Flamecaster

by Cinda Williams Chima

  His father pushed bits of ham around his bowl with his spoon. “Montaigne is under considerable pressure from his thanes to finish this thing. They’ve been spending men and treasure for a quarter century with little to no results. Perhaps the king of Arden has hit on a new tactic—targeting the royal line, the queen’s family. This is a grudge match, remember. Your mother rejected him in a very public way.”

  Adrian knew that story. The queen had refused to sign over her queendom in exchange for the king of Arden’s hand in marriage. “But that was twenty-five years ago,” he protested, not wanting it to be true. “He got married eventually, didn’t he, to somebody else?”

  “Don’t expect it to make sense, Ash. Montaigne is a proud, nasty brute who’s used to getting his own way. My biggest regret is that I didn’t shiv the bastard when I had the chance.”

  Looking into his father’s face, Adrian saw a rare glimpse of the ruthless streetlord he’d once been. Until his father ran a hand over his face, as if to wipe that person away.

  Adrian’s skin prickled. It was like he felt the hand of the Maker touch the delicate thread that connected life and death. “So what can we do?”

  “If we can identify who betrayed Hana, that would be a start,” his father said. “One of our eyes and ears has an informant who claims to know something. I’m supposed to meet with them in Southbridge in a little while.”

  The temple church in the market sounded the quarter hour, reminding them both that time was passing. “Now,” his father said, placing his hands flat on the table. “What was it you wanted to talk to me about?”

  Adrian took a gulp of cider for courage. “You know I’ve been working as a healer with the clans the past two summers. And I’ve been helping with the Highlander cavalry string when I can.”

  “So I’ve heard. If Willo had her way, she’d like you to apprentice with her year-round. She’s not as young as she used to be, and there’s never enough healers available during the marching season. General Dunedain wouldn’t hold still for it, though. She’d like to put you in charge of the military stables full-time. Everywhere I go, all I hear about is how you can work magic with horses. It’s too bad there’s only one of you.”

  Right, Adrian thought. It’s too bad. So he hurried on. “I’ve also spent time in the healing halls in the city.”

  “Ah,” his father said, his face hardening. “Lord Vega’s domain. I keep hoping he’ll retire.” Harriman Vega was the wizard who oversaw the healing halls in the capital, the ones wizards and most Valefolk patronized.

  “That’s the problem,” Adrian said. “Willo can’t help me with high magic, and Lord Vega has no interest in clan treatments and green magic. He still thinks it’s witchery for the gullible masses. And until I graduate from Mystwerk, he won’t let me do more than make beds and do the washing up.” Mystwerk was the school for wizards at Oden’s Ford.

  “And you can’t go to Mystwerk until after your sixteenth name day.”

  “Right.” Adrian took a deep breath and plunged on. “I can’t get into Mystwerk at thirteen, but Spiritas accepts novices at eleven, just like Wien House.”

  “Spiritas?”

  “That’s the healers’ academy at Oden’s Ford. You wouldn’t remember it—it’s just three years old. They’re combining green magic, music and art therapies, clan remedies, and, eventually, wizardry.”

  “Eventually?” His father raised an eyebrow.

  “That’s the goal, but from what I hear, the deans at Mystwerk haven’t been eager to join in so far.”

  His father snorted. “Why am I not surprised?”

  “My thought was, I could go to Spiritas now, then move over to Mystwerk when I’m eligible. That way I won’t waste time watching people die who might have lived if I only had the skills.” Despite his best efforts, his voice shook.

  “That’s the thing about guilt,” his father said. “It always seems like there’s enough to go around. The only ones who don’t take a share are the ones who are actually guilty.” He paused, lines of pain etched deeply into his face. “I lost my mother and sister when I wasn’t much older than you. I did my best, but my best wasn’t good enough.” He ran his fingers over his serpent amulet. “I never angled to be High Wizard. All I’ve ever wanted is to protect the people I care about. And now I’ve lost Hana, too.”

  “It’s not your fault, what happened to Hana,” Adrian said. It was odd to be in the position of consoling his father. “Hana was a good fighter, and Mama is, too, and Lyss—I guess Lyss will be, when she gets older.” His younger sister, Alyssa, was only eleven.

  “It’s not your fault, either,” his father said, reaching across the table and gripping Adrian’s hand. “We don’t protect them because they’re weak. We protect them because they are strong, and strong people make enemies. We just need to do our best—whatever it takes—to protect your mother and sister—the Gray Wolf line. And pray that it’s enough.”

  “My best can be better,” Adrian said, looking his father in the eyes.

  His father got the point. He tilted his head. “How do you know they would take you on at Spiritas?”

  “The dean of Spiritas is a Voyageur healer named Taliesin Beaugarde.” The Voyageurs were a nomadic tribe of sheepherders from the Heartfang Mountains who traveled the flatlands in colorful caravans. Flatlanders claimed they were witches. Like that was a bad thing.

  “Taliesin spent some time at Marisa Pines while I was there, and we got along. I’ve been in touch with her, and she’s hot to make this happen. I would be the first wizard to attend. They’re hoping that if the deans at Mystwerk see what’s possible, then maybe they’ll come around.”

  His father laughed. “You’re too much like your mother—always two steps ahead of me.” After a beat, he went on, “Speaking of the queen, what does she say?”

  Adrian cleared his throat. “I haven’t talked to her about it.”

  “Ah,” his father said, rubbing his chin. “Trying to slide in the back gate, are you? You know she won’t be eager to let you out of her sight after what happened to Hana.”

  “I was hoping you might help me persuade her.”

  His father fiddled with the flowers, knocking a few petals loose. “As you know, she’s not happy with me right now. I might not be your best advocate. Maybe if we waited a bit . . .”

  “Taliesin’s here now. She came to visit family for Solstice. If I can get permission, I can go back with her.”

  “So you’re in a hurry for an answer.” His father looked down at his hands and picked at a scab on his knuckles. “It sounds like a sensible plan,” he said finally. “A good use of your talents, and close to your heart. I think you should go. I’ll do whatever I can to make it happen. See if you can arrange time with your mother tonight, and I’ll be there, ready to deploy my meager weapons in your defense.”

  “Thank you,” Adrian said simply. He knew his da would understand. He somehow always did.

  The bells bonged out the hour.

  “I’d better go,” his father said. “It’s already ten, and I don’t want to be late. I’ll see you tonight.” He swept his cloak around his shoulders, strapped on his baldric, and slid his sword into place. Every eye in the room followed him as he went out the door.

  Adrian gazed after him, his gut in turmoil. His father’s theory about Hana had unsettled him. What if it were true? He’d thought of her death as tragic bad luck, a matter of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, part of the senseless carnage of the war. But now . . .

  There was something he was missing, some pattern that he wasn’t seeing. Hana had died at midsummer, an event the wolves foretold. Now it was midwinter, and the wolves were back, and his father was heading to a meeting with an unknown informant.

  His father’s words came back to him. Perhaps the king of Arden has hit on a new tactic.

  No. Oh, no.

  “Da!” Lurching to his feet, Adrian careened out the door of the tavern. Breathlessly, he scanned the market square,
but he didn’t see his father. Which street would he take to Southbridge? Since he was late, he’d probably take the most direct path, down the Way of the Queens to the river.

  Fighting through the market day crowds, Adrian turned onto the Way and ran, dodging carriages and families out for a stroll. The cobbled pavement was perilous, and layered with snow and ice. It was like one of those dreams, when you try to run and your feet seem to be glued to the ground. Several times he nearly fell, and once he was nearly run down by a teamster, who swore at him as he streaked past.

  Now he was almost to the river, and he still didn’t see his father. If he’d turned off into one of the side streets or alleys, Adrian would never find him in time.

  When Adrian finally spotted him, far ahead, he was nearly to the bridge, the bouquet of flowers still in his hand. Adrian put on speed, already working on what he would say. I know you’re street-savvy and all, but I think you’re walking into a trap.

  He was so focused on his father that he scarcely resisted when somebody grabbed him from behind and clapped a hand over his mouth. His attacker pulled a hood over his head, and began dragging him backward. Adrian could feel magic buzzing into him, no doubt an immobilization charm. But Adrian was wearing a clan talisman alongside his amulet—a pendant that absorbed attack magic.

  He pretended to go limp, and when his captor adjusted his grip, Adrian came up off the balls of his feet, hearing a crunch and a screech of pain as his head smashed into cartilage.

  When the grip on him loosened, Adrian twisted free and tried to dodge into the alley, but plowed straight into someone who held him tightly against his body, so Adrian couldn’t reach his amulet or yank away the hood.

  Learn to use all your senses, his father always said. That way, if you’re blind, you can use your ears and your nose and your hands instead.

  From the feel of the man’s body and the angle at which he held him, Adrian could tell that he was tall, spare, and gifted. He could also feel something metallic and jingling that hung at his waist under his robes. Not an amulet. But what?

  “Don’t let him touch the jinxpiece,” one of them growled.

  “I’m not an idiot,” Alley Man snarled. “Take the boy. Our agreement was that I wouldn’t be personally involved in this.” The voice seemed familiar, and there was a scent about him—a familiar scent—that Adrian couldn’t place.

  As they made the handoff, Adrian managed to strip back the hood. He was surrounded by cloaked and hooded men. He saw his father in the distance, already midway across the bridge. “Da! Help!”

  His father heard, and turned. The flowers fell to the bridge deck like jewels scattered on the pavement as he drew his sword in one fluid movement and charged at them.

  All around Adrian, swords hissed free. While his captor was distracted, Adrian brought both feet down on his instep.

  The wizard howled, something smashed down on Adrian’s head, and he landed flat on his face on the icy cobblestones, twisting his ankle.

  “Careful,” somebody growled. “Don’t hit the mageling too hard. We want him alive.”

  Mage. That was what they called wizards in Arden.

  Close by, Adrian heard the clatter and clash of swordplay, smelled the acrid scent of wizard flame, heard somebody scream as a blade hit home. Black spots swarmed in Adrian’s vision as he tried and failed to prop himself up. Tried not to spew onto the stones.

  Finally, he rolled onto his back. His vision cleared enough that he saw his father, surrounded by six or eight swordsmen, fighting like a fury in the stories with flame and sword. He was backing toward him, trying to get close to Adrian, but he hadn’t escaped the bite of the blades. His cloak was already sliced through in several places and spotted with blood.

  It took everything Adrian had to sit up, then straighten to a standing position. He swayed, then shouted, “Leave him alone!” Gripping his amulet, he stood up next to his father and launched a flaming volley of his own, putting all of his frustration and fury into it, driving the assassins back.

  “No, Ash! Run! Get to the river if you can,” his father shouted, pivoting and cutting down another swordsman. “Get into the river and dive.”

  “I’m not leaving you. We can win this.”

  That was when his father staggered, the tip of his sword drooping a little. He looked at the assassins, tried to lift his sword again, but it was as if it was too heavy.

  “Da? What’s wrong?” Adrian stepped in closer, but his father shook his head, reached for his amulet, then dropped his hand away, swearing softly. His body shuddered, and despite the cold, a sheen of sweat gilded his face.

  That’s when Adrian knew. It was poison. His father was poisoned. He followed his father’s gaze, and saw that the assassins’ blades were stained blue-gray with it.

  His father stumbled to his knees, his sword clattering free on the stones. His face was pale, as if the blood were called to other places.

  “That one’s done,” the leader said. He pointed at Adrian with his poison-daubed blade. “Bring the mageling, and let’s go.”

  Howling with rage, Adrian turned and charged toward the assassins, sending a deluge of flame out ahead. But, somehow, his father tripped him, and he went down hard on his face in the snow. His father crawled forward and covered his body with his own. He felt warm breath in his ear.

  “Lay still,” he said. “Play dead, buy some time. The bluejackets will come. These ones will run. They don’t want to be caught and questioned.”

  Adrian struggled to get up, but his father had him pinned. He heard what sounded like an army of running feet and somebody shouting, “The High Wizard! The bastards have killed the High Wizard!”

  A mob of people hurtled past. Adrian heard screams and blows landing, shouts of rage and despair.

  Finally wriggling free, he gripped his amulet with one hand, pressing the other hand into his father’s chest. He sent power in, seeking to isolate the poison. But it was everywhere, and already the spark of life was all but extinguished. He ripped his father’s cloak and shirt away, exposing wounds that should have been minor. He sent flash in directly, desperately trying to draw the poison out. It hit him like a runaway cart, and he reeled back.

  “Don’t,” his father whispered, twisting away from Adrian’s hand. “You don’t want to risk it. You’re not strong enough, on your own. Wait for help.”

  Adrian understood. Wizard healers took on the ailments of their patients, and so healing a gravely sick patient was always risky. Even more so for someone who didn’t know what he was doing. But there would be no waiting, because waiting meant that his father would die.

  “I am going to save you,” Adrian growled. “I don’t care what it costs. You’re important. You need to live.”

  “Ash. Please listen. I have been saved so many times,” his father said. “First your mother saved me, and then you and your sisters. I’m not the one who needs saving now.” His body shuddered again. “Save yourself, and the Line. Your mother will take this hard, and she’s had enough grief in her life already. Tell her . . . tell her that having her . . . that being with her . . . that loving her . . . it was worth it. It was worth it. Will you tell her that?”

  “No!” Adrian cried. “You can tell her yourself. I’m not letting you go.”

  “Sometimes . . . you have to . . . let go.” His father took both his hands and closed them over the serpent amulet. “This is yours. I want you to go to Oden’s Ford and learn how to use it.”

  And then he was gone, the spiritas departing like a whisper on the wind, or a gray wolf on the snow. And, with it, Adrian’s childhood.

  A fierce anger ignited inside him, mingled with guilt and pain. His father had survived a lifetime of fighting—until Adrian lured him into a fight he couldn’t win. He’d failed him in every way possible. He bowed his head over their joined hands and prayed to whatever god was listening, “Take me. Take me instead. Spare him. Please.”

  The gods, it seemed, were occupied elsewhere.

/>   Adrian was no use in a fight, and he was no use as a healer. He was no use to anyone. He couldn’t bear the thought of facing his mother and sister and telling them what had happened. How could he live in a world that claimed the good and left the bad alone?

  He lifted the serpent amulet from around his father’s neck and hung it around his own. He didn’t much care where he went, as long as it was away from there. So he ran, limping badly, until he lost himself in the tangle of streets.

  3

  RILEY

  The day Jenna’s friend Riley died began as they all did—at three in the morning with the long, bone-jarring ride up the mountain to the mine. It was sleeting when Jenna trudged up the hill to the pickup place, so she was shivering and soaked through by the time she got there. The wagon was waiting, the horses steaming and stomping in the cold, the driver yelling at her to hurry up, he didn’t want to get fined for being late.

  Jenna shook off the ice as best she could and climbed in, squeezing in next to Riley as the wagon lurched into motion. She always sat next to Riley if there was room, with little Maggi on her other side. He’d put his arm around their shoulders, their bodies pressed tight together. That way, they’d all three stay warm, and she could sleep, which made the workday seem shorter.

  On the way home, if they could stay awake, she and Riley would talk about what they wanted to be when they grew up, even though Riley was fifteen and already grown, and Jenna twelve and nearly grown. They’d made a pact that they would get out of the mines one day.

  Today, Riley had this smug look on his face, like he was hiding a great big secret. As soon as Jenna got settled, he draped a bright-red cloak over the two of them, pulling it up over their heads to keep off the sleet.

  The cloak smelled of wet sheep, and it was scratchy, but it was big enough to cover them both, even leaving a corner for Maggi, and it was rum warm. Jenna fingered the wool, snuggling down inside it. “Riley! Where’d you get such a fine cloak?”