by R. K. Thorne
“Do it, and I swear I’ll find a way to crush your skull like an egg while you sleep,” Aven whispered.
At this, Daes just smiled. “Tell me what I want to know, and perhaps it won’t come to that.”
“I am not your slave.”
“Aren’t you?”
16
Balance
If she could kidnap a man once, she could kidnap him again, right?
At the crack of dawn, she trotted to the library, quickly checking for any drawings of the layout of the rooms in the Master’s Hall. Anything that could help her locate Aven. She had no luck, but it didn’t matter.
She had worked through the details with her father late into the night, examining a layout they had drawn together from memory, trying to recall the guard’s patrol times, what had been said when she’d given Aven to the Masters, what she would need to collect and gather once the sun had risen. Then in the dark of night, she’d stolen out to the woods again, and she’d hidden the map Aven had given her with some supplies about an hour’s flight toward Akaria. If she failed, the map could not fall into the Masters’ hands.
The sun now completely up, she strode from the library and began gathering her ingredients—web from a spider, hair from a rat and a cat, the antennae of a beetle.
As she ran her hand over one of the wandering gray cats, snatching a hunk of excess fur the cat was shedding, she remembered the wolves who’d attacked them in the temple. With the Balance, there is always another way, the wild wolf had said. She hoped it was right.
She felt the quietest touch of hope creep into her heart. Perhaps there was a Balance, perhaps this was what her father had meant all along. If this feeling of freedom wasn’t somehow a cruel practical joke, if she could actually find him, if they could somehow get away…
That world was too bright to think of, lest her heart be shattered when it didn’t come true.
It was not time to think, it was time to act.
Her steps seemed no different from any other day, but on this day, she headed into the Master’s Hall of her own accord. The day would not end the way it had begun, that she was sure of.
Inside, she found a quiet corridor, waited until she was sure she was alone, and then slipped into the form of a cat. Then she darted from corner to corridor, again under the guise of hunting rodents.
She began systematically exploring the areas of the Hall that she’d never seen before, one by one, peeking in as a cat, looking under doorframes, sniffing others, even slipping in as a beetle sometimes just to be sure. Several doors concealed only sleeping chambers on the other side; some were empty or held crates in storage. Many nearest to the main hall seemed largely unused. One by one she went, fast as she could, eliminating each in its turn.
Beyond another series of storage chambers with dusty barrels inside, she found a doorway made of iron rather than wood, with bars and a large sturdy lock on the left side. She could barely make out stairs leading down into the darkness.
This had to be it.
The hallway was empty and silent. She could hear no one nearby. She wound herself down, coiled into a spider form, and began climbing, heading for the safety of the highest parts of the wall. Then she crawled past a bar and was plunged into darkness.
A spider was not quite the smallest thing Miara knew how to transform herself into, but it was the smallest one that would be at home in a dungeon. There might also be flies, but they might also be more annoying targets for guards or prisoners to squash. All tiny forms carried many risks—easily crushed, stepped on, brushed aside, or blown away by the wind. Tiny legs went a great deal slower than bigger ones or even feline ones. Eight spider eyes did not work the same as two human ones. Still, she had to hide herself somehow. She had no idea what to expect from this dungeon. However, she did know that a spider on a dark wall was probably a fairly normal occurrence no one would pay any attention to.
It was slow going. Her sight as a spider was much blurrier than as a human, but brighter in the dark. She could see more in the low light, though with duller lines. She could tell enough to know that she was going forward and down. Very, very slowly.
Behind her, a loud clanking and smashing sound made her freeze in her tracks. Voices rang out. Guards.
She moved a few inches higher up on the wall, then held very still.
A group of them passed her, headed down. She counted eight, if her eyes were to be trusted. With her strange, new eyes, she couldn’t quite make them out perfectly. Where could they be going?
The sound of the soldiers faded. Had they just quit talking, or could she no longer hear them? How far was it to the bottom of this dungeon?
Didn’t matter. Keep going.
Time blurred and became nothing but the slow, steady progress across the wall: a strange crevice in the rock, a hill here, a valley there. She scaled higher as she neared a torch, unsure how hot it would be, not wanting to end up cooked.
With time came more footsteps. The guards were leaving, but there were no voices this time.
She was about as high on the wall as she could be, but she nestled into a crevice just in case. She waited.
They came around the bend quickly, marching in better form this time, in rows. Two, then two, then three, then two…
Nine? Wasn’t that more than had gone down there? She struggled to look harder in the dim light. Was the new figure slumped against them? Was there even a ninth figure?
Yes. They were escorting someone—someone they’d gone down into the dungeons to fetch.
Gods. It was Aven.
She felt every muscle in her tiny body tense as if she could pounce to free him. Her mind raced, trying to figure out what to do. They were taking him somewhere. Her plan couldn’t possibly work now if there were nine guards surrounding him wherever he ended up.
The guards lumbered with Aven up the stairs, almost out of sight. Think, she commanded herself. Think, damn it! They rounded the corner, gone now. She still stared, numb.
Then action returned to her in a rush. She leapt from the wall and let herself drop down toward the floor, and as she fell she twisted her form into a large rat. She hit the floor with a tumble and a roll, and her head spun, but she righted herself and took off after them.
If she wanted to save Aven, she had to know where he was. And right now she was at least close. When she got to him, she had no idea what she would do.
One step at a time.
She scampered on at full rat speed, leaping when the uneven stairs were farther than the normal distance apart, throwing all her energy after the sound of the footsteps. After him.
“Put this on,” the guard said, tossing a shirt in Aven’s face.
Guards had again arrived in his cell, but these didn’t seem like the others that had taken him to the smithy. They had a different air about them.
Was it morning? What were they planning?
He could only move slowly, gritting his teeth against new shocks of pain from the night before. He couldn’t remember Daes leaving or even passing out, but it must have happened at some point. Even now, he felt himself teetering on the edge of consciousness, whether it was from the pain, the lack of sleep, the mental exhaustion. One more quick jerk, and perhaps he could have the shirt on—
He felt himself fall to the ground and into darkness.
“He has his father’s eyes.”
A man’s voice. Cold stone pressed against Aven’s cheek. His body lay uncomfortably sprawled on its side. He kept his eyes closed, hoping to hide that he’d awoken.
“You have done well for once, Daes, Seulka,” the voice continued. “Perhaps I should be asking you more often to attempt things I don’t think you can do.”
The slightest pause at the awkward comment.
“Thank you, Your Majesty.” Daes’s voice. Aven longed to clench his fist as a knot tightened in his stomach. It was best not to focus on the night before. At most, he could cling to the fact that he’d stuck to his story throughout.
And now he knew something, at least—the voice was King Demikin of Kavanar.
“The crown prince of Akaria. And I thought the feat impossible. Fine work, indeed. Especially for a bastard.”
Again the slightest pause. A bastard, eh? What was that all about?
“Several of our mages are very skilled,” said Daes, ignoring the comment with grace. “And only yesterday, I added six dozen to start additional similar training.” Aven didn’t like the sound of that.
“Excellent.”
“Also, these mages may have gotten quite lucky,” Seulka added. “We don’t know how repeatable it will be.”
“Well, we shall have time to find out, eh? And somehow we have yet to receive a declaration of war.” From the movement of the king’s voice, he seemed to be pacing in front of Aven. War, huh? Was this the intent all along? If they wanted war, why not just attack? Perhaps this was the direct method Daes was referring to. And perhaps they were truly concerned with getting at the star magic first, which made sense. Such a mission would have been significantly harder with a full-blown war underway.
“He’s not exactly what I pictured. Can you believe they let themselves get so bulky? Fighting is for foot soldiers. Far too much muscle.” The king paused, and Daes cleared his throat. Heh, didn’t agree, did he? “Like a damned farmer,” the king continued, circling Aven. His steps were soft, his voice like crunching gravel. “Commoners do menial labor, like wielding swords. Not royalty. And no painting can quite capture that stubborn glint around the eyes. But I digress. What shall we do with him, do you think? Daes, your thoughts?”
“We are fully prepared to kill him, sir, as you ordered. The real question is by what means and how quickly.”
“Indeed,” said the king.
“I recall it was your desire to kill him promptly this morning, after you were able to verify his identity. All preparations have been made, and it would be a worthy revenge for the Akarian wrongs against your family.”
“No revenge is worthy enough,” the king said, as though he would be the judge of that. What was he even referring to? The mages in the Dark Days had been Akarian, true enough… But they couldn’t still be holding on to such nonsense, could they? Oh, by the ancients. “But it will be a start. Especially when we strike fear into the hearts of every Akarian by returning his head on a pole.”
For the first time, Aven felt his body tense with the instinct to fight and survive. It had all been so politely diplomatic—even contemplative—up till that point that it hadn’t really seemed real. But now… well, he might not hear the details, but he was sure they were carefully calculating the most terrible outcome, at least for Akaria.
Perhaps he needed to think more seriously about how he was going to get out of this before he lost the chance.
Aven risked opening one eye the smallest amount he could. Red velvet robes draped across the black marble floor not far from him—the king. They were in the large receiving room where he’d last seen Miara. He could see servants entering from a side door, carrying steaming bowls. A small, gray cat ran in, dodging their heels as they headed for the dais. He couldn’t see it, but he knew the four leaders of this disgraceful place sat there on the other side of the king.
“If you are open to other timelines, however, we could potentially keep him alive for a bit. Find out what we can from him.” Daes paused for a second. Letting it sink in, or regretting he hadn’t gotten more—that he believed—out of Aven? “There could be much to glean about Akaria’s defenses, force preparation, plans for war, diplomatic relations.”
“A thoughtful approach. You are quite the brains of this war effort, Daes. But we also have your spies. Is it worth the effort to try to get it out of him? Will he really tell us anything the spies can’t find out anyway?”
Another slight pause. “Perhaps you are right, Your Majesty.”
Aven wanted to laugh out loud. By that tone of voice, he was fairly sure Daes did not at all agree with the king’s assessment. But for his own reasons, he chose not to say anything. Aven risked another slight peek, as the king was focused on Daes.
The gray cat had settled nearby, beside a guard. The king still stood before him.
“We could demand a tribute from Akaria. Returning him would be less rewarding for you, I’m sure, but it would bring much needed resources to the nation, such as their iron from the mountains.” So they needed iron? Good to know.
“Well, we could simply not return him after the tribute has been received.”
“Brilliant thinking, Cousin,” the woman chimed in.
Another slight pause. “Indeed,” said Daes. How could the king be missing how much the dark one clearly disapproved? “A tribute could also present opportunities for ambush and a chance at reducing Akarian forces before a war has fully begun. Which would be invaluable, in my opinion. Worth more than this prince, with certainty.”
Strange. Amid all this talk of options, Daes had framed the discussion around his death—where, when, and how. Not if. They had yet to mention that he was a mage or any chance of enslavement. Were they hiding it from him? Aven stifled a grin. They didn’t want him to know they had failed. That there was someone who could resist them.
That was it, wasn’t it?
“What do you think, Your Majesty?” asked the woman.
There was a long moment of silence, in which Aven began to wonder if he was missing something he could not hear and if he should open his eyes. But then the king finally spoke.
“These are all worthy options. But I must say, I lean toward the original plan. His immediate death.”
“Of course, my lord,” Daes said quickly.
“Are you certain, Cousin?” said the woman. “What is the rush to kill him? Let us make some use of him and then kill him.”
“I have decided. What is the rush? I want our people to know that our justice is swift, our memory is long, and our wrath is unending. He will serve as an example of the age that is to come.”
“Huzzah,” she said, a touch of awe in her voice. Well, perhaps this fool did have his kingly moments, even if it was only via hellfire and brimstone.
Daes spoke into the silence. “I have one more course of action that has just occurred to me, Your Majesty.” What could this be?
“Let’s have it.”
“The mage who captured him has proven herself very talented. She’s observed him for nearly a week on their journey here. She knows him well now. What if we kill him and then send her back in his place, disguised as his likeness?”
Aven gasped. He could not think of a worse hell for Miara—to pretend to be him in front of all those who missed him, all those whom she’d betrayed by bringing him here. Pure torture.
“What was that?” said the woman’s voice.
Aven felt a boot nudge his shoulder, seeking to roll him onto his back. He winced in spite of himself—there was more than one wound there at this point.
“He’s awake,” the king said.
Aven opened his eyes. Indeed, it was Demikin, fool king of Kavanar. They had never met in person, but he bore a resemblance to his etchings and paintings, if much more sour looking. He was middle-aged, with a stout midsection. Probably shorter than Aven, with a balding head and blond beard. His hands bore many rings, among them a large, peculiar ruby on his left hand. He smelled of garlic and fish, and Aven frowned up at him. The king glared back.
The air around Aven had begun to move. He didn’t fight it. Not his usual swirling, idle wind, but violent, unpredictable darts. It nipped at the king’s robes, the guards’ hair and tunics. The tapestries on the nearby wall began to sway. The king eyed the wall and the now sporadically flickering torches.
“Is this how you always greet foreign dignitaries?” Aven grunted.
“If I have the option,” the king replied with a dark smile.
“Get him on his feet,” Daes ordered the guards, clearly annoyed. A conscious Aven could reveal his secret, adding even more urgency to their current plan.
The king turned to Daes. “I didn’t call you the brains of this effort for nothing. It shall be done—we have our plan. Let’s have this calf slaughtered and be done with it.”
Excruciating shots of pain ran through him as the same guards hauled him to his feet unceremoniously. The air darted more viciously at that, reaching farther from him. It whipped at the fire and the candlesticks on their feasting table.
What could he do if he didn’t hold back? Casel help me, he thought. He focused on the feasting table, the king, the fireplace.
“Should I call for the…” The woman trailed off when she noticed the candles in front of her had just gone out. The king’s cape whipped over his shoulder awkwardly and sent him stumbling to the right. The nearest tapestry clanged against the wall.
“What the—” the king started.
Daes stood and recklessly kicked his chair out of the way, rounding the table and coming straight for him.
Aven knew the look on his face—a mixture of determination and bloodlust. He had no intention of having his secret revealed.
“Make him kneel,” the Dark Master ordered.
“Daes—by Nefrana—not in here!” the woman snapped.
“Shut up,” the Dark Master said coldly. Daes strode to the wall where a sword and battle ax hung beside a torch. He took the claymore and unsheathed it, tossing the sheath aside.
Didn’t he know an ax would be far better for an execution? Of course, this superior knowledge of human butchery wasn’t getting Aven anywhere at the moment.
The guards had hesitated, but at Daes’s approach, they finally pushed Aven to his knees. The king swept himself to a position by the fire, probably afraid of getting his robes sullied with foreign blood.
“You said you’d prepared the court—” the woman started again.
The air in the room had almost risen to a wind. The fire wavered mightily, smoke now billowing in the king’s direction. He strode away toward the fresh air coming in from the hall, coughing in annoyance.