by Beth Alvarez
“And what if our people are happy in this hole in the ground?” Lumia thrust herself from her chair. “What's so wrong with the life we have now?”
“Life?” Daemon scoffed. “What life? We're barely existing. Why would you balk at this? We have a right to reclaim the ruins, but if we're caught between both sides of the island, we'll be crushed. If I wanted to seize land from Kifel's holdings, you'd be at the bit to speed it along.”
“It would change everything!” She flung her comb to the floor. “Why not return to Kifel, whimpering with your tail between your legs? To ally with Relythes would be to ally with the mages at this point. Have you forgotten what started all this? Have you forgotten what they've done?”
“How could I?” He flexed his hands at his sides. The soft rasp of his scales against themselves filled the air. “But my fight with the Eldani is mine alone. I will address it my way, on my own.”
“Your way?” Her eyes narrowed. “And does your way involve giving them free passage through my territory and shelter under my roof?”
A flicker of color behind his mask gave him away. His eyelids fluttered, just slightly, before he caught himself. But he did not deny it.
“Did you think I wouldn't hear? That I'm so disconnected from my own people that I wouldn't know what you've done? I know who she is. And that you failed to kill her.” Cold fury seethed inside her, knotting her stomach and chilling her skin. She moved forward with the slow, calculating grace of a viper, her expression deceptively calm. Something less familiar burned in her chest, white-hot in her lungs and sharp in her eyes. Jealousy, she realized. Her ears burned with a curious mix of agitation and shame.
“Core needs a healer,” he said with an indifferent shrug. “And I need a teacher. Her ties to the temple have been severed. She'll never be welcome among their ranks again. She is the best choice we have, since you cannot do these things.”
Though he said it without malice, the suggestion she had failed still stung. It wasn't that she couldn't heal. But there was her pride to think of, and she could not spare the time to see to menial injuries. She was a queen, after all. Her power might have been why the Underlings allowed her to rule, but it was fear that kept them under her thumb.
But his education was something else. He had outstripped her in ability from the moment he'd set foot in the ruins, and she could offer nothing to help him learn. She would never admit she feared his power. Her hold over him was weakened enough already.
“And just what is she teaching you, pet?” Lumia sidled against him and drew her fingertips across his mask. “How much knowledge will she share with you? How much time do you have before she learns what you've done? What we've planned?” Her fingers darted for the ties that held his mask in place. He caught her wrist before she could pull them. His grip tightened until his claws drew blood.
“Why, Lumia,” he murmured, tilting his head. “You're the only one who knows. Or were you planning on having a conversation with the little mageling you hate so much?”
Any other time, she'd found it easy to get under his skin. Why was he suddenly so unshakable? She scowled. “Don't pretend there isn't something else you hope to achieve. She can offer you nothing.” She twisted her arm in his grip and winced when his claws slit her skin as easily as parchment. “You think she'd accept you as you really are? Look at you! How long can you hide behind masks and magic and disguises? What woman would have a monster like you? What woman but me?”
Daemon shoved her arm away. “You overestimate the value of a boy's plaything.”
Her eyes widened and she recoiled as if struck.
He righted his mask and pulled up his hood. “I will leave within a fortnight to speak with King Relythes. I will select my own envoy. You will need to sign a waiver allowing me to fill chests from your coffers, so that I might take the king a fitting gift on your behalf.”
Lumia rubbed the bleeding slices that decorated her arm, leaving thin orange streaks across her alabaster skin. “She won't have you. I'm sure of it.”
“I'll return for the waiver in a few days, after our next trade meeting with villagers to the north.” He gave a stiff bow. “My queen.” He turned to excuse himself from her chambers, and she did not try to stop him.
She lifted her hand from the three identical gashes that marred her perfect skin and stared at them in disbelief.
8
Doubts
Tren drummed his fingers against the edge of his desk as he looked over the maps again. Whether or not he'd been stripped of his rank, not everything had been taken from him. He still had his office, decorated to fit the title of general he'd had before. Weapons hung upon the walls as tools and decorations both, with numerous charts and maps of the island suspended between and behind them. The lavish furniture remained, the dark wood polished to a glassy shine. An opulent patterned rug still lay underfoot, one of many spoils he'd claimed for himself before that whelp of a boy had taken his place.
Stroking his beard, Tren sat down. He still had men in the ranks who were loyal to him, soldiers he could count on for information. He didn't like what they'd brought him today. It wasn't unusual for Daemon to come and go from the ruins, but leaving northward was something he didn't do often. The boy almost always departed southward, skirting temple grounds. From what Tren had gathered from his eyes and ears, Daemon had not ventured near the temple since the Eldani king's soldiers had departed and visitors began to arrive from the east, instead.
So was the boy avoiding the mages? Or was Daemon a part of their envoy now? All of Core was aflame with talk of their general learning magecraft. With the way things between the temple and Ilmenhith teetered on the verge of eruption, that seemed like the last catalyst they'd need for a disaster.
He'd felt from the beginning that using Daemon was a mistake, but who was he to argue with the queen? If the boy were not so volatile it would have seemed a decent strategy, but his temper and mood swings complicated things. With Daemon's grudges against both the royal family and the temple mages, he made an ideal pawn, and he'd still been an impressionable child when Lumia ensnared him. Tren couldn't condone her methods, but the idea was sound enough. By setting Daemon up to seize the western throne, she'd put herself in position to become his queen. A convenient accident could remove him and leave her with all the glory she craved.
Glory meant nothing to Tren. His game had always been power. Losing his title as general had been a minor setback, but it might spare him trouble in the long run. Let Lumia and her pet do the leg work. Once she removed Daemon from the picture on her own, she'd be more vulnerable than she knew.
King. Now there was a title with a powerful ring to it. He ran a hand over the map spread across his desk and smiled at the expanse labeled as the Eldani kingdom. There would be no more cowering in caves. No more desperate struggle to survive. Sometimes he couldn't understand how he'd been born to these pitiful people, with their weak wills and lacking ambitions. But some were born leaders. He wouldn't say much for Lumia, but at least she'd recognized that trait in him. Yes, King Tren, that sounded right. After all, it was only right that his people be ruled by one of their own again.
Tren folded the day's notes and tucked them into his pocket before he slipped out of his office and into the busy hallway. He adjusted the stiff collar of his coat and closed the door behind him. No one would have dared steal from him, but he locked it, nonetheless.
His office wasn't far from the main marketplace of Core. The barracks at the end of the hall gave the avenue a steady stream of traffic. It granted him anonymity, in a way. So many people came and went that no one noticed when he visited his office, nor when his informants joined him.
“Afternoon, sir.”
Tren suppressed a frown and turned to face the soldier who had stopped in the hall beside him. Had he arrived a moment sooner, they could have spoken in private. To retreat into the office again would have been noteworthy. He opted to remain in the hall instead, choosing to ignore the carefully res
pectful greeting the soldier had used.
The men did not seem to know how to address him since Lumia's removal of his rank. That was something Tren would have to remember to speak to her about. They lacked the forces for titles to be anything other than formality, but titles still held power in the minds of men. Surely there was some other title he could adopt. Colonel, perhaps.
“Afternoon,” Tren replied, cold and formal. He tried to avoid giving extra attention to those who still acted as his men, tried to treat them no differently than any other soldier. Less likely to arouse suspicion that way. One never knew who was listening. “Is there any news?” It was the same thing he always asked, the wording innocuous and tone nonchalant. The soldier fell in step beside him as he made his way toward the market.
“There's been no activity in the ranks since the mageling's arrival,” the soldier replied. Tren was pleased the man's choice of phrasing sounded half complaint, half gossip. “We're all itching to move again, but the general seems distracted.”
“By the mageling girl?” Tren brushed dust from his sleeve and raised his chin as they stepped into the bustle of the lantern-lit marketplace. The military cut of his coat yielded nods and curtsies from people who bowed out of his way.
“Of a sort.” The soldier paused, and a hint of a frown pulled at his mouth. “By learning her craft, at least. I've no desire to watch their lessons, myself, but I hear they can be quite a spectacle.”
Tren slowed. “She teaches him here?”
“Where else? She's got her own place a few levels down.” The soldier adjusted his pace to match the hesitance in the former general's step. “He's there a lot, from what I gather. I've heard talk it's not just her magic he may fancy.”
Tren grunted. From the way the man beside him nodded, he found the notion disgusting, as well.
When Tren said nothing, the soldier went on in a disinterested tone. “I hear Firal—the mage—is up in the gardens most afternoons. Seems harmless enough, but plenty of folk avoid the place like the plague whenever she's there. Not everyone is as trusting of mages as the general seems to be. They wronged us before. There's no saying what they might do now.” Then the man fell back and touched a finger to his brow in a gesture of respect. “See you in the training arena, then?”
“Of course,” Tren murmured as his informant vanished into the crowd. He stopped at the archway into the inverted tower at the end of the river. The branching hallways there housed most everyone in Core, Tren included. He'd planned on retiring to his private quarters, but the new knowledge made him reconsider.
Despite living near the temple his entire life, Tren knew little about the mages—beyond their politics, at least. If the mageling girl sought to manipulate Daemon, he wouldn't be surprised. But there were enough hands pulling those strings already. Whether Lumia knew it or not, Tren would be the first to endorse her puppetry. The queen's intentions paved an easy road for his own.
He altered his course, climbing up the spiral path rather than delving farther into the earth.
The afternoon sunlight was harsh after the dusky lantern light of the underground. Tren grimaced as he waited for his eyes to adjust. He spent little time outside of Core. Even when he'd been in charge of raids—before that, too, had been taken from him—they'd gone under the shadow of nightfall. It would certainly take time to grow accustomed to living beneath the sun.
There were few enough people in the herb gardens that it wasn't difficult to see her, though the first glance caught him off guard. Though he wasn't sure what he'd expected from the Eldani girl, she certainly wasn't it. Her black hair was pulled into a bun that was coming undone, her homespun dress the same as any other woman in Core might have worn. She wasn't as fair or fine-featured as he'd always heard Eldani women were supposed to be. Aside from the definite peaks of her ears and the milkier tone of her skin, there was nothing to distinguish her from his own people.
Dirt smudged Firal's face and caked beneath her fingernails. Muddy splotches on her skirt showed she'd spent most of the day on her knees. She banked soil beneath a plant with a trowel and sat back to inspect her work. A swipe across her forehead with the back of one hand left a dusty streak on her pale skin. Tren frowned. Somehow, he hadn't expected to see her working for her keep.
He strode closer and clasped his hands behind his back. “I imagine this sort of work is unusual for you. I suppose mages would be more at home among piles of books.”
The mageling twitched as her eyes swept toward him. Her gaze lingered on his uniform, though she was clearly uncertain what to make of it. “I'm no stranger to work,” she said after a time. She rose and brushed dirt from her skirts.
“I didn't mean to imply that you were,” Tren replied. “You're fending for yourself quite well, from what the city has to say. I figured it was time for me to meet you.”
“And you are?” The question wasn't quite sharp, but there was an edge to her voice that he wasn't sure he liked.
“Tren Achos. I'm an officer in Queen Lumia's army.” The latter tasted sour as it rolled off his tongue. If colonel was what he was going to call himself, he needed to embrace the title before Lumia could take it away. “And you are the mage Firal, who has the whole city in a buzz?”
Firal made a face. “Would that they speak to me and not of me.” She tucked the handle of her trowel into the ties at the waist of her dress and pushed her hair back from her face.
He shrugged. “Well, it's not as if you can blame them. Magecraft is something rather unknown among our people. It's caused a bit of a stir, you teaching our general the ways of a craft so foreign to us.”
“I’ve heard people say your queen is Gifted, as well,” she said dryly.
“Not quite in the same way Daemon is.” He paced forward to inspect the neat rows of well-tended herbs. “You look at home among the plants. Are herbs useful to you? Or are they just part of the lessons?”
Firal gave the plants an indifferent glance. “Herbs are useful to everyone. Tending them gives me something to do. I've a lot of time and little to fill it with.”
“Do your lessons with him take so little time?” Tren arched a dark brow.
Her eyes narrowed. “You seem awfully concerned with Daemon and his abilities.”
“Less concerned with him and more concerned with your safety, my lady. I've heard you are a skilled medic. That's something we desperately need. I'd hate for you to get caught up in his schemes. Especially those involving your people.” His eyes flicked to her ears.
Firal did not reply right away, but her lips pressed into a thin line. “I'm not a part of any schemes,” she said finally, though a wary look flitted through her amber eyes.
“Is that what he's told you?” Tren chuckled and rubbed his beard with his thumb. “You're involved whether you like it or not, my dear. All of us are. He'll use anyone in Core to get to the throne. It's not bad to be along for the ride, as long as you know there's a place for you at the end of it. As long as you're mindful and keep yourself useful to him, I'm sure he'll make room for you in the palace in Ilmenhith.”
Firal drew back. He saw the uncertainty in her posture, though her face remained unchanged. Good. Let Daemon try to keep his secrets. Tren was eager to see how well he'd be able to use the girl now.
“My work in the gardens is done for today,” Firal said with a stiff nod of farewell. “If you'll excuse me, Sir Achos.”
“Colonel Achos. And of course, my lady.” Tren bowed as she picked up her skirts and hurried past him. He didn't smile, but a definite sense of satisfaction filled him as he watched her leave.
“It's good to see you in the palace again.”
Ran jumped and snapped shut the book in his hand. It slipped out of his grasp and clattered onto the desk. The sight of Medreal in the doorway should have been a relief. Instead, his heartbeat thundered in his ears and throbbed in his fingertips. He swallowed and moved the book back to where it had been, never tearing his eyes from the stewardess. “I thought you would
knock.”
“I thought the office was empty.” Medreal closed the door behind her as she joined him in the king's office. “Don't look at me that way. You know perfectly well I won't bite. Has the temple set you free, then? I imagine it's been busy, putting things back in order.”
“Not everyone is needed at this point.” He tried to sound casual. It was harder than he expected; his voice caught in his throat and threatened to choke him. Uncomfortable under her gaze, he turned his attention to the papers on Kifel's desk instead, stirring them as if bored. Some must have gotten wet. He squinted at the lettering. The ink was almost illegible. “With everything going on, I figured it was best to just stay out of their way.”
The old woman smiled, though her eyes remained as sharp as ever. They cut through him like knives. “Well,” she said, “I'm sure there's plenty here that you can do. I'm sure you know more about the rumblings in the temple than we do. Your father will likely have questions for you. He is holding audiences with mages who have declared their loyalty to the crown. They wish to unify the mages stationed outside of Kirban.”
“What do the chapter houses think of that?” If he was supposed to be a court mage, he would be required to be involved, but he was careful not to sound too interested, lest she drag him off to be included in those meetings. He was not ready for that.
“Who can say? Not all of them have been contacted. Of course, the temple itself may yet break. There are some Masters within the temple who I cannot imagine agree with the direction the Archmage has chosen.”