by R. K. Thorne
Ata strode on, confident and certain in her continuous pace whether Miara was quite done or not, matching the pace of the soldier’s mount in front of her. She could guess why the stable master had selected the fine creature. Ata had a presence to go along with her fancy name, a confidence verging on arrogance. The horse deserved more of an honorific than Miara did. A royal horse, at least in manners. A queenly one.
Miara spotted an apple tree that had lost its leaves up ahead and smiled. Before she’d even neared it, she sent out energy to the short, broad tree, a joyful outpouring of life. Flowers burst into bloom along the branches.
“Oh, that’s nice,” Siliana murmured from behind her. The mage was hardly prone to niceties and compliments, which was probably a long-ingrained habit from spending most of her time with Derk. Miara smiled a little wider.
Her father also looked pleased, breathing in the air deeply. A contented peace radiated off of him like the sun’s heat in spring, and that warmed her heart more than any hearth could have. In truth, it was far from spring. Clouds blanketed the darkening sky with a fluffy layer that blocked what was left of the sun for the day. Everyone was bundled in scarves and gloves and cloaks, except for her one hand entwined in Ata’s mane, and there was a feeling in the air an air mage might have been able to tell her meant snow.
In the end, Siliana and Jaena had joined Miara, her father, Luha, and the four guards Aven had ended up ordering with them. Jaena and Luha—and Siliana to some extent—had mostly just wanted to see the city, and Miara was glad for the company. Guards were nice, if she knew she could trust them. Which she didn’t. These mages were her people.
If no one had noticed the beans just yet, the apple tree was a different story. Miara had focused on it because she’d thought Ata would appreciate an apple—and perhaps the other horses too—but the glory of spring blooms amid the desolateness of late fall was hard for anyone to ignore.
Men and women opened their doors, gaping, and a few people stumbled out of a local tavern, looking both amazed and then concerned they’d drunk more than they’d thought they had.
Miara took a deep breath. Time to make an impression. Hopefully it’d be a good one.
She pressed Ata forward, using her mind rather than heel or rein, and circled around the guards to ride up to the tree alone. She stopped short in front of it.
One of the sharper-eyed guards caught up with her quickly, looking irritated, but his expression softened when she gave him a thankful nod. She needed a way for people to know this was her doing. Someone’s doing, and not the gods’, except as they acted through her hands.
Feeling a bit ridiculous, she raised her arms up as if embracing the tree. Of course, she needed no such ridiculous gestures. She could bring the tree to fruit without even looking at it from around the block, if she was close enough. But then no one would understand that magic had been the cause. And that she had been the cause.
Magic could be something beautiful. And useful. And she was going to prove it to them.
The flowers were so beautiful, it was sad to push past them into the leaves of summer, but it’d hurt the tree to leave it so unbalanced. She had to take it nearly this far into the cycle, perhaps to its state a month ago, so that its thinnest branches would be ready for the coming snow. She could feel a strain in the tree, a tiredness—it was old and had grown there for many years.
Jaena, can you take a look at the soil? she asked silently. Seems worn out of something.
Not my specialty, but I’ll do my best. Jaena’s horse rode up to join them, and the mage dismounted, approaching the tree, taking her staff with her from its strap on the horse’s side. They’d had to press the stable master for that, but Miara didn’t blame her. Neither of them had been free long enough to take that freedom for granted. Miara dropped her hands and paused to take a breath and regain some small amount of energy. Jaena’s tall, dark form paced around the tree, bending down to brush the soil that escaped above the cobblestones near the center. She closed her eyes briefly, and then opened them again, nodding.
As Jaena mounted up again, Miara returned her hands to the sky, trying for calm and dignified, even though the silly feeling wouldn’t fade. And it was easier now, the tree reinvigorated as she pushed it from spring toward summer.
Apple-blossom petals rained around her, the cold wind whipping them in small whirlwinds, and the fruit began to grow and ripen. Buds became berries, which became apples that went from green to yellow to blushing full red in places. Oh, a lovely variety. So much beauty locked in the dormant states of winter.
One apple fell, then another, and then she slowed the flow, lowering her hands and hanging her head for a moment. Perhaps she looked tired. Truth be told, she was whispering a silent prayer in her mind, an almost wordless plea: let this interference be for the good and not the bad. Let this walk in line with the Way of Things. She only wanted to help. And she had no other ideas, short of walking around healing people one by one. Certainly none as grand as this one.
The tree’s owner opened a door to the left of the cobblestoned area around the tree and stopped short. A warm orange glow vibrated out of the bustling tavern behind her dull blue dress. She put a hand over her mouth and stared.
“Is this your tree?” Miara called, just barely cutting off a “my lady” at the end. Not including it almost physically hurt.
The woman nodded mutely.
“A gift. Enjoy them,” Miara said simply, keeping her face serious. Regal, or as close as she could get. It didn’t matter, the woman wasn’t looking; she was still staring at the tree. Miara steered Ata back and urged the group on to the next block. If they were going to cover most or all of the White City, they couldn’t dally.
She’d leave the apples for the citizens, she decided. For… her subjects. Surely the stable master had some apples on hand. Now that the moment was upon her, she realized that taking any of the fruit—even to give to the majestic Ataeralia—would have made the whole gesture self-serving. And that would entirely defeat its purpose.
Her father caught up with her as her more attentive guard overtook her. Pointing to a small sign along the road up ahead, her father met her gaze. “I think I see a garden patch beside that temple. Look. A small one, but just the same.”
Miara raised an eyebrow. “Really?” She glanced back over her shoulder. The apple-tree woman had walked out, picked up a fallen apple, and now stood staring at it in her hand.
He nodded. “It’s, uh, ripe with opportunity. If you’ll pardon the pun.”
Behind them, Luha snorted.
“Let’s go.”
Leaving the garden patch, they moved on. Flower boxes brimmed with wheat and roses, carrots and lavender, beets and daisies. At times, they drew a crowd, gazes suspicious, apprehensive, curious, wary. After the apple tree, the feeling of being watched didn’t go away whether there was a crowd joining them or not. So many eyes had her on edge—and vowing to bring more than four guards next time. And more daggers. And maybe a bow. Massive magical work that could push her to the edge of her abilities and risk unconsciousness was not ideally done with a large audience.
Definitely not an audience of… the entire city.
She gulped down her fear and brought another rose to bloom, trying to ground herself. A white blossom for the White City. She hoped someone would notice such a thing, but the crowds were mostly silent, save whispered murmurs containing phrases like “the king,” “mages,” and oaths to the gods. She was glad for the guards, though, and their short black capes bearing the sword-and-shield insignia. The procession was clearly royal, and no one started any trouble that Miara would have to regret. Luha was with them, and her father. She wouldn’t have let any fight go on for more than a few moments, if she could help it.
By the time they returned to Ranok’s stables, every one of them was dragging, even the guards. That might have been because near the end, she’d started stealing meager amounts of energy from them. Nothing to harm them, just enough to fini
sh the job so everyone could go home, though it left them exhausted. She wouldn’t make a habit of such a thing, but then again, she had no plans to regularly douse the entire city with ripe plants with not even five mages to help.
The horses were the only ones who seemed happily invigorated by the exercise. Miara rode Ata to her stable, attempting to shoo away the stable hand with little success. But even if she was supposed to be a noble now, she still loved horses, and Ata was a fine creature. It’d be a joy to brush her down and feel the horse’s enjoyment. She was not letting that fellow steal such simple pleasures.
“If you want to help, go get her an apple,” she said to the young man, who looked at her like she’d lost her mind, but to her surprise, he obeyed and trotted off.
She had dismounted and begun with the saddle when Wunik’s voice rang out in the stable, alarmed.
“Siliana? Siliana, come quick.”
Running a calming hand over Ata’s side and flank, Miara forced herself to move slowly to get around the horse. She might be able to communicate with Ata, but they barely knew each other, and she didn’t need to be healing a kick to the ribs after all the work they’d just done.
Miara’s eyes caught on Siliana’s red tunic just as she reached Wunik. The elder’s expression was grim. Whatever news he brought couldn’t be good. “What is it?” Siliana said, panting.
“Derk has returned. He’s hurt. Come, quickly now.”
Miara thrust what energy she had remaining to spare at Siliana as she jogged after Wunik. The woman couldn’t have much left. By the time Miara had even blinked, they were gone. For an old man, he sure could run when he cared to.
Thanks, Siliana said silently, gratitude coming with the thought like a warm blanket falling over her.
Miara turned and started to step back to start again with Ata, but she stumbled, weakness overwhelming her for a moment. Maybe she’d have to let the stable boy do his job after all.
She trudged to her rooms—the queen’s rooms—and collapsed onto the bed without even undressing. She was lucky she’d gotten her cloak off and managed to down the warm tea one of her attendants offered.
Unfamiliar voices floated through her dreams, and she fought to wake, to identify them, to be sure she was safe. But each time she tried to wake up, she got lost along the way, twisting her way through a dream where she forgot what she’d been fighting so hard to reach for.
Sleep had her hard, harder than it seemed like it should, but she hadn’t much choice. She slept and dreamed of darkness.
“My lord! My lord!” Perik came running up the stairs and into the king’s suite. Aven cocked his head to the side, surprised by the young man’s urgency.
“What is it, Perik?”
“Telidar told me to send word straight away. A rider returns from the group sent to find your brother, sire.”
“Just one?” Aven’s blood went still, frozen in his veins.
“Yes, sire. A man. Alone. He’ll be here shortly.”
Aven waited, pulse pounding, afraid to hear what was to come and equally afraid not to hear it.
Finally footsteps came up the stairs, uneven and heavy. Concerned voices murmured around them.
Derk slumped in the doorway. Blood soaked one leg of his trousers. Out of breath, filthy from riding—he looked like hell.
Aven stood and strode toward him. “What happened?”
Derk’s usual irreverence was gone, only darkness in his eyes now. He pressed his lips together in a thin line. He opened his mouth, eyes dropping down to the floor, but then he shut it again.
He didn’t know what to say.
“You return alone,” Aven said softly.
“Asten is alive,” Derk said quickly. “She deemed it best she head straight for Dramsren, after the… after what happened. They have even less information on the mages than we do.”
“And the others?”
“Asten ordered Feri and Geulin to stay, monitor the situation. The camp looked like they were picking up and about to move.”
Aven swallowed. “And… the rest? And Thel?”
“We saw Thel,” Derk said slowly. “He was alive.”
The two men only stared at each other for a long, somber silence.
“They’re all dead, aren’t they?” Aven said softly.
Derk winced, his jaw a grim line. His gaze dropped down now, contorted in pain. Finally he nodded. This man was no soldier. Not that any of them were particularly war-hardened.
“What happened?” Aven made sure to keep judgment from his voice.
“Air mages. Like us.” Derk’s voice faltered near the end.
“Not like us. We’re not kidnapping people or killing anyone with magic.”
Derk looked up and caught his eye. “I killed one of them. But then we just turned and ran. I can catch fire from one, maybe two. But I could have never handled them all. And the soldiers were all dead by then anyway. At least I got one.”
“What else can you tell me about the battle?”
Derk took a deep breath. “We decided to charge in, take them by surprise. It didn’t help. About twenty mages reacted before the riders could even reach the encampment. Burned up the whole force in a matter of seconds.” He winced again and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I’m not sure any of them even drew swords. Maybe a few. The mages also spotted the group of us in the distance. I was watching with farsight, that’s how I saw your brother among them. Thel launched himself at one of them, then another. Disrupted their casting and caused a ruckus. He saved our lives, I think.”
“I realized after you left that hanging back might have made you a target in its own way.”
“Maybe it did, but we were a hard-to-reach target. Being in the group charging in wouldn’t have been any better. They were ready to torch the whole forest. We were far outmatched.” He glanced down at his leg. “In hindsight, maybe a healer with us would have been a good idea. But… gods, Aven. It was horrible. I can’t believe they’re all dead.”
Aven laid a hand on his shoulder, his expression dark. “They fought bravely and died in pursuit of justice, which is all any of us can really ask. We’ll work to stop this, to make sure their sacrifice was not in vain.”
Derk gave him a somber nod.
“That’s enough for now. You’ve had a long ride. Let’s get someone for your leg.”
Even as they were turning back to the stairs, Siliana appeared at the bottom landing. Her brown eyes widened, and her mouth fell open as she dashed up the stairs to take Derk’s arm. Aven had never seen her show any emotion toward Derk other than mild annoyance and barely constrained irritation, but now she looked sincerely concerned.
Aven stared down at the marble floor, listening to Derk’s uneven gait and her murmured questions as he shut the door. He’d never thought he would miss Derk’s cocky, snide remarks, and yet he’d have given anything for a sarcastic quip just now. Something to tell him things weren’t so serious.
But they were. Deathly serious, in fact.
Two dozen men had been lost. His brother was still Alikar’s prisoner. His father was no better. And this catastrophe didn’t bode well for what a normal military force would do against an equivalent force supported by mages. Or even a weaker one.
When he was sure Derk and Siliana were out of hearing range, Aven slammed a palm against the doorframe. Inside, he heard Perik jump and drop something, and the guard beside him turned to look, but Aven ignored them and stalked back to the desk. They were so unprepared.
They were going to need a miracle.
Three more days passed before Thel saw Detrax—or anyone—again. The new fortress had a proper dungeon that he’d been thrown into, one where he could be chained at wrist and ankle and left for days, save the occasional scrap he had to scare away the vermin to get. As if he weren’t skinny enough already.
He had some range of motion with his short chains, but not many positions in a dungeon could be comfortable. Sleeping mostly occurred when he passed out, and he drea
ded waking and having to deal with it all again. The place was mostly silent, although occasionally he thought he could hear Niat—either groaning or sick again. Poor thing. Whatever she thought of him, nobody deserved all that. Of course, the sounds were far off and faint. It could be someone else or his imagination. She could have been swept off to her waiting betrothed by now.
As painfully uncomfortable as his new accommodations were, they did bring one boon. Light filtered through an arrow slit in the wall—it seemed this fortress hadn’t always had a dungeon, and this dungeon was oddly not underground. Perhaps it was more accurately termed a prison? At any rate, while the arrow slit also brought a frigid wind that was beginning to make him constantly shake, it also allowed him just enough light to read.
And read he did. He tucked his knees up to his chest for warmth—and for privacy—and he nestled the little book against his thighs, hidden from any who cared to glance inside. He studied diligently and then studied some more.
What else did he have to do? But of course, he would have been studying this book had he been at home, in a nice armchair in the library with some hot cider in one hand. And it’d have been nice to have his choice of books to read, rather than just this tedious volume. Oh, and a fire. And some pumpkin pie. His stomach gurgled. Okay, perhaps this fantasizing wasn’t helping.
By the third chapter, he’d encountered descriptions of spells for warmth, and he was glad to practice them. One other boon—the prison-dungeon was made nearly entirely of stone. Except his chains, of course.
A few hours of practice and he was able to draw the heat from the stone around him, and even heat the floor and walls as well. His accommodations instantly became more tolerable.
He was reading anxiously on how to reshape soil when the heavy locks on his door began to groan and clank open. Swiftly, he tucked the book back into his jerkin and forced his face into a more bored expression.
Of course, it was Detrax.
“Aye, there’s the runt. Ready to finish yer map?”