by R. K. Thorne
“What was that?” said the woman’s voice.
Aven felt a boot nudge his shoulder, seeking to roll him onto his back. He winced in spite of himself—there was more than one wound there at this point.
“He’s awake,” the king said.
Aven opened his eyes. Indeed, it was Demikin, fool king of Kavanar. They had never met in person, but he bore a resemblance to his etchings and paintings, if much more sour looking. He was middle-aged, with a stout midsection. Probably shorter than Aven, with a balding head and blond beard. His hands bore many rings, among them a large, peculiar ruby on his left hand. He smelled of garlic and fish, and Aven frowned up at him. The king glared back.
The air around Aven had begun to move. He didn’t fight it. Not his usual swirling, idle wind, but violent, unpredictable darts. It nipped at the king’s robes, the guards’ hair and tunics. The tapestries on the nearby wall began to sway. The king eyed the wall and the now sporadically flickering torches.
“Is this how you always greet foreign dignitaries?” Aven grunted.
“If I have the option,” the king replied with a dark smile.
“Get him on his feet,” Daes ordered the guards, clearly annoyed. A conscious Aven could reveal his secret, adding even more urgency to their current plan.
The king turned to Daes. “I didn’t call you the brains of this effort for nothing. It shall be done—we have our plan. Let’s have this calf slaughtered and be done with it.”
Excruciating shots of pain ran through him as the same guards hauled him to his feet unceremoniously. The air darted more viciously at that, reaching farther from him. It whipped at the fire and the candlesticks on their feasting table.
What could he do if he didn’t hold back? Casel help me, he thought. He focused on the feasting table, the king, the fireplace.
“Should I call for the…” The woman trailed off when she noticed the candles in front of her had just gone out. The king’s cape whipped over his shoulder awkwardly and sent him stumbling to the right. The nearest tapestry clanged against the wall.
“What the—” the king started.
Daes stood and recklessly kicked his chair out of the way, rounding the table and coming straight for him.
Aven knew the look on his face—a mixture of determination and bloodlust. He had no intention of having his secret revealed.
“Make him kneel,” the Dark Master ordered.
“Daes—by Nefrana—not in here!” the woman snapped.
“Shut up,” the Dark Master said coldly. Daes strode to the wall where a sword and battle ax hung beside a torch. He took the claymore and unsheathed it, tossing the sheath aside.
Didn’t he know an ax would be far better for an execution? Of course, this superior knowledge of human butchery wasn’t getting Aven anywhere at the moment.
The guards had hesitated, but at Daes’s approach, they finally pushed Aven to his knees. The king swept himself to a position by the fire, probably afraid of getting his robes sullied with foreign blood.
“You said you’d prepared the court—” the woman started again.
The air in the room had almost risen to a wind. The fire wavered mightily, smoke now billowing in the king’s direction. He strode away toward the fresh air coming in from the hall, coughing in annoyance.
Daes met Aven’s eyes and laid the flat edge of the blade on his shoulder, the edge of the cold steel barely grazing the skin of his neck.
Aven tore his eyes from Daes, focusing them on the dark marble below. He sucked in the deepest breath he could and held it, frantically trying to gather any energy he could from the light and air around him. He felt the heat in him rise hotter, hotter still.
He would only have one shot at this. He could not fail.
“Your Majesty,” the Dark Master demanded, “I am sworn to uphold your will. Is it your wish that I should kill this man?”
The king did not hesitate. “Yes. Be done with it, and let our war begin.”
The guards released Aven’s arms and backed away hastily in either direction as Daes drew back the sword.
Time seemed to slow. Aven felt as though he could watch the sword rise for as long as he might have liked, that if he wished, he could have taken days for it to return along its path back toward Aven and the earth. Aven had all the time in the world. All the time he could possibly need.
He released his breath, and with it, he hurled every bit of the heat in him in one powerful burst out in all directions, but chiefly straight at Daes’s chest.
And for once—for once, finally—it worked.
Air rushed past Aven and hit Daes with an audible thud. Daes’s grip on the sword faltered as he was lifted off the ground, thrown back by the force of the wind. Aven lunged forward, seeking the sword’s handle. His fingers found the hilt, seizing it and holding on with every bit of strength he could muster.
Time sped up again. Aven felt the air pushing him in the same direction now—something he hadn’t planned—except that someone tackled him, knocking him away from the dark man and nearly to the door. He heard a gasp, a shout, the tapestries clattering violently, the ax crashing to the ground. Everyone who’d been standing nearby was on the floor. Who had grabbed him? One of the guards, a quick thinker of the lot?
No. The sight of red hair dangling in his eyes made him freeze—could it be? The form on top of him rolled off him quickly, jumping to her feet and reaching down to help Aven up.
The sun from the grand windows shone down on the lovely face of Miara.
He took her hand, and even as she pulled him, he also tried to soak in as much energy from the sunlight as he could. Many of them had risen to their feet. Daes, though, was still on the floor and staring, utterly stunned—but now at Miara.
“Guards—at them! Akarian infiltrators!” the king barked.
Miara was dragging Aven toward the archway they’d arrived through, but she stole a lightning-quick glance at the king as he labeled her an Akarian. Aven caught a glimpse of her smirk. Fool didn’t even know where his own power—and weaknesses—lay. Even in this moment, he didn’t seem to recognize that magic was afoot.
Three disheveled guards staggered to block the exit. Aven batted one into the wall with the energy gained from the sunlight. And the other two he launched himself at, headlong.
He might look like a farmer, but he would have no trouble dispatching two poorly trained, frightened men. He swung the sword round and into position as the men’s eyes widened, and he lunged. One blocked Aven’s first swing but staggered back at the force of the blow. His next swing sent the second man reeling, and Aven knocked him to the ground with a butt of the sword hilt to the face. The third guard had scampered back and tried to jump him from behind, but he, too, went down with a well-timed elbow to the stomach before Aven spun and buried the blade in his side. Jerking it free, the man staggered away.
They were far from incapacitated or dead, but it would have to do.
This way, she whispered into his mind. Come on!
He turned to see her already leaving the hall, several steps ahead of him. Running. Away.
Almost like she was—
Free.
He raced after her, the Masters shouting orders on his heels.
One guard clipped him, then leapt on him from behind, his knee colliding with Aven’s sword hand and knocking the blade free. Aven fell, the guard on top of him, and they wrestled, spinning and writhing against the cold stone. Aven twisted free, kicking to get himself some maneuvering room, but the man would not relent. He lunged back at Aven, his full body crashing down on top of him. Aven spun, sending the other man to the floor beside him, and savagely pounded the man’s skull against the rock. He went limp.
Aven muttered a prayer to Anara as he stumbled to his feet. Waste of life. A shame. As he turned to race down the stairs after Miara, he saw vines closing themselves around the door to the hall even as swords made progress hacking through them.
At the bottom of the stairs, he was alo
ne. He glanced around frantically.
This way, she whispered again. The bush. Don’t look back.
From her voice, he caught her direction. He saw the last bit of her dart behind some bushes far to his right, and she was crouched down behind them. Aven sprinted after her and dove blindly into the brush. Unable to steady his landing, he fell awkwardly against her.
The sudden feel and smell of her nearly drove him mad.
She sat with her eyes closed for a moment, not reacting to him at all. He could hear shouting from the main hall, bells starting to ring.
“All right,” she whispered. “Let’s get these shackles off. Ready?” He felt his hands change suddenly with a sickening twist, and then the metal fell to the ground. His hands and his wrists were finally his own again. Seemed like it had been forever.
“Oh, by the ancients, you’re injured!”
“What were those?” he whispered, ignoring it.
“Mandibles. Don’t ask.”
“Thank you,” he said. He rubbed his wrists, his hands in front of him. It hadn’t even been a month, but it felt like a lifetime had passed. So much had changed.
“You would do the same for me.” She grinned. “Wouldn’t you, Aven?” He opened his mouth, but she held up a finger. “Don’t answer that. There’s no time. We’re not going to make it out of here looking like this. Think you can take being a mouse one more time?”
“You can turn me into a mushroom if it gets us out of here.”
She snorted. “Here it comes.”
The twisting feeling grew until the nausea was upon him, the sliding of the world away at so many crazy angles—and suddenly there were dry leaves in front of his nose. And they were much, much larger than they’d been a second ago.
He looked down. Indeed, mouse hands. He turned his gaze up. Beside him, a large black bird was eying their surroundings, looking about to burst into flight. A raven, a crow? Beautiful and keenly intelligent, this close up. It was Miara transformed—he hoped.
One leg reached out, and talons circled around him. Into the sky, they flew.
Here we go, Aven. Pray to all your gods and ancestors and ancients that we make it through the air alive.
She spotted the rock where she’d stashed their few supplies and the star map from a good distance away. The nervous energy of battle had long worn off, and exhaustion had set in. She was fading with every wing beat, but it wasn’t much farther. Just a little more, and they could rest… Just a little farther, and she could talk to him, thank him, tell him—everything.
As she flew, she pondered what she should say. How could she possibly thank him? Could she even capture what it meant to have her freedom? And there was so much more beyond that.
Should she tell him how she felt? Should she tell him how much it had hurt to push him away? Since then, she’d turned him over to certain death—even if she couldn’t help it. What if he’d changed his mind? What if he no longer cared?
What if now that they were back to reality, he realized that a slave and a prince didn’t belong together? Even if she was no longer a slave… she was nothing like him.
There would be time, she decided. She didn’t have to tell him anything right away. She could see how he acted, see where things went. She could gauge what Akaria was like, assuming they made it there safely. Assuming they would have her. There was so much unknown, so much to discover.
For the first time in all her years, her life was her own to do anything. Anything. Anything at all.
It made her breathless.
Finally, the rock neared. She landed with a skip and a plop, feeling more relieved that she’d made it than she’d like to admit. She carefully released Aven from her talons and then quickly let go of the transformation, setting them totally free, once and for all.
The dizziness twisted her only for a second until she found herself simply sprawled out on the ground, staring up at the autumn leaves and clouds above her, utterly drained. She lay only for a moment, but then excitement forced her to sit up straight.
He lay beside her on the ground, gray-green eyes also staring up at the sky.
“How did you do it!” she demanded. “You freed me.”
He smiled at her, sitting up slowly. He, too, seemed tired. There was blood, she realized, on the right side of his shirt. She hadn’t been paying much attention, had she?
“You’re more hurt than I realized.”
“It’s nothing.” He waved it off.
“Shut up. Take off your shirt.”
He smiled and obliged her. As the shirt came off, she gasped at the sight of the burn marks, as well as one huge burn on his shoulder, the size of the brand. It was fresh, seeping, and clearly painful.
“By the gods, did they—” she started, then stopped, unsure of what to say.
He looked down at it. “They branded me,” he said. “Twice.” He turned and revealed that both his shoulders held the mark. Other burn marks were scattered across him.
“Twice. It didn’t work,” she whispered breathlessly.
He nodded.
“It didn’t work!” she cried.
He grinned at her excitement, gazing up at an angle with those handsome eyes. He turned back to his wounds. “My, that’s ugly. I hadn’t really seen them before,” he said. “The dungeon was dark. Do you think it will frighten women and children?”
She stifled a snicker. “It’s not ugly,” she chided. “You are the first mage to face them and defy them. Don’t you understand? You’ve beaten them at their own game. I think they are the very most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.”
He muffled his own small laugh but didn’t turn his eyes away from the intensity of her gaze. “Well, they’re not the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he said after a moment, grinning.
She blushed and snatched the shirt from his hands. “Give me that. We might need to bandage that for now; I’m not sure I have the strength to heal you without some sleep. Damn thing is filthy, anyway.”
“Well, you know dungeons aren’t known for being the cleanest places.”
“Well, I told you it was a dark place,” she grumbled as she worked. “I told you not to follow me.”
“And I told you we’d find a way out,” he replied, smirking.
She burst into giddy laughter in spite of herself. She kept up her examination of his many wounds.
“It was the star map,” he said. “To answer your first question.”
“But how did you use it? How did you know what to do? My father and I could barely decode it. I would have no idea how to apply it, even after years of study. That’s forbidden magic, you know.” She found a relatively clean bit of shirt and began ripping a few strips from it.
“I didn’t know it was forbidden,” he said, looking thoughtful. “But I guess now we know why, don’t we?” He grinned.
“We sure do.”
“Do you still have it?”
“Yes, it’s here. I hid it under this rock before I came after you so it wouldn’t end up in their hands.”
“That was very wise.”
“Well, you weren’t exactly my first mission, Aven. Or should I call you my lord? Your Majesty? Something fancy, certainly. What is your proper title, now that you are my ruler and not my captive?”
“What!” he snorted.
“Well, I can’t exactly stay in Kavanar. I thought I would at least come to Akaria and try to live the life of an upstanding citizen. Of course, kidnapping a king—”
“A prince!”
“—is not exactly a minor offense, so it will likely be the gallows for me anyway.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Rescuing a prince is not exactly a minor heroic feat, either, so the two certainly cancel themselves out. Don’t worry about it, Miara. I don’t want you to call me anything.”
“I want to be like a normal Akarian. I have to know what they call you.”
“No one calls me anything.”
“You’re lying.”
“You’ll
never be a normal Akarian to me.”
She stopped abruptly and glared at him, feeling hugely disappointed. She’d always be a mage slave to him somewhere in his mind, most likely. “I want to be a normal Akarian. What is it, or I’ll tie this bandage so tight your arm falls asleep.”
He sighed. “My lord, usually. Or liege. But don’t call me that.”
“Yes, my liege.”
He winced.
“I just wanted to try it out. I like the sound of that.”
“I’m glad you do.”
“I’m glad that you’re glad, my lord.”
He winced again. “What if I order you not to call me that?”
She grinned. “You haven’t told me how you used the map.”
Then he recounted his efforts to interpret the star map and make sense of its ancient language and strange magic. “But I never really got much more from the star map than which star to look for, which I guess I already knew.”
“Which one?”
“Casel—the freedom star. But what really gave me the idea was when you healed that boy.”
“Galen? First of all, we healed that boy, and second of all, how did that help anything?”
“You said anything that was against the Way of Things could heal itself with the addition of enough energy of the right type. And I was sure that their slavery was against the Way. So I suspected that maybe, just maybe, the same thing might work on you.”
“It is healing—look.” She twisted her shoulder up through the neck opening of the shirt again to show it to him. It was about half healed now, and the other half was all a crusty scab. “I’m sure it will always leave a scar, but I can deal with a scar.”
He bent forward to look closer at it, shaking his head. “I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it worked. It was a lucky guess.”
“Not lucky! You reasoned it out through the principles of magic as I explained them. Lucky that you were able to actually execute the spell, I suppose, but we had started training you on that, too. But—when did you try?”