by Beth Alvarez
They spilled from the ruins like flowing water and filed into formation on the side of the grassy hill. Daemon breathed a sigh of relief. No rival army stood between them and the village ahead.
The morning bustle in the village slowed as they approached. Men gathered to stare at the approaching army, while the women and children disappeared from sight. Hidden in case of violence, no doubt, but the village men clustered in the streets were armed only with the garden tools they wielded for the morning's work.
The march slowed as the army formed a wide half-circle to envelop the town's edge. Daemon strode forward from its center with his head held high, one hand resting on the pommel of his sword. “Gentlemen,” he offered in greeting as he surveyed the men gathered before him. “It seems a fine day for business. It appears you agree.”
“It is a fine day.” The response came from a voice he'd heard before, though Daemon couldn't pick Rolan from the crowd until he moved to the front. “Mark us, though, General, we don't want you thinking us cowards for not wanting to fight.”
Daemon laughed. “The wiser man is he who avoids conflict, my friend. The stories of my people may tout ruthlessness, but I assure you we are not savages.”
“And you'll pay us?” Rolan asked, uneasy. His eyes flicked between Daemon and the captain at his side.
“That was the agreement, was it not?” Daemon swept his cloak back over his shoulder. The village men shifted nervously at the sight of the sword at his hip, but his hand passed the hilt and settled instead on the bulging leather purse tied behind the blade. He pulled the pouch loose and upended it over his palm, spilling a shower of gold into his hand. A whisper of excitement passed through the cluster of men. Excitement and relief.
“Unmarked and unminted, for your own protection, of course.” Daemon flexed his hand to let the gold catch the light. “Mined beneath the ruins by the hands of my own men. There are some impurities, but I hope the quantity we're offering rectifies that problem.” He poured the handful back into the purse and gave it a shake to settle its contents.
“And it's real?”
“You think I'd bring you fool's gold after all this?” Daemon snorted and held the purse out in one hand. “You're all free to inspect it for yourselves. As I don't know what the current prices for goods are, I trust you will divide it fairly among your people once we have what we came for.”
Rolan snatched the purse from Daemon's hand. A handful of men inched closer to inspect its contents. “All right.” Satisfied, Rolan closed the purse and gestured for the other villagers to move. “You've got a deal. Give us a few minutes to get things together, and we'll give you everything we can spare.”
Daemon signaled to the half-circle of soldiers behind him as the village men retreated to collect their goods. The army parted to allow a handful of soldiers with narrow wagons into the street. Tension dissolved as the village men began to reappear with sacks of grain and bins of vegetables. Several chickens in crates appeared, and farther down the road, a man led a hog on a short rope. Soldiers met the men halfway, and they worked together to load the wagons.
Rolan posted himself at Daemon's side, watching the men at work. “I think this arrangement will benefit us both. We can provide food enough for ourselves, but we've no cobbler and no weaver. Everyone in the cities wants money for goods, they're unwilling to barter. Trade being reestablished with either kingdom would give us back our livelihoods.”
“We're from neither kingdom,” Daemon said dryly, shifting on his feet. He relaxed his shoulders, mindful that the motion not be mistaken for discomfort.
Rolan turned his head, confused. “You're not? But—”
“Your people call us Underlings,” Daemon answered before the man finished the question. “Though if we have our way, everyone will know us by a different name before long.”
Surprised, Rolan looked to the wagons. “Underlings,” he repeated, the word full of wonder.
Daemon allowed himself a smile behind his mask. “We would prefer to be known as ruin-folk. That's what we call ourselves.” When no response came, he left the man to marvel and returned to the job at hand.
He walked between the clusters of village men and his soldiers, but they did not need oversight. His men were efficient, working in teams they'd arranged themselves, loading wagons and moving them to the edge of town to form a neat procession. Calling them wagons might have been generous, Daemon thought as he watched another join the line. The carts were no wider than the span of a man's arms, built with high wheels designed for the uneven ground and narrow hallways of the ruins. Even fully loaded, they weren't heavy enough to require animals to pull them. Fortunate, as their collection of livestock was limited. With time, Daemon hoped that would grow, too. He savored the sounds of men joking and laughing, letting thoughts of the future play in his head as business was settled.
The sun rode high in the afternoon sky by the time Daemon thanked the village men for their aid and his soldiers departed with their new supplies.
For the first time in a while, a tingle of contentment touched Daemon's spirits. He split the men into three companies and directed each down a different path as they moved into the ruins. The hardest part was over. A burden lifted from his shoulders. With the sky clear overhead and his men safely back inside the ruins, the rest of the day promised nothing but smooth sailing.
Firal bowed her head against her knees. She wouldn't cry. She refused.
Why now? Why after everything had settled? She thought of her conversation with Shymin and Marreli and her face flushed with anger. She hadn't dared to remain at the temple long enough to find the girls or tell them what happened. Not that she needed to. Her expulsion would be gossip on every mageling's lips before nightfall.
Even had she sought her friends, she doubted she could think of a kind word to give them. No one else knew of her frequent visits to the ruins; no one else could have betrayed her. Firal clenched her teeth and balled her fists in the dirtied gown she held bundled in her arms. She had nothing else. Without the temple, she had nothing at all.
She had fled through the temple's open gates before the guards on duty could catch her, her face burning with shame under the weight of unfamiliar eyes. Her escape into the ruins provided little comfort, though the low, domed canopy of the familiar sigil-marked tree offered shelter from the rain. Firal waited with her back against the tree and tried to ignore the clouds overhead. Birdsong halted when the storm began, leaving only her occasional hiccupping sobs to fill the silence.
It was well past dark before she decided to venture on, though the storm persisted. She was soaked to skin and a dull ache in her middle reminded her she'd left without food. Her eyes skimmed the tops of the walls and searched openings into passages she didn't take. The entry to the long, straight underground road to Ilmenhith couldn't be that far, though she didn't know where to look. With the cold, pelting rain, she could only hope to find it soon—before she, herself, was found.
Undeterred by the weather, night insects whirred in the grass and jumped around her feet as she walked. It seemed like ages since she'd quarreled with Daemon, but it had only been a handful of days. She glanced over her shoulder at every opportunity, each twist and turn of the corridors making her more nervous. How far could she travel before he found her? Firal tried not to think of it. He hated her, she knew. She hadn't seen his face, but there was no need. There was no reason to think he would hurt her, but a confrontation now was the last thing she wanted. Everything from the way he'd stood to that otherworldly light in his eyes had radiated anger.
Shymin was right; it hadn't been her place to teach him. Firal should have known it would go sour somehow. But it had only come to shouting, and that single warning against setting foot in the ruins again. She hadn't intended to return to the ruins at all, never mind so soon.
Though she hated to, Firal made a mage-light and held it near the ground. The light would make her too easy to spot, but she didn't stumble quite so often when she could
see where her feet were going.
By the time she found an opening into the underground, the storm had grown so intense, it was impossible to know whether it was day or night. The passage did not lead into the tunnel she'd hoped for. Instead, it ended at a spiral stairway of black stone Firal was certain led to the catacombs of Lumia's underground palace. That was the last place she wanted to be. But respite from the storm was welcome, and she crept into the cavern's mouth.
Firal's green robes were saturated, a fact unpleasantly emphasized by the cold breeze that whipped into the stairwell, and water plastered her dark hair to her head. She pressed her fingers to the fabric of her robes and caught the flowing energy of the water, twisting her own energies with it. When she moved her hand downward, the water followed, her magic stripping the rain from her clothes.
She repeated the process for her silk gown. The black dye bled onto her hands when she touched it. Dark, marbled stains ruined the red silk panels in the bodice and skirt. She studied the dress with a frown. Her only remaining possession, and it had been rendered as useless as her dreams. Morose, Firal curled against the cold wall and pulled the gown to her shoulders, reducing the once-magnificent garment to a blanket as she succumbed to her exhaustion.
Sleep came fitfully, and not long after sunrise, she began to walk again.
Gray clouds veiled the sky throughout the day and made it difficult to tell which direction was which. Not that it mattered, with the way the ruins doubled back on themselves. It was unlikely Firal could have done anything to keep going the same direction. A handful of plump blackberries scrounged from leggy bushes took the edge off her hunger, though a single handful was all she found.
Her legs burned with fatigue and her feet grew clumsier the longer she traveled, but she didn't stop until the sound of voices on the other side of a ruin wall caught her by surprise. She didn't think she had gone far enough to reach civilization again, though the sound of men's voices and deep laughter indicated otherwise.
With as much stealth as she could manage, Firal crept forward until she could almost make out words. Smoke rose from the other side of the wall ahead, carrying scents that made her mouth water. Hunger and curiosity proved too much for her. Using gaps in the stone as handholds, she scaled the wall and peered over the top.
On the other side, pale canvas tents filled one of the large, circular rooms she'd come to expect in the ruins. Men milled about the tents, some in worn armor, some in nothing more than breeches. A few sat in clusters around a fire built in the center of the camp, joking and laughing as they filled bowls from the deep iron pot that sat in the coals. The good smells made Firal's stomach gurgle. She grimaced and slid back to the ground.
The men hadn't looked unusual, though they certainly weren't Eldani. They were stocky and bronzed, with thick beards and dark hair. Their complexion was more common among the Giftless men from the east. But humans, this far into the ruins? She shook her head and hurried down the corridor. Just looking had been a mistake. If she made it to Ilmenhith in one piece, she would send word to the king. Beyond that, their presence was none of her concern, and the last thing she wanted was more risk.
Firal rounded the corner and collided with an armored body. She screamed, but the man caught hold of her and clamped a hand over her mouth to cut it short. Someone shouted, and metal rasped as dozens of men in the camp behind the wall drew steel.
Her captor wrenched her arm behind her back, forcing her to drop the bundle of silk in her arms. “I've got her,” he called, turning with her to face the small party of armed men that spilled into the hall. They stopped when they saw her, mingled surprise and suspicion drawn on their faces. A moment later, their leader pushed through the crowd.
Firal's stomach dropped and her knees went weak. She sank to the grass.
Though his face was hidden by the same plain steel mask as ever, the eye slits of Daemon's mask glowed red in obvious anger. He motioned with a clawed hand and his men fell back, though they held their swords ready.
“Is she a temple spy, sir?” Firal's captor asked. He kept firm hold of her, though his hand slipped from her mouth. She considered screaming again, but abandoned the idea. What difference would it make? The men were the only ones who would hear.
Daemon snorted. “Don't be ridiculous. She's tactless and graceless. Spies demand guile, charisma, and good social placement.”
The implication that she had none of those made her cheeks burn with shame.
The big hands wrapped around her arms clenched tighter and gave her a hard shake. “What are you doing here, Eldani?”
Her stomach churned beneath the nauseating claws of fear and for a moment, she was grateful she'd found so little to eat. “I'm traveling to Ilmenhith.” Tears welled in her eyes and she blinked furiously to clear them. “I have nowhere else to go.”
“Well, I'm sure the king will be happy to have you,” Daemon replied snidely.
The man who held Firal twisted her arm again, forcing her back to her feet. “What should I do with her, sir?”
“She had her warning. Get rid of her, however you see fit. What you do with her is no concern of mine.” Daemon turned back the way he'd come and waved the rest of his men away. Some of them sheathed their weapons and trudged back toward their camp. Others watched her, and the gleam of entertainment in their eyes made her sick.
“I've been expelled.” Firal called, and her voice cracked.
Daemon paused mid-stride.
“I've been stripped of my rank. All my possessions burned with the temple.” She wiggled to free an arm, but the soldier who held her was too strong. Unable to dash away her tears, Firal grimaced as they rolled freely down her cheeks. “I have no family and no friends outside the temple. I have no other home. If I can get as far as Ilmenhith, perhaps I can...” She trailed off. What could she do? Cast out from the temple, it was unlikely she would find anyone willing to train her further. Aside from magic, she had no skills.
The silence dragged on until even the men behind Daemon shifted with discomfort.
“Begging your pardon, my lord,” the man beside her began, “but if you've no preference what we do with her, perhaps I ought to take her to Core.”
Daemon glared over his shoulder. “Core?”
“You promised us a mage, my lord. I know you remember.” The man licked his lips and cast Firal a thoughtful look before he went on. “It would fulfill your promise, my lord. The people would love it. We can take her to my Minna, sir. She'd be glad to set things right.”
Daemon was quiet for so long that Firal wasn't certain he would reply. Even so, a tiny light of hope blossomed in her chest at the idea of having somewhere to go—even if she didn't understand where. She tried to smother it, but the small flame of hope twisted to longing instead.
Eventually, Daemon spoke. “Very well.” The words were defeated, resigned. But they were enough.
The soldier let go and Firal almost fell. She teetered sideways and put out both hands to catch herself against the wall. When she looked up, Daemon's eyes were on her, but their threatening glow was gone.
They regarded each other for some time before he tore his gaze away. “Let's go.”
The men behind him parted to let him pass. Then, in pairs, they moved after him.
Firal turned at last to look at the soldier who'd caught her. He smiled, and the kindness in his brown eyes startled her.
“Come along, now, miss.” He motioned her forward and, obediently, she gathered the dress she'd dropped into her arms and turned to follow the soldiers around the corner.
The camp grew still when she appeared at its entrance. Her pointed ears burned with the weight of the eyes on her.
Daemon stopped by the fire to scoop a bowl of stew from the pot. Firal shuffled toward him, hugging her gown to her chest. “Daemon, I—”
“Don't talk to me,” he growled. He pushed past the men clustered around the fire and slipped into a tent, closing its flaps behind him.
She s
tared after him, uncertain, and blinked when someone held a bowl of stew right in front of her. That soldier again. He smiled, a gentle, fatherly spark in his eyes. He pushed the bowl toward her again and, not knowing what else to do, she took it. He pointed one callused finger toward the large stones that surrounded the fire, and she sat.
“Thank you,” she said as she settled. The food's pleasant aroma was enough to make her stomach growl.
“Don't mind the general, miss mage,” the man said as he seated himself beside her. “It's best to leave him be when he's in a mood. He'll get over it. Or he'd better, what as he's the only one of us free to take you back to Core.”
As if she wanted to travel anywhere with Daemon now. Uneasiness stirred in the pit of her stomach again, but hunger overpowered it. She reached for the wooden spoon in her bowl. “Where is Core?”
He chuckled. “You'll see, miss. Just wait.”
5
Core
Aside from the occasional curious glance, the men paid Firal little mind. Daemon didn't say a word to her during their trip through the winding corridors of the ruins, did not even explain where she was meant to go when the small army divided into smaller groups. She stood at the crossroads where the groups parted until the man who'd caught her in the first place took her arm and directed her toward the stairs, just as Daemon disappeared down them.
He didn't ask for a mage-light, but she created one anyway. She'd seen enough of the underground before, and after so much travel, she did not trust her feet on the uneven stairs.