by R. K. Thorne
It hadn’t worked.
Another breath, then another. He focused on the Great Stone, the heart of the mountain. Finally, the air around him was still.
He tried to shake off the sudden outbreak, but it made him nervous. What if it acted up again when he arrived to see their visitor? What if someone noticed? He’d gotten away with it this long, but how long could he continue successfully hiding his magic? Then again, what other choice did he have?
He straightened himself and headed toward the throne room to meet his potential wife.
Daes heaved open the heavy chamber doors himself, knocking the incompetent guards aside and striding into his receiving hall. Seulka jumped and straightened herself in her seat.
“Did I wake you?” he asked.
She scowled at him. Not a sign of that noble breeding to be found, some days. And yet many considered her a noble of the highest caste and he only a pretender to nobility, all because her parents had been married and his had not. Their mothers had been sisters, which made them cousins, but she made very sure never to call him that. The king, on the other hand, was such a close relation, even though they were both related to him through the same incompetent and powerless great-uncle.
“Did you give her the orders?” he said.
“Yes. She has begun,” Seulka said. “She may be a rebellious sort, but she has the mind of a spy—willing or not.”
“Her will doesn’t matter. It’s our will that matters.” He flopped down into the armchair he’d insisted on installing behind the banquet table and kicked up his black boots on the footstool. Black cloak, black tunic, black belt—even his chair was black. A clean, strong color. It was good to be home. There was a reason they called him the Dark Master.
He had missed all of this while visiting the Devoted elders in Takar—far too much garish gold and orange for his taste. The Devoted were powerful allies of Kavanar in general and the Masters in particular, so it was good to speak with them, but also good to leave.
“Of course, Daes. Our will and the king’s, of course.”
He snorted. Was she being sarcastic or just poking a finger in a wound? “The king wouldn’t even have gone along with my plan to start this war if we hadn’t appealed to his foolish desire for revenge.”
“Our plan, you mean.”
“Fine, our plan. He’s the king. He should be estimating the Akarian threat, as I am. He should be planning the attack of his enemies at all times. We should not need to lead him to it. He’s a horse, and we’re holding the carrot of vengeance for a century-old wrong.”
“Perhaps he estimates the threat as greater than you think.”
“He’s a coward.”
She glared at him, finally sick of his hyperbole if he had to guess. “Forcing the Akarians to attack us on our lands is a strategically superior plan. You agreed so yourself.”
He scowled back. “It doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
The kidnapping attempt was part of a larger plan of intrigue that Kavanar would use to force the Akarian hand. It had been the only way Daes had been able to convince the king and the three other Masters to agree to war at all. The Fat Master had wanted to be left alone, content to supervise the running of Mage Hall and no more. The Mistress—Seulka—was still certain Daes was a paranoid lunatic to be worried about Akaria at all. And the Tall Master was so focused on enslaving mages that he barely gave a thought to anything beyond his own smithy, let alone about the wider world and their place in it. The monarch and his advisers knew of the sleeping danger that lay in their enemy to the east, but they chose to ignore it, to hope it was someone else’s problem.
Daes was not one to ignore things. It could become their problem at any time. He had worked too hard to earn this position in spite of their insipid desire to focus on the nature of his birth. He would not let the lands and holds he had worked so hard to control be pissed away and left defenseless by some ivory-tower fools.
No, Akaria must be dealt with. It had taken a lot of arguing, but he’d convinced them.
And so they all assumed this mage of theirs would fail spectacularly, if they thought of it at all. Secretly, though, Daes hoped for more. Much as he resented her rebellious nature, he could not deny the skill she was proving to have, and he hated the thought that they were wasting such a talent on a suicide mission. In his hands, she was becoming a powerful weapon. One of the best in his arsenal at this point, although still a bit virginal at some of the more dangerous duties of a spy.
Perhaps she would live, although he doubted it. She had never once failed them yet, but her usual marks had all been fine artifacts, not men. Scrolls, daggers, and jewels were more easily subdued than Akarian warriors. But she had a fire in her spirit, the same fire that sparked in her eyes when he gave her orders. Perhaps it would help her achieve the impossible.
He understood her rebelliousness in a way, even admired it. No powerful creature could stand to be caged. It was still remarkably stupid of her. There was no way for a mage to ever be freed—why did she expend any energy on rebelling against something that she knew she could not change? It was like defying the sun.
Well, there was one very unlikely way a mage could be freed… but if she succeeded in this mission, they would put an end to that as well.
“It is a shame to lose a good spy in the process,” he said, trying to extend a peace offering.
She sighed. “Indeed. Especially after the loss of Dekana.” She eyed him sideways.
“That was an accident,” he said through gritted teeth. “They can’t kill themselves. We’ve forbidden it.”
Her eyes bored into him. “Believe what you will. She was alone in that tower.”
“There is no way to know—”
“Their minds and their actions might be ours, but don’t fool yourself into thinking you’re more powerful than you are. Their hearts are their own. I know you are not so thick that you can’t see their hatred. If this one you’ve sent even survives, you’ll see. The same hate grows in her that blossomed in Dekana.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“You might not believe it, but heart and mind are not wholly separate entities. If we push her too far, she will be of less use to us. That spy’s mind will become less effective, no matter how much we bid her to do our will. We could push her. We could also break her.”
“I thought you were convinced this was a suicide mission.”
“It is. But on the off chance that she succeeds…”
“Then she will have gained invaluable experience, and we will have a chance to eradicate any last shred of the forbidden magic.”
She raised an eyebrow. “It’s been ninety years. Thousands of mages were killed after the Dark Days, and the rest hid and cowered in fear. The practice of magic in Akaria is nonexistent. Anyone who knew it is long dead in a lonely cave somewhere.”
“If you were an Akarian with the knowledge to undo everything we’ve built here in Mage Hall, what would you do? Would you let it die? Would you just forget about it?”
She pressed her lips together but said nothing.
“Seulka, all of our power comes from one source—them.” He pointed toward the courtyard. “And there’s one thing—and only one thing—that could ever undo that power.”
“The star magic.” She cast her eyes to the floor, avoiding him.
“Indeed.” He crossed his arms and glared. She was another fool who hoped that someone else would handle her problems, who dreamed they would just magically fade away.
Well, the world didn’t work that way. Luckily for Seulka and the king, Daes would rather get a jump on his problems with a knife to the ribs.
And that was exactly what he was going to do.
Aven strolled in a side door without pomp or circumstance, and so at first, no one noticed him. His visitor was easily recognizable, though, and his mother had not oversold her or her bow. The foreign princess stood speaking with his father, and even from afar he could admire the determined set of her eye
s, the confidence in her shoulders, a certain level of power in her stance. Her black cloak swept out majestically behind her. Beaded strands of the sapphire and gold of Isolte hung from a jeweled headband. Hair of clove and walnut fell straight and smooth, framing her face. The delicately carved dark wood of the bow shimmered gold in the firelight, and an aquamarine-studded leather quiver hung comfortably over her shoulder.
He must have studied her too long, for her eyes darted over and caught on his. His stomach dropped with a sudden rush of fear as she fixed a cold gaze on him for the briefest moment. He had made no special preparations today, he realized—it hadn’t even occurred to him to consider what she would think of him and if he cared to influence such an opinion. Would he be able to impress her? What if she decided she didn’t want him? How often had a single glance made his confidence crumble so? Her eyes darted back to him as she seemed to decide that he was not just another onlooker. Something in her eyes was icy as she examined him, like a hawk eyeing prey.
She was indeed different from the others. Was that a good thing or a bad thing?
Just as he began to raise his hand and step forward to meet her, a voice interjected. “Late to join us again, as usual, Prince Aven.” Lord Dyon, his favorite critic. Well, if he could say nothing else for the man, he had a certain impeccable timing and a knack for observation. Dyon always seemed to notice when he was conspicuously late—almost always because Aven was trying to stuff his magic back into its stupid little box.
At the thought of it, a tendril of hair fluttered against his forehead. Oh, hell, he couldn’t win. Why did he even try? Oh right—potential persecution, execution, banishment, that sort of thing.
“Pardon my delay, I was kept by pressing affairs of state,” he said once a requisite amount of silence had passed. A subtle tactic his father had taught him to indicate both that the comment was not important enough to be acknowledged and was also frowned upon. Not appropriate in every situation, but certainly in this one.
“No apology is needed,” she said in a confident, solid voice. “I see you keep a more benevolent and open court than my father.”
“And what would make you say that?” Aven’s father asked, smiling wryly.
She paused. Hesitation? No, her eyes were sure. Her own subtle technique, no doubt. With amused eyes, she flicked her gaze from the king to Aven, then looked straight at Lord Dyon when she said, “In my land, such a comment would not be tolerated.”
Well, my, my! What kind of woman was this? Not another mousy puppet, that was for sure. She deftly asserted many things with the comment—that she outranked Dyon, that she herself would not tolerate such comments, that perhaps someday this would be her land, and that he should be prepared for potential future consequences. Much as he admired her deftness, he couldn’t say he liked the comment. Lord Dyon, while inappropriate, frustrating, and downright maddening at times, had the interests of the kingdom at heart every time he chided Aven like a curmudgeonly, uninvited tutor. Besides, he would rather have naysayers that were looking out for what was best for Akaria than only advisors who would agree with him.
Aven broke the awkward silence that followed with his footsteps, presenting first his mother and then the new princess with roses and a quick bow for each of them.
“Prince Aven Lanuken at your service,” he said, brushing his lips across the backs of her fingers as he bowed.
She blinked for a second, a tiny curve in the corner of her mouth, before she straightened her expression. “Princess Evana Paranelin,” she said with a curtsy, the spray of white roses striking against her blue dress, beads swaying regally. She was striking. She was mesmerizing. Her beauty was its own diplomatic technique, and it was working on him.
Then, to his surprise, and perhaps to surprise them all, she stepped forward and looped her arm through his. “It has been such a long journey. Surely you and your attendants could show me to somewhere more comfortable?”
At this, he gave her a laughing sideways smile. He would play along. She smiled in return, and it was laughing, but not quite friendly.
“Of course, milady. If I have your leave, Father?”
His father nodded. “Yes, of course. We’ll be in the Proving Grounds. You’re welcome to join us, Princess.”
“Thank you,” she said smoothly, the picture of grace.
Aven led her from the hall. Her hand in the crook of his elbow was warm, and her body was close now, and in spite of the dress and cloak, he couldn’t miss her strong, lovely shape underneath it all. She was beautiful, all right, and she scared the hell out of him.
Aven actually had no idea where his guest was to reside, and fortunately, he didn’t need to. He followed an entourage of servants that sprang to life at the princess’s request.
“So, tell me of yourself, Prince Lanuken.”
“Call me Aven.” She nodded in acknowledgement. “Ah, well, I am son of the great Samul Lanuken, whose charming personage you’re already acquainted with. I am the lucky soul to be born crown prince of Akaria, and also a frequently tardy statesman.”
She smiled very slightly, keeping her eyes focused ahead of them. Was she mapping the halls in her memory, perhaps? Or was she looking for something aside from a mate?
“I, uh, I’ve lived in Estun all my life. I am an officer in our armed force and a noted tutor of aspiring young swordsmen and shield maidens. And a noted lover of apple dumplings as well.” He paused, waiting for a reaction. He got none. “What about you? Do you put that bow you carry to good use?”
“It is rare when I have a real occasion to use it,” she said. “But I am a skilled marksman, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“I assumed as much. Do you practice any other combat sports?”
“Only verbal sparring, I’m afraid. In Isolte, it is not common for women to fight beyond the bow. I hear Akaria is very different.”
“Everyone learns to fight here,” he said simply. “Have you wanted to learn?”
“Not particularly,” she said, and nothing more.
“What of you, milady?” he said.
“I am the youngest of King Enin’s three daughters, skilled with a bow, drawing, and the harp. I speak six languages and have traveled much of this continent and all the outer islands.” She stopped as if that summed it up. A practiced speech.
“And how do you find Akaria?” he asked.
“Beautiful, if a little wild.”
Wild? He had heard his nation described more than a few ways before, but wild was not one of them. Far more of their land was settled than Takar or even Kavanar, for that matter, and the three nations took up most of the continent. What could she possibly mean by that, and how could he get at it while remaining polite?
Fortunately or unfortunately, he was out of time as they arrived at her room. Servants buzzed around delivering her belongings, stoking the low-burning fire, opening the curtains. Her room had windows. So Fayton had kept a few of the best rooms free, in spite of the Takaran throng invading the place. They had a wise and savvy steward.
When most of her things were settled, he gestured to a young woman waiting by the door. “Camil will be devoted to your service throughout your stay, so if you need anything, please don’t hesitate to let her or myself know.” Strange—something he said made the princess’s eyes widen ever so slightly. What had he said that unnerved her? No matter, he continued on. “Did you want to take some time to recover from your journey or perhaps join us in the Proving Grounds to watch the duels?”
“Perhaps you would have a moment for the two of us to speak frankly together. Alone.”
He could not help but raise his eyebrows. “I have as many moments as you need, my princess, as I am in no hurry to join the duels. But in Akaria, princes and knights such as myself live by a code. As part of that, to defend our honor, you and I cannot be alone.” Not to mention to prevent international incidents. “But let me send all but my most trusted away—I assure you, you can speak frankly around them.”
“Fine, I suppose that will have to do.” Aven had the strangest sensation that he had just avoided a trap. Didn’t matter. The Code was the way it was for a reason. The servants left without a specific request, and only Fayton and Camil remained. The princess motioned silently for the young woman to help her with her cloak, and Evana removed it slowly, dramatically, in spite of Camil’s many attempts to be brisk and efficient. Then the princess pretended to sit casually on the bed, although it looked carefully calculated to him, and she began removing her gloves one finger at a time.
Was it hotter in the room? Certainly it was only the fire they’d stoked. Was his face turning red? Oh, gods, was that flicker of the flames just the usual drafts… or something else? The princess eyed the fire as well. The unnatural flicker did not seem beyond her notice.
“Fine,” she said slowly. “Let us be frank. Would you care to have a seat? It will only be a moment, but you look… uncomfortable.” She patted the bed gently beside her.
He plopped into a nearby armchair. “I am always frank with you, milady. I have been nothing but, I promise you.”
“You want to know about me. You know that I am here looking for a husband of nobility.”