by Beth Alvarez
“You’re not going out again, are you?” Kytenia stuck out her lower lip in an exaggerated pout. “Rikka was hoping we could get together and discuss our dresses for the solstice.”
“Rikka will be all right waiting until the week’s end. We won’t have any classes then and we can fuss over dresses and jewels all she wants.” The words came out sharper than Firal intended. She softened her tone as she added, “Besides, I won’t be gone long. I must have dropped my journal last night. I’m just going to get it back. My necklace is in the pocket of the cover and you know how much it means to me.”
Kytenia leaned back and gave her a somber look. “Aren’t you worried about running back in there after what just happened?”
“I got spooked in the dark, that’s all. I tripped and hit my head.” Firal shrugged stiffly. “The worst that can happen is I stumble and twist an ankle, or maybe break a bone. Really, Kyt, you shouldn’t worry so much.”
“And you should worry a little more! Aren’t you at all concerned about how you got back here? I really don’t think you should be running off alone.”
“You could always come with me, you know.” Firal shrugged again when Kytenia said nothing. “Well then, your loss. I suppose I’ll be going alone after all. Just don’t gripe at me about it, since I invited you along.” She patted Kytenia’s shoulder and took another roll to eat on the way out of the dinner hall.
Outdoors, thin shafts of sunlight filtered through the clouds and glinted off the flooded stone pathways and courtyards. Droplets on hibiscus blossoms shimmered like molten gold all along the path to the gardens. Firal trailed her fingers across the blooms and watched the droplets fall. The rainy season had gone on too long. The nights were a little too cool, the days a little too muggy. The rain patterns made no sense, either. Storms brewed from nowhere when there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. It was said that enough mages with the right affinities might be able to alter the weather, but her Gift was focused elsewhere. Rain was none of her concern.
She hurried through the gardens, anxious to press past the mage-barrier and get into the ruins before the midday meal was over and the temple’s grounds filled with people once more. Water dripping from the garden’s fruit trees left dark splotches on her robes and made her regret that she hadn’t brought her cloak. She had almost reached the hedges at the edge of the garden when a sharp whistle from one of the cherry trees stopped her in her tracks.
“Sneaking out again, are we?” Ran’s words sounded playful, though when Firal’s eyes swept up toward him, his expression was serious. He swung his dangling legs, shifted against the tree’s trunk and tried to look disdainful. “It hasn’t even been a full day. I would have thought you’d have the sense to wait a bit before trying that again. The whole temple is talking about you.”
Firal gritted her teeth and leered at him, her shoulders bunched with agitation. “Here I was hoping you’d left.”
“I started to leave, but I changed my mind. There are interesting things happening here today.” He slid to a lower branch and lingered there a moment before he jumped to the ground. “Really, though. With all the rumors flying after last night, the Archmage is going to have her eye on you.”
“With the visitor she’s got today, somehow I think I’ll be the least of her priorities.” She folded her arms over her chest and glared. “The visitor you might have warned me about, mind you.”
Ran chuckled. “I did warn you, remember? I told you he was here when we were in your room. Either way, I’m surprised you’re going back at all, after yesterday. You’re lucky you didn’t end up staying in the infirmary.” He straightened his blue robes and fingered the slice their sword match had left in the front. He was too tall for the robes to fit properly. The hem reached no farther than his knees. With the belt he wore around the middle and the boots and trousers underneath, it looked more like an oversized tunic than a mage’s robe.
A frown worked its way onto her face as she watched him fuss with his clothes. “How exactly did I end up in my room?”
Ran’s brow furrowed. “You don’t remember?”
A hint of uncertainty crept into Firal’s expression. He almost sounded concerned.
“You must have hit your head harder than I thought,” he murmured. “It’s bad enough that people are talking about that whole Underling—”
“I don’t believe in those fairy tales,” Firal spat, her amber eyes flashing. She planted her hands on her hips. “And frankly, I’m tired of hearing everyone talking about rumors today. I didn’t get myself back to the temple, fine. I’ll accept that. But someone brought me back. Someone who knew I was out there to begin with, and knew where to take me.”
Ran tugged at his sleeves and avoided her eyes. She almost enjoyed seeing him squirm.
“Listen,” he started slowly, “I’m just trying to help. You can live in your own little dream world for as long as you want, but you’re better off doing it here. One of these times, reality will catch up with you. There are all kinds of dangerous things in there. Snakes and scorpions and deadly spiders, not to mention the walls falling.”
“If you think you’re scaring me, you’re wrong.” She tossed her head and started toward the edge of the gardens again.
He raised his voice to call after her. “And there are beasts in there that can do things you couldn’t even imagine; not in your most frightening dreams. If you think I’ll risk myself to get you out of there again, you’re mistaken.”
“You?” Firal paused mid-stride and looked over her shoulder. The ice in his expression startled her, and it took her a moment to find her voice again. “You brought me out?”
“Why are you going back in there?” he asked with an edge in his tone.
One more step carried her through the hedgerow and the prickling mage-barrier. She glanced back again and set her jaw in defiance. “I dropped something last night. I won’t give up until I find it. I’m not afraid of that dilapidated mess, I’m not afraid of those old wives’ tales, and I am most certainly not afraid of you.”
“Perhaps you should be.” The words came out frosty, a steely gleam in his blue eyes.
Firal bit her tongue to still it as she turned away. The open space between the temple and ruin was vacant, but she scanned the temple to be sure no one was watching. Then she sucked in a breath, hitched the hem of her robes up around her calves, and hurried into the passage of the ruins she’d taken the night before. There, she paused just long enough to shake out her robes and glance back.
The gardens behind her were empty, but out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of blue robes as Ran disappeared into the ruins some short distance away.
5
A Raid
There had been a time when trade wagons rolled often through the small border village of Charth, but territory feuds between Giftless and Eldani lands brought commerce to a standstill. A muddy pit replaced the market square. Narrow roads lined with simple houses branched from it in equally simple rows. Daemon was pleased to see the longhouses and barns behind the houses were full to bursting. Crates of goods they’d been unable to trade sat in the open.
Whether or not the place was ripe for the picking, he was not pleased with the orders that brought him here. Daemon wasn’t fond of raids. He hadn’t approved of it and certainly hadn’t expected to lead it. The task was beneath him, but since the order came directly from Lumia, he could only assume it was some sort of test. He resisted the urge to shake his head. Violence would hinder them in the long run. Even so, he couldn’t deny that they couldn’t wait for a better plan. His people were starving; before him was food. The best his men could offer him was a few quiet hours he could scout and prepare, and he would simply have to hope it would be enough.
Women spread laundry on ropes between houses and the steady thud of an axe sounded nearby as a farmer chopped firewood. The lack of trade made Daemon doubt they’d had recent visitors, but no one paid any mind to a lonely stranger roaming the streets. His mask might h
ave drawn attention, so he kept his hood up and his head bowed just enough to hide it.
He enjoyed watching the village at work, finding the everyday monotony pleasant. This was the life he dreamed of. In time, perhaps his people would find it. Clinging to that hope, he moved on.
Though small, the village hosted an inn. A promising sign. If they were equipped to receive guests, Daemon’s presence was less suspicious. If he could convince his men to wait until evening, perhaps he could meet merchants and farmers and negotiate trade over a drink.
A child’s shout gave him pause and Daemon stepped aside as a handful of children ran by. One flung a worn rag doll into the air and he watched it land in the middle of a muddy rut in the street. Glancing after the children as they vanished around the corner of a house, he crouched to pick it up and wrung water from the doll’s skirt.
It didn’t take long for the owner to present herself, lagging behind the group, sniffling and wiping her eyes. She kicked the ground as she shuffled toward him.
“Is this yours?” He straightened the doll’s yarn hair with one gloved hand and tried to make his muffled words sound friendly. Befriending her worked to his advantage. Children often made the best guides.
“Yes, sir.” The girl bobbed her head and inched forward with outstretched hands. She studied him as she might any other stranger, in spite of the thick brown cloak drawn around his shoulders and the featureless steel mask that concealed his face. Her expression didn’t change when he laid the doll in her hands. “Thank you, sir.”
“You’re welcome.” He brushed his dark hair back from his mask and rested his elbows on his knees. He always found the judgment of children interesting. When he greeted them at their level, they never seemed intimidated. Even with his mask. “She’s too pretty to go in the mud, wouldn’t you say? It wasn’t nice of them to throw her. You’d best let her sit in the sun to dry where she won’t catch cold.”
“I will, sir.” She sniffled, rubbing her nose with a sleeve, and looked down at his bandage-wrapped feet as he stood. Her nose wrinkled, but she said nothing.
Daemon started across the empty market with an easy stride. There appeared to be a barn ahead; he hoped to peek inside. Livestock fared well in the grassy ruins, when they could obtain animals.
The girl fell in alongside him, taking two steps for each of his. “What’s your name?”
“I haven’t got a real one.” He gave her a glance. “You may call me whatever you’d like. What’s yours?”
“Lea. This is Cara.” She hugged the doll tight to her chest. “Cara says thank you for saving her from the water.”
He chuckled but didn’t reply, focusing on the village as he walked. It was a barn. Sheep, judging by the bales of wool stacked inside the door. The supplies were satisfactory, and few village men appeared armed. Though Daemon hoped to stay his soldiers, he had to prepare for the worst. With so few guards present, it would be a clean raid. With fortune, it would be the last.
Horns blared from the western edge of town and Daemon spat a curse. They’d been spotted. He’d told the men to stay farther back, to linger near the edge of the ruins.
Perhaps it wouldn’t be so clean a raid after all. His mouth tightened as the city’s few guardsmen scrambled for weaponry.
The girl at his side cried out at sight of the swords and hid behind his cloak. Daemon turned in several circles before he caught hold of her and crouched at her side. “Lea—”
“Let go! The bad men are coming!” She clutched her rag doll to her chest and strained against his grasp.
So it wasn’t the first time the village had been raided. He’d known this was a mistake.
“Listen to me, Lea. I need you to do something.” Daemon kept his voice calm as he pulled a small object from beneath his cloak. Before she could reply, he pressed the cool stone crest into her hand and closed her fingers around it. It was a feeble attempt to establish a connection, but now it was the best chance he had. “This is very important. Hang this on your door as soon as you get home. It will keep your family safe as long as all of you stay inside. Do you understand?” He met her gaze and, as frightened as she was, Lea couldn’t seem to tear her eyes away. Not for the first time, he wondered if it was just the appearance his snake-slitted eyes that held people fixated, or if it was something more.
The girl’s lip trembled, but she nodded. She didn’t stir a step until he released her arm. He moved back as the plaza flooded with farmers and blacksmiths brave enough to draw weapons and fight. Then she fled, and he frowned as a woman swept the child into her arms and disappeared among the throng.
Daemon skirted the edge of town, but watched the village defenses assemble. Their numbers weren’t impressive; his hundred men on the other side of the hill would flatten any opposition that rose against them. He left by the city’s eastern side and gave the village a wide berth as he moved toward his soldiers.
His men loomed at the top of the hill to the west, perhaps a half mile from the town’s edge. He wasn’t pleased they had defied his orders to remain hidden. His frustration grew when he saw them watching the villagers bolster their meager defenses.
The entire rank straightened when he appeared in their midst, perhaps conscious of defying his orders. Some nameless soldier stepped forward with the reins of Daemon’s black warhorse, the only steed they’d brought. Daemon’s eyes narrowed as he took the reins. An unfamiliar horse lingered at the rear edge of his army.
“What are your commands, sir?”
Daemon turned his head just enough to see the captain he’d left in charge. Davan was a good man and a good soldier, one of few who had taken to his new leader without complaint. Thus far, Davan was the only officer he trusted.
Daemon moved his horse’s reins from one hand to the other as he shrugged out of his worn cloak and brushed at the black-and-gold dress armor and cape underneath. He peeled off his gloves and replaced them with gauntlets from his horse’s saddlebags. The custom armor left his talons exposed. “Who moved the men up the hill?”
Davan hesitated. “Not all are used to following your lead yet, sir.” He cast a glance toward the second horse. “Some still cling to the old.”
Clenching his jaw, Daemon tightened the straps on his gauntlets. He didn’t need to look again to know what Davan meant.
Tren Achos had served as general of Lumia’s army for close to two decades. There was a time when Lumia favored the man, thought to place him on a throne beside her, but Daemon’s presence had changed many things. Tren’s interference wasn’t surprising, but it was a frustration.
Daemon couldn’t fault his men for accepting orders from the former general. The title had been his for mere days, and he was still unproven. Perhaps Lumia meant the raid to be his proving ground.
“See to it the news is repeated, then,” Daemon said. “They’re under new leadership.”
“Aye, sir,” Davan agreed. He pressed a knuckle to his forehead in the salute common in the Underling army and slipped away.
Daemon’s mouth took a grim set as he watched the captain go. Davan’s deference was appreciated, but coming from a single soldier, it meant little. Grateful for the mask that hid his expression, Daemon let his eyes sweep back toward the village.
Had the child not indicated Charth had been raided before, the organized group the village put together would have betrayed it. The village men settled into tidy ranks along the main street. A man in armor stood before them, presumably giving orders in his aged but shining steel. Despite their valiant effort, their defenses were almost nonexistent. It was pitiful, and it twisted Daemon’s stomach in unpleasant ways.
Strife had become commonplace in the borderlands, and Daemon was certain it was one of the reasons Lumia had chosen Charth. The history of border raids gave his men the benefit of anonymity, though the idea of their raid being blamed on Giftless bandits left a sour taste in Daemon’s mouth.
“They’re ready, my lord,” Davan prompted softly.
Daemon exhaled a
nd gripped his horse’s reins a little tighter as he faced his small army. “It’s been a while since raiders came this way,” he began, his voice level. The men quieted. The weight of their eyes on him did not make it any easier to speak. “What we need should be in the storage sheds and barns. Leave the houses alone unless we can’t get what we need elsewhere. Burn the storage buildings after taking what is needed, we don’t want them to know which supplies we’re after. Kill only those necessary. Spare the children and elderly.”
It felt strange to give orders; he’d never led before. He couldn’t afford to let them think he was weak. And he couldn’t let their judgment influence Lumia’s opinion of how much power he could be trusted with. He knew too well, now, how far she would go. Metal rasped as he rubbed the back of his gauntleted left hand with the palm of his right. The new scar in his hand still ached. He shook his head and grasped the pommel of the warhorse’s saddle to heft himself into place.
“And what of the women?” It was hard to tell where the question came from, though a few of the soldiers closest to him snickered.
“We’re not here for prisoners.” Daemon tightened his hold on the reins as he settled on his horse. “In and out. Do nothing to make yourselves memorable. Remember, they’re to think we’re border raiders from the east.”
“Yes, sir!” The shout came with laughter, but the acceptance of his command was repeated by the hundred men behind him.
Daemon adjusted his mask as he drew his sword and raised it high. The small army readied themselves with a rattle of weapons and clank of armor. He twisted the sword in hand and pointed the blade to the horizon and the village ahead with a cry that signaled those behind him. It was answered by an eager scream from a hundred throats.
With a thundering of feet, the gray sea of armor surged forward.
Daemon’s mount tossed his armor-plated head, whinnied, and danced as his rider held him back. Daemon waited a heartbeat, expecting Tren to pass him. He glanced over his shoulder and spat a curse as he realized the other warhorse was gone. He could only hope whatever contradictory orders the man had given wouldn’t cause more trouble. Gritting his teeth, he let the reins slack.