“Not you?” she tested.
He let the grin broaden. “Not me.” He nodded to the message in her hand. “But it did say ‘victor.’”
The Magister Trial was a series of tests, which if the master mage passed, she or he would be granted the magister’s mantle.
But the invitation had said the Magister Trials. Plural.
“It’s a competition,” she breathed. There was no telling what would be involved. It could be anything. But the Magister Trial had always been designed to test for three specific qualities all magisters were required to possess—perceptiveness, resourcefulness, and willingness to sacrifice for the greater good. These new trials couldn’t deviate too far from that, could they? They’d only be different in that they’d have multiple candidates instead of one at a time.
“You still feel up to this?”
She hadn’t been known as one of the Tower’s best duelists for nothing. “Magic is my life.”
His gaze fixed on the fire, Brennan nodded solemnly, letting the silence settle. “All right, then. It begins in two weeks, so we’ll have to leave tomorrow.”
“You’ll really come with me?” She couldn’t imagine doing this without him.
“Always.”
Chapter 8
Samara smoothed the book page as she wrote in the last of the heart tonic’s ingredients, sunlight dancing a pattern on a page through the window’s mashrabiya.
Coriander, karia algae, horned turtle bean…
The pounding of heavy steps came from the hallway, and she lifted her gaze to the door, squinting in the light.
A black-clad guard strode in, willowy and young with a dense beard. “Pack your things.”
Pack her things? What? “Taj?”
“Now,” he said, gesturing at all her medicines, the myriad shelves that lined the walls with jars. “Pack up everything. Your things, your tools, whatever it is you use. Immediately.”
Before she could open her mouth to ask further questions, he turned on his heel and strode out.
Pack up everything. Immediately.
She put a hand to her forehead. Sold. She had to be.
Zahib Imtiyaz had died in the fire, and now there was no certainty of anything. Just over a month ago, right after the fire, a woman had inquired about her purchase, explaining to Zahib Farrad that she sought an apothecary to tend her while she awaited the birth of her first child, but Zahib Farrad had sent her away. Had he changed his mind?
Her hands already worked, packing what few personal belongings she had into a leather satchel. Her house robes and her mother’s comb. She packed her mortar and pestle, weights and scales, empty jars, surgical tools, as well as common liniments, potions, and pills. If she was being sold, had he sold the apothecary equipment, too? Did her new zahib not have anything?
By the Divine, let it be the woman needing some midwifery. Not some brutish zahib. But no, it wouldn’t be—
A soft rap on the open door. A shadow loomed in the doorway. “I trust Taj told you to pack?”
He looked nothing like a man who’d nearly died in a fire a couple months ago, who’d been deceived and attacked by his enslaved lover. No burns, no scars, just nearly six feet of warrior, and zahib of this house.
“Yes, Zahib,” she said sullenly as he entered. Why? Why had he sold her? Hadn’t she served this House well her entire life?
But she could ask none of those questions. It wasn’t her place.
He simply stood while she continued packing, just standing there, hovering, and the urge to shout all those questions and more at him rose.
“You’re free, Samara,” Zahib said softly, “but on one condition: you agree to attend a university to further your apothecary studies.”
Free?
She dropped the jar of queen’s lace in her hand, and it shattered on the floor.
Zahib, having watched its fall, merely raised a dark eyebrow.
“Free?” she repeated.
“Yes. I’ve planned this for years, and now that…” He lowered his gaze, then straightened. “Now I have the power to do it. You’re to be packed and ready for travel first, and then I’ll make the announcement to the rest of the House. Every single slave is to be freed, given enough araqs to live on for at least a year, and House Hazael is to hire all the help it needs, or any freed slaves who wish to stay on as freemen to work.”
This was—She couldn’t— “University?” she squeaked.
“Yes. I want you to further your studies, and you can’t stay here.” He sat on the stool across from her table, hitching his rapier.
“Can’t?” she asked before she could think the better of it. Free or not, she was still in House Hazael. Until her brand was removed, until she had her documents in hand, until she was far, far away from Xir, free was just a word.
He exhaled lengthily. “You’re the only one I can trust not to revert to the old ways.”
The old ways. Slavery. “The only one?”
He cleared his throat. “The only one of my children.”
So now she was one of his children? For years, she’d been nothing but property, but now he wanted to call her his child? She shook her head. “I don’t understand.”
“I’ve made you my heir and left everything I own to you. When I die, everything here will be yours,” he said, holding her gaze.
The words had been said, but seemed no more than air. Heavy, stifling, suffocating air.
Figures moved past in the hall. Time went on. But she couldn’t believe her ears.
“Zahib, I am in no position to—”
“I’m your Zahib no longer, Samara. Father.”
Father? She was still in House Hazael, but the word would never pass her lips. “That is all I have ever known, Zahib. For all my fifteen years.”
“It is my hope that you will come to know me for who I truly am, Samara, not who my grandfather forced me to be.”
He asked too much. Far too much. Her hands resumed their work, stuffing pouches into her satchel. “You could have left,” she dared to murmur.
“I wanted to,” he snapped. “And then where would you be? Under Ihsan’s thumb. Or worse.”
Did he expect her sympathy? As her zahib, she hadn’t had a choice but to openly sympathize with him.
He reached into his thiyawb and pulled out some papers, then handed them to her. “Your freedom. The documents have all been signed and recorded.”
As she reached for them, her arm trembled, and she could barely feel her fingers, but they closed around the paper. Smooth, with small, occasional bits of grain against her skin. She held them to her chest, the fresh smell her first as a free woman.
It was true. All true.
“But Zahib, your wives will—”
He stood. “They won’t,” he said firmly. “That’s why we need to be far from here as soon as I announce the House’s freedom. What happened to your mother will not happen to you.”
“But when I return—”
“You can’t return. Not until I’m dead. But I will accompany you to university and ascertain you’re properly settled and well guarded before I travel back here and bring the House to order.”
Then that was the rush? He truly was setting everyone free. “If only Thahab had—”
His hand clenched his rapier’s hilt. “Do not speak that woman’s name to me. If ever she crosses my path, I will see her dead.”
It was all Samara could do to nod.
Thahab had been with child, had wanted her child to be born in freedom. Didn’t he understand that? And it was only her rebellion that had led to Zahib Imtiyaz’s death and everyone’s freedom.
And if he crossed her path, he’d challenge her to a duel? No doubt she couldn’t fight well with a sword, and dueling was law in most countries.
He’d always been the fairest of the Hazaels, but still a zahib. Still a master.
No, she would not sympathize with Farrad abd Nasir abd Imtiyaz Hazael, heir to House Hazael and its old ways, whose rebellious
thoughts had amounted to nothing but perfect obedience to Zahib Imtiyaz’s wishes until a slave had rebelled. No, she would not sympathize with a young lord who had benefited from his House’s cruelty, been served by its slaves, taken them to bed when they hadn’t felt free to deny him, allowed them to be mistreated and even killed.
Poor rich, powerful, sated young lord.
She stuffed her satchel and fastened its closure.
No, she would not sympathize with Farrad abd Nasir abd Imtiyaz Hazael, no matter what he said or did now.
* * *
The crimson peaks of Laurentine’s castle just came into view when Leigh brought his horse to a stop behind Ambriel. With any luck, they’d charter a ship tonight or tomorrow to take them searching for Venetha Tramus.
It was just past midday, and he could do with lunch. Well, Emaurrian lunch. None of that raw-vegetable light-elven nonsense.
He shut his book on light-elven history and looked up. “I normally don’t make the offer, my dear,” he began, “but after the atrocity of leaves and grasses that was breakfast, I shall make us lunch.”
Ambriel shot him a glare over his shoulder, a narrowing of his honey-gold eyes. Even when he was annoyed, those chiseled features were art. “Not lunch, dreshan,” he murmured. “We only just ate a few hours ago, and you had that… that—”
“Walnut loaf?” If any food gods were listening, they deserved the highest praise for inspiring the Emaurrian Army to bring baked goods—precious, precious baked goods—from Courdeval when they’d gone to war.
“Yes, ‘walnut loaf.’ You had some on the way, and now you want lunch, too?” Frowning, Ambriel shook his head. “How did you think we’d make any progress?”
Leigh urged his horse up next to Ambriel and paused, arching a brow. “Does it matter whether we spend another night on the road—or a night on a ship—as long as it’s together?”
Ambriel pursed his lips and lowered his eyebrows. Pretending to be impervious to his charms? He’d sing a different tune tonight. A loud, full-throated tune.
“Besides, walnut loaf is part of your mission,” Leigh said with a smile. Queen Narenian had agreed to let Ambriel accompany him to Venetha Tramus with the stipulation that Ambriel “witness” modern human civilization and record his observations.
“There’s a large party approaching,” Ambriel said, looking into the distance.
“Mother earth, grant me your sight, / Show through your eyes, reveal all life,” Leigh whispered, casting the earthsight spell with an incantation.
Indeed, hundreds of people approached, with two near the front glowing like a sun. He dispelled the earthsight and smiled. “It’s His Majesty.”
Ambriel’s wide eyes blinked once, twice.
Different. Tune. Leigh grinned broadly. “Well, let’s go meet with him, shall we?”
Clearing his throat, Ambriel nodded and urged his horse to a trot. It wasn’t long before Jon, gleaming in full armor, waved and met them, bringing his cavalcade to a halt. He and a squad of Royal Guard headed off the road and dismounted.
Leigh inclined his head, but arms closed around him. Smiling, he patted Jon’s back. “Did you miss me, Your Majesty?”
Jon laughed and pulled away, then clasped Ambriel’s arm. “I can’t deny things are much easier with a wild mage around.”
Weren’t they always?
“Leigh!” Olivia gathered her skirts as she ran to him, then kissed his cheek and hugged him. “You’ve been busy, haven’t you?”
It had been over a month since he’d seen her in Courdeval. There was more color in her cheeks, a vitality to her movements—new life in her. Being out of the palace had done her good.
He turned to Ambriel. “Ambriel Sunheart, this is Olivia Sabeyon, the Archmage of Emaurria and my former apprentice.”
Olivia bowed gracefully as Ambriel inclined his head. “It is my honor to meet you,” she said in Old Emaurrian.
“The honor is all mine,” Ambriel said in passable Emaurrian. They’d been practicing in the evenings.
Olivia lit up. “Has Leigh been practicing Emaurrian with you? That’s wonderful,” she said in Emaurrian. “I’d love to learn Elvish myself.”
Ambriel smiled.
“Well, Fabien is working on it,” Leigh interrupted. The young man Jon had sent to replace him as Ambassador to Vervewood had arrived with linguists and an impressive work ethic. “He boasts that there will be a text ready in a few months.”
Olivia’s eyebrows rose.
“It’s a blessing we’ve run into you,” Jon said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “How would you like to help us break with the Divinity?”
More welcome words had never been spoken.
It was less than half an hour later when fires had been built, a tent had been pitched, and servants brought out fresh rye bread, butter, goat cheese, grapes, and smoked fish. And wine. Heavenly, delicious, essential wine.
He drained a goblet before he sat down and sighed happily as the serving man poured a second. Although Jon did not partake, Olivia joined him for a drink.
Ambriel was “witnessing” the soldiers, although they both knew he was being polite and giving him the space to meet with his king.
“So what is this help you require with the Divinity?” Leigh asked, leaning back in his chair.
Jon and Olivia exchanged a look, and Jon nodded to her.
“Although we’ve sent for aid and offered exorbitant payment, Magehold has refused to send us the help we need to handle the Immortals and the pirates attacking the west coast. Kieran sent a single pair of mages, as much as his discretion would allow without having to ask the Divinity,” she said.
Ella and Cédric. Not nearly enough to address Emaurria’s needs. “Clearly a problem. I hope you don’t think I hold any sway with Magehold?”
Olivia laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“At least pretend it’s possible,” Leigh grumbled.
“The Divinity isn’t the only source of mages,” Olivia continued.
“The Covens.” But essentially an act of war.
“Right. But if we ally with the Covens, we’ll be siding with the Divinity’s enemies and inviting its wrath,” she said. “And the Divinity hasn’t publicly denied Emaurria aid—”
“So you mean to force the Grand Divinus’s hand.” Brilliant. “If you request aid publicly and she denies you, then she’s abandoned Emaurria first. You’re free to pursue assistance from whomever you choose. And if she grants your request, you have your mages.”
Jon nodded.
“So what do you need my help with?”
“When Rielle was escorting me from the Tower,” Jon began, leaning forward, “we fell into some underground ruins and faced some heretics. They spoke of someone stopping a hydromancer from reaching his destination.” He raised his eyebrows at Leigh.
Nina Bousquet and Richard Vallée. Both dead now, courtesy of Rielle and Jon.
“If you have any ties to the Covens, would you use them to win them over to our side?”
Ties—oh, he had ties. Many, and many more than he should. Ava being one he didn’t want to tangle further. And Blaise—
He sighed. “But you don’t even know if the Divinity will deny or grant your request.”
Jon crossed his arms, a corner of his mouth turning up.
“You do know. You think the Grand Divinus will find a way to deny you.”
“If she’s refused to send help so far, especially considering the vast sums offered, I doubt she has any intention of helping.” He sighed. “But the formality must be observed.”
“And as soon as it is, we must have a force in place,” Olivia said, “or the world will know our weakness.”
Jon prostrating himself before the Grand Divinus would be a ripple across the region, signaling Emaurria’s readiness for conquest.
They had to have a force prepared, and a show of force at that, to contradict any such notions.
So they wanted him to negotiate with the Covens and
win them over for the Crown.
“The Tremblays, the Forgerons, the Beaufoys—” Olivia began.
Leigh held up a hand. “I understand.” The last thing he ever wanted to do was visit Axelle and Adeline—Della—Beaufoy, but if the prize was breaking Emaurria from the Divinity, the proposition was worth hearing. Ava didn’t need to know who he was to her, especially if her mother hadn’t told her where the money came from each month. It was better that way. Safer. “But what I need to know is… What if the Grand Divinus gives you everything you ask for?”
Jon shook his head. “It would be for a nefarious purpose.” He lowered his gaze. “Pons agreed when Derric asked him to send me an escort to Monas Amar. Pons did. The Grand Divinus has never lifted a finger to help me. And she wouldn’t start now.” He looked at Olivia, who patted his hand supportively. “If she grants my request, it’ll only be a waiting game until she turns on me. The Covens are Emaurrian. I will unite them under the Crown, whether it’s next month, next year, or in a few years. But we need to open a dialogue now.”
The Covens had been waiting for a king who didn’t kneel at the Divinity’s feet, completely under its control. And Jon—a former-paladin king—was their best chance.
Leigh crossed his legs. If he had to sell this to the Covens, it would mean favors. Lots and lots of favors.
And funds… Oh, the funds. “I’ll need broad latitude to—”
“You’ll have everything you need,” Jon said. “You’ve proven yourself with Vervewood. You’re committed to this. That’s all I need to know.”
Leigh raised his eyebrows. He’d serve the Crown until the end of time if Jon kept talking like that.
“Will you do it?” Olivia asked, her green eyes gleaming.
He and Ambriel had been on their way to charter a ship, to search for Venetha Tramus and answers about the Sundering, but… the Divinity had been a problem he’d long needed to solve.
He might be able to coordinate the Covens in a couple of months, and then he and Ambriel could proceed. Would Ambriel be willing to wait? Would he join him on this mission?
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