by Beth Alvarez
Pushing away thoughts of Marreli's death was a struggle. They fought Rikka's efforts to focus, even as she gathered every white-robed mage on the first two floors of the Archmage's tower and waited in tense fear for them to combine forces and open a Gate. She didn't have time to dwell on old anger, even if the loss still ached every time it crossed her mind. Right now, the queen needed her.
The thought tumbled free before she caught it and Rikka gave her head a twitch as if to discourage any others. It had grown hard, over the years, to think of Firal as her friend. Firal was the queen first and a mage second; friendship came somewhere after that. Friendship with all her former comrades seemed to come somewhere after that. Rikka's duties as a Master mage consumed her.
Or maybe she'd surrendered herself to them after her friend's death, as a means of protection for her own tender heart. There had been a time where Shymin, trapped farther up the tower in the presence of the treacherous former Archmage, had been something like a sister to her as well. Yet the fear and anger that clawed at Rikka's belly didn't touch her guarded heart. These days, it seemed nothing did.
Except Balen, she thought as the portal stabilized and she pushed through to the other side.
After so many years, perhaps another friend had begun to worm his way in.
The courtyard was not as lively as Rune remembered. In his youth, he'd stood and watched for hours while the guards trained below. There had been numerous rows of them then. Now, only a handful of men in off-white gambesons worked their blades in the yard outside the castle's barracks. The curve of their blades marked them as cavalrymen. As few as the island's horses were, Rune had always found it curious that so many soldiers trained as part of the cavalry.
“Did you bring your sword?”
Rune started and twisted away from the window.
Ordin didn't smile, but a hint of interest lit his eyes.
It was unlikely the captain would bat an eye at the unusual blade being in his ownership, but Rune was unwilling to risk an oppositional reaction. It had graced his father’s side for too many years to go unnoticed here. “Why do you ask?”
“Because you look like you want to join them.” The captain nodded toward the windows. “A good number of the horsemen have gone with the mage recovery party. Those who remain would probably benefit from a little excitement.”
Rune snorted. “The last thing I want to do is rile up a bunch of guards who don't recognize me. Besides, I'm not allowed out of the palace.”
“It's a big palace,” Ordin said. “There are other places to practice.”
Half a dozen came to mind before Rune dismissed the idea with a frown.
“Unless you don't participate in swordplay anymore?” The captain raised a brow.
“On the contrary,” Rune muttered, “I participate more often than I'd like.”
Ordin spread his hands in invitation. “Indulge me, then.”
“The Captain of the Royal Guard sparring with a prisoner who's skirting execution probably isn't the best look.”
“There's no reason they have to see.” The captain glanced out the window. “I have my own reasons for curiosity.”
Rune drew back from the sunlight. “So you can know what to expect if I turn on you?”
“So I can see how far my student has come.” Ordin's eyes glazed as he watched the men below. “I've trained a lot of men. Most of them, I know what they're capable of. I've seen them continue to develop their skill, or else seen them give up and pursue other things.”
“And I'm a mystery,” Rune finished for him. “What if I like it that way?”
The captain cracked a sly grin. “I always assumed you did.”
A hint of guilt tugged at Rune's heart. Looking back, it had become harder to rationalize the need to hide his nature. His father had feared his exclusion or mistreatment. Yet the people of the Triad had accepted him, as had the ruin-folk. Some feared him, and Rune supposed that was their right, but he'd earned respect and made a name for himself among both groups. Why had it been necessary to hide from his own people?
“My father should have told you,” Rune said at last.
Ordin inclined his head in the slightest nod of agreement. “Perhaps we wouldn't be here now.”
“I'd settle for escaping the noose.” Slowly, Rune turned to retreat down the wide hall. “I'd imagine the ballroom is empty?”
The captain turned after him with a new spring in his step. “I can't see why it wouldn't be.”
“And you don't have anything better to do?”
“The mages will need me before long, but I can spare a few minutes. In full honesty, I'd appreciate a bit of a distraction.” The captain fell in to walk at his side.
Rune nodded. “Then bring me a sword.”
“What's your preference?”
“Hand and a half.”
“Like your father,” Ordin noted.
Again, Rune nodded. “I used his blades a lot. Always wanted to be just like him. I suppose I always fell short.”
“I think he would disagree,” the captain murmured.
Rune shrugged. “It doesn't matter. He's dead.”
They parted ways at the foot of the stairs. The captain disappeared around the corner while Rune carved a path through the heart of the palace, toward the ballroom he'd come to resent. In his youth, the room had filled him with anxieties. Fear he'd be discovered as the monster he was had dominated so much of his life.
Serving staff watched him pass, their expressions ranging from curiosity to fright. Good. Let them be afraid. After all the years he'd struggled with fear, it was someone else's turn.
When he reached the ballroom, it was not dark, but the pillars that stretched to the ceiling cast strange shadows in what daylight filtered through the glass skylights. At the far end of the room, the balcony that overlooked it all seemed shrouded in shadow, the space at the balustrade where his father had watched every event heartachingly empty.
Rune stood staring at that empty place when the Captain of the Guard rejoined him with a second sheathed blade held at his side.
“Hand and a half,” Ordin said as he passed it over.
Rune curled a clawed hand around the sheath and raised a brow at the weight. His father had always reserved the best blades for his use and that of his personal entourage. Curious, he pushed the hilt with his thumb and slid the sword free. It rasped softly against the edge of the scabbard and gleamed in the weak light. “Whose is this?”
“Mine.” The captain stepped back and drew the sword belted at his hip.
“I thought you favored longswords?” Rune laid the scabbard on the marble floor and paced forward to join Ordin in the open center of the ballroom.
“I did, when I was younger.” The captain moved through a few forms etched into Rune's memory from drills. “I suffered an injury in my left shoulder that made it harder to rely on.”
On the third form, Rune joined him, their movements fluid and synchronized. “Dangerous information to give an enemy.”
“Are you?” Ordin asked, the question so mild it seemed he didn't care to hear the answer.
Rune considered for a moment before he answered. “Perhaps. Your queen seems determined to make it so.”
The captain made a soft sound of disappointment in his throat as he led the transition into a new stance. “There are rumors in the palace.”
“There always are.” The sword in Rune's hand bore a pleasant balance, though it was a shade heavier than the kingsword he'd grown accustomed to. He adjusted his grip with the weapon at arm's length.
“What you're doing is dangerous, Ran.”
Rune twitched at the name and lowered his blade.
“Not just for you,” Ordin continued. “You're putting Firal in danger, too.”
Adjusting his grip on his sword again, Rune eased into a combat stance and turned to face his former mentor. “She put herself in danger when she dragged me back here.”
“So you do consider yourself a threat?�
�� The captain met his eyes and then moved into an experimental swing. Their blades met in a feather touch and the sharp edges whispered as they slid together.
Rune pulled back. “We should be using wasters. These are good swords.”
“We use what I say we use.” On the second swing, Ordin did not hold back. The captain lunged in and this time, when Rune raised his blade to block, the metal rang a single sharp, clear note across the empty ballroom.
Not a match to see his skills, then. Nothing for old times' sake. The captain had brought him a real sword for a reason. Although given to his passions, Ordin was a good man and a good judge of character. Right now, at the end of his sword, he was judging Rune.
Dauntless, Rune shifted his balance and abandoned his reserve. The captain wanted a fight. He'd get it. Years of practice gave him remarkable grace with a blade, though if the captain was surprised by the sudden shift from performance to purpose, it did not show.
They were unarmored. The skirmish wouldn't last long. Fast and furious, the blows exchanged either slipped wide or bounded off a deflecting blade. Step by step, Rune pushed the captain back. Anger and frustration fueled every strike, a heated outpouring of feeling he couldn't express any other way.
On the third step, Ordin shifted to defense and a light of uncertainty shaded his eyes. He blocked a blow destined for his head and the force knocked him off balance. The captain staggered back and braced to be struck down.
Rune's sword swept down in a two-handed, overhead strike that stopped a hair's breadth from his one-time teacher's blade.
Slowly, Ordin opened his eyes. Rune hadn't noticed the man had screwed them shut.
Letting his weapon sink to his side, Rune stepped back, breathing hard to catch up with the racing of his heart. “My fight is not with you.”
The fight was over, abandoned prematurely, sparing the captain his pride. Ordin grew solemn. “You're an honorable man.”
“Worse things have been said about me.” Rune twisted his hand to offer the sword, hilt first, back to its owner.
The captain took it, his face grim.
Rune took another step back. “The mages will need you.”
“Yes,” Ordin said, regarding him with a thoughtful frown. “Or maybe you are what's needed.”
Resisting the urge to curse took a great deal of strength. “Go.”
Nodding, the captain turned toward the great double doors through which he'd entered. “We'll fight again.” The statement was simple, matter-of-fact. Somehow, Rune didn't think he was wrong.
“With luck,” he called toward the captain's back, “it'll be on the same side.”
19
Ghosts of the past
His blood still burned. Rune wiped the back of one hand across his forehead as he leaned against the rail and gazed down into the grand ballroom. He'd already straightened his clothing and smoothed his hair, but the flush of anger that churned to life in that brief match did not want to abate.
Staying his hand hadn't been hard; he'd never intended to harm Ordin. But he hadn't intended to display his full ability, and the fury that had sprung forth in their brief match proved difficult to contain. Halting the fight had offered no relief. Had they been using wasters instead of steel, he would have pushed harder. As it was, instead of the match cooling his head, it left him more like an animal in a rattled cage.
Maybe holding their sparring match in the ballroom had been a bad idea.
The room was spacious and offered the privacy they'd both wanted, but it harbored too many memories. The last time Rune set foot in the ballroom, his father had stood in the exact place he leaned now. He'd approached him then, offered information he'd hoped would quell the storm he knew was coming. Now, looking back, he didn't know how he'd ever believed such a thing possible. He laced his clawed fingers together and closed his eyes.
It had been easy to hide from the gravity of everything he'd done. No one on the mainland knew the atrocities he'd committed, nor did they care. Even now, Garam followed him to what might as well have been the far reaches of the world, more of a companion for moral support than a politician there to carry out business.
Not for the first time, Rune regretted that he'd never been more open with his friends. If they'd known about his father's death, about the blood on his hands and the nightmares it still sometimes gave him, perhaps things would be different. Maybe Vicamros would have fought harder to see him spared.
Or maybe he would have killed him, himself.
“Wouldn't that have been easy for you?” he murmured. Disgusted, Rune pushed himself off the rail.
The last thing he should be doing was wallowing. Every minute he spent in the palace was one minute closer to an execution he couldn't stave off forever. He could almost feel the rope around his neck. Sooner or later, they'd grow tired of giving him slack.
The click of his claws against the cool stone floor seemed loud in the empty ballroom, each tap echoing back to torment him further.
Had they held balls in his absence? Had the traditional masquerade been carried out in the years that followed his father's death? He'd grown so used to the way life moved on the mainland, where he was surrounded by Giftless men and women. The speed at which they lived made it easier to move on. Here, it felt as if no time had lapsed at all.
At least, not in Ilmenhith. Here, the people still knew him, even if they resented him. But he hadn't yet figured out how to reach Core and learn what had become of the ruin-folk he'd once called his people. In the wake of the misunderstandings that surrounded Kifel's demise—misunderstandings he'd originally hoped to eliminate, and in the end only managed to make worse—it was all too easy to assume the punishment he'd received in the palace dungeons had been extended to the ruin-folk, as well.
Rune raked one hand through his hair as he stepped from the ballroom and closed the door behind him. He should have thought to ask Ordin what happened before the man slipped away. No one else in the blighted palace would answer his questions, except maybe Kytenia. Maybe what precious little luck he had would grace him with another opportunity to speak with her.
No more had he fixed that thought in mind than he rounded a corner and found himself blessed with something else.
A pair of men in the hallway turned toward him, one so unexpected that Rune blinked twice and squinted at his face. “Davan?”
The man murmured something to his companion, who nodded and hurried on alone. Then he turned, a hint of uncertainty on his face as he pressed a fist over his heart and offered a slight bow. “Tobias, sir.”
“Tobias.” Rune's brows rose. Of course it was. It had been years since he'd set foot on the island, and Davan had already been in his prime. “I'm sorry. You just...”
A nervous smile curved Tobias's lips. “No apologies necessary, Lord Daemon. It's an honor to be mistaken for my father.”
The title startled him, and Rune's brow crinkled. “I'm surprised you remember me. You were just a child, the last time I saw you.”
“You make a strong impression, my lord. Though I must admit it's strange to see you...” Tobias trailed off, though his smile returned with more strength and sincerity. “Time doesn't favor all of us so well.” The wings of silver in the younger man's hair spoke of that. His face was worn, pinched, as his father's always had been. The life of the ruin-folk had never been easy, but Rune had hoped to make it easier.
Rune shook his head. “What are you doing here? When I arrived, Firal said the Underlings were no more. I thought—”
Tobias cocked his head. “She said what, now? That makes no sense. The ruin-folk are more plentiful than we've ever been.”
A wave of relief hit him so hard that Rune thought he might fall to his knees. “You survived.”
“Aye, my lord. Better than, really. After you were...” His mouth twisted and a muscle in his jaw worked a moment before he found diplomatic words. “After your departure, the queen sent a summons for us. My father brought all of Core to Ilmenhith to answer her
call.”
“Your father is the only man I've known who could have made that happen,” Rune murmured. “Is he...?”
“Gone,” Tobias said, with wistful fondness in his eyes.
As easily as relief had come, it was washed away by that single word. A deep ache lodged itself in Rune's chest. He swallowed hard and nodded. Medreal. Nondar. Davan. How many of the steadfast figures in his life had been swept away in his absence? “I was honored to have known him. Your father taught me a great deal. He was a good man.”
“He often said the same about you.”
Rune held back a frown. “I expect that wasn't a popular sentiment, after what happened.”
“Why wouldn't it be?” Tobias tilted his head again. The sincerity in the habit was reassuring. “There were plenty of men who saw you on the battlefield. Core knows exactly what you did, and they've always respected you for it.”
“What I did?” Rune asked, though haltingly. That word of his duel might have returned to Core with the soldiers had never crossed his mind.
Tobias gave a single nod. “You challenged the king to a duel, sparing the rest of the army. You won, but tried to spare the king's life. You carried yourself with honor until the end. When you were taken, no one blamed you. We had hoped you would be released, but no one seemed to know what came after that.”
Honor. There was a word he heard too rarely. Rune gave a soft snort. “I wish my recollection of the night was as favorable.”
“I don't imagine it ended as well for you as it did for Core's army.” The look Tobias gave him was weighted with knowledge and sympathy. Had he heard, somehow, what imprisonment had entailed? Or was it an assumption, based on the cruelties the Underling queen had once inflicted on those who crossed her?
Rune chose not to ask and instead returned to his previous question. “Did all of you stay in Ilmenhith?”
Tobias shook his head. “Some did. Most of us returned to Core at the queen's behest. It's a good home, and it has everything we need. The majority of the ruin-folk were happy to return, but the ruins are considered part of Queen Firal's lands, now. We're hers, and so is the mine.”