yesterday soon after your...accident. As soon as it became obvious that you would recover.”

  Roland’s eyes narrowed. “How soon after?”

  The magician scratched his beard. “Two hours? Three? I believe it was in the morning, my lord.”

  Roland heard himself say, “Thank you,” and hurried from the room.

  I have to find Daphne. I have to... No. Roland stopped in the middle of a hallway. He took two deep breaths. Not Daphne. If she ordered him not to do what he was thinking, and he did it anyway, that would undermine her authority. It would put them both in a terrible position.

  Roland started towards the guest wing. The thirty minutes it took him to find Anton felt like an eternity. The prince was not in the palace, but among the supply wagons. When he saw
Roland, he smiled and said with a faintly lilting Lamontian accent, “Prince Roland, I am glad to see you on your feet. I like to take final inventory myself. Would you care to join me?”

  Roland looked at him. The fellow wasn’t wearing a wig for tramping about in the wagons, which Roland supposed meant that he was more practical than vain. He had thin, brown hair and eyes of the same color. They crinkled when he smiled. His neck was just a little too long for him to be called handsome, but he moved well. Roland suspected he could dance and probably use a sword.

  Roland changed what he’d intended to say, “Do you love my sister?”

  Anton blinked. His eyes flicked to either side, but the nearest drover was twenty feet away and distracted by crates. Anton smiled nervously. “I believe it is usually called ‘infatuation’ at this stage.”

  Roland laughed in spite of himself.

  “Daphne is an extraordinary person,” continued Anton. “She will be a good ruler.”

  “And a good wife?” prompted Roland.

  Anton considered. “I’m not sure about that. I’m sure she’ll be a good friend.”

  Damn it, Daphne. You do know how to pick them. He’d almost hoped to find something wrong with the man.

  “You’re older. She’s young and pretty.” Roland knew he was being blunt, but he just didn’t have time to mince words.

  “I know,” said Anton. “I am...fortunate. Perhaps she will choose someone else in the end, but...I hope not. Apart from my wishes, this union will be good for Mistala and Lamont. It might even be good for Falcosta in the end, though they’re unlikely to thank us.”

  Roland considered this. “Do you know much about Fredrick?” He was Norres’s eldest son.

  Anton shrugged. “I know he’ll have his hands full. Norres wasn’t much for sharing power, and his barons were of the same mind. The court is full of little intrigues. Norres expected to rule for many years to come, and I don’t think he told Fredrick half of what he’ll need to keep his house in order. It’s going to take him time to consolidate power...if he manages to do it at all and doesn’t get his throat cut.”

  Roland nodded. “At least they won’t attack our borders while we’re trying to stop Hastafel.”

  “That’s what I thought,” said Anton. “Candice might have done us a favor.”

  Candice will be the unsung hero of this war, thought Roland. He almost made the joke aloud, as he would have with Daphne. But we’re still getting to know each other. “Your first wife passed away in childbed?”

  Anton nodded. “Three years ago. We struggled to conceive, and the pregnancy seemed like a triumph.” His eyes slid away. “The baby almost survived. Ten days. I thought... Well, it was long enough to give me a fool’s hope.”

  Long enough to feel the shock twice, thought Roland. He remembered hearing that the Lamontian prince had lost his wife during that first year on the border, but the details had seemed unimportant then. “It was a son?”

  Anton smiled wanly. “Daughter.”

  Alright, Daphne, you win. “Anton, I need to know something: what time did Daphne go back to the tavern to look for Sairis? Was it right after Norres died or later?”

  “Later. She couldn’t get away until that afternoon.” He hesitated. “I don’t think it would have mattered, Roland. From what she said, he was long gone. Probably out the door moments after the event.”

  Roland forced himself to give a noncommittal nod, to stay calm, to keep his face neutral.

  Anton reached out hesitantly, and put a hand on his shoulder. “I am...sorry for how this has turned out for you. Daphne loves you a great deal. I hope we will be friends.” Roland supposed this was as close as Anton could reasonably come to saying, “I accept that you prefer men. Better luck next time.”

  “Anton, I have decided to ride with my Uncle Winthrop’s caravan. He has gone to rally the garrisons at Carmath. I think it would be best if I met him there. I plan to leave at once. I hope you will convey my dearest love to Daphne and sincere wishes that we meet again soon.”

  Anton peered at him. Roland let him come to the most logical conclusion on his own. “You don’t think it would be wise for you both to travel together. For Mistala’s sake.”

  Roland didn’t like to lie, so he just waited.

  Anton shrugged. “Her decision to ride with my troops is risky. If we survive, it will win her glory and respect. But if we die... I see why you don’t believe you should ride together. However...do you really think I should be the one to tell her this?”

  Roland waited.

  Anton opened his mouth, shut it, shook his head. “You know your sister better than I do. And you know the border. Do what you think is best, Roland. Daphne and I will do the same.” His eyes crinkled. “I hope we may someday play cards with interesting people in your...um...local establishment again.”

  Chapter 4. Collar

  When Sairis woke the first time, he thought he was back in the basement. Somehow, his life in the daylight had all been a dream or a lie, and he was back in the basement of his childhood. The hateful touch of iron lay cold against his throat. His own magic seemed to pull away from it, retreating from every surface of his body. His fingertips felt numb—not in a way that any mundane person could have understood, but numb to magic.

  The sense of helplessness was terrifyingly familiar. What has happened to me?

  “He’s waking up. Give him something to drink.”

  Water splashed against Sairis’s lips. He swallowed convulsively.

  “Should we tie him? Maybe put a bag over his head?”

  “I don’t think so. He’s not dangerous with the collar. At least let him wake up first.”

  Sairis knew he was in a bad place, but he couldn’t concentrate. He slipped beneath the surface.

  The second time he woke, Sairis’s mind was clearer. He registered the jolt and creak of a wagon. He remembered Roland, Daphne, Candice, the demon. He’d followed the mouse back through the mirror maze, and then...

  A maddening blank.

  Sairis struggled unsuccessfully to recall how he’d been captured and by whom. He forced himself to remain unmoving, not opening his eyes. Glasses. Where are my glasses?

  He must have twitched, panic overcoming reason, because a voice said, “So, you are awake. I thought so. Sit up and eat something. You’re no good to us dead.”

  Sairis opened his eyes. A person he did not recognize sat beside his cot in the filtered light of a moving wagon. Sairis thought this person was probably a magician. He tried to check for an aura, and...nothing. It was like intending to take a step, only to discover that one’s legs were missing.

  The other man gave him an unpleasant smile. “Trying to kill me, already?”

  “Who are you?” croaked Sairis.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know. Eat.”

  Sairis looked at the offered bread and cheese. His body needed nourishment, but the food could be laced with magic. He took only the cup of water. He wouldn’t live long without that, and water was harder to charm or poison without leaving obvious clues.

  His jailer rolled his eyes. “Suit yourself.”

  Sairis realized suddenly why he felt so tired. Marsden’s binding spell... Someone reached my body and put a mage collar on me before I woke up. I’m not healing at my normal speed.

  Panic washed over him anew. Marsden. He must have seen me when he came to talk to Daphne at the tavern. He must have reached my body before I did. But then...why aren’t I at the university?

  Another question: Do they have my glasses?

  Maybe. Maybe not. In either case, I don’t have them, which is all that matters.

  As though this wasn’t enough, Sairis’s treacherous mind threw up the image of Roland’s face—surprised as the demon opened the door. Thinking...what? That I planned to sacrifice him on a boundary stone?

  And then Sairis had used Roland’s trust to turn him into a hostage, hitting him with a spell that would not normally have been able to fasten upon a mundane person
. The experience must have been terrible. Marsden had been trying to hold a necromancer. He had not been gentle.

  Surely Roland survived.

  He might not have, whispered a voice in Sairis’s head.

  Marsden would have stopped in time.

  You’re trusting Roland’s life to Marsden’s judgment?

  I survived, so Roland did!

  You’re a magician! Roland isn’t!

  Sairis’s magic curled inside him, compressed into something hard and frozen at his core. Sairis felt as though his heart had curled up with it—heavy and cold and beating weakly. I have done something unforgivable.

  So I am alone. And they’re probably going to kill me.

  Sairis did what he’d taught himself to do as a child. He sank. Down, down, into the core of magic that he still held. He couldn’t push it outward, couldn’t effect the mortal plane. But he could turn inward. He was a necromancer. And even without a summoning circle, he could find the Styx.

  Follow the ghosts. There were always ghosts—insects beneath the wheels of the wagon, small animals in the nearby woods, livestock on a passing farm. Sairis couldn’t see their stories or even the details of what they’d been, but as his spirit sank through the mortal plane, he could follow them to the River.

  The woods came into focus abruptly—dark and twisted trees in the twilight of the Shadow Lands between Faerie and the gates of Death. The River wound among thick roots, its banks narrow in some places, broad in others. Sairis felt calmer. His spirit took on the form to which it was accustomed—that of his own body in simple work clothes.

  He sat down on a root as big around as his waist and dangled his feet in the whispering, sand-dry water of the Styx. He watched the occasional ghost wander out of the forest and dissolve into silver streaks in the water—vague shapes like fish. A few tried to talk to him, but Sairis shook his head. Not now. Now he just wanted to be here. Maybe forever. Maybe until he felt the tether to his body break. Then he would fall into the current, another silver streak.

  Sairis knew that most necromancers lingered. They were so practiced at resisting the call of the River that they sometimes wandered into the woods, drifting further and further from their human origins, joining the nameless creatures that haunted this place, searching for a way back into life. But Sairis was young. He had not forgotten how to die, and he couldn’t think of a single reason to pine after life. Sairis wanted to see what lay beyond the gates. No living creature could pass that portal, not even a necromancer, and no ghost ever returned.