by Beth Alvarez
“Eldani boy?” Her brow furrowed, but she shook her head. “No, never mind. Minna, get me a cloth and cold water. He needs painkillers, too. Davan, help me with the rest of his armor.” Her eyes went to Daemon's mask. The only analgesics she'd been able to make had to be imbibed.
She swallowed hard and reached for his mask.
“Don't touch it!” One of the soldiers slapped her hand away. “The general's mask is never removed.”
Firal glowered, her composure gone in an instant. “Get out! Go! Minna, get them out of the way!”
Minna deposited supplies at Firal's side before she waved the men back. Together, she and Davan herded them out of the room. Growling and shaking her head, Firal thrust an abandoned piece of armor off the table and let it land with a clang. She loosened the ties of Daemon's mask and thrust it back. Her eyes fell on his face and her stomach dropped to her knees.
The plain steel mask clattered to the floor.
A strong hand grasped her elbow and steadied her. “Stay on your feet now, Miss,” Davan said, his expression solemn. “Can't have you taking ill when the general needs you.”
Her head spun and her knees felt as firm as water. “Daemon,” she choked, laying hands on his face. “Hold on. Stay with me!”
Sweat beaded his brow, his skin scorched with fever. His eyes rolled back in his head.
“Ran!” Firal cried, tears brimming on her dark eyelashes. He looked at her then, snake-slitted eyes hazy, but focused on her face. “Stay with me,” she repeated, brushing back his dark hair.
Her stomach lurched again as Davan removed more pieces of armor. She sliced open the bloodied tunic and exposed the deep wound in Daemon's side. The blade hadn't fully skewered him, at least, though that was a small consolation. She wrung water from the cloth Minna left in the bowl and put the rag over his brow with one hand, the fingers of her other hand curling over his wound.
Little strength pulsed within him. The thinnest trickle of life energy answered her call. It had to be enough.
She snared it and bent it to her will, rerouting its flow through his body. Focusing on his hot skin beneath her fingers, she called forth her own energies. Her fingertips tingled as the flows of her life force interwove with the feeble threads of his. They brightened in her senses, even as weakness washed over her. Warmth filled her shaking hands as she manipulated the energies, working power into his torn flesh, willing it to mend.
It fought. A shadow pushed against her, a deep, bitter flow of power that welled from within the wound. New fear lodged itself in her belly. He had too little strength for her to use. The shadow surged beneath her efforts, thin veins blackening beneath his skin to mark its path.
Firal couldn't fight long. She'd have to cut corners. Stave off infection, stem the bleeding, seal it over. Before the soul-deep poison of corrupted magic spread.
A thin sheen of sweat formed on her brow as she labored. Without another mage to aid her, there was no way she'd be able to repair it fully.
Fingers brushed her arm. Minna pressed close to her side, her strength a soft beacon at the edge of Firal's senses. She turned her head. Davan crowded at her other side. Stronger, deeper, the life essence of a man in his prime. They weren't mages, but their presence was power—precious power—in the only vein of magic she could tap.
A gentle claw rasped against her hand and she gripped his cold fingers with all her might. Magic surged through her, one last, forceful thrust fed by the presence of the Giftless people at her side.
The shadow gave way and Daemon's life force flared. Firal gasped as her knees buckled beneath her. She clutched the edge of the table for balance, her fingers sliding in the sticky ichor. Strong hands caught her before she fell.
“That'll do, Miss,” Davan said as she sank into his arms. “That'll do,” he repeated, the soothing note of his voice all she needed to let go. Tension slipped from her shoulders and she let herself succumb to exhaustion.
16
Known
“So with half our mages gone, and the rest of us trying to hide their absence from Relythes, what's your plan now?” Melora folded her arms over her chest as she leaned back in her chair.
None of the Masters left in Alwhen were happy with Envesi's decision to let the traitors go, though few were courageous enough to voice their objections. Melora, on the other hand, had no qualms with letting the Archmage know exactly how she felt. Alira sat beside her and nodded.
“Please,” Envesi sighed. “Our numbers are reduced, but things are not out of hand.”
“If you've already decided how to handle this, you should have told us sooner.” Alira tried to look calm and neutral, but anger and fear still flashed in her eyes. Melora couldn't stand the girl, but the two of them were the highest-ranking Masters who remained, second only to the Archmage. It wouldn't do to show dissent in front of the lesser mages.
Envesi eyed the empty chairs at the table's sides, seats previously reserved for Edagan, Nondar, and Anaide. Despite the obvious fact they would not return, the lower-ranking Masters present refused to fill their seats.
“There are bigger things to worry about than their defection,” the Archmage said at last.
Melora raised a brow. Little escaped her notice, and she was irritated enough at having failed to see the festering divide among the mages until it came to fruition. If she had missed something else, she was going to be angry. “What, for example?”
Envesi rested her elbows on the arms of her chair and laced her fingers together. “The other day, one the mages attending our new king mentioned an unusual visitor. A young man who introduced himself as 'General' Daemon, and entered negotiations to purchase land near the ruins.”
“Well, he's certainly grown bold, hasn't he?” Melora rubbed her mouth as if to wipe away the look of displeasure that twisted her lips.
“Naturally, Relythes made the mistake of indulging him. Even after he demanded the so-called general remove his mask.” The Archmage shook her head in disgust. “That little problem will need to be nipped in the bud as soon as possible.”
Alira's brow knit as she looked between the two of them. “One of the Underling pests? I don't see why that would be a problem for us.”
Melora shot her an incredulous stare and then glanced to Envesi. “Doesn't she know?”
“She is a bit younger than the rest of the Masters who were on my council,” Envesi said, though a wry smile twisted her mouth.
“She doesn't know!” Melora almost crowed with laughter when the younger Master's face crumpled into a scowl. “How long have you been Master of your House? You poor, ignorant child!”
Alira's face grew red. “What haven't I been told?”
Melora cackled. “This general, the leader of the Underling army, is the Eldani king's son!”
Alira’s mouth hung open a moment before she produced words. “But I thought his son—I mean, wasn't he—”
“A student at the temple, yes.” The Archmage shrugged. “He's played at being one of those pitiful cave-dwellers for some time, but if he's started to carve out pieces of land from eastern holdings, that's a new problem.”
A sneer worked its way onto Melora's face. The Archmage demanded respect, but this chain of events was too rich. “A problem, or another weapon for you to wedge between yourself and your estranged king?”
Envesi made a small sound of displeasure. “I had hoped allowing him to run with those outcasts would keep him close when I needed him and out of my hair when I didn't, but if he's begun to claim land, the issue must be handled. Should he make a stand against Kifel, you know the blame would be put on us. We sit in a precarious position and could easily fall. I have worked too hard to strengthen the influence of magic to fail now.”
Alira chewed her lower lip and stared at the table. Embarrassment still colored her cheeks, but she had regained her composure. A small surprise, given the girl's impulsive nature. “But if he chooses to stand against his own father, wouldn't that present a strong opportunity for us to sever tie
s completely?”
“Are you suggesting we ally ourselves with the wildling's forces?” Melora asked.
“The wildling,” Envesi interjected, her nose wrinkled with disdain, “is a problem that should be eradicated, not encouraged. I have no desire to be involved with politics beyond those which influence mages. My goal is to advance and preserve the existence of our Gifts. Kifel's support was vital to the establishment of the temple, but he expected use of our power for his own desires. I cannot allow the expectations of outsiders to interfere with our goals.”
Melora drummed her fingertips against the table. “Yet if interference is what we wish to avoid, perhaps the best thing we could do is encourage the situation to fester. It's bound to remove Kifel from power, or eliminate proof of our shortcomings if the wildling is eradicated. But we also cannot assume the boy will meet Kifel with animosity, as Alira suggests. The last thing we need is two nobles with vendettas against us.”
Alira frowned at her. “So, what, you think we should instigate a war?”
“The word 'instigate' seems rather childish, but yes.” Melora shrugged. “Stir them up, convince them to fight one another, and it will leave us with only one opponent. Assuming, of course, the girl isn't involved.”
Alira glanced between them. “What girl?”
Envesi ignored the question. “Our incoming mages claim the girl never arrived in Ilmenhith or any of the other chapter houses. I expect the boy has added her to his collection. It is the best possible outcome, given the current situation.”
“Unless he means to use her,” Melora said. “She would make a powerful weapon. The last thing we want is for the wildling to have the whole western kingdom behind him.”
“Please,” the Archmage scoffed. “He is a Master in name only. What he knows is limited. Regardless, whatever his intentions, it is better to leave that pawn for him to toy with than to have her stoke Kifel's anger toward the temple. All I expect is for the Masters here to continue to serve as my eyes and ears. It is not yet time for us to act.”
“Very well then.” Melora didn't agree, but she didn't think an argument would change the Archmage's mind. “When you are in need of our assistance, let us know. If all we are to do is wait, then there is nothing more to discuss.”
“Indeed. I will summon you when I am in need of hands. In the meantime, watch for events to unfold. You are dismissed.” Envesi flicked her fingers toward the door.
Melora stood and bowed. Alira and the rest of the mages in the council chamber did the same. As the mages filtered from the room, Alira made her way to Melora's side.
“May I speak with you?” Alira asked, voice low.
“You are already speaking with me, child, but you may continue to do so.”
A sullen look remained in Alira's eyes, but she quashed her pride. “What the Archmage said, about the king's son and a girl...”
Melora crossed her arms as they strode down the hall. She couldn't help a smirk, delighted at the notion a Master of affinity could be so clueless. “You wish to know the rest of that story, eh? Very well. As Master of the House of Fire, it is your right.” She cleared her throat as if beginning a well-practiced recital. “It was back at the founding of the temple. Before the council saw fit to denounce the Archmage's marriage to King Kifelethelas and forbid mention of her throne. You would have been a child then. The wildling was our first real project, our first major undertaking. The temple was made for creating weapons like him, you see. It deviated from that plan over time, but that was the reason for its founding. The creation of powerful mages to restore glory to magekind.”
Alira nodded, but remained silent. Melora slowed a shade to allow the other mages to outpace them before she went on. “Mages like you and I are limited in our capabilities. Not only are we restricted in what energies we may draw on, but we can only wield so much of our own strength without the risk of unmaking ourselves. The idea was, since all natural things are limited to preserve the balance of things, we would make an unnatural thing, and its power would be unlimited.”
“And you were a part of this project?” Alira asked in a murmur.
“You are the only Master of an affinity who was not.” Melora smirked. “Of course, the magic went horribly awry. I suppose such things happen when you attempt matters best left to the divine. We meant to create a child in the shape of a man. What we created was a monster. Had the Archmage been involved through the end, perhaps it wouldn't have happened. But she was with child, and as such, she was unable to safely wield magic. She could not risk the king's unborn child. Without her expert hand guiding the flows, Lomithrandel was the result.”
“I don't understand.” Alira shook her head. “If he was—is—some sort of magic construct, how did he come to be Kifel's son?”
“Ah, yes. The king knew of his unborn child, but he did not know when it was expected. Kifel was desperate for a child, and Envesi needed his financial support for the establishment of the temple. When the Archmage saw how her experiment had gone awry, she gave the creature to the king in place of the child she’d never let him have.”
“And the child?” Alira asked.
Melora sniffed. “Gone.”
The younger Master was quiet for a time. They strode into the main living hall together before Alira spoke again. “When you say you planned to make his power unlimited... How powerful is he?”
Melora considered the question for a time before she decided where to start. “As you're well aware, there are few mages born without an innate affinity. But once they choose an element to first draw upon, whether consciously or unconsciously, that becomes the element they are restricted to for the rest of their lives.”
“Of course,” Alira said, irritated.
Melora resisted a smile. A lecture on something taught to magelings was unnecessary, but she enjoyed ruffling the girl's feathers. “He is free of those bonds. He bears no affinity. None. He can draw from anything, anywhere. I couldn't say how powerful he is. I don't know how much energy there is in the world.”
Dumbfounded, Alira stopped in her tracks. “If that's the case, shouldn't the Archmage be afraid of him?”
“Dear child,” the elder Master laughed. “I don't know that he's aware of the extent of his own strength. But that's not our concern. Finding how to make more like him, mages who know no limits, but without the corruption? That is what the temple stands for.” She patted Alira's shoulder and slipped away between the long, narrow dinner tables, silently gloating at the young Master's dismay.
The rattle of a spoon against the soup kettle startled Firal awake. Her head pounded, the weak light of candles and the fire on the hearth enough to make her groan.
“Easy now,” Minna cautioned, her voice soft. “Don't be stirring around too much, neither one of you.”
It wasn't until Minna spoke that Firal realized she wasn't alone in the bed. She rested against another body, thick blankets pulled over both of them. She wrenched her eyes open and her stomach gave a heavy flop at the sight of Daemon by her side. Or could she think of him as Daemon now? With darker hair and his peculiar eyes, not to mention the claws and scales that decorated his hands and feet, he did look different. Just not different enough. His face showed nothing but weariness, but when their eyes met, her nausea stirred into rage.
She thrust herself back and slapped him with all her might. “Liar!”
“Now now, Miss Firal!” Minna clicked her tongue and scuttled across the room with bowls of soup in hand. “The two of you have been through enough without any of that.”
Firal ignored her. Angry tears brimmed on her eyelashes, but she did not dare blink them away, lest they fall. “How could you? All this time, you were lying to me!”
His eyes closed, his brow knit with emotion. “Firal—”
She slapped him again.
“That is enough!” Minna thunked the bowls onto the bedside table and caught Firal by the wrist. “Behave yourself! After everything you did yesterday, you need to rest. Th
at goes for Lord Daemon, as well.”
“Ran,” Firal said as she cast him a shadowed look. “His name is Lomithrandel.”
“It's what I answer to that counts.” Daemon's—Ran's—voice was weak, defeated, betraying the weariness of a man pulled back from the brink of death.
“Well, I don't care what he's called or what he answers to.” Minna looked between the two of them, frowning. “It sounds like the two of you need time to speak. If you'll not hit him any more, Miss Firal, I'll leave you be. Otherwise I've a mind to bundle you down the hall and stuff you in bed with Tobias.”
Firal pushed herself out from under the blankets, silently relieved to see she still wore her dirty work dress. Her cheeks were hot enough without the addition of shame. “We'll be fine, Minna, thank you.” She managed to keep her voice level as she swung her legs over the edge of the bed, though she shook with a mixture of anger and fatigue. She clutched the bedding for support and stared at her feet. Her anger hadn't distracted her from her churning stomach; she thought she might retch. “I will call for you if I need you.”
Minna gave her a reprimanding look but said nothing more. As she departed, she left the door open a crack. The silence that followed grew uncomfortably thick.
“I know you're angry with me,” Ran—Daemon—said at last, watching her with a placidity that made her seethe.
Firal snorted. “Angry with you? All these years, you hid this from me. You tried to make me think you were two different people!”
“It's not like that.”
“Then what is it like?” She glowered at him over her shoulder. Her hands felt numb, curled to fists in the blankets. The rush of anger and betrayal that burned inside her left her cold.
“You have no idea what it's been like. I've wanted to tell you, Brant knows how badly. Can't you understand how hard that is?” Daemon tried to sit up, but his face twisted with pain. He groaned and clamped a clawed hand over his side. Firal knew the surface wound was gone, not a mark left to show it had been there, but the lingering effects of the damage would take some time to heal. He sank back into the bed and licked his lips before speaking again. “I lied. I know. I'm sorry. But it was never supposed to go this far.”