Star Mage (The Enslaved Chronicles Book 3)

by R. K. Thorne

  A crack.

  Opening his eyes, he leaned his weary form toward the spot in the outer wall he’d sensed… Had it been a glimmer of hope, a flash of intuition? Or was it possible he was merely mad from exhaustion?

  Focusing his attention hard on the spot, he gave it the slightest push.

  Stone scraped against stone. Barely half a finger’s width, but it had moved. He’d made it move with his will alone. Well, and his magic.

  Leaning back again, he stared at the slight change in the wall. How far was it down? If he could break the wall open, what would he do next? If he could get out of the fortress, could he survive out in the increasingly wintry forest? And was there a way he could rescue Niat at the same time? He couldn’t wait forever—Detrax had shown him he likely didn’t have that long—but he also couldn’t see leaving her to their blue vials either. And that meant two of them escaping and surviving in the dead, cold woods.

  He needed a plan.

  6

  CRACKS

  The raging fire was crackling away cheerfully, and Daes found himself in something of a good mood as he moved about his Evrical rooms, choosing what to pack into his trunk for tomorrow’s trip. The generals he’d sent were of course already in Gilaren, most likely. He took a deep breath and straightened, imagining the clangs of steel in smoky air, the shouting of men, the brisk, cold wind that would carry the smell of blood from the battlefield.

  He missed it, he had to admit. And if only Marielle weren’t coming with him, he’d feel downright upbeat about the journey. Of course, she was right. Politically it was the only smart move. But that didn’t mean he had to be happy about it.

  Suddenly, the door flung open without announcement or ceremony and slammed loudly against the opposite wall. Marielle stormed in, a swarm of women following her in a hasty, alarmed cloud. Her striking red dress was gathered in all the right places and fell in straight and clean lines toward the unfeeling marble.

  “Was all of this just so you could someday be king?”

  He sat down the leather-bound book he’d been holding and straightened, frowning at her as his heart sped up. “What?”

  “Is that the only reason you even spoke to me?”

  Daes frowned harder now. As if he would concoct such a foolish, dangerous, stupid plan. Only luck—was it that?—could have taken him this far. “I could say the same to you. Was it all about getting rid of the king? And his mistress?”

  To their credit, the women behind her shrank back but showed little reaction beyond concern at either his or her words.

  She glowered back as she strode toward him. “You used me so you could fight your war how you wanted.”

  “I did not. I would not.”

  “The first thing I did for you was send out troops.”

  “Because it needed to be done. Time was of the essence. If you think that was what I was thinking of when I approached you in the gardens, you do not know me.” Certainly he had been hoping some gratitude might come from the encounter, but he would have been utterly mad to believe she would someday grant him as much power as she had. It was all luck.

  She folded her arms, clearly skeptical. “How can I know you? It’s not been long enough to know each other, truly. Your friends speak of you as a master manipulator. Would you tell me they’re wrong?”

  He gritted his teeth. He was certainly better at political machinations than most, but he had never tried to manipulate her. “Friends? Neither Lady Seulka nor Princess Paranelin are friends.”

  “They know you well.”

  He shook his head in disgust. “No, they don’t.” He resumed packing, picking up another book as he dropped another into his trunk, not looking at her, willing her to drop this. The crowd of women staring at him wide-eyed was making him uncomfortable, and it was hardly proper.

  “Daes. Look at me, Daes.”

  He paused and glanced over at her. “Go.” He flicked his fingers at the archway where one of her attendants hovered. “Your ladies are waiting for you.”

  “I’m the queen and the one giving the orders here.”

  He pursed his lips, trying not to glower at her. “Why are you bringing this up now? Clearly you have social activities to attend to.”

  She waved angrily at the woman to be gone. Frowning, her attendants backed out of the doorway, one of them shutting the door behind them. Silence stretched out between them, as if she waited for the women to move farther away.

  “You don’t even care one coin’s toss about me, do you?” she said bitterly as she turned back to him, now that they were alone.

  Rage shot through him, the intensity of it terrifying him. Why did he care so much what she thought, what she said? A strong desire to backhand someone flooded him, but he stayed still, setting down the new book carefully. As he did so, she charged the rest of the way toward him, stopping barely a foot away. His body went tense, vibrating with hard, pent-up anger. “Why are you even talking about this?”

  “Why are you even fighting this war?”

  “To protect all I’ve built. Because I don’t turn a blind eye to obvious threats, unlike your former lord.” He hesitated, more words on the tip of his tongue, words that were very unlike him to say. The truth, but could he admit it? That it was also to protect her, too? No. Not in those words, at least. “The Akarians hold the power to undo all I’ve built. We risk losing our only advantage against them. Our position has only worsened. We must crush them while we still can. I’m simply trying to protect what we have.”

  We. There. That was close, wasn’t it? It wasn’t the same as telling her that it was all for her now, that everything had changed, but it was the best he could do.

  Her expression softened, and she looked away, not meeting his eyes. “Some say you are power-mad. That I am just a foolish pawn, a cog in the wheel of a machine that you would destroy as readily as any mage.”

  His scowl returned. “Tell me who said that.”

  “No.”

  “Tell me.” He clenched his jaw and forced himself to take a deep breath through his nose. “I would kill anyone who would dare call you, their queen, a pawn. You are far from that. They should be struck down for their disrespect.”

  “Am I not a pawn? I am not so sure. You don’t trust my motivations. You don’t want me to come with you. I know little of your plans, for this or for the war.”

  “You are not a pawn. Damn it, I had no plans for this. I have no particular lust for power, Marielle. I am only concerned with security, and I’m willing to take the initiative to keep it. It’s not my fault everyone else is so damn lazy and blind that they fail to act.”

  She gazed back at him, still uneasy, eyes narrowing. “How can I know you aren’t using me?”

  “You can’t. How can I know you’re not using me?”

  “I would never.”

  “And I would never have moved against the king if you hadn’t needed it.” If you hadn’t asked, so sweetly. If you hadn’t drawn me into your bed.

  “How can I believe you? This has all served your purpose mightily well.”

  “We are to be married eventually, after all. Aren’t we? Shouldn’t you simply believe me? Shouldn’t I simply believe you?”

  She pursed her lips. “Only if we are fools.”

  “Perhaps I should take a mistress to test your motives, then—”

  Almost before he got the words out, she stepped a few inches closer and slapped him across the face. “I’d rather you cleave me in two,” she said, her voice breaking.

  He reeled for a second in shock, partly at the slap, but even more at his own reaction. Any other woman—or man, for that matter—he would have backhanded so hard, they’d be sprawled on the fine Corovan marble.

  But not her.

  And in fact, no anger coursed through him, and instead in its place was an inexplicable sense of immense satisfaction, of amusement even. At what? It made no sense. At having goaded her into losing her composure? Yes, but not out of spite. There was something deep
er. He brought his hand to his face, rubbing at the sting, mystified. His eyes locked with hers. In their blue depths was a mixture of hurt and fear that in the silence was slowly melting to terror. “My lord, I—”

  He kissed her then, hard, almost violently, crushing her with the force of it, gripping her neck and holding her to him. But he didn’t need to. She didn’t shrink. Indeed, the press of her mouth against his was nearly as ferocious. The pounding of his heart went from double to triple time.

  He heaved her up, gathering her in his arms and setting her atop the nearby desk, hauling up her skirts and daring her to stop him. He broke away to measure her eyes, her face, for any trace of fear, any measure of cunning, any sign he should stop and walk away from her in disgust.

  He saw only a kind of intensity that grew familiar, an intensity he had seen now more than a few times. Patient, if fiery desire, even… trust. He captured her mouth with his again and didn’t release her this time.

  He did not understand this. He did not understand her, or what was motivating this sudden outburst, or why he deserved her, or if either of them actually cared about each other the way he was beginning to hope—and believe—they might.

  He was filled only with a desire to remind her she was his and no one else’s. And to make her see the opposite was also true.

  Gods, he was a naïve fool. He’d likely end up beheaded or quartered for his foolhardy sincerity. It was entirely unlike him. He didn’t understand any of this.

  He fell back on the one thing between them he did understand, and her soft gasps told him she understood this part at least too. The damned meddling ladies-in-waiting could do just that. They could wait.

  Although they hadn’t found the right words at all—in fact, they’d mostly found the wrong ones—he had a feeling they understood each other.

  MIARA AWOKE WITH A POUNDING HEADACHE. Emerald and sapphire light lanced into her rooms, dappling the queen’s bed with moving blobs of color. She sat up with a groan. Pain sliced around her skull like someone was trying to crush it, and she lifted a hand to block the cheery light, feeling more out of place than ever.

  The sea of fabric around her was smooth as a lamb’s ear. Camil had always said Elise cared for fine cloth because she hailed from Dramsren, but Miara had had no idea. She’d had no idea cloth like this even existed. She felt like she was getting such extravagance dirty. How many meals could this pure sea of soft white buy?

  The door opened. The groan had been a mistake, alerting her watchers—her attendants—that she’d risen. The three of them bustled in now, arms full and looking like they meant business. Miara put both hands over her eyes and then rubbed her scalp, trying to ease the pain away.

  She hadn’t had a headache last night when their work had finished. She’d had the whole night to sleep and recover her strength. And yet, she felt more tired than ever. Very strange. But there was no time for worrying about it now. She downed more tea from an elegant wooden tray as her new attendants swarmed her with details of arrivals of notable guests later in the day. Her belly warm, the ache in her head immediately started to lessen.

  “You’re to be prepared to receive them royally,” said Opia—the proper one, using a tone more appropriate for addressing an unruly schoolgirl. Although perhaps “unruly girl” was exactly how the woman saw her. “I will do my best to inform you of each of the illustrious personages, but there are quite a number who may attend. Up, up. We have work to do.”

  If Miara hadn’t already missed Fayton and Camil, she would now. Who would have thought that she’d come to miss Estun and its heavy darkness and its merciless, oppressive Great Stone? It meant a lot more to her now, and she found herself wishing that someday they would go back. But she shut the thought away. They had a war to fight first, at the very least.

  Her heart panged in particular for Camil’s steady, calm, faintly amused smile now, though. Nothing ruffled Camil, and Miara was pretty sure the young woman would never use the phrase “illustrious personages.”

  Still, pretentious or not, Opia was right that they had work to do. It was time to give this queen thing a serious shot. Miara hauled herself out of bed and devoured a plate full of dumplings and asked for more. She was of course twice or three times as starving as any normal person would be because of last night’s exertions, but her ladies eyed her, and she could tell they were thinking—oh, we have so much work to do. Or perhaps they were thinking, she eats like a horse.

  Probably right on both counts.

  Who would have thought cabinets full of fine fabric would prove such regular adversaries? Miara scowled at the colored silks and regretted that her hasty departure from Estun had left behind what little progress they’d made toward clothing that didn’t horrify her.

  “Now, this is a fine wardrobe Queen Elise has provided for you,” said Opia, chin high. “I’m sure it will be quite hard to choose from all of these glorious options.”

  Miara eyed the woman. Did Miara’s fear show on her face, or could her attendants just smell it?

  No. She shook her head. No, she would conquer this ridiculousness. There were more important things to do than worry about what to wear.

  She imagined herself in Elise’s place, the way Elise emanated a quietly welcoming energy, beaming a friendly warmth and placid confidence. But imagining herself in the same mode sent the image up in smoke.

  She sighed. If Renala were here, she would know what to wear, what to choose. But none of the gowns would magically bequeath her grace or friendliness or any of their well-bred, noble-born qualities.

  Her mind drifted back to sitting around that campfire with Samul. Hmm, Aven did indeed have enough friendliness for the both of them—for the right audience. She imagined herself glowering icily from his shoulder instead, daggers close at hand.

  Yes. That was an image she could almost see. She wouldn’t be Elise—or Renala. Or any of the flighty, giggling ladies she’d observed in the Kavanarian court. The problem was not the dress, was it? The dresses didn’t matter. What mattered was how she wore them, and she’d wear them like herself, and no one else. Nothing else was an option.

  Challenging herself, she seized one purely by color—a stormy, grayish blue. There was no more Akarian color than that, in her estimation. Elise wore it frequently, and Renala had already shown her the power of color to make an impression. The gauzy thing whipped in a chilly draft that swept by. It was little more than a bundle of fabric. She had no idea where a body went into it or how to put it on.

  Not that her new attendants were going to let her dress herself anyway.

  She held it out to the nearest, the freckle-faced woman with warm, dark eyes. Kalan? Yes, that was it. “What do you think of this one?”

  Kalan’s eyes lit with delight. “You’ll be a dream. Not that you wouldn’t be a dream in all of them, my lady.”

  Miara shook her head as she cut at the air with the knife-edge of her hand. “You’ve no need to flatter me. I need the truth.”

  Wincing, the woman looked at her warily. “I would never lie to you, my lady.”

  “No, I mean it. Sincerely. Your name is Kalan, is that right?”

  Calming slightly, but still wary, the woman nodded.

  Miara glanced at the other women. Oh, no—there were four now, even though the proper one was briefly gone. Gods, the servants were multiplying like rabbits in the clover. This is fitting, she chided herself. This isn’t about you. It’s about Akaria. It’s about freeing your people and then some. It’s about a land that’s worth living in, a land many people believed was worth dying for. And if she wanted power, well, pomp and circumstance came with it. She wasn’t just herself, but also one who stood for all of them, and in that light, humility did no one any good.

  She softened her voice, warmed it. “Truthfully, my dear Kalan, I want nothing but honesty from all of you. It is all that will be rewarded. I am no noble—certainly you’ve heard that much.”

  Grudgingly, they all nodded. Their expressions ranged
from worried to guarded, though.

  “Is it—” started the youngest before Kalan shushed her.

  “No, what is it?” Miara said, trying to sound welcoming and friendly. Not something she had much practice at.

  “Is it true you were the one?” When she stopped and didn’t explain further, Kalan elbowed her. “The one who grew the plants last night?”

  “Oh. Yes. Did you see them? What did you think?”

  The air went still, the fear almost palpable.

  “I thought… well, it does seem quite unnatural, my lady,” the girl—Etral?—whispered.

  Miara hid a wince. Had it all backfired? Instead, she forced a smile and nodded. “It is a bit unnatural, but all the plants are back to their late fall cycle. None will be harmed by it, and I thought the harvest might help some through the winter.”

  “I thought it was beautiful,” said one of the newcomers, whom Kalan glared at slightly. She seemed to be speaking out of turn. “Woke up to fresh roses in my window box.” She glared back at Kalan, whose expression softened quickly.

  As if realizing the implications of her expression, Kalan straightened up. “It will help some through the winter. My brother’s little garden brought in a whole second yield.”

  “Tell me what you’ve heard,” Miara said as gently as she could. “Both the good and the bad. Honesty only, remember?”

  They all glanced nervously at each other. Miara was glad the proper one hadn’t returned just yet. She had a feeling she knew which side that attendant would be on: any side quick to pronounce judgment.

  “I think that about sums it up, my lady,” said Kalan. “I heard a man outside the temple crying evil and corruption, but to be honest I’m not sure many were taking him too seriously.”

  “Why not?” said Miara.

  A sly grin snuck onto Etral’s face. “I think it’s hard to buy something as corruption when it’s as beautiful as roses and daisies and fresh apples, my lady. I mean, really. If that’s vile pestilence, I’d like some more please.”