A Deliverer Comes

by Jill Williamson

“That liar!” Hinck cursed Eudora in a dozen different ways, furious that he had ever believed her a good person or pitied her at all.

  “Don’t feel bad,” Grayson said. “The rosâr said we did a good job.”

  That stopped Hinck’s tirade. “Yes, we did,” he said, thankful and relieved to be alive. “You all did. Please tell Master Nesos I said so and that we are going to his son now.”

  “Mahi pai runga te kaipuke,” Grayson said.

  Master Nesos grinned. “Mauruuru koe hoki faaora ahau.”

  “He poured shards of blessings over your head, whatever that means.”

  Hinck nodded to the man, then pointed at the silver tray. “Could you hand me one of those tarts?” he asked.

  Grayson delivered one, and Hinck ate it in three bites.

  “Maybe one more,” he said over a full mouth.

  Four tarts later, Hinck finally voiced Trevn.

  “Thank the God you’re alive,” Trevn said. “I thought I’d lost you.”

  “Apparently I’m nearly impossible to kill.”

  “That’s just how I like my soldiers.”

  Soldier. Bah. “Grayson says Eudora and her parents are headed your way.”

  “Captain Bussie is on their trail,” Trevn said. “I want you to go to Er’Rets Point and heal. Grayson says you’re not far from there.”

  “Really?” Relief washed over Hinck that he might not be in the dinghy much longer.

  “Your parents will be thrilled to hear you survived,” Trevn said. “Grayson appeared in the middle of a Wisean Council meeting to give his report, so your father heard what had happened and nearly lost his mind with worry.”

  Of all the nonsensical . . . “The boy moves fast, but his thinking is a little slow.”

  “Grayson’s mind is only ten years old, Hinck. Extend some grace to the boy who saved your life.”

  Hinck looked over at the scruffy young man, who was eating another tart. “His magic is remarkable, though I wonder why he cannot carry people through the Veil if he can carry bottles and trunks and plates of tarts.”

  “I’ve never thought to ask him, but that’s brilliant.”

  “You expect any less from me?”

  Trevn chuckled darkly. “A little less pride, perhaps.”

  “Arman was with me, Trev. I could feel it.”

  “I praise him for it. Rest up, Hinck. I want you back here as soon as you’re able.”

  Trevn withdrew, and Hinck let his head fall back against the gunwale of the boat. Giddiness washed over him. He was free. He’d finally escaped from the enemy and was on his way back home. Not that he’d ever been to Armanguard, but for Hinck, home wasn’t so much the place as it was the people.

  He only hoped they’d all still be there by the time he arrived. Because when Rogedoth found out his daughter was dead, he would not be pleased.

  Charlon

  When Charlon reached Magosia, she bathed, reunited with Sir Kalenek, then scolded Shanek for his risky behavior at the Rurekan ball.

  “I wanted to dance with Amala,” he said.

  “And risk yourself? King Barthel saw you. Now he wants you for himself.”

  “I’m not afraid,” Shanek said. “I talked to his shadir. They like him. Even the great named Dendron said he is a fair master.”

  Fear stabbed like a sudden headache. “You must not trust King Barthel’s swarm.”

  Astaa entered the red tent.

  “You have work, Mother. I’ll go now.” And Shanek disappeared.

  Charlon growled at Shanek’s insolence. “What do you want?” she yelled at Astaa.

  “I’ve come to inquire about Emperor Ulrik, Chieftess. What should be done?”

  Charlon had forgotten all about Emperor Ulrik. Before leaving New Rurekau, she had given the task to Astaa. To transport him within the Magosian procession. Charlon had not known where. Had not cared. But she had promised Rosârah Thallah. Said she would heal him.

  “Take me to the emperor at once,” Charlon said.

  “He is in Rone’s tent,” Astaa said as they set off down the hill. “He looks very ill.”

  “He’s been poisoned,” Charlon said. “What did you expect?”

  Astaa gave no answer and led Charlon inside Rone’s tent. The darkness made it difficult to see. Charlon pulled from the remaining root within. Enhanced her eyesight. The interior of the tent brightened.

  She crossed the open space and stopped before a narrow mat. She’d never met Ulrik Orsona. He lay as if dead, hands arranged over his middle. He was young, not long past adolescence. Might have been handsome once. Instead, looked wild. Body malnourished and gaunt. Golden-brown skin tinged yellow. Head and chin coated in black stubble. Charlon would have been afraid. To have met him on the streets of Bar-Vorak. When she had been in hiding.

  “I will strengthen his body,” she told Astaa. “You must nurse him back to health.”

  The second maiden nodded. Charlon inched toward the mat until her toes touched the thick, corded edge. She made eye contact with Rurek, who lingered on the other side of the emperor, eyes eager, hungry.

  Take more ahvenrood, he said. This spell requires a great deal of power.

  “I have enough.” Charlon found the great shadir’s strength within. Drew from it. Spoke words that would change the emperor’s body. “Râphâ zōt geveeyah. Oor, chalam.”

  She watched closely. Such healing always brought a thrill. To see the change take place. To see her power manifest.

  Magic invaded the tent. Gripped her in its chill. Frost coated the black stubble on the emperor’s head, chin, and eyelashes. He moaned. His arms twitched. Fell to his sides. Head arced back, throat long and pulsing.

  Magic nourished depleted stores. Gauntness faded from his cheeks, arms, and legs. Muscle strengthened. Skin brightened, its sallow hue fading. Charlon’s power drained. Her confident stance wilted. She would need to purge after this healing.

  The chill in the tent faded away. Frost melted, leaving behind puddles of moisture. The emperor opened his eyes. Wild eyes that roved from face to face of those looking down.

  Astaa clutched Charlon’s arm. “You did it,” she said, her voice tinged with awe.

  “Had you any doubt in my abilities?”

  “Of course not. I’m simply astonished each time I see you perform such feats. You amaze me, Chieftess. There is no one like you.”

  Astaa’s words pleased Charlon. “Can you hear me, Emperor Ulrik?”

  “Yes,” he rasped. “Where am I?”

  “In Magosia. I am Chieftess Charlon. Rosârah Thallah negotiated a trade for your healing.”

  His brow furrowed. “Was I ill?”

  “The rosârah asks you to refrain from using your mind-speak magic to communicate with anyone but her for now. She will explain. Do you agree, or must I compel you?”

  He swallowed, and his “I agree” was barely a whisper.

  Charlon ordered a serving girl to bring the emperor a drink of water. While he refreshed himself, Charlon explained what she knew of his circumstances.

  “You and your brother were poisoned,” she said. “While there is no proof, Rosârah Thallah believes the blame lies with the empress’s eunuch.”

  “Qoatch,” Ulrik said. “I must get back to my people.”

  “Rosârah Thallah faked your death to save your life. By now all of Rurekau will be mourning the loss of their emperor. Rest here. Once you have regained your strength, you will be in a position to take back your realm from Empress Jazlyn.”

  “What about Ferro?” the emperor asked. “I can’t leave him with that witch.”

  Charlon did not know who Ferro was. Assumed it must be the brother. “You must speak with Rosârah Thallah. I have done my part. Astaa will care for your needs.” She gestured to her second maiden, then turned and walked away. She needed to purge. Before she fainted in front of this crowd.

  Charlon had been ill on the journey home. Blamed the motion of the wagon. But when her dinner that night made her retch, hop
e crested through her in waves.

  Could she have succeeded? Would she finally have a child?

  Hope warred with fear. She wanted a child. But how could she survive without ahvenrood? Would the new magic be enough? How would she know what the shadir were doing? If she could not see into the Veil?

  Her stomach roiled with nausea. Her bed seemed too far. She lowered herself from the throne to the floor. Stretched out on the mats there.

  “Rurek?” No answer came. She mumbled the words to summon him.

  He appeared beside her empty throne. What are you doing on the floor?

  “I think I might be with child. Can you sense it?”

  Be silent and let me listen.

  Charlon held her breath.

  Yes, I hear a second heartbeat. Congratulations, Chieftess. You have succeeded.

  Joy rushed through Charlon. She pushed to her knees. Sat back on her ankles. Triumphant. She was going to be a mother. This time, a birth mother as well.

  Take care, her heart said. Protect the child.

  A prickle of fear rose within. She was still burning a small amount of ahvenrood. To see into the Veil. She must purge! And take no more. Not until the baby was born.

  She fell to her knees. Began the ceremony. “I feel weak, Rurek. Help me purge.”

  The baby is sharing your strength, the great said. Purging is unnecessary. Take more ahvenrood and cast a spell to strengthen yourself.

  “We have been over this! I want to hold my child in my arms. To love it. See it grow. I will not die bringing it into this world.”

  There are ways to live through the birth with ahvenrood. I will help you.

  “No! I want this child to be normal, Rurek. Take the magic from me. I beg you!”

  No answer came. Charlon turned to study his face.

  Promise me Dominion, he said.

  Of all the insolent . . . “You dare turn my victory into an opportunity to control me?”

  Dominion is not what humans make it out to be.

  “You will heal me, Rurek. As you promised all along.”

  Healing you gives me no benefit. You expect a great shadir to give up nine months of worship and magic? Why should I?

  Charlon had been right. Not to trust him. “I lied. My ahvenrood is not so depleted. I have much. Hidden away. So leave if you must. Find another human to bond with. But my maidens have no root to offer you. Empress Jazlyn has bonded with another. And going to King Barthel means facing Dendron. Dendron whom you dread. I am your best choice. Even if that means going without. For a time. Now heal me at once!”

  You dare speak to me like you are in control? You can do nothing without me.

  “I don’t need you. My new magic gives me power. I can call other shadir to purge to. There are many who once served Magon. They will not hesitate to betray you.”

  I will kill any who bond with you.

  “You dare, and I will never bond with you again.”

  Rurek glared. Eyes dark and angry. Might he destroy her? Right where she knelt?

  Very well, little human, he said at last. I will heal and cleanse you, but make no mistake . . . this is the last time you make demands of me.

  “Thank you, great one.” Charlon bowed low. Until her head touched the mat. She had pushed her luck far, she knew. It had been a risk. But she had prevailed. Her baby would live. And once the child was safe in this world, Charlon could use the old ahvenrood again. If she wanted.

  Rurek did what he promised. The magic left Charlon. Her body grew tired and sore. Her stomach ached. And a strange fear settled over her. That someone might touch her.

  Hide, her heart said. Protect within.

  All of the spells that had kept her strong—gone. She was once again frail and vulnerable. Fully human. Magic free.

  But so was her child.

  Gozan

  Gozan was restless. Only a few hours had passed since he had drained Charlon of her magic. He scoured the camp in search of any mantic-shadir bond that he might exploit, but all existed on reserves at the moment. His swarm would soon have no access to the Solid.

  They would go mad.

  Gozan couldn’t last nine months without a magical bond—especially not when there was unused evenroot nearby. The newts brought from the Five Realms had died with the snow, so Gozan had no method of even manipulating someone to find the root stash. Shame gnawed at him. That a human had fooled him—had dared to deceive a great deceiver. The insult stung worse than any he had ever experienced.

  Hurting Charlon was the only thing that would truly satisfy.

  He was about to visit Roya’s tent and trick the woman into helping him when waves of anger and betrayal drew him to one of the tents near the foot of the hill. There he found Sir Kalenek on his knees, weeping, his arms stretched out on the table he’d built. A handful of slights were circling the man, feeding off his pain. Shanek was there too, with Amala. They stood on either side.

  Gozan drifted toward Sir Kalenek, wondering what had put so stalwart a knighten into such a state. The slights scattered at Gozan’s approach. The man’s right index finger was moving, tracing over deep grooves in the table. There were letters there, roughly carved in the wood.

  REMEMBER ONIKA

  Frustration filled Gozan. He had tried many times to learn to read, but shadir were incapable.

  “Kal?” Amala gripped the man’s shoulder. “What’s wrong? Did something happen?”

  The knighten combed his fingers through his beard. “Magic is a foul thing,” he said. “It brings nothing but pain and destruction. Promise me you will stop using it.”

  “Kal, be serious,” Amala said. “Magic makes me feel safe. To know how to protect myself means that no one can hurt me again.”

  “No!” He grabbed her arms. “People will continue to hurt one another because we are selfish creatures. We take what we want without care for how it might affect anyone else.”

  “Told you he’s strange,” Shanek said over the knighten’s head.

  Sir Kalenek shuddered and gazed at the table. “Onika.”

  “Miss Onika isn’t here, Kal,” Amala said. “She lives in Armanguard.”

  Sir Kalenek pushed to his feet and brushed his hand over the rough letters carved into the wood. “Charlon compelled me to forget her.”

  Amala frowned. “She can do that?”

  Sir Kalenek’s expression hardened. “But her spell wore off, for some reason. And I remembered.”

  Gozan thrilled at the words. Instantly he returned to Charlon’s tent, found her sitting on her bed. He knew the lie that would stir her worst fears.

  I have news, he said. I overheard Sir Kalenek, Miss Amala, and Shanek plotting a visit to New Rurekau to see Empress Jazlyn and teach her your new magic.

  Charlon pushed to her feet. “How dare that witch manipulate my son?”

  She stomped out of the tent, and Gozan followed her down the hill, already enjoying the fury that poured off Charlon like steam from a hot bath. She shoved people out of her way and barged into Sir Kalenek’s tent. The knighten was standing at the table now, Shanek and Amala beside him.

  “Betrayers unite, I see.” Charlon propped her hands on her hips. “You think me a fool? That I wouldn’t find out?”

  She was glaring at Amala, whose heart began to thud within. Gozan reveled in the girl’s fear, in Charlon’s anger, in the silent distress exuding from Shanek and Sir Kalenek.

  “What did you find out, Charlon?” Sir Kalenek asked, his voice laced with disgust so thick Gozan could taste it.

  “That you all mean to betray me to Empress Jazlyn. You think her a more competent mantic than me? Is that it?”

  “None of us know what you are talking about,” Sir Kalenek said.

  “I do,” Shanek said. “She’s talking about our visits to see Empress Jazlyn.”

  What was this? The boy had been to see Jazlyn? And more than once?

  “Proof!” Charlon bellowed. She raised her hands and began the words of a spell. “Gowzal d
arash bay ani. Gowzal ba shel ayder. Athah!”

  She had no magic in her—Gozan knew—yet she had called forth a flock of gowzals. Why?

  A squawk turned his attention toward the entrance of the tent. Two gowzals glided inside and landed on the mat-covered floor. The tent shook slightly as more shadows alighted on the roof outside.

  Shanek raised his voice. “Amala said you’d be angry.”

  “Because the empress wants my magic!” Charlon yelled. “Wants control of you!”

  Shanek shook his head. “No, Mother. She only wants to be friends.”

  “She’s a trickster,” Charlon said. “She seeks to use you.”

  “And you don’t?” Amala asked, defiance in her dark eyes.

  “You stay out of this!” Charlon yelled.

  Several dozen birds had fluttered inside now. Some perched on Charlon’s shoulders or outstretched arms. Others walked in and gathered around her feet. It was the strangest sight Gozan had ever seen. He savored the fear that the strangeness evoked in those around her, the drama he’d created.

  “I trusted you,” Charlon said to Amala. “Allowed you to befriend my son. Took you to Rurekau. Gave you my ahvenrood. Yet you betrayed me.”

  Shanek spoke up again. “Amala didn’t—”

  “She seeks to take you from me!” Charlon yelled. “To make you hers. After all I did for her. Sabab bay êsh!”

  In the space of a breath, several gowzals screeched, while four collapsed into mud and transformed into green fire that shot up onto Charlon’s palms as if it belonged there, hissing and crackling. Gozan put himself in the middle of the action, eager for the pain that was surely to come.

  Sir Kalenek stepped forward. “Stop this now, Charlon.”

  “Azal da tsarab besar ba Amala.” Charlon thrust her hands toward Amala. “Daah!”

  Green fire shot out in a stream, but before it could hit Amala, Shanek moved. He appeared beside the girl, grabbed her, then carried her to the back of the tent, leaving Sir Kalenek in the fire’s path. The flames struck the knighten, covering his body like bees on honey.

  Everyone screamed at once, thrilling Gozan to his core.

  “tsar!” Charlon yelled. “Shamat aoto!”