by R. K. Thorne
Something was wrong.
Her eyes scanned the perimeter of the room. If spies had infiltrated Estun, this makeshift cellar turned infirmary and war room would be a stroll in the garden. And how convenient, a swarming crowd to blend into. Her right hand drifted to her dagger’s hilt as she eyed each person in turn. Her left hand still clutched Luha’s fingers, warm and real and safe. Hard to believe, but true.
Miara’s gaze caught on Elise. The queen’s face was pale as she helped Samul to a seat. Curiously, he leaned on his wife more than on any of his attendants.
Yes, something was definitely wrong. But it wasn’t spies—it was Samul. Miara reluctantly let go of Luha with a squeeze and skirted the crowd. Dyon stood to the right side of the royal couple now, his brow furrowed with concern.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” Miara whispered.
“I don’t know,” Elise replied weakly. “Everything.” She sank beside Samul. It didn’t work. Well, some, but not all the way. The healing won’t finish. I… I need to rest.
The knots twisting in Miara’s stomach tightened further. She reached out, sensing the lingering wounds on Samul that would not—or could not—heal. She plied the remaining tangles of chaos with bits of energy from one side, then another. Nothing influenced the wounds in the slightest. He was not fully healed, but the wounds didn’t care for a moment about her magic. They were already in their natural state.
She swore under her breath, eying the crowd for danger. There were only two possible explanations for a wound that resisted healing. Neither was good.
The arrows could have been tipped with poison. Poisons were perfectly natural, and healing magic couldn’t touch them. They had to be treated the old-fashioned way, with herbs and prayers. She could create them as a creature mage, but she would have never considered such a thing. The idea stopped her short, though. Their pursuers had had at least one creature mage among them, and a very creative one at that.
Much as the idea of Samul being poisoned worried her, the other option was even worse. One other very natural thing defied healing: death, and its harbinger, old age. While creature magic could restore wounds, fight disease, erase scars, it could not make anyone live forever. And many, many had tried.
But Samul had been fine just a few days ago. Feisty as hell. Full of energy and defiance. He’d been a better fish than she had, and she’d done it before.
It had to be poison. Had to be. Although he had given up the crown more quickly and with more ease than she would have ever expected…
His eyes were closed now. His face had not regained any color, which was understandable, considering the intense blood loss. But was there something more in those closed eyes, that pained brow? Or was it just poison doing its work? Exhaustion and pain, or the kind of exhaustion of the soul only time could relieve?
Stay strong, Samul, she ordered. Aven needs you.
He opened one eye to peer at her, then closed it again. His brow softened, but she wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or bad.
Where’s Siliana? Miara asked Elise.
Pushed to the point of exhaustion. Collapsed on a cot in the back.
Looks like you need rest too.
Yes. But I can’t leave them.
Miara scanned the room again. The crowd still ebbed and flowed around Aven. Well-wishes and congratulations and handshakes and backslapping. The pandering for favor was already beginning. Or no, it likely had begun the day he was born. She turned back to face Elise. We need to wrap this up. The king needs a bed. And so do you.
Yes. Tell them… Elise’s voice paused, her eyes drifting shut for a moment, then snapping open again. Can Dyon… the prince’s rooms. Aven must keep the king’s rooms. Don’t let him argue about it— Her thoughts fell into disorder, and Miara backed away to give the woman her privacy.
“I’ll take care of it,” she said quickly. “Lord Dyon, as much as I hate to interrupt—”
He nodded before she could finish. “There is work to be done. Celebration must wait.”
“The king needs a bed to rest and heal. And the queen too. And he needs a healer. Tell them to check for poisons. Queen Elise said Aven should keep the king’s rooms, to send them to the prince’s quarters—is that all right?”
Dyon nodded crisply. “I’ll see it done myself, my lady.” And he turned away, summoning someone from the doorway.
Miara opened her mouth to correct him—she was no lady—but stopped. He was not wrong any longer, was he? If the title the king had granted her minutes ago hadn’t given her such an honorific, surely Aven announcing to everyone he intended to marry her implied it would be hers eventually. It shouldn’t surprise her; Dyon was nothing if not precise and observant.
A memory of the Mistress and her dark curls and disdainful eyes tugged at Miara. No, no—the Mistress was no lady. Miara had more nobility and honor in her little finger than that awful woman. She needed to find out the Mistress’s real name. She’d think of her as an equal, just like Daes. Even if only in her mind.
As attendants came to help the king and queen away—or did they now carry other titles?—Miara tried to catch Aven’s eye. To her relief, it didn’t take long, as though he had been trying to catch her gaze himself.
I sent your parents to rest.
He nodded once approvingly.
Your father is not entirely healed. The arrows may have been poisoned.
His inward wince pained her like it was her own. Or… ?
Or he may be just getting old. He may long to die and resist healing. But that doesn’t make sense. I think it must be poison. Dyon is fetching a nonmagical healer.
Good. Thank you.
We need rest too.
Agreed. And to find Thel, and so much more. I’ve been trying to shoo these folks away. I’ll shoo harder.
She prodded the not entirely healed wound in her leg. The ache was growing annoying, but it hadn’t deserved her energy when others nearby might have been near death. Could it be poisoned too? No. It responded to her power with a furious pang, making her lurch.
But she and Samul had switched positions for the last few hundred yards so that he’d taken the brunt of the assault, believing that she could heal him but not the other way around. Perhaps, with Panar so close, the brand had urged their pursuers to do something more serious than just shoot arrows, since they had obviously been failing.
Aven worked his way through the crowd. Samul was right about one thing; he was a natural with people. The crowd circled Aven, beamed at him, fought for his attention even as he sought to rebuff them. He was in his element, as though such a danger-laden morass was where he belonged. Just watching made her nervous for him. How many of them had a dagger concealed? And plenty were fully and openly armed Akarian officials. If she weren’t reasonably confident in her ability to heal most wounds, she wouldn’t be standing idly by.
Where did she fit into this chaos? Was this the kind of moment that a queen should be standing, bleeding, arms folded, leaning against a doorway alone? Should she be more regal, graciously turning well-wishers away from his side?
She could do that. Later. Maybe not graciously, but a forbidding glare might work. She’d start when she was less bloody and not wearing Kavanarian leather. Although well loved and familiar, the leathers felt suddenly old—out of place, out of time. No longer a second skin, but now a relic of the past.
She’d get something else, after she figured out where the hell she could get a bath, a meal, and an extremely long nap. Assuming nobody catapulted or attacked anything before then. She heaved a deep sigh.
She was already exhausted, and this war had barely begun.
Thel scowled up at Alikar. “What, one charge of treason wasn’t enough for you? Or was it three? Four? I lost count.”
In response, Alikar ground his foot into Thel’s left hand, and this time he couldn’t stop himself from crying out. And—perhaps someone would hear him. He yelped louder.
Alikar withdrew his foot.
“When the storm comes, you’ll turn tail and flee? Like a deer into the brush? What a mighty example of an Akarian,” Thel said. He had never known when to stop, Dom had told him. This was likely one of those moments. But it was worth a gamble that his mockery might make Alikar change his plan.
Thel was rewarded for his snark with a fierce kick to the ribs.
Thel coughed through the pain. “Are your masters going to be pleased that you’ve failed them in unseating my brother?”
Another kick sent him onto his side, groaning. He sighed inwardly; he really was old enough and smart enough to know better than this.
Alikar’s men hauled him up and shoved him into the open carriage door. Had they grabbed his sword, or did it remain in the street? He needed to leave clues that he’d been taken so Aven and his father and the others would know what had happened.
He tried to peer out the windows on the other side of the carriage, but they were boarded shut. He poked at them, then went so far as to pound a fist, but they barely shuddered. Elbowing them as hard as he could only left his elbow aching, the boards unchanged. Not that strength was his strong suit.
Hmm. Perhaps this was not an entirely impromptu plan.
Niat was shoved in next. He caught her at the last moment, her skull almost cracking on the wood of the other side of the carriage, his fingers tangling in her soft, almost white hair. “Hey, watch it!” he snapped at the empty doorway. It slammed closed in his face.
Well, at least Alikar wasn’t coming with them.
“Gah, leave me alone,” she muttered. She skittered away to the farthest corner the tiny carriage cabin would allow.
The glow near her hip remained but seemed brighter now in the dark carriage. She removed the light from her pocket; it hung like a pendant from a simple thong that she slipped over her head. The stone glowed orange, like an ember, casting a fiery light over the wood around them. Oh, now it made sense. He’d read about these stones. Elders and others used them to identify mages, but they were mostly used by…
“You’re one of the Devoted? I thought you were a priestess.”
She scowled at him and said nothing for a long moment, as if she were trying to decide if he was worthy of an answer. She did have the haughty demeanor of some members of royalty. What had that guard been saying about princesses? Lord Sven’s position in Akaria certainly did not merit that title.
“It was a gift,” she said eventually.
“Oh, well, then,” Thel grumbled. “Lucky you.” Excellent. A witty retort, Thel, very good showing. Point to you, fool. Now she probably thought him a mage and an idiot. He fumbled for something else to say. “Are you really a princess?”
She sighed loudly. Clearly he was an insufferable mage idiot, he corrected. And one who wouldn’t shut up. “Are you really a prince?”
He had no idea what to make of that response. He blinked, trying to understand. “Well… yes. Of course.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh.”
So that hadn’t been sarcasm? Did that make her response a no? Whatever. If she wanted to be thorny, he could shut up. He had plenty to think over—like how to get out of this carriage without the men perched all over it noticing.
He studied the carriage interior. Like many low-cost carriages, it was simple and lacked cushions—any amenities really. With the windows boarded, there were no easy or obvious routes of escape. He would have to think his way out of here. It was also black as night, except for the menacing glow of the stone. It figured that now that he could study the book, there wasn’t the light for it. Unless maybe he got closer to her… No. He could just imagine her reaction. Excuse me, would you mind if I snuggled closer and read this book of magic by the light of your Devoted stone?
He glanced over. Could he ever convince her to work together? He studied the set of her jaw, the way her arms folded across her chest. They didn’t leave him optimistic.
Ah, the luck he had with women. Why couldn’t he be trapped in a carriage with someone attracted to bookish types or young princes or, even better, both? But no. Renala would certainly have been a better traveling companion.
His chest panged a little at the thought. She’s not interested, you dolt. Let it go. He didn’t believe Renala had ever picked up on his feelings for her, but she certainly hadn’t wanted him. Or Aven. Or any man, for that matter, judging by the way her eyes followed Siliana whenever the mage moved around a room. Which made Renala’s lack of interest sting a little less. It wasn’t personal. He’d had too many women fail to notice him while their eyes had been trained on burly men with a better ability to split a log in half. Curse him for being born Akarian. How was he ever going to find a woman that appreciated him for who he actually was? Didn’t the ability to quote the entire Teminid from memory count for anything, or was he going to have to learn to crush melons with his bare hands? Yeah, like he would ever bother. He’d just be alone forever, at this rate.
A visual inspection having turned up nothing, he returned to the boarded carriage window closest to him. He had a bad feeling Niat wouldn’t want him poking around, but certainly she must want to escape as well. The wooden boards over the carriage windows were nailed in place, thick, and rather secure as he’d found out the hard way. His elbow was still throbbing. Even if he managed to remove a board, it would be massively obvious to their captors.
The carriage door was locked. He scooted across his bench and reached toward the handle of the other door, which sat about a foot or two from her knee.
The coldness of her glare swept over him like a chill wind. “Just what do you think you’re doing?” she said softly.
Thel stared back, his eyes wide, unsure he even wanted to grant such a question an answer. As far as court etiquette went, it was certainly out of turn, but he had no interest in pointing that out either. He blandly tried the doorknob. It, too, was locked.
Yes, he’d just ignore her. That’d be for the best. He moved up to a partial crouch, inspecting the ceiling. She did not relax, probably because his whole body had moved closer to her and was looming over her.
That she would think he had anything but scientific examination in mind, the ridiculousness of it. How could he be any more obviously searching for an escape?
He crouched down now, awkwardly trying to position himself as far from her as possible. He flashed her a small, polite smile in the baleful light. Her face was an unmoving mask watching him, eyes dark as steel. She was… rather striking, a study in contrasts, the palest highlights and darkest shadows converging in her expression. Funny, one would think such a tiny, pale priestess would be softer, with her long curls and temple robes. But Niat was not soft. She emanated hardness, like a diamond in the blackest core of a mountain mine.
His fingers caught on something, and he gladly tore his gaze away. A panel. An emergency exit or loading panel, perhaps. It was not on the bottom as an exit should be, but on the side of the foot bed near where his calves would rest.
He twisted a latch, and a panel fell in toward him. Behind it he could see the racing wheels of the carriage and the hooves of the horses, and dirt immediately flew in. He lifted his arm to shield himself, then relented and shut it again.
Niat had not missed his discovery. Even without looking, he could feel her sour stare boring into his back. He twisted and sat down on the bench above the emergency door.
Well, that was something, but what use was it? It’d be impossible not to get hit by the carriage if they jumped out of that at full speed. Did their captors know that, and was that why it had been left unsecured? Then there were all the men that were sure to spot them, riding both above the carriage and on horseback beside it. The pounding of hooves assured him he had plenty of observers.
He mentally ran through possible uses for the panel in an escape. He worked with as much thoroughness as he could manage with her gaze occasionally on him, suspicion and judgment and wariness all wrapped in one angry look.
He didn’t get very far. Her gaze was unnerving, and his options
weren’t numerous. He closed his eyes to try to escape her, leaning his head back against the bouncing carriage in hopes of sleep.
“Lord Beneral!” A soldier called out from the cellar side door, and the room quieted. Aven took that moment to gently shift the remaining well-wishers aside and slide through the crowd toward Miara and the newcomer.
“Yes?” Beneral made his way from the side of the room where Wunik had been working. His dark features had grown deathly serious.
“We-we can’t find him, sir,” the soldier said, regret staining his voice. “Prince Thel. We need more men. He’s not in the streets. We need to search the houses.”
As the guard spoke, Aven slipped next to Miara. “Wunik—” he whispered.
Already looking, she shot back silently. He’s following something, might be them. Thinks he’s got Alikar’s trail at least.
He nodded, frowning. Every minute that passed made his heart race a little faster, his stomach drop lower, like panic was creeping up on him very slowly. If they didn’t find him soon, who knew when they were going to?
If ever.
Beneral joined them in the doorway, dark fingers curling around his ebony staff as he leaned more heavily on it than usual. The crowd returned to murmuring as it started to disperse.
“Who was the prince with last?” Miara asked.
The guard jumped, as if he hadn’t even noticed her dark form blending in against the dark cellar walls. “He was on the side of the tower with Alikar and his men,” the guard replied. “And Priestess Niat, Lord Sven’s representative. Before the first catapult hit the tower. We never expected— It shouldn’t have been able to reach so far.”
“It was helped by Kavanarian mages,” said Beneral.
The guard frowned harder now.
“Alikar and Niat? Isn’t that the luck,” she said as she shifted, leaning a little closer to Aven in a quiet gesture of support.