Blood & Bond

by Laura VanArendonk Baugh

  LUCA SET A PILE OF fresh linens on the chest at the foot of the mage’s bed and turned to go.

  “Luca?”

  “My lord! I had thought you asleep.”

  “I wish I were.” Hazelrig shifted uncomfortably. “How is Bailaha?”

  “He’s awake now,” Luca answered, pleased. “He’s speaking. And the prince has just come to visit him, while you were sleeping.”

  “The prince here?” Hazelrig seemed startled. “I hope you’ve dusted.”

  “I’ve done my best, my lord, to keep—‍”

  “Leave it, Luca, I was joking.” The mage smiled tiredly. “You have the care of two invalids. I won’t complain.”

  Luca nodded automatically. The healer who had visited yesterday had not been so generous, snapping at Luca about soiled linens changed only an hour before and irritable that no food was ready prepared. “Your indolence will cost them,” he’d chastised over Shianan’s still form. “That kind of regeneration requires an unreal amount of energy—see how he’s wasted even now? How will he recover if you don’t feed him properly?”

  “I will set a pot of vegetables—‍”

  “Diced bits, mind! And boiled soft. You don’t want to choke him. And where is Mage Hazelrig’s boy?”

  “I don’t know, my lord,” Luca answered worriedly. “I haven’t seen him at all.”

  “Run away in his master’s illness? That won’t go well for him, I imagine.”

  Luca kept the house himself, changing and laundering the bedding, cooking, carrying warm wash water upstairs, stocking the fireplaces with newly split wood to keep the invalids warm, sleeping in the corridor between their doors to listen for any need.

  “The prince said the Circle—the others—made a temporary shield from the broken Shard.”

  Hazelrig smiled wearily. “Did they? Well done, Elysia.”

  Luca straightened the linens he’d brought, aware he was compulsively occupying his hands. “Shall I bring you anything, my lord?”

  “I don’t think so,” Hazelrig admitted. His skin was sickly pale; the White Mage, indeed. He shook his head slowly, his eyes closing.

  Luca nodded and made a small bow though the mage did not see him. “Yes, my lord.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX

  ARIANA HATED THE OPEN door. It was the local style, she knew, but she could not get past the feeling of exposure and vulnerability.

  Ryuven passed her room frequently, casting glances at the strange human within, and no matter where she sat in the chamber she could feel their eyes. Even when no one walked the corridor, she could hear their voices plainly, hear their movements. She was never alone. She washed and dressed hastily, huddling in a corner and watching the door. At night she lay alternately with her face to the door, tensely alert for intruders, and with her back to it, trying to block it from her mind. She was never private.

  She did not weep. She had given herself the single brief release in the garden, and then she had shut her grief away. Shianan was dead, her father was injured or dead—but grieving for them would squander the only opportunity she had. She could not afford distraction.

  The nim who brought her meals and necessities was wary of her, and not without reason; the first human mage to survive their magic-infused atmosphere had caught his arm and asked boldly for a room, stunning him.

  She could not face Tamaryl. Not yet. Not while she yet held her grief in check.

  Oniwe’aru had not sent for her yet, though she questioned the nim often and even stopped higher ranking Ryuven in the corridor. Two days had passed without word from the Ai leader, and a faint panic warned that he was only toying with her, teasing his human prisoner before something much worse, that he had no intention of meeting with her or seeking to end the war. But she sharply pushed the thought away. Surely Oniwe’aru wanted peace as much as anyone. His people suffered with fighting, too.

  She hardly slept at night, afraid in the Ryuven palace without a door, afraid to dream of her father jolting backwards, of Shianan’s arched body hanging midair as she was torn away into another world—

  She woke, her eyes burning, as someone moved outside her room. She jerked upright with a catch of breath and saw Tamaryl facing her. They stared at one another a moment—only a few heartbeats, but it felt longer—and then he started forward.

  Ariana flung magic at the archway, creating a shield. Tamaryl hesitated at the sudden flow of power and he stared into the empty air at the invisible shield, seeing it however Ryuven did. Then he wordlessly withdrew and went down the corridor again.

  Ariana took a slow breath. What had made him come? Why hadn’t he called to her, or knocked? He knew she was no Ryuven and preferred her guests to announce themselves. Why had he watched her as she slept?

  Why had she erected a shield instead of speaking to him?

  The magic crumbled, unmaintained. She realized she had created not just a physical shield, but the same variety the Circle had crafted to be powered by the Shard of Elan—a Ryuven-killing shield. It would not have merely stopped Tamaryl like an invisible wall, it would have torn him apart.

  Guilty fear vied with indignant resentment and the ever-present struggle against sorrow. She hadn’t meant to hurt him, only to stop him. She hadn’t thought at all, only reacted. But...

  A tentative knock interrupted her musing, and she caught at her blanket as she looked again at the open archway. “Yes?”

  “Ariana’rika, you are called,” said the nim, not quite entering. “Oniwe’aru will speak with you today.”

  Her stomach tightened. This was it, then. This was her chance, her only opportunity. “Thank you. How soon?”

  “You have some time, Ariana’rika. I’ll bring your breakfast.”

  “And could I have some clean clothing? Something more appropriate?” She still wore her workshop clothes.

  “I will bring something for you, Ariana’rika.”

  “Thank you.” She nodded. She did not know how much of the breakfast she would want—she had not eaten much since arriving, even without the fresh nervousness already twisting within her—but the Ryuven fruit was delicious and she would make herself take a little. She could not afford to be light-headed.

  SHIANAN WAS SAMPLING the lunch Luca had brought—soup with melted cheese, tempting despite his weakness—when a tap in the hall drew their attention. Luca leapt from his work. “My lord mage!”

  “Stand back, Luca, I’ll manage.” Hazelrig eased himself into the room, leaning heavily upon a light-colored staff. “This makes me feel very venerable, like one of the legends of old.”

  Luca hurried to carry a chair. Shianan twitched helplessly in his bed. “Steady, my lord mage.”

  Hazelrig cast him a dark look. “Men in bed must not be too solicitous of those with a crutch.”

  Shianan acknowledged the reproof with a lift of his hand. “I beg your pardon, my lord mage. But I have done my walking this morning, twice about the room, with Luca’s aid. And while I would never argue you aren’t the peer of the great mages of the past, they are usually depicted wielding their staves, not leaning upon them.”

  Hazelrig chuckled as he sank into the chair Luca provided. “That is an artist’s kindness. Do you know why the first mages had staves? We had not learned so much yet then, and magic did not use well those who would use it. Most mages aged poorly and died early. The staff was not a means to channel magic, as some claimed, but a walking stick.” He paused, a bit winded from his effort. “Twice around, you said? That’s very good for a man who should have been dead.”

  Shianan nodded. “I don’t know how to express my thanks to the Circle.”

  “Leave the Circle for a moment. You know our shield is limited?”

  Shianan nodded. “And then the Ryuven will come, yes. And we will meet them.”

  “You will go?”

  “I cannot fail to go. And I’m feeling fitter even now.”

  Hazelrig smiled wanly. “You were nearly dead—you should have died. Most would take tha
t as reason enough to avoid this battle.” He sighed. “It will be another Luenda.”

  “That’s what I have heard.”

  “If you go, Becknam, I want you to come back.” Hazelrig looked evenly at him. “It will be carnage. But I want you to come home.”

  Shianan stared back at him. “I will not hide from my duty, my lord.”

  “I never believed you would, even if I were selfish and foolish enough to ask it, which I am not. No, you are one of the bravest men I know. I know that better than any other.” He fingered the pale staff absently. “I meant—I want you to try to come back.”

  “My lord mage...”

  Hazelrig glanced at Luca.

  “Oh, you may say anything before Luca,” Shianan assured him. “Luca knows all my secrets, even those I’d rather not know myself.”

  Hazelrig nodded. “Then I will say it plainly: You once intended to sacrifice your life for my daughter. Now that she is gone, I do not want you to sacrifice it again in retribution.”

  The words struck Shianan solidly in his chest. He straightened as best he could in the pillowed bed. “My lord mage, I do not intend to throw away my life on the field. If I fall in battle, I fall, but I will not give my life lightly to the Ryuven.” Something stirred within him, stretching as it woke, angry and venomous.

  Hazelrig looked at him narrowly and then nodded. “Good,” he replied at last. “And, so it is clear between us, I do not know that Ariana is truly gone. He brought her home once before.”

  Shianan’s throat closed with sudden force and he could not look at Hazelrig. That was before... that was before Tamaryl had learned Shianan loved her, before Shianan had guessed Tamaryl might desire her, too. That was before Tamaryl had used Ariana as a living shield, forcing Shianan to watch his own blade slice toward Ariana’s neck as he struck for the Ryuven.

  If Tamaryl had once respected and cared for Ariana enough to save her life, it could not be counted upon now. She might be captive even now, perhaps a prisoner in a silken prison, but nonetheless his captive—

  “Becknam?”

  Shianan gulped past the lump in his throat and made himself inhale. “I’m sorry.” He could not crack before Hazelrig—not a mage, not her father. “I was only—I’m fine.” Luca was staring at him worriedly, but Shianan looked deliberately at Hazelrig. “I mean to rejoin my officers soon. The healers said I should be capable within a few days.”

  Hazelrig smiled wanly. “Of course. Sometimes I envy you cleavers of meat.”

  Shianan looked at the mage, pale and still clutching his staff. “They said you were able to erect a shield. It’s odd that mages are more susceptible to their own weapon.”

  “What is the difference in lightning striking a rock or a man? The man has a nervous system, and so he suffers greater injury. I don’t mean you are a rock, my friend, but you do not have a magical nervous system, so to speak.” Hazelrig glanced at Luca, silent in the corner. “I will miss your Luca. He has been very careful of me.”

  “Keep him after I’ve recovered,” Shianan offered. “You have no one here, and he already knows your needs. Yes, Luca? You would help my lord mage, wouldn’t you?”

  “I would be glad to, if you will not need me,” Luca answered with a small bow.

  Hazelrig smiled at Luca. “I would be glad to have him, even for such a short period. Thank you both. Now, I think I will hobble my way back to my room for a nap. Being a mage of legend is not nearly as empowering as one might think.”

  “Shall I help you, my lord?”

  “No, thank you. But if you should hear an unexpected thump, you might glance out for me.” He chuckled and left.

  Shianan looked at Luca. “You don’t mind, do you?”

  Luca shook his head. “I’m glad to help him. You’ll be well enough?”

  “I’ll have no choice but to be. But I should be fine.” He relaxed against the pillows. “I only feel so inexplicably exhausted.”

  “That’s the mage healing, they say. You’ll need another day or two of sleep.”

  “I’ve done nothing but sleep,” complained Shianan. “And I haven’t even dreamed anything worthwhile.”

  Luca smiled and then sobered. “Master Shianan, about the bandits...”

  Shianan’s eyes were already closed. “King’s oats, them too. Write down what you know of it and I’ll pass it along, though the Ryuven threat will take precedence.”

  “I will.”

  If Luca said anything more, Shianan did not hear it.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN

  ARIANA WAS LED THROUGH cool, intricately carved corridors to a mid-sized audience chamber, where the nim gestured her toward two tall female Ryuven who glanced indifferently at her but did not deign to greet her from their posts flanking the entry.

  She saw Tamaryl standing just inside the chamber, and she hesitated. But he startled her by dropping to one knee. “My lady mage Ariana Hazelrig, Black Mage of the Great Circle,” he pronounced solemnly, and she realized he was announcing her.

  She stepped into the room, and Oniwe’aru rose from his high seat to face her. “Ariana’rika.”

  “Oniwe’aru, Altayr ni’Ai cin Celæno, Alcyon ni Pairvyn, Majja to Pleione,” she answered. She had questioned the nim and practiced unceasingly as she waited. She curtsied deeply in her borrowed gown. The slits exposing her sides and back worried her slightly. She guessed the Ryuven would find no fault in the bared skin, but the garment designed to accommodate a broader torso lay loose on her slim frame. The statuesque female Ryuven outside the door did not show such draping fabric. “I am pleased to visit your court.”

  Oniwe’aru looked impressed as she straightened; she had surprised him by mastering his formal address. “Please, come and sit with me.”

  In this case, with me meant a seat just before and below his own, but Ariana was glad she would not have to stand for the length of the negotiations, or what she hoped would be negotiations. Edeiya’rika, the female champion, stood behind Oniwe. Beside the door, Tamaryl remained on one knee.

  Oniwe’aru noted her curious glance. “Tamaryl’sho will remain to answer any questions or differences we may have, as he best understands our respective worlds and peoples. Please, make yourself comfortable.”

  Ariana sat in the backless chair, cool air brushing her spine. It gave her an unsettling sensation of being naked.

  “I will begin the formalities,” said the Ryuven. “I am Oniwe, aru of the Ai and not without influence among the other clans. My people have guarded our raids upon yours jealously and forbidden other clans to encroach, and any peace we reach will be guarded in the same way, as it must be equally profitable to us. Thus I pledge my worthiness to enter into negotiations and to uphold whatever agreement we conclude.”

  He looked at her significantly, as if he doubted her position. That was only reasonable, as she doubted it herself. But she had no choice but to make this venture.

  She started by mimicking his declaration. “I am Ariana Alyssa Hazelrig, Black Mage of the Great Circle. I am the daughter of Ewan Hazelrig, the White Mage, and I know his mind in this affair, and I have confidence that what peace we may agree upon will be honored by him. He is not without influence in the Circle and in the court. I will not pretend I speak for our king, but I swear to you that I will do my best to have our agreement accepted and formalized by His Majesty King Jerome.”

  Oniwe’aru frowned faintly. “You have no personal word from your king?”

  Ariana clenched her jaw. “With respect, my lord, my coming was somewhat impulsive. Had I known Tamaryl’s intention, I might have previously sought an audience with His Majesty and brought letters of credential. But as we stand, I am afraid you have only my pledge that I will present and advocate your proposal as favorably as I can.”

  Oniwe’aru nodded. “I will accept that for our introductory negotiation, at least. But we cannot conclude an agreement without some token of good faith from your sovereign.” He straightened in his low-backed chair, letting his wings sh
ift behind him. “What suggestion for trade do you bring?”

  Ariana took a bracing breath. “When I first came, the magic here nearly killed me. Your healer blended for me a potion to treat my illness. One of the ingredients is a precious medicinal herb in our world, gathered to extinction and priceless. We call it dall sweetbud, though I do not know by what name it is known here. But my proposal is this—medicine for food. We have nothing to rival dall sweetbud’s healing properties, and if you have it in abundance, you could sell it at considerable profit. In exchange, you could barter or purchase grain and meat from our farmers’ stores.”

  Beside the door, Tamaryl twitched and his eyes widened. She had surprised him.

  Oniwe frowned thoughtfully. “You think your growers would sell their crops for herbal medicine?”

  “I do not pretend it would be so simple, no. The farmers and herdsmen would sell to their usual merchant buyers, some of whom could be approached by the Ryuven or their representatives. With all respect, the farmers have feared Ryuven attacks for generations, and I doubt they will be readily open to trade. But merchants are more inclined to new markets. And the promise of dall sweetbud should buy a more tolerant ear.”

  “And your merchants would purchase it? For coin, which they would then accept for foodstuffs?”

  Ariana nodded, trying not to sound too eager. “There is a new sickness in the countryside. It has not gone far yet, but it is spreading, following the river. If there is a time to offer a lost legendary panacea, this is it.”

  “Hm.” Oniwe’aru glanced toward Tamaryl. “Tamaryl’sho? What do you know of this?”

  “Almost nothing, Oniwe’aru,” Tamaryl answered, still kneeling. “I did not make a study of extinct flora during my stay. But I will agree that, if this herb is valuable to the humans, it is our most logical choice in trying another means.”

  “Better than your raids, you say.”

  Tamaryl stiffened. “I have always satisfied you, Oniwe’aru, in bringing supplies for our people. But it is no secret I would prefer a more pacific manner of securing a harvest.”