by Beth Alvarez
“Then we’ll come back to that,” Rune said. “Don’t forget why we ended up in this meeting to begin with. The girl needs to be found.”
Firal’s brows drew together, her lips pursed. Rune met her eye and, for a moment, his feelings felt as raw as if scoured by sand.
That was why Firal had demanded he help, wasn’t it? An alliance. Not simply because of what he could do, but because of the desperation that came with the feeling of being isolated and alone, stripped of power and hungry for help. The feeling that just one person on your side, one person to trust, would turn the tide.
But he’d balked at the summons and contemned her begging. Perhaps her anger at him was more justified than he wanted to admit.
Vicamros twitched his head in agitation. “We’ve been over that issue and I’ve already said I won’t be involved.”
“Then I will,” Rune said. “I ask to be released from your council, my liege, and to be excused from your armies. I will forfeit my land holdings if you so require.”
Sera’s mouth fell open, her shock mirrored by the councilors.
The king blinked at him in disbelief. His mouth opened and closed a half dozen times over before he managed a single word. “Why?”
“Because it’s my fault.” Rune curled his left hand into a fist and rubbed the namesake scar that marred the scales on its back. “The queen’s daughter was taken because of her Gift.”
“That has nothing to do with you,” Vicamros protested.
“It has everything to do with me. She’s a free mage, Cam.” Rune’s throat constricted and it was all he could do to keep his voice from cracking. “She is my child.”
Disbelief clouded the king’s face and he turned to Firal as if seeking verification.
Firal sat with her head bowed, the crimson flush of shame coloring her cheeks.
Rune’s heart sank.
Vicamros gripped the gilded arms of his throne and stiffened. “Then... your wife...”
“Yes.” Rune didn’t know what else to say.
Slowly, Vicamros slouched back in his seat.
“What does that make you, then? The consort? Or the king?” Redoram regarded him thoughtfully, stroking the length of his white beard. So much like the first time they’d met, the old scholar sat trying to determine what, exactly, he was.
Rune hesitated, searching the faces of his friends and allies. Garam inclined his head in the slightest of nods. Redoram appeared pleased, as if he’d found the fit of another piece in a complex mechanical puzzle. Stal and Alira were indifferent, while Sera wore an amused smirk.
He didn’t dare look at Firal or Kytenia.
“Does this make you royalty?” Vicamros asked.
“I suppose it did,” Rune said at last, smiling mirthlessly. “Briefly.”
Vicamros rubbed the side of his forefinger across his lips before he smoothed his tidy, graying beard. “You never cease to surprise me, my friend. Though I should have guessed you were an old hand at business and politics from our time on the battlefield alone.”
The king drew a breath, rested his elbows on the table and laced his fingers together. “But you are sworn to the crown and I will not relinquish that oath. I will not release you from your service.”
Bubbling anger overshadowed the pang of despair that tore at Rune’s heart. He shoved himself back from the table and rose. “You don’t own me.”
“Sit and wait for me to speak to you,” Vicamros snapped back. The gleam of determination in the man’s steel-blue eyes gave him pause.
Vicamros turned to Alira. “As a member of my council, you have special privilege over most college mages. Use it now. You are to act as my emissary to Roberian. Recall all mages to the Roberian embassy and then bring them to the Royal City. Every last one. Councilor Parthanus, you are to do the same with the embassy in Aldaan.”
Redoram nodded. “Of course, Majesty.”
Cowardice. Hiding beneath the barrier that kept the Royal City safe from mage assault, as if it alone could save them. The rest of the Triad would be on its own. Rune scoffed and spun away.
A hand snatched his sleeve. “You were not dismissed.”
Rune jerked against the king’s grasp, which tightened in response. Gritting his teeth against his swelling rage, he pulled harder. “You can’t stop me from going after her.”
“I didn’t say I was.” Vicamros stood.
“Then grant me my freedom!”
Vicamros hauled him closer. “I am king! In my council, you will—”
Rune backhanded him across the mouth and tore himself free.
Startled cries and curses echoed behind him. Chairs toppled as Garam and Alira leaped from their seats.
The guards beat them around the table, but not before Vicamros returned the blow.
Rune staggered backwards. Crimson light flared in his eyes as he touched the back of his hand to his bloodied lip.
The king raised a hand, stalling his guards. “You think fighting me will change anything? I’m not your enemy.”
Rune wiped black blood from his mouth and spat at the floor. “If you won’t let me go, then I’ll fight my way out.”
Vicamros leaned closer. “Stand down.”
“You’re in my way,” Rune replied through clenched teeth.
The king struck first.
Pain burst in Rune’s jaw, radiating through each of his teeth and making his vision blur. He shook his head to clear his vision and lunged at the king.
Strong arms intercepted him before his fists made contact, dragged him backwards and shoved him toward the floor. His claws squeaked uselessly against armor. The light in his eyes burned brighter as his anger grew.
A boot struck the back of his knee and the men wrenched his arms behind his back. Memories flashed through his head as they forced him to kneel. Vicamros loomed before him, ready to pass judgment.
“Stop!” Firal tripped over her own feet in her haste and caught a chair to right herself. “Don’t harm him, please!” The sheer panic in her voice pulled at Rune’s heart and for a moment, the color in his eyes faltered.
She put herself between them, though she wasn’t so forward as to block the king’s view. Vicamros stared past her skirts.
“I could have your head for what you’ve done.” The king spoke as calmly as if he remarked on the weather.
“Spare him, I beg you,” Firal pleaded. “He is a man of passion, he knows not what he does.”
“A loose cannon, more like. He knows precisely what he does.” Vicamros touched his mouth and checked his hand for blood. It came away clean. He dropped his hand to his side. “But no amount of passion will make me walk blindly into war. Each step I take will be planned.” He cast Rune one shadowed glance before he went on as if nothing had happened. “Lord Kaith, I trust you will be able to help the military prepare to host the incoming mages?”
Garam stood close by, body tense. Even in old age, he was a man of action. Every inch of him showed tight control and preparation to fight. “Of course, Your Majesty.”
“There will still be the issue of drawing mages out of Lore, if the Grand College is already outside our control.” Vicamros returned to his throne and allowed Alira to inspect him for injuries.
Firal was so near, her skirts brushed Rune’s face as she twisted to kneel before him. Though her shoulders relaxed, lines of anxiety still marked her face. And anxiety was all he saw. There was none of the hate she’d voiced. Not in her eyes or the distressed set of her mouth, and certainly not in the gentle way she touched his bleeding lip.
Bitterness swelled inside him. It was all too familiar, a scene that had played out in his head a thousand times or more. Him, forced to his knees before his ruler, waiting for his sentence to come.
Thirty years, he’d wondered what would have happened if she’d said the words that seemed to come so easily now.
Spare him.
So simple, yet powerful.
He wasn’t foolish enough to think she said it now because sh
e cared. She needed him, that was all. He was a tool too useful to lose.
Rune tore his gaze away and let his head drop. “You’re years too late to save me.”
Firal said nothing.
“Will Umdal be able to shield its own mages?” The king waved Alira away, evidently deciding a swollen lip wasn’t worth healing.
“We may need refuge,” Stal admitted. “The best way to protect the Collective would be to track them down one at a time and send them to the Royal City.”
Vicamros nodded. “Then that is what we’ll do.”
“And hide while the rest of the world crumbles beneath a mad free mage?” Rune’s voice cracked and he clenched his teeth.
“And shelter my people to the best of my power, while organizing a retaliation against forces I cannot hope to match right now,” the king replied. “Not that I have to justify myself to fools being restrained on the floor until I see fit to deal with them.”
Garam made his way back to his seat, using the chairs for support as he circled the table. “I thought you couldn’t risk a war?”
“Arrick’s death and the threat to the Umdal mages changes things. It seems war will come for me, one way or another.” Vicamros rubbed his eyes and sagged in his throne. “The best I can do is be prepared to meet it.”
“Assuming we can gather our people, what else is there we can do?” Sera stroked her stomach with her fingertips. Now and then, she paused to untangle the mess of bracelets at her wrists. “I don’t mean to validate the lizard’s opinion, but we cannot hide behind the Royal City’s walls forever.”
Regardless of whether she intended it, Rune still felt a small twinge of validation. At least someone took him seriously. He flexed his shoulders, just enough to test the guards who still held him. Their grip tightened, ensuring he stayed against the floor. He changed the motion and merely shifted on his knees, keeping his head down.
“Be still,” Firal whispered.
He’d been so focused on thoughts of leaving that he hadn’t realized she still sat with him.
“Don’t draw any more attention to yourself and perhaps he’ll let you off easy.” She leaned in and touched his face again, pretending to examine the injury. He wouldn’t have objected to healing, but beneath the Royal City’s barrier, it was unlikely to come.
Rune did not reply. His heart stirred with confliction. She sounded as if she was concerned, but was it because she worried for him? Or because she feared she might lose his assistance after he’d finally voiced his allegiance to her cause? He was still powerless, but he had determination. That alone was powerful in its own way.
Her fingertip slid beneath the split in his lip and her hand cradled his swollen jaw. Her cool skin offered some comfort, but her touch stirred violent emotions. Rune knew Vicamros well enough to be sure his life wasn’t at risk. He’d be punished, surely, but Cam wasn’t a king who ruled with fear. He was too creative for that. A prison term, perhaps, or another stint with the city guard. Even worse, there was the possibility Rune would be forced to sit on all the king’s council meetings. He couldn’t think of many punishments worse than that.
But no matter what the king had in store for him, it couldn’t be worse than the torture of the gentle caress of Firal’s hand on his face and the knowledge that—no matter how desperately he wanted it, no matter if he did somehow rescue their child and restore Firal to her throne—she would never be his again.
He pulled away from her touch and made himself focus on the conversation that had gone on without them. His anger dulled to a simmer and bitterness swelled in its wake.
“Having so many mages present does open possibilities for expansion of the barrier,” Redoram said, “but encompassing the entire Triad would still be impossible. Even the Alda’anan couldn’t do that.”
Sera flicked her fingers in dismissal. “It doesn’t have to be the whole Triad. Lore is a lost cause, and Aldaan might as well be uninhabited after we pull the mages from their posts. Even Aldaeon never recovered.”
“Roberian is certainly large enough to host the whole of the Triad if it comes down to it.” Alira tapped her fingernails on the edge of the table. Distracted as he was, Rune hadn’t seen her sit down. “The mountain range makes Aldaeon more defensible, but Roberian is a good second. If anyone tries to break the barrier, they’ll have to assault it from the east and south.”
“But we cannot merely defend forever.” Stal scrubbed a dark hand over his scalp. He’d done that half a dozen times already, a sure sign of stress. “How many mages would it take? How large a knot of power would have to be tied to rival someone like that?”
“Ten Masters from each major affinity,” Kytenia supplied, quoting the exact request Rune had given. “At the very least. But they would need to be tied with a mage who knew what to do with that sort of power.”
If she was trying to suggest Rune for the part, it came at a poor time.
Vicamros heaved a sigh and ground his fingers against his eyes. “We’ll still have to start by collecting mages. Even the Grand College doesn’t typically have fifty Masters in it at once. And we’ll still have the college mages to contend with, for that matter. As well as the temple mages. She won’t be alone.”
“But we have two free mages.” Sera smirked across the table. “They only have one.”
“Rhyllyn lacks control,” Alira protested. “He cannot be involved.”
“With all due respect, Master Alira,” Vicamros said, “I believe he is going to have to be.”
Rune twitched at that and started to stand, then cursed beneath his breath when the guards shouldered him to the floor again.
The king turned his head as if suddenly reminded of his presence.
“Begin with the mages,” Vicamros ordered, rising to his feet and donning the cold, impartial mask of an expression he wore when meting out punishment and discipline. “We’ll develop our attack plan once our defenses are in place. Council is dismissed. If you will excuse me, I have another matter to attend.”
Rune lifted his head and tried not to cringe when he saw the king unfasten his cloak and lay it over his throne. One by one, Vicamros removed the jeweled rings from his fingers. So. His punishment would be like that.
“Go,” Rune whispered to Firal. “We’ll speak later.”
She hesitated, but inclined her head and followed the others as they filtered out of the room.
The guards released Rune’s arms.
“Bind his claws, would you?” Vicamros cracked his knuckles with a grim smile. “If he wants to fight, it’s going to be a fair one.”
6
Old Flames
Firal took a half dozen steps from the closed door before the angry voices erupted in the council chamber behind her, followed by the sound of fists against flesh.
She spun on her heel and started back, but a hand on her arm stopped her.
“Leave them.” Sera grinned and tilted her pointed ear toward the door. “They’ll be at it a while before things are settled.”
“But Rune—” Firal started.
Sera waved a hand, then rested it on her bulging stomach. “The lizard will be fine. It’s not the first time he and King Vicamros have used fists to establish dominance. They call it unscheduled sparring.” She rolled her chilly blue eyes and started down the hall slowly.
Unsure what else to do, Firal followed.
“I didn’t have a chance to introduce myself,” Sera said. A cheery smile put a glow into her cheeks. Her dark skin had an undertone like burnished gold, which only heightened the contrast between her natural coloration and the shocking white hair and ice-blue eyes of a Master mage. She was a beautiful woman, and graceful despite the typical waddle of late pregnancy. “I am Sera Kaith, ruling matron of House Kaith, wife to Archmage Stal Kaith of the Umdal Collective and elder sister to Lord Garam Kaith, former Captain of the Royal City Guard.”
“Sister?” Firal studied her from the corner of her eye. “Garam bears your surname.”
Sera�
��s fine brows climbed her forehead. “Of course he does. Things are done differently in the trade kingdoms in the south. One’s surname is their house name. When you marry, you take the name of the more powerful house. I would be Sera Obane, but Stal was not yet Archmage when we married.” She winked.
“Oh.” Firal frowned and looked ahead. Sera’s husband walked with Kytenia, chatting pleasantly, while Garam and Councilor Parthanus walked with their heads bowed close together for murmurs of business.
“And you?” Sera prompted gently.
Firal grimaced at her forgotten manners and cleared her throat. “My apologies, it’s been a difficult week. I am Firal. I suppose I no longer have a title to go with it.”
The other woman’s eyes grew sharp. “I thought you might be, but I wasn’t sure.”
“I beg your pardon?” How would she have any idea who Firal was? The Umdal mages had come through a Gate directly into the council chamber. From the sound of things, Garam hadn’t been with them long enough to share many of the events from the past few days.
Sera turned her head to inspect her with a shrewd eye. “From the description I heard, I expected a goddess. You’re not quite what I had in mind, but I do see the appeal.” The corners of her full mouth twisted upward and for a moment, Firal wasn’t sure if she should be amused or offended.
Sera didn’t give her time to decide. “In any case, it’s nice to have a face for the name. Garam told us about your daughter. I’m truly sorry to hear it. I know if it were one of my children, I would go to the ends of the earth to get her back.”
So Garam had spoken to her before Envesi’s interruption. Firal made herself nod, but words were harder. A lump grew in her throat and threatened to choke her. “It’s all happened so fast. It seems every time I find a new ally, things get worse.”
“Well,” Sera chuckled, “it sounds like you’ve got a few more on your side now.”
Heat crept into Firal’s cheeks. “I don’t think King Vicamros will have much energy to spare for my daughter.”
“You may be surprised. I suspect the amount of effort he puts into that matter will depend on who wins the fight.”