by R. K. Thorne
She broke away too soon and looked up at him, breathless and eyes wide. Aven had the sense that Perik was hovering near the door, trying to decide if he should answer or not. The knock sounded a third time.
“I’m going to go. But please, Aven, think about what I said. Don’t use that magic. People deserve to think for themselves.”
“They also deserve to be free. Like you are.”
She pressed her lips together as she frowned, clearly upset, but she nodded ever so slightly as she turned to go. Then she slipped out through the door Perik had opened, steward Telidar arriving behind her.
Telidar started peppering him and then Perik with questions, but Aven ignored her, standing numb. He clung to that nod, the look in her eyes. He couldn’t quite read it. Why couldn’t they have more time? Why couldn’t she simply agree with him? Of course, he didn’t want that. He’d never wanted that.
The steward’s questions finally broke through to his mind, and he answered absently as dread coiled in his gut, deeper and darker than any he’d ever known.
Jaena stared up at the temple steps, a cold wind whipping her cloak’s hood against her cheek. What was she doing, coming here? What was she thinking? They’d send her out with curses—if they didn’t have Devoted hanging around, waiting to do far worse. She’d defend herself if need be, but she hoped it wouldn’t come to that.
Staff in hand, one she’d borrowed from the stables in a moment of fear, she climbed one step, then another. The white marble was rounded down in the middle from years of footsteps. She was not the first to have trodden here, or even the thousandth. How many had worshipped at the temple before her? How many had climbed these steps? She was a grain of sand on the beach, and the solemn stone held no warmth or invitation. Cold and unfeeling as the snow waiting in the clouds above, readying to fall. A pillar on the high crest arching above her had fallen, and the damaged stone itself seemed to frown down at her.
A woman had started down the temple steps but stopped upon seeing her. Her pale, gauzy robe and golden cloak suggested a priestess. The woman paused and waited as Jaena ascended the steps faster now. She had no desire to be seen hesitating or doubting or staring bleakly at the steps.
“Nefrana’s blessings, my child. Can I help you?” the woman asked, voice all politeness. Wrinkles around the corners of her eyes gave Jaena the impression of one who had smiled much for many years, and in spite of her desire to dislike the woman, she had to admit the priestess had a kind face.
“I’m a mage,” Jaena said. Best be blunt about these things and get it over with. “Do you welcome mages in your temple?”
The woman paled at first, and then straightened a little, as if recovering from a slight. “Nefrana welcomes all in Elii Temple, although we ask that you not use magic within her walls. Why do you ask?”
“I’ve some questions. But first, I need to pray.”
That wasn’t entirely true. But she couldn’t—wouldn’t—explain herself. Not yet, probably not to anyone.
The holy woman held out an arm, ushering Jaena inside through broad wooden doors. Marble columns soared up four, five stories into the air, round slabs of elegant stone neatly stacked one atop another, topped with high, delicate arches. By the gods, were all the great temples in all the great cities like this? Or was this special to the White City? She’d traveled far with her parents, but they’d rarely visited inside temples themselves. And how had anyone built such a place without the help of mages? Could they even?
“Magnificent, is it not?” said her companion mildly.
Jaena nodded. She shivered, then tried to hide it lest the woman think her shivering with awe. No, definitely not, it was just that it was as cold in here as it was out in the street. Only the biting wind was staved off; heating such a large cavern of stone must be next to impossible.
Although, Jaena could have warmed them with her magic. But she would respect the woman’s request. For now.
“There are shrines around the outer walls, whichever may suit you. Most priests and priestesses are out in the gardens working, if you have questions.”
“In the gardens so late in the year?”
“Rituals cleansing the land after the harvest take time.”
“Ah,” said Jaena, as if she knew. She did not. Time held captive in Kavanar had not increased her knowledge of those who worshipped Nefrana, and even Ro had said little, shying away from the delicate subject. Her parents had always been busier with politics than religion, and that seemed a common enough attitude in Hepan. Here in Akaria, of course, Anara was easily the most popular deity. What did her temple look like?
She thanked the woman, who headed out of the temple and down the steps again, and then Jaena skirted around the outside, eying the shrines with trepidation.
In truth, she had not come here to pray. She’d been forced to pray enough in Mage Hall for a lifetime. If the day ever came that she needed to pray, it would likely be a long, long time in the future. Maybe never.
Although, Tharomar’s prayers seemed… nice. Pleasant. Cleansing, even. Sitting by his side for a solemn ritual wouldn’t be so bad.
But no, she had not come here to pray.
She had come to see if she could stand it. If she’d feel like a slave—or like she should be one. She would not have them treated like outcasts, and she wouldn’t lie about her magic and pretend. Not in front of the gods. If they had to go to the temple of Anara or Mastikos, so be it. But Nefrana was deep in Tharomar’s heart, central to his much-beleaguered oath and his embattled sense of honor.
She had to see if she could stand half an hour in this temple. Long enough to be married in Nefrana’s golden light.
She hadn’t counted on being alone.
Statues of Nefrana circled the outer walls of the temple, each from a different material. The first was carved from white stone, the next from dark stained walnut. One small statue appeared to be blown glass shot through with white, gold, and blue. A few farther ones were crafted in sandy, golden shades. Actual gold inlay shone from a black marble figure.
Jaena walked slowly toward them, her footfalls and the dull thud of her staff rudely loud in the silent, empty hall.
Candles burned before some statues. Many gazed down upon bundles of wheat shorn from the fields. A few altars even held loaves of bread. A standard offering, or the result of creative petitioners? Jaena had no idea.
Walking along, she kept an eye out for anyone. Could the emptiness be a trick? Could the priestess be sending word to set someone upon her, recapture her even now? Surely, with a mage as king, things would start to change, but they wouldn’t change overnight. And she held no illusions. She was in the lion’s den.
She stopped in front of one of the farthest statues. Wood, she discovered. The figure of the goddess was crafted carefully and meticulously from cream-colored wood, knots and twists and all. This one was not so perfect as the others, not without flaws. Like Jaena herself. It showed the injuries of growth, of years, of the twists and changes of life.
Candles sat on this altar, but they remained unlit. On a whim, she moved her staff to her other hand and took a stick from the altar beside it. She lit the slender stick and carried its light over, lighting not one but all of the candles. This was a beautiful statue, and it deserved equal offerings, even if no one other than her could see it.
Shaking out the flame and returning the wick to the altar, she stepped back.
Why had she really come?
A wave of emotions rose, startling her, the biggest of them all: Why?
Why had she ever been torn from her parents? Why had she been gifted this magic in the first place? Why had she lost Dekana? Why must any of it have happened?
Indeed, what cruel god would let such things happen to innocents?
And yet, she had somehow survived, somehow made it through, somehow escaped. And somehow she’d found this man who loved her enough to walk away from his smithy, his temple, the only life he’d ever known, away even from his oaths and
his own sense of honor. And she’d never once asked him to give up any of it. He’d done it all freely, as if for himself.
“What have I done to deserve all this?” she whispered. She wasn’t sure which events she meant anymore, the good or the bad. Maybe all of them in concert.
Why did the world give her such gifts after such pain? Was it Nefrana’s will? Anara’s? The Balance at work?
Dekana would never get such happiness. Where was the Balance in that? And what of her parents? How would they feel when they learned Jaena was alive and safe and free—and Dekana was not? They’d resent her. They’d think she should have tried harder to save her sister. They wouldn’t understand what it had been like for her to be a slave, to watch her pillar of strength slowly crack and crumble into broken, bitter nothingness.
How could they understand? She couldn’t expect them to. How could anyone? Free or no, the torture of the memories, of the loss, would never end.
And indeed—how could Jaena be happy when Dekana was dead? How dare she ever be happy at all? She deserved none of this.
Why?
She stared into the statue’s feminine gaze, not sure what she expected to happen. The world did not make sense, that shouldn’t surprise her. It wasn’t as if Nefrana or any of them had a single master plan. As if they pulled strings like puppeteers.
And if there was a Balance—where was it? Nothing could justify her sister’s death. Nothing. How could there be any sort of cosmic equilibrium in the face of tragedy? Of horror?
No, it was all nonsense, designed to manipulate people.
She stepped forward and cupped the candles, ready to blow them out.
Before she could, a door opened, the frigid wind whipping at the fragile flames. Seeing them fighting for their tiny lives as she’d been about to snuff them out made her hesitate.
She lowered her arm.
What if Dekana had never died?
She shook her head at such a foolish question and turned to leave. She still needed to inquire about marriage, but she’d come back. Just now… she was not in a celebratory mood. They’d think she didn’t want to marry him, with the despair that saturated her.
But what if Dekana had never died?
I would have never taken the brand, she thought. Certainly I would have tried to escape, but…
She stopped short. Would she have tried? Escape had been impossible. Dekana’s death had been shortly before Miara had left on her mission into Akaria, hadn’t it? Jaena hadn’t known about it at the time; she’d been too busy mourning and then plotting her revenge.
She took a deep breath, letting her thoughts venture into territory she usually feared to tread.
If Dekana hadn’t died, Miara might never have come to Akaria. Dekana would have had the mission to capture Aven. Perhaps she would have failed. Or succeeded. Either way, would her sister have charmed Aven into falling in love with her? Both seemed sensitive souls, but Jaena could not see it. Truthfully, she could not see her sister succeeding at such a trying, brutal mission. Nothing against Miara, but she was not quite so sensitive, and she had determination to match every drop of sadness, it seemed.
What were the chances that if Dekana had undertaken that quest, that she’d have inspired Aven to free her? And if she had failed, then none of them would be free. Aven wouldn’t be king. The war wouldn’t have started.
Jaena would never have met Tharomar.
She turned on her heel and narrowed her eyes at the statue of wood. She’d never have traded her sister for this happiness. It wasn’t fair. But then again, it hadn’t been her choice. Dekana had had to do what she’d had to do, much as Jaena might wish she could have stopped it.
The statue’s eyes seemed to gaze down at the candles sadly but kindly, as if fixated on her offering. As if acknowledging the tragic and the painful, but also the beautiful that made it all somewhat tolerable in the end.
She shook her head, clenched her jaw, and strode out.
Back in her rooms, Miara lay on a couch by the fire. A gloom had settled over her, a fog of weariness and worry that she didn’t have the energy to fight. The words she and Aven had traded kept replaying in her mind, and she kept piecing through them, trying to find some error, some means of reconciliation. In spite of her harsh words, she really didn’t want him leaving Panar on a note like this. She needed something to say to him when they said goodbye that would make it all better. But no healing words would come.
Kalan bustled about around her, thankfully returned with Siliana’s assurance that the woman had known nothing of the plot. Closets opened and shut, and cloth rustled. Etral had gone home a bit early after the dungeon business, but she, too, had been cleared by the creature mage to return to work. That didn’t surprise Miara, and truth be told, it was the best possible outcome because finding new attendants wouldn’t have been much of a better bet.
Well, unless they ransacked new individual’s minds for signs of betrayal too. Which maybe they should be doing, as unpleasant as that sounded. Maybe even everyone in Ranok should be subject to such a check… But she didn’t see that winning them any loyalty among nonmages with tactics like that.
“My lady, the healer Nyor sends word that he knows what the substance was that Opia was putting in your tea. He’d like to discuss it with you when you’re available. Also Master of Arms Devol hopes to stop by later, and Prince Dom has invited you to dinner after the troops ride out this afternoon.”
She sighed, her heart panging just to think of it. “Thank you, Kalan.”
“Shall I fetch you some… not tea,” said Kalan, smiling shakily. “Perhaps some wine?”
“Certainly, if you bring the corked bottle yourself.”
Kalan smiled, nodded, and turned to go, but then she hesitated in the doorway.
“What is it?”
Kalan eyed her for a moment, then shut the door and scurried close. “You know, it’s probably nothing, my lady, but with everything going on… I must say I don’t like the healer. I have a bad feeling about him. Take us with you when you go. Or a guard. Or both.”
Miara frowned. “The queen had nothing good to say about him either. I mean, Queen Elise. What is it about him?”
“I can’t put my finger on it. It’s nothing specific he’s done. It’s just… the look in his eyes. It’s like he’s more butcher than healer.”
“Well, I haven’t met him, but I’ll be sure not to go alone. I’ll wait till after King Aven leaves and take you and a full complement.”
Kalan squeezed Miara’s arm. “Good. Now let me go see about that wine. You might want it ready at hand, what with your man headed off to war and all.”
Miara smiled, her cheeks flushing. “That’s very thoughtful of you.”
“Well, you’ve been thoughtful of us. Some would’ve shut all three of us in the dungeon and thrown away the key.” She made for the door, then turned back again. “I’m sorry about what Opia did, my lady. If I had known— I mean, I didn’t, but if I’d even suspected—”
Miara held up a hand. “It’s all right. She didn’t get very far.”
Kalan nodded and shut the door behind her.
Miara leaned back on the lounge and took a deep breath of the opulent palace air. While it was so luxurious it almost made her blush even smelling it, she had to admit it did smell exquisite. The smokiness of the fire mixed with the sweet tang of the roses. She filled her lungs again and again, exalting in a moment of pure solitude. The fog of uneasiness had lifted slightly, but now it settled down again around her. She searched again for words.
When she’d sated her need to take in the exotic scent, she glanced around the rooms. The quiet was deep around her, almost oppressive. She shut her eyes and let herself start to hum as she spun her spell into the pots of soil. She hadn’t had much time for them just yet. The room had already been breathtakingly beautiful and laden with flowers. But, hell, she’d add a few more of her own making.
She hummed as she worked. The tune was old, one her father had
sung to Luha to comfort her when she’d first arrived in Mage Hall, a melody of elaborate beauty but more than one sad turn. Why it comforted, Miara wasn’t sure. Perhaps it was because the tune was so powerfully enchanting that one forgot about the real sadness and just remembered the song’s sadness instead.
The mountains shed the brightest tears
So shed no tears, my love, for me.
I shall love you a thousand years
Whether tempest tossed or thrown by sea.
Torn from your arms that I loved so well
What fate will hold I do not know.
Upon our loss, my love, don’t dwell
As to the mountains I go.
She didn’t know when she’d switched from humming to singing softly to herself, but when she heard the click of the door, she cut off abruptly. Kalan was sweet, but Miara wasn’t so comfortable with her yet that her announced arrival didn’t make her blush. She sat up quickly and turned. “Kalan, thank—”
She stopped short. It was not Kalan.
It was the healer, and he was alone. She stood, backing toward the table where her daggers sat behind her. “Announce yourself,” she said slowly. “My guards are in error for not doing so.” She might be new to this nobility thing, but she knew something was off.
“Oh, I told them not to bother,” he said, smiling warmly. That voice… could that have been the voice Opia was talking with? She had met this man so briefly, the day he’d stared at her long and hard, so his voice would be familiar, but her gut told her he’d been at Opia’s side that day. Siliana had only seen a man in a hood, and Opia hadn’t known who he was or Siliana would have known too.
“It’s not appropriate that we be alone,” she said, taking a page from Aven’s book.
“Oh, but I am Healer Nyor, my lady,” he said, smooth and warm. He bowed low with an elaborate sweep of his arm. “Healers at times must visit the ill outside of such rules of propriety. Just as I am visiting you. I’m concerned the substance I’ve identified for you may have had some long-lasting effects. I’ve also heard you’re an accomplished healer yourself.”