It would have been better to die in battle. He was now a traitor, by the word of Oniwe’aru, and his life was forfeit. Even he could not overcome the concerted efforts of a dozen elite warriors. When he was found, he would die.
The sound of ragged breathing stopped him, and he looked down. He pushed aside a dead nim and uncovered a gasping human, folded and incoherent with pain. He had taken a magical bolt across the face, where it was killing him slowly. His grey robes marked him as a lesser mage, but beneath his scorched and boiling wound, he looked too young to be at war.
Tamaryl felt ill. Even if this were his enemy, he did not deserve lingering torture. He gathered a handful of energy and prepared to be merciful.
But he had warned Oniwe’aru he would not fight this day.
He knelt and shifted the young mage gently, exposing the injury. This was devastating to a human, but it would have been straightforward enough for Tamaryl to heal in himself. Why could it not be done in another? He made a decision and spread his hand over the boy’s face. If he would not kill him and he would not leave him to suffer, he would heal him, or at least try. He did not know if humans could be helped magically, but the boy would be no worse for the effort, surely.
It took some time to find the right harmonization to allow the human mage to utilize the energy, but Tamaryl was in no hurry. It was strangely fascinating, in fact—if he focused the energy properly, the boy’s body seemed to accept it as its own and began to heal normally, but at an accelerated rate, as if he were Ryuven. It took an incredible amount of energy, far more than it should for a Ryuven wound, but Tamaryl was Pairvyn and he had yet plenty this day.
When the raw wound closed, puffy and red but no longer seeping, Tamaryl straightened. The boy mage slept, exhausted from metabolic hyperactivity, and Tamaryl nodded to himself. He might be found by parties of either side searching for survivors, or he might wake and escape alone, but he had not died by Tamaryl’s hand and had not been left to suffer.
Tamaryl walked on, noting absently how the reddening sun shed an appropriate hue. The scavengers had arrived already, ravens and wild dogs and others.
An overturned wagon sat on one edge, jutting upward and casting a long shadow in the evening light. The slaves which drew it had long since fled or died. Tamaryl looked beyond the wagon and wondered where the retreating human army had retired. He wondered how many of his own warriors had survived.
Something drew his attention to the wagon’s shadow, and he saw a hunched figure with its back to the upraised wagon bed. Tamaryl moved closer and then froze. This was a mage, and he was neither dead nor insensible.
He was injured, though. The aura of power about him surged and flickered unevenly. Tamaryl knew better, but he was only passing time until his own death, and so he moved closer, curious and strangely unafraid.
The mage was watching him. He had probably hoped Tamaryl would pass without noting him. He was nearly beyond defending himself, now. Only his eyes moved as Tamaryl approached, looking at him steadily as he slumped in his blood-stained white robe.
Tamaryl’s pulse quickened at the sight of the robe. “The great White Mage,” he murmured. “How ironic—the one human who might give me what I sought, and too gravely wounded to do so.”
The mage was afraid, but he had seen too much battle to allow it to rule him. “If you know me, then I ask that you do what you must with respectful speed.”
This was the White Mage, leader of the Great Circle. If Tamaryl brought such a prisoner to Oniwe’aru, he might purchase his forgiveness.
But he would not fight this day, and he would not take prisoners. “I have come to kill no one,” Tamaryl answered solemnly. He sighed. “I wish more could say the same.”
“This is hardly the place for pacific speeches. There will be more killing tomorrow.”
“I know. But I won’t be a part of it.” He glanced at the mage. “Nor, it seems, will you.”
The human closed his eyes. “So you will not kill me, but you will watch me die.”
Tamaryl lowered himself to the ground and crossed his arms over his knees, bracing his wings behind him. “Not with pleasure, White Mage. But if I help a boy too young to sacrifice his life, I spare only him. He will recover and go his way, perhaps wiser. If I help the White Mage of the Circle, I condemn many more of my own people—and while I do not wish them to fight, I would not aid their enemy.”
“Bravely spoken,” replied the mage weakly, “by one who invades our world. Enemy? We have never crossed to ransack and pillage your villages. We are not bloodthirsty beasts of prey, glorying in the kill.”
The words were uncomfortably close to his own, and anger flashed through Tamaryl. “Is that how you see us?”
“Is there any reason to see you another way?”
“We fight to survive,” Tamaryl snapped gruffly. “Without raids we would die.”
The mage’s gaze swept the littered field. “You’re not doing so well with them, are you?” He winced as he shifted.
“I have done my part to end this war,” Tamaryl said. “I have given my life to end it.”
“I know Ryuven heal their wounds, but....” The White Mage’s chuckle failed in a groan.
Tamaryl shook his head. “We are both dead,” he replied. “You only look nearer it. When my people find me, I will not look so well.” He glanced at the sky, expecting sho and che to appear at any moment.
“A traitor, are you? I wish we had met in better circumstances, then. I would have asked you how to end this war.” He closed his eyes. “I’ve tried everything to find a different end; I would have gladly taken the words of a Ryuven.”
Tamaryl caught his breath. The White Mage was highly placed in human society. If he could be persuaded, then he might influence others. If Tamaryl could convince the humans that they were not monsters beneath consideration for trade, not horrors to be hated....
“White Mage,” he ventured, “I saw a human boy healed today. He was dying, but slowly, and he could use focused energy as his own to recover.”
The mage nodded wearily. “Mage healing, using artifacts of stored power.” He closed his eyes. “I gave away the last I carried, though, fool that I am.”
Tamaryl looked at him. “If I helped you to heal, White Mage, would you give me your word that you will seek to end this war?”
The human looked at him with sudden interest. “In what way? I will not go with you and help to crush our resistance.”
“No, no—I want you to end this fighting by peaceful means, by engaging our peoples in trade and diplomacy. If we could purchase what we needed, there would be no need to reward vainglorious hotheads, no need for battle as a proving ground for young politicos. I can help you, if you will seek a more peaceful solution.”
A grim, pained smile. “You ask me to pursue what I already hope for.”
“Then you will swear to work toward its end?”
“By the most solemn oath I know,” the human replied. “And you will be there to help bring it about.”
Tamaryl smiled grimly. “I will be dead.”
“You said they are seeking you. I can hide you, in our world, and you can help orchestrate our peace.”
Now Tamaryl regarded him warily. “I will not be your prisoner, either.”
“That is not what I intend.”
Tamaryl considered. He had little to lose: ignoble death from his own kin and kind, or an uncertain future in the human world. If the human betrayed him, he could always fight to freedom or death, he reasoned, and be no worse in the end. He nodded. “So we save both our lives and set ourselves to saving our respective people?”
The mage smiled weakly. “You put it well.”
Tamaryl reached forward and spread his fingers over the mage’s bloody chest. “Then let us begin.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
SHIANAN LAY DEEP IN a bed which was not his own. The sheets were smooth against his bare flesh, better than the military staples he expected. When he opened his eyes, he
saw the shape and color of the ceiling over his bed were wrong, too. But a soft rustling near him brought a wash of familiarity; it was the subtle sound of Luca folding laundry.
He tried to roll to face him, but stiff pain knifed through his torso, stealing his breath.
“Master Shianan?” Luca came to the bed. “Can you hear me? Keep still, you’re not healed yet.” He leaned so Shianan could see him without twisting, eyebrows drawn close together. “You’re in the Hazelrig house. My lord mage is recovering in his room, and you’re in my lady Ariana’s bed.”
“Finally,” Shianan murmured. “Although I’d rather hoped she would be in it, too.”
Luca burst into relieved laughter. “Master Shianan! Thank all that’s holy. I’m glad to hear you speaking sense—if a bit baldly.”
He sounded almost giddy, and it worried Shianan. “What happened? And help me to sit up, would you?”
“You were struck by Pairvyn ni’Ai, do you remember? You—you weren’t well.” Luca turned and collected pillows from a corner trunk. “You should have been dead.”
“I should have been dead since the Shard first was stolen,” Shianan answered lightly. He wondered if he were a bit giddy himself. “What of it?”
Luca picked at a thread. “I thought—you had died. No one thought...”
Shianan sobered. “Luca...”
Luca shifted self-consciously and began to set the pillows. “But my lord mage instructed them on how to save you, and the mages took turns working their spell on you, and you lived.” He grinned, embarrassed. “As you see.”
“The mages saved me?”
Luca nodded. “Hazelrig insisted. It wasn’t that they didn’t wish to, but no one thought you could survive, only he knew a way. And there was talk of how brave you were to face Pairvyn ni’Ai with only a sword.”
Shianan blinked. “The Circle? Spoke of me?”
Luca reached behind Shianan’s shoulder. “Let me lift you,” he warned. “Don’t try to hold yourself. From what I understand, your body thought it had been cut in half.”
“My body thought...”
“You were attacked with magic. I cannot pretend to explain it, but I will say it most impressively nearly killed you.” Luca pulled, making Shianan catch his breath as his torso shifted, and pushed the pillows behind him. “How’s that?”
Shianan looked down at his bare chest. Had he lost weight? “I’m far too clean to hurt this much. Where’s the mark?”
Luca shook his head. “Should a mage visit again, you might ask one of them. My lady Mage Parma has been here several times, and healers of course.”
Shianan finally turned to the shadow his mind didn’t want to acknowledge. “Where is Ariana? If I am here...”
Luca nodded unhappily. “She was taken with the Ryuven.”
Sudden despair swelled in Shianan. “He isn’t what he was before, Luca. I don’t know how, but I know it. Something’s changed in him. And the other one—that was a Ryuven lord, wasn’t it? A clan king?”
A bell rang, and Luca jumped. “I’ll be right back.” He hurried out of the room.
Tamaryl was different, Shianan was certain. And the other had struck down Mage Hazelrig without a thought. They won’t hesitate to kill her.
Shianan closed his eyes and tried to remember. He recalled Ariana’s mad charge toward the Ryuven lord, and he remembered rushing Tamaryl, hoping the colored streams of light would distract his target. Then there had been a bright burst of agony and nothing else.
There were steps on the stairs, and then Soren entered the room. Shianan twitched upright, pain stabbing through him, and clutched at the sheets. “Your Highness!”
“Lie back, Becknam. I won’t ask a wounded man to keep courtly etiquette. Luca, make him lie still.”
Luca, following, straightened the blanket Shianan had pulled askew and then drew a chair for the prince.
“You see,” Soren pronounced as he sat, “now we’re both sitting comfortably. Well, I am, at least. I’ll look in on Mage Hazelrig as well but Luca said you’d just awakened. How are you?”
“Better now than before, from what I hear. But what are you doing here? You can’t come down the street—”
“Do not be so quick to tell a prince what he cannot do,” Soren protested. “This is my city, after all, and if I cannot walk in safety down an affluent street to the house of our highest mage, then we have graver troubles than I’d thought. And I wore a hooded cloak. I came to see you, of course.”
Shianan glanced away, uncomfortable in his weakened state.
“I came to the Wheel, when the alarm went out. But the cursed soldiers seized me and bore me away, for my own protection, they said, though I wouldn’t be surprised if some of them weren’t just as glad of a reason to leave. It was quite the scene.” Soren smiled “And you, my friend, are the hero of it.”
“Why?”
“You challenged Pairvyn ni’Ai yourself, even called him to fight you alone. While it might have been a bit presumptuous to call yourself the kingdom’s champion, everyone agreed it was a splendid effort, and you nearly died in the attempt.”
“I’d rather not think I must die to be in my duty.”
“No. But we are very glad you’ll be well enough, they say, to join in the coming battle.” Soren’s smile faded. “One is coming, we’re sure of it. The Ryuven won’t lose such an opportunity as this. The Circle—most of them, anyway—made some sort of temporary shield out of the fragment of Shard that was left, but they say it must fail soon. Then...”
Shianan’s heart stilled in his chest. He was a soldier, raised a soldier, but he did not relish the idea of leading his men into battle and slaughter. “Can’t they make the shield last?”
The prince nodded sadly. “The Silver Mage brought us a choice. We could protect Alham a bit longer if we did not shield the outlying lands as well. But what use is a guarded city if our fields are stripped bare? We told her to cast the shield wide.”
Shianan clenched his fists beneath the concealing blankets. The shield prevented Ryuven attack but barred Ariana as effectively. If she could even return...
“The generals are arguing over where the attack will likely come. They’re supposing somewhere on the plains, but that doesn’t exactly narrow it down for efficient planning. The Ryuven will be—it will be another Luenda, they’re saying.” Soren glanced at the floor. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s been a long time without a real battle, just raids. We should have expected it.”
Soren shook his head again, as if to dismiss the mood. “I didn’t come to speak of that, and you’ll have better information from your own sources, I expect. I came to see how you are. You sound quite well for a man who’s only just awake.”
Shianan made a gesture of indifference. “I’ve been better. I’m told the mages saved my life. I’ll have to thank them.” He glanced at his torso. “The thing about magic is that one either dies promptly or heals within a reasonably short time. I think I’ll hang on for the few days it will take.”
“I’m glad. I—I’m glad.” Soren rubbed at his nose.
There was a moment of awkward silence. Luca cleared his throat. “Shall I bring refreshment for His Highness? And, master, you should have something. You haven’t taken much.”
“King’s oats, Luca, let me at least pretend to decide myself.”
Soren chuckled. “Your Luca has a most cheeky tongue in his clever head, I’ve noticed. If he has the chance to infect others, we’ll have another Furmelle disaster on our hands, so be sure to keep him safely with you.” He grinned.
Luca hurriedly bowed and retreated from the room.
Soren’s grin faded. “I think I frighten him.”
“There are moments when it doesn’t need much,” Shianan admitted. “And he was at Furmelle.”
“Ah.” Soren had the grace to look embarrassed. “Is that how you came by him?”
“No.” Shianan let his head loll on the supporting pillows, glad he did not have to hold hi
mself upright. “Can you keep a secret, Your Highness? I stole him.”
Soren raised an eyebrow in mock severity. “Using your authority for gain, Becknam?”
“His master was arrested, and I took him from the prison before the guards sold him for profit.” Shianan tried to shrug without much movement. “He was already stolen; I only stole him again.”
“Where is his master now? His former master, I mean.”
“Still in prison. It was the Gehrn priest who destroyed the shield.”
“Ah. Well, commander, I think it should be perfectly acceptable to take a slave for questioning in such an incident. Did he know anything about it?”
“No, Your Highness. He was merely a tool of the priest—and one not highly regarded, at that.”
“Then it is not unreasonable that, as he could not provide useful information, the state had finished with him and he could be disposed of in any convenient manner.” Soren smiled. “I’m glad he went to you—and returned. I thought you had sent him to his family?”
“I have not even heard that story myself. He returned only last ni—’soats, what day is it? How long has it been?”
“Two days. You did worry us, you know.” Soren laced his fingers together. “At least I don’t have to visit you in your military quarters.”
Shianan snorted. “Better than hiding in Fhure.”
“But I so enjoyed my rustic visit there.” Soren’s grin faltered. “I’d like that, actually—visiting Fhure again. When all this is finished, when there’s time, may I come?”
This was his way of expressing hope, Shianan realized. This was Soren’s oblique wish that Shianan would return safely from the battle. Soren should have been fretting in conference with the king and advisers and generals, but here in Shianan’s sickroom he was relaxed and even jesting, a different man. Shianan did not quite understand it.
He might not yet have Fhure, but that was not the point of the question.
Shianan quirked his mouth into a smile. “How could I refuse hospitality to my prince?”
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