by Beth Alvarez
Behind her, Balen, Master of Fire, raised his head. “What was that?”
“The wind,” Rikka said. “There's something off about it. Something ill. Like it carries bad news.”
The soft rustle of papers filled her ears. “That's exactly the sort of talk that makes the Giftless call us witches.” He chuckled. “You're supposed to be grading these too, you know. Are you going to help me or not?”
She heaved a sigh and made herself retreat from the window. Dark splotches left by raindrops marred her robes. Her fingertips trailed over them without a thought, and magic stirred in answer to her call to dry them. “You think I'm being ridiculous.”
“I think you're responding as many would.” Balen pushed a handful of papers across the table. “I think every mage in the temple wishes they could help, but those haven't been our orders. Until Queen Firal or the Archmage herself instructs us to do something more, this is right where we need to be. Work must continue, after all, and the magelings need stability.”
“I suppose so,” she muttered, and didn't mean it at all.
The worst of it wasn't that work had to continue, it was that other mages had been given jobs. Anaide, Master of Water, sat in her own private quarters to comb through records and send additional information on chapter houses—both occupied and abandoned—to the queen. Shymin, Master of Healing, had been tasked with... something.
And then Rikka sat in a shared office after the magelings had gone to bed, grading papers with Balen by mage-light. Sullen, she sat down.
“Don't take it personally,” Balen said softly.
She stiffened. “What?”
“That we're working. You complained about it all morning, did you think I forgot?” He flashed her a grin and for a moment, she hated that she couldn't be angry at him.
Balen's smile was like the rest of him—cheerful, charming, and projecting an unshakable sense of calm. He was a perfect example of what a Master mage ought to be. Amicable, pleasant, patient, and encouraging. His mage-blue eyes were a bolder shade than most, like the deepest blue in a summer sky, and they snapped with positivity. Rikka met his stare and tried to sulk, but his good nature soon overwhelmed her and she allowed herself a grudging smile.
“I just wish I could do more,” she said with a sigh.
“You do plenty,” he reassured her. “Besides, this job isn't demeaning, it's an honor. All heads of affinity are in charge of teaching, but when it comes time to leave someone in charge, we're the ones left to oversee the temple on our own. Archmage Kytenia trusts us. That should mean a lot.”
“I suppose you're right.” The papers in front of her were a jumble of subjects. She frowned and worked at sorting them into piles.
His smile widened, just a little.
Admittedly, there were few mages Rikka would have enjoyed sharing such a task with. Balen was easy to get along with. He was charming in many ways, too; had she been younger, she would have thought him charismatic, and certainly handsome. His features were nicely proportioned. The white hair that crowned his head was short but always ruffled, and made a pleasant contrast to his coppery complexion.
After the death of her best friend, such childish interests as handsome men had grown unimportant. Now, and always after, work came first.
The wind picked up and again, Rikka shivered. “You really don't feel that?”
“Wind is your affinity, not mine,” he said, though he regarded her with thoughtful eyes. “What does it feel like?”
Deep, prickling, like a sense of discord in an otherwise orderly world. “It feels...” she said slowly, her brow furrowed. “It feels like magic.”
Envesi's claws, like her scales, were pearlescent white. She'd studied her own hands numerous times, but it wasn't until now that she wondered why that was. Was it because, as a mage at the pinnacle of her power, the rest of her had been scoured of color as well? The others hadn't shown rhyme or reason for the colors that emerged. Would they have been a bleached white, too, if they had crossed the boundaries that separated exceptional mages from average mortals?
The crimson droplets that welled at the tips of her claws grew larger. Beneath her crushing grip, the mousy little free mage gasped.
Ah, to bleed red. To see life escape, untainted by the corrupted magic that seeped from her body when her skin was pierced. To see such color spill from her own veins again would be one of many triumphs.
“I will give you one more chance,” Envesi said as she lowered the small man so his feet could touch the floor. “Answer the question, and I may be persuaded to release you.”
Her grip on his throat relaxed and the free mage gasped for air. Color returned to his lips as he panted, though his eyes retained the wild look of a frightened woodland animal. Fitting, she thought, for how small he seemed.
“What you want,” he gasped, rubbing the crimson stains from his throat when she let go, “I cannot... It does not exist. I cannot help you.”
Fury flared in her eyes before she caught herself. Her emotions had grown difficult to manage after the change. Even now, she struggled to contain the magic that rushed to reflect every thought and feeling. The light in her eyes faded as she regained control. “You misunderstand,” she said as she flicked blood from the tips of her claws. “That was not a request.”
“And you are not the first to seek it,” the mage replied, his voice firm, but calm. Even now, faced with certain death, he kept such control of himself that his eyes did not glow. “The answer has not changed.”
“Not the first,” Envesi mused. “Who else has asked?”
“Corruption has existed since the dawn of mankind.” The Alda'anan mage's brows knit together in a look that seemed half consternation, half sorrow. “And we have tread the earth since long before that time. You are not the first, nor will you be the last. Through it all, the answer will not change. You seek purification?” He barked a harsh, shallow laugh. “It is not mine to give.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Very well.”
She seized the flows of power in the air around her and advanced.
9
Welcome party
The city had been expecting them. The crackling hiss of the Gate gave way to the sound of people the moment Rune stepped through the portal. Vicamros's mages had put them inside the palace walls, if barely. It sounded as if half the city had come to crowd around the gates, and the people bunched close to the iron portcullis that held them at bay. Leering faces pressed to the dingy bars and hands reached through to move in rude gestures. Amused, Rune lifted his wrists to show off the shackles that bound him. The crowds roared in response.
The rest of his escort filtered through the Gate behind him. Rune half expected Rhyllyn to try to follow them, in spite of the mages' refusal to let him into the parlor, but the Gate closed after Garam passed through with the assistance of a mage. The guards exchanged worried glances at the noise that answered their arrival.
“Awfully angry bunch,” Garam said, glancing toward the palace gate and the crowd outside. “Long time to hold a grudge.”
“For you,” Rune said. “These people aren't human. Some of these men watched their king die.”
A pair of guards moved closer, took hold of his arms and urged him forward. He didn't resist, but held his head high as they passed the portcullis.
Garam cursed as something arced overhead.
“Shields,” one of the guards called. The group moved in unison and raised their shields overhead, just as the barrage of rocks came down.
Rune glanced over his shoulder as a stone narrowly missed his head. “I'd say this is going rather well.”
Garam snorted and moved closer to one of the shields. “You think people throwing rocks at your head is this going well?”
“Better than I expected.” Rune shrugged.
Something hit a shield with a sick smack. A wave of brown pulp slid off the metal and splattered against the side of Rune's head as a rancid sweetness filled the air, making him gag. Rotten fruit.<
br />
“Makes me wonder what you expected,” Garam muttered.
Rune chuckled softly. “A gallows.”
Gallows or not, it struck him as odd that the courtyard was so empty. There should have been more guards, more mages, maybe nobles waiting at the steps to throw more rotten fruit or even spit in his face. At the very least, he expected that sort of welcome from the temple Masters. Considering the part they'd played in seeing him off, the mages would be least happy to see him of all. Their absence gave him the distinct feeling Ilmenhith and its leaders were not prepared to receive them.
The men lowered their shields as they moved beyond the reach of hurled stones. Now outside immediate danger, their pace relaxed. Though the courtyard was empty, a pair of apprehensive-looking men stood beside the tall, arched doors at the top of the palace stairs. They opened the doors in unison and stepped aside to allow the group entry.
A handful of palace guards waited inside. They fell in step with the escort without a word and ushered them toward the throne room.
The palace was no different than Rune remembered it. Streamers in silver and blue twined around the white marble columns that lined the walkway. Live trees in massive pots stood along the walls, meticulously shaped, their trunks wound with more streamers. Banners depicting a seven-pointed star with a ring around its center—the crest of Ilmenhith—hung between them. And if the blue carpet that led to the throne room was more worn than it had been thirty years ago, he couldn't tell. He'd expected the return to Elenhiise to be difficult, but he hadn't expected the pang of homesickness that wrenched his insides.
He'd longed for this moment, an impossible dream that had lived in the recesses of his mind long after he'd given up hope he'd ever return. He had a place in the Triad—responsibilities, a beautiful estate and a comfortable house, even a handful of people who tolerated him well enough to be good company—but it wasn't home. Walking the halls of Ilmenhith's palace felt right, but his steps were more sure than his spirits. No matter how badly he wanted to return, it could never be like it was. A cold, rational voice in the back of his head reminded him of that, over and over again, refusing to give him peace.
“Her Majesty will receive you in the throne room,” said one of the guards as he climbed the few steps to the peaked doors at the end of the walkway.
Rune cast Garam a look from the corner of his eye. “Did you get that, or will you need a translator?”
“Vicamros II ordered all of his councilors to learn Old Aldaanan as soon as he took the throne,” Garam said. “I'll be fine. Besides, I can't imagine how it would look for a prisoner to be the one translating for his captors.”
The doors to the throne room opened. Garam led the way, walking by himself. The guards filed in behind him, two by two. They kept Rune in the center of their group, though the men at his arms pressed close, as if afraid to set foot off the edges of the blue carpet. The mages came last, walking with their heads down. Instructed to keep quiet, no doubt; there were rumors that the Grand College of Lore feared being swallowed by Kirban Temple. Considering how big the temple had been in his youth, Rune thought it a reasonable fear.
He squared his shoulders as the party moved forward and inched closer to his awaiting doom. He'd mourned his decision from the moment he made it, but he would not allow himself to regret it. No matter what the people of Elenhiise thought, he was a man of his word and a man of honor, however little it may be. He would not let them see regret or fear, no matter how the feelings tried to claw their way from him.
The courtyard and great hall had been empty, but the throne room was fuller than it had been on the day he'd been sentenced to hang.
Soldiers and nobles crowded the walkway, mages in half a dozen colors sprinkled throughout their midst. The walkway of the second floor was packed with serving staff. Many leaned forward over the rail for a better look. Speculation flitted through the crowd in murmurs, but Rune stared straight ahead and pretended he didn't hear.
At the far end of the throne room, perched on a silver throne shaped like twisted vines, was the queen.
Jewels shone in her raven curls, her round face as serene as that of any mage. Her close-fitting gown accented the shape of her full figure, and the tiny gems on the navy silk reminded Rune of stars.
The guards marched forward in solemn silence. They halted at the end of the walkway, where the carpeting ended before the dais in a large circle emblazoned with the royal crest. Rune stopped in the center of the seven-pointed star and lifted his eyes.
The queen stared down at him, her face impassive.
Thirty years in exile, a looming death sentence, his execution sure to come, and all he could think of was the sweet softness of her lips.
“Daemon of the Underlings,” Firal said, her voice cold and clear, her amber eyes emotionless despite all their fire. “Thirty years ago, you escaped Ilmenhith's prison and fled execution after the murder of our king. What do you have to say?”
Rune lifted his chin. “You appear to be sitting on my throne.”
The corners of her mouth twitched before she caught herself, though anger flared in her eyes. “Is that an admission of treason?”
“An accident can't be considered treason,” he snapped. “If you don't believe me, then ask Kytenia. Ask Vahn. They were there, they can tell you. Or have you tried to execute them due to false claims as well?”
“But you admit you killed him,” Firal said. “When you were imprisoned, the Masters of Kirban Temple accused you of attempting to usurp the throne. Considering the peremptory claim you just made, how do you plan to refute it?”
“If anyone can be accused of usurpation, it's you.” Rune started forward, gritting his teeth when the guards caught his arms and held him still. “The mages wanted me out of the way. All my life, my father worked to prepare me to rule. Yet the mages refused to recognize me as the rightful heir to the throne, or even speak my name when they declared I was to hang!”
“Enough.” Her voice was loud and firm, filled with confidence and determination. She rose from the throne, every inch a queen.
An odd hush fell over the crowded room. Mages and nobles alike looked at him strangely. Some peered at Firal as if seeing her for the first time.
Rune almost laughed. He turned his head to take in all the puzzled faces. All those years, and they'd never wondered what became of him? He couldn't resist a smirk when he met her eyes again. “You never told them, did you?”
“Regardless of what transpired at the end of my father's rule, I have not brought you here only to send you to the gallows.” She paced to the edge of the dais and peered down her nose at him. “Instead, I offer a proposition. A chance to redeem yourself and have the charges against you waived. You will be free to live out your life in peace, on Elenhiise or off it, with your honor restored.”
Words failed him and his mouth fell open. Half of him was stunned that she'd even make such an offer. The other half seethed at the suggestion he'd done something that required forgiveness. He closed his mouth as the latter half won and a scowl formed on his face. “You'll have to speak up, highness. I think there's a bit of rotten fruit in my ear from what your peasants threw at me.”
She ignored him and turned instead to Garam and the mages, who waited in a half-circle at the edge of the carpet. “You have my thanks for your service. You are all welcome to enjoy my kingdom's hospitality until a decision is reached or an execution held. The prisoner shall be escorted upstairs and given private lodgings. He will be made presentable for a meeting of council, where his fate will be determined. Furthermore, he is to be kept under guard at all times, and allowed nowhere else in the palace until council has met.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty. We will be glad to stay until all is resolved.” Garam bowed stiffly, showing his age. Despite his study of the language, his accent was thick and his words slurred, but no one seemed to notice.
“A prisoner in my own home,” Rune said. “I suppose some things never change.”
> Firal glowered at him. “Mind your tongue. This island has not been your home in half a Giftless man's lifetime. You'd be wise to remember it was you who abandoned it.”
He started to reply, but the men around him shifted to let a pair of Firal's guards move in and take his arms.
“I will be waiting in my office,” she said, giving him one last disdainful look as she turned toward the sweeping staircases behind the throne. “See that he's bathed before I have to deal with him again.”
“You should have let me do the talking,” Garam said.
Rune rolled his eyes. He dragged his feet as they filed down the narrow hall, and tried to pretend he didn't know where the guards were taking them. Garam wasn't the sort to lose his temper easily, but that he spoke in the northern trade tongue was a clear indicator of his mood. Most merchants and some of the mages from Elenhiise understood it, but it was unlikely the guards would. “She didn't address you. She expected me to speak.”
“And you did a fine job of digging yourself a hole.” Shaking his head in agitation, Garam looked ready to strangle him. “Even if you let me handle the talk during this council meeting, I don't think I can get you back out of it.”
“I don't expect you to fix my problems for me. But I will admit that didn't go the way I thought it would.” With the people waiting outside the palace, Rune had been sure they'd see him hang before sundown. He hadn't expected anything else, and the bitterness in Firal's first words only strengthened those expectations. Backhanded as though the offer had been, the chance to redeem himself was both startling and appealing.
His companion gave him a sidewise glare.
Rune lowered his head. “Maybe I could've been a little more polite,” he muttered.