“Ryl?” Maru whispered blearily from the other side of the room.
“It’s nothing,” Tamaryl said, hunching his shoulders and compressing his wings.
He had to get home, he had to get Maru home, he had to fix this. He didn’t know how he would rectify everything—didn’t know how he could—but he would start by going home.
ARIANA CRADLED THE sealed jar, emerald glass and stoppered with gold, and marveled at it. She had never noticed it before in the Circle’s archives, but today she saw its runes, set by Wakari pirates centuries before, and knew it instantly for what it was.
She pierced the soft gold seal with her thumbnail and spoke. “Come forth and do my will.”
Green-black smoke poured from the jar and billowed into a nebulous serpent, its features difficult to distinguish. “My lady mage and my mistress. What do you desire?”
She did not hesitate. “End this war between human and Ryuven.”
In truth, it had been more than a week since they had a report of a Ryuven raid, which had been coming every two or three days. That was a good sign—but it was not peace.
“No more fighting?”
“No more fighting. And—men shouldn’t enslave other men. End our slavery, too.”
The misty snake roiled and shifted. “When you turn, it will be done.”
So simple? “Thank you,” Ariana began, but the smoke was already dissipating. She clutched the bottle, wondering if she should have done something to retain the creature, but it was gone.
She took a breath and turned.
The world shifted about her and she was standing on a market square. Around her, vendors called to potential customers and voices rose in barter. The market stalls were full of bright vegetables and plentiful bins of grain. She saw no one in cuffs, no slaves cringing beside masters. No one watched the sky in fear. Children ran by, laughing. She drew a deep, satisfied breath and smiled to herself.
There was a rumble of wheels, and she turned to see a freight wagon round the corner. Her heart dropped as she saw that slaves drew the heavy wagon, chained to the shafts and slipping on the cobblestones as they strained. A driver lashed at them mercilessly, making them cry and stumble. There were four of them—no, six—a cluster, all pleading for relief, and she started forward in protest. “No, you aren’t supposed to be here, there are no slaves anymore—”
They were Ryuven. Their slender limbs were chained in place, and the roots of their wings ended in bloody stumps amidst welts and stripes. She gaped in silent horror as the wagon drew slowly past her. Behind it stretched a line of bound Ryuven, wretched and weak and crippled with scarred stumps in place of their graceful wings. Human overseers moved up and down the line, plying switch and whip and rod and strap, and Ariana dropped to her knees.
The line shifted and one Ryuven burst free. He still bore wings, and he tried to take flight as he broke from the others, but an overseer grasped the chain on his shackles and jerked him savagely to earth. He landed before Ariana and reached desperately for her.
An overseer placed one knee on the Ryuven’s back and seized a beating wing. Ariana wanted to move but was frozen in place. The overseer’s arm moved with a flash of steel and the wing collapsed as the Ryuven shrieked.
Ariana could not breathe. The Ryuven wailed and looked directly in her eyes, pushed his chained hands toward her. “What have you done?” he demanded, gasping. The overseer chopped his second wing, making him scream and convulse. He twisted as the overseer dragged him upright, bleeding, and snatched at her arm. His eyes held her like magic or shackles. “What have you done?”
Ariana screamed and shoved him away. She pushed herself backward, stumbling away from the line of mutilated Ryuven, and tripped over a severed wing. She crawled and screamed and screamed.
Someone caught her and held her arms, and she gasped for breath. The hands on her tightened, and someone said tersely, “Don’t shake her! Ariana! Ariana?”
She gulped air and blinked, aware suddenly of her bed and her room and her father holding her tightly. She choked and looked up at Tamaryl, crouching wingless beside them.
She screamed.
“Ariana!” Her father pulled her close, enveloping her. “Breathe deep, darling. You’re awake now, and everything is all right. It’s all right.” He looked down at her. “Are you with us?”
Sweat poured from her, and her pulse was loud in her ears. “I—was dreaming,” she said weakly.
Her father forced a humorless laugh. “We’d guessed as much.”
Tamaryl had moved back when she recoiled from him, and she saw now his wings were still there, hanging low behind him. Maru was there, too, standing to one side. At the sight of his broken wing, a rush of nausea swept over her and she grasped for the washbowl on the nearby stand. Her father released her, and she only just made it.
Hands gathered her hair and held her shoulders as she hung above the bowl, trembling. “Ariana...”
She spat and sat up. “I’ll be all right.” She shivered and slid into the bed once more, rubbing at her mouth with an arm.
Tamaryl took the empty pitcher from the stand and passed it mutely to Maru, who departed promptly. Tamaryl approached the bed again, his face anxious. “What was it?”
Ariana took a shaky breath. “I don’t...”
“You don’t recall the dream?”
She shook her head. She did recall it, too vividly. It was far clearer than most of her dreams, unnaturally clear. It terrified her.
Her father kissed her hair. “It was just a dream, darling—albeit quite a dream, apparently. You frightened us all.”
She took another breath. “Could it be more than a dream?”
“What do you mean?”
She looked at Tamaryl. “I wished for the war to end, for the fighting to be done, and when it was granted, the Ryuven were enslaved.”
Her words frightened Tamaryl, she could see that. That frightened her more.
“How did you achieve this wish?” asked her father.
“I—I found an entrapped wishing spirit. In the archives.” She felt foolish as soon as she spoke. How could she admit to fear of a child’s fairy story?
Her father smiled. “Well, if you do not commit your wish for peace to a make-believe spirit known for trickery, it seems unlikely your nightmare will be realized,” he said reasonably.
Ariana glanced down at her arm, red with weals where she’d clawed herself free of the clinging Ryuven. “It did not seem like an ordinary dream.”
He squeezed her. “I believe you.”
Maru returned and poured a cup of water for her. She rinsed and spat, and then she drank a cup. Her throat burned from screaming. “I think I’d like to read for a while.”
“Would you like someone to stay with you?” Tamaryl offered with a glance at Mage Hazelrig.
She shook her head. She appreciated the offer, but she did not want to sleep again, not even with someone watching. “No, I think I’ll go downstairs and read. I’m sorry to have disturbed you all. I’m terribly embarrassed.” She gave them an uneasy smile.
It did not matter what they thought—the dream had been terrifyingly real and horrific beyond anything she could have invented. She remembered this one, but there had been others, ever since she had returned. She had to find a peaceful solution to the war, something more than the shield.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
LUCA BREATHED DEEP, feeling his muscles slip loosely as he moved down the street. He could just detect the lingering scent of Marla’s embrocation. She had caught him as he hesitated near the door, fussing at his sleeves in a final delay before starting down. “You’ll be seeing them,” she had said simply.
He nodded. “Only Sara and Jarrick. The wedding won’t be a public affair.”
“But you’re thinking of it already. I can see it in your shoulders.”
He shifted his arms self-consciously. “Is there anything you don’t see?”
It was eerie, how easily she could read him. Lu
ca had thought he’d learned to keep his thoughts to himself in his years as a slave. But worry, he supposed, was clear to see, and she was a close observer. She had smoothed the tension from his shoulders with a few minutes’ work and sent him on his way with a clearer head.
A shout warned him, and he stepped aside as a freight wagon rumbled dangerously close. He let himself drift to the side of the street, not in such a hurry as the mercantile traffic. He had some time left before the ceremony, and he was still reluctant. If he had not promised Sara...
A column caught his eye, familiar after his long absence. Luca glanced at the small building of white stone set behind the column. He’d passed this temple each time he came to Abbar. It was meant to be a respite from life, but today it was a respite from traffic. He turned into the tiny semicircular courtyard and lowered himself onto the white steps, warm in the winter sun.
The traffic continued, separated from the yard by the column. Luca watched and sighed. Was this the wisest choice, attending his sister’s wedding? What would Stefan and his guests think of Sara’s once-enslaved brother? She had done well to make such a match after their financial disaster; would he spoil her chance at a happy marriage and respectable social standing?
There were letters carved into the column, wrapping around the base. Luca couldn’t remember ever actually reading them as he had navigated traffic. He let the patterns distract him from his unpleasant thoughts, absently running his eyes over the words faded by salty sea wind. A tingling shock raced suddenly through him—while you breathe, his mind had registered.
His stomach tightened with long bitterness. It’s so simple to lie.
But he could not stop himself from trying to work out the rest of it. It was difficult to make out the weathered letters, and he leaned to one side trying to follow them around the column.
“You are his poem,” said a voice behind him. He jumped and glanced over his shoulder at the priest standing above him on the white steps. “You know the passage?”
Luca shook his head, wary and vaguely embarrassed.
The priest descended the steps, and Luca caught himself shifting his weight. The Gehrn had patterned their robes on the Wakari temples’ designs, and while Luca knew they weren’t the same, his reactions did not.
The priest sat on Luca’s step, but at a comfortable distance. “For you are his poem, and despair has no hold for those who do not wrestle with the artisan. Know that while you breathe, he is yet elaborating his careful craftsmanship in you, and so you may hope.” He glanced at Luca. “You look as if you take some issue with that.”
Luca wondered when his face had begun to betray him so regularly. “No, not exactly. ‘While you yet breathe, there is hope.’ Someone told me that once.”
The priest nodded. “A proverbial form, unfortunately common.”
“He lied. He used that to justify—and it was a lie.” Luca was startled by his own voice, by how quickly his anger had swollen into view. What business of this man’s was it?
But the priest merely nodded again. “I’m sorry you were hurt. Would it help to talk?”
“No.” Not here, not after that reunion, not to a stranger, not to someone in those robes.
The priest did not seem offended. He rested his elbow on his knee and watched the traffic flow by, wagons and carts and baskets and bundles all streaming to market or home or docks or caravans. The noise filled the silence between them.
“He lied to both of us.” Luca wanted to justify his protest, but spoken aloud his words were part anger, part discovery. “He used those words to excuse what he did, and he lied to each of us.”
The priest flicked a finger to indicate across the street. “You see that man accosting passers-by? Beside the fountain? He’ll tell you, if you wander near enough, he is collecting money to relieve the suffering of Ivat’s orphans. He’s not, of course. He’s worked that corner for years, and he lives well enough and drinks the surplus. He dresses in the colors of a temple priest, and many are taken by his words. But compassion itself is no less worthwhile for his lies. Compassion may be tarnished in his hands, but underneath it is still pure silver.”
Luca shifted uncomfortably. “My sister is waiting... It is her wedding today.”
“Then don’t let me delay you.” The priest gestured and offered a friendly smile. “Be well.”
Luca escaped into the traffic. His father had lied—had lied!—to excuse the sale of his own son. No protesting priest could argue that. Luca could not shed his resentment so easily.
The Drawne home was not much farther. Luca entered by the open gate and passed through the garden, avoiding a few chatting groups which must be Stefan’s family and slipping into a side room where servants were assembling serving trays. One glanced at him, but Luca shook his head hurriedly and looked away. He wanted only to hide from the guests.
Long minutes passed, and the servants seemed to decide he was an unpopular cousin avoiding the family quarrels and they left him alone. Luca fidgeted. He should not have come, he should never have come...
And then a woman came into the room and spoke to the serving slaves. “Have any of you—” She noted Luca. “Pardon me, my lord, but could you be Luca Roald?”
He nodded, surprised.
She gestured with a dull flash of wrist cuff. “Come, my lord! My lady has been asking and asking for you. Please, this way.”
Luca went with her numbly into the garden, which now seemed filled with people. Luca’s stomach clenched. She never said so many!
“Luca!” Sara caught his arm, startling him. She was gorgeous, dressed in bright blue and green and radiant with excitement. “I’ve been looking for you!” She embraced him.
He gave her a tight smile. “I’m here now.”
“My lady?” A steward prompted.
Sara gave him a quick nod and glanced back at Luca. “Come on, now we’re ready to start.” Then she turned and went into the center of the garden.
Stefan Drawne had matured since Luca had seen him last. He didn’t recognize the young man dressed in matching green and blue until he moved forward to take Sara’s hands. As they faced one another, the onlookers gathered in a circle about them. Luca glanced self-consciously from side to side, and when he saw the witnesses joining hands he shrank back to stand in the shadow of a vine-wrapped pillar.
A justice in the red robe of his office place one hand over Stefan’s and Sara’s and raised the other. “Stefan Drawne, Sara Roald, do you both swear to be one in the eyes of law and of justice?”
“We do.”
“Do you swear to be one in flesh and to belong one to another, until you breathe your last?”
“We do.”
“Do you pledge to lead one another to the best of you?”
“We do.”
“I hear your solemn vows and I witness that you are husband and wife in deed and law. Seal your pledges with a holy kiss.”
To judge from Sara’s embarrassed giggle, Stefan’s kiss was a little more than holy. The circle closed in a torrent of good wishes and blessings, and Luca caught a glimpse of Jarrick, looking uncertainly pleased as his little sister joined another house.
Jarrick might have felt his eyes, for he glanced toward Luca. He disengaged himself from the circle and came to stand beside the pillar. “You came after all. We’d thought you’d given it up.”
Luca shook his head. “I didn’t think anyone would be honored by my mingling.”
Jarrick cast him a reproving look. “You know Sara is glad you’re here. And no one is thinking on anything but the happy couple.”
People were moving past them now, disappearing into the house for food and wine and dancing and rejoicing. They flowed past Jarrick and Luca, laughing and embracing, a cheerful rushing stream.
And then Stefan and Sara were beside them, clasping hands and smiling. “Jarrick,” Stefan greeted, extending a free hand. “My new brother.”
Jarrick grinned and took the offered arm. “My best wishes to you.”
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Sara opened her mouth, but before she could speak Stefan turned to Luca. “And—Luca?”
Luca nodded, his mouth dry.
Stefan extended his hand. “Thank you for coming.” His voice was soft but sincere, and his eyes were warm with both happiness and sensitivity. “You are family in our home.”
Luca hesitated, stunned by the earnest greeting, and then he grasped the bridegroom’s wrist firmly. “Thank you,” he said hoarsely. “I appreciate it.”
“Will you come inside with us?” Sara asked. “There are more than I thought— Stefan’s family couldn’t not come—but you’re more than welcome...”
Luca licked his lips. As welcoming as Stefan was, he could not be certain that the rest of their guests would be pleased. And even if they did not resent Luca’s intrusion, the discovery of the lost Roald brother would draw attention from the wedding couple, and that was hardly fair. “Not today. But—thank you.”
Sara leaned forward and kissed him. “I understand,” she whispered. “Thank you for coming.”
Stefan and Sara moved inside to join the guests. Jarrick turned to Luca. “Where will you go?”
“I haven’t decided.”
Jarrick nodded. “But, write.” He clasped Luca’s shoulder. “I’ll go; we should have someone to represent our family.” He moved forward to embrace his brother. “Take care, Luca.”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
SHIANAN WAS TIRED AND faintly sore from a full day of drilling, but a note from the prince-heir was not to be ignored. When Ethan opened the door, Shianan gave him a weary smile. “Hello, Ethan. Your master sent for me.”
“Yes, your lordship. Please come in.” Ethan took the cloak Shianan shed and gestured toward the sitting room. “His Highness will come shortly. Please make yourself comfortable.”
Shianan eyed several wide leather chairs, grouped together for conversation. The leather was glossy and new on all the chairs but that nearest the door. Shianan chose a gleaming chair and sat low, resting his head against the back. He was tired. The royal review was in two days. No new reports of Ryuven raids had come in, but there was no explanation yet for the previous ones.
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