by R. K. Thorne
This was very well planned.
His horse faltered on a bush as he scanned through the trees. No flashes of color caught his eye now.
But how could these Kavanarians have known to be here? Certainly they wouldn’t just be stationed out here in the middle of nowhere, waiting, watching— Even as the thought occurred to him, he knew. He’d been betrayed enough times in the last month that he’d have to be dense not to.
They’d known the regiment was coming. Because someone had told them.
The storm thundered and small bits of lightning crackled above him, and Aven realized he hadn’t been tending it. One of the enemy’s air mages had probably taken control of it. And indeed he couldn’t hear the furious burn of the pillar any longer—maybe they’d dropped it when the men had left the road. He could wrestle them for the storm like he had in the mountains, but if he didn’t know where they were, that wouldn’t much help him.
His horse paused again, daunted by the thorns looming from the nearest bush. “Get off,” he called to Siliana as quietly as he could manage over the shouts of the men and the growling thunder of the growing storm. He dismounted and hastily tied off the reins to a tree branch.
A scream to his far right made his hand slip. He looked but saw nothing in particular. Others had dismounted and were pushing their way forward. Some horses still fought a valiant fight. Another cry and then a groan sent his heart beating faster, and something told him the creature mages were hard at work. What was it—choking vines? Impaling thorns? The possibilities were endless.
Siliana came up close at his elbow. He’s raising the brush, she said into his mind. Making it thicker to hide them.
Take me to them. If he could nail down their location, the whole regiment could pour in on them. But until he did, they’d keep picking the Akarians off one by one.
I’ll do what I can. They don’t want me to see them. And they’re moving. She pointed. This way.
They bent low and crept forward as quietly as possible, Aven parting the bushes, ferns, and waving stalks with his sword and guiding Siliana through. Clearly she knew enough of the forest to be careful not to touch just anything, but tracking wasn’t her forte either.
A string of curses broke out, back near the road, but this time it cut off abruptly with a thud that echoed and shook the tree limbs above them.
Earth mage.
What? What did he do?
Crushed someone. His legs are broken.
Shouts and curses broke into outright chaos on both sides and behind him, punctuated by additional slams of stone into the earth. Siliana pointed to the left again, and he had to hack something out of the way before they could slip through.
Almost there.
The thuds were coming rapidly now, and a wrenching sound split the air that was all too familiar—it was the sound he’d heard when the ravine split the road. The one his father had fallen into. Irrationally, he thought of Dyon.
He plunged forward faster now, and he wasn’t quite prepared when the next juniper he fought his way around revealed six cloaked figures, huddled down behind a log.
That’s them!
On instinct, he lunged forward and slashed at the nearest one, aiming for his gut. He remembered only belatedly that he had hundreds of men with swords and just him with magic.
Vines were snaking up around their attackers. On one mage, the vines groped, then fell away harmlessly. Siliana’s work? It wasn’t healing—but it did seem to be keeping them from rushing at Aven. Good. He hastily forced a ball of flame into life in his palm and lobbed it at the nearest one, then another.
The first turned out to have been a bad choice, as they caught it and shot it right back, just as Derk had done. The second flame hit another mage in an exploding ball of orange licking over their brown cloak. But the first mage had returned Aven’s attack so fast that he barely managed to catch the return volley. Luck and a bit of practice had helped him here, nothing more. He sent the rejected ball of energy whirling back at a third mage, hoping for a creature or earth mage. He was preparing for a fourth attack when the earth tilted beneath him. He stumbled and fell to one knee, then his hip and side as the earth lurched again. He barely managed to hold onto his sword, feeling it slide a bit too far out in his fingers.
Wind whistled past him, blowing his cloak down over his eyes, his hair into his face. Because the wind wasn’t whistling side to side, as it usually did, but down.
A feminine scream stabbed at his ears. Siliana?
He tried to straighten, to go after her and help, but the earth continued to wobble. Pushing his hair and cloak up with one hand, he caught his breath as he saw why the air was blowing past as it did.
The trees, the mages, the forest itself—they were all gone. The first thing his eyes saw were the pine-needle-covered dirt, a rough, rocky edge about two feet before him, and then treetops. The mountains beyond Anonil were almost visible at eye level.
The earth mage. The rocks they’d been heaving into the air and back down. Aven was on top of one.
Or perhaps this was his own special fate, as the rock was flying up and showed no sign of slowing. He rolled to one side to slide the sword back into its scabbard. Trying not to lose it up here was probably a futile attempt, but he had to try.
The storm above him had weakened slightly, but he was still approaching the dark clouds at an alarming rate. What would happen if he hit them? Sometimes mists gathered around Estun, but he didn’t make a habit of venturing out onto the balcony in them, and thunderstorms didn’t reach that high. At home, it had always snowed.
These clouds were charged with lightning. Clouds he’d summoned himself.
The rock tilted again. He hit his stomach, hoping for traction from it as he slid, headed feet-first toward the edge. Clawing at the dirt, he scrambled but caught on nothing. Of course this portion of the forest was smooth. Clear. No rocks or handholds. Nothing.
The first wisps of foggy mist flew past him. He’d reached the storm, and soon it would swallow him.
The rock tilted and bucked in the opposite direction, sending his feet flying up into the air as he slid face-first toward the opposite side, heading straight toward free fall out into the storm cloud and open air beneath it. The trees were gone now, and around him was only a grayish darkness. He was immediately drenched and cold, like he’d been flung into a river, except it was so soft he felt nothing except the sheer icy temperature of his skin.
But he didn’t have long to marvel at the cloud. The rock tilted and bucked back, and then forward again, and he dug into the very last few inches of the rock, but it was no use.
His hands went over and now groped nothingness. As the rock slid out from under his chest, and then his legs, he had one stunned second to marvel at it all. The air, the thing that gave him so much power, that had called to him every day of his life, that had shown him beauty he couldn’t have even imagined…
How ironic that it would be the thing to kill him too.
Miara awoke gradually, fogginess clouding her brain so much that she almost wasn’t sure she’d actually awoken. The darkness surrounding her was nearly absolute.
Even after she opened her eyes and blinked into the darkness, the cobwebby, lethargic feeling did not go away. No pain throbbed in her mind, like what she’d expect after expending too much magic or imbibing too much wine, but something sharp jutted into her back, her palms, the soles of her bare feet.
Actually, lots of sharp, pointy things jutted into her. And where were her shoes?
She groped around. Everything was hard, triangular, but smooth. She struggled to sit up, which didn’t exactly help the discomfort. The jagged points could not be escaped so easily.
She peered at the wall to her right, inches from her face. The slick surface sparkled faintly, a reflection shining from a dim light off to her left, from beyond the hollow where she so painfully sat.
The sparkles, the shapes—they were vaguely familiar. She held up a hand, running it carefully ac
ross the strange, unforgiving shapes again.
Crystals. The smooth planes broke along sharp edges, pyramids jabbing brutally into her body. They held a faint purple glow, just like… the Great Stone.
Oh, gods.
She groped up the wall beside her, circling inward, and her stomach dropped as she realized it really was all around her. Her immediate area was entirely crystal, even above and below. The entire space was barely two paces across until she reached cold metal poles that rose up into the air. Bars. She could easily reach the jagged ceiling without fully straightening.
She studied the back of her hand as well as she could in the dim light and reached for her magic. Fur. Claws. Talons. Something.
Change somehow, by the gods. Change. Anything.
Like heaving a heavy weight, she managed to grow a few hairs that made her hand look more like a man’s than a bear’s. She relaxed the spell, which seemed to take nearly as much effort, and they fell away. All much harder than it should be.
Suddenly exhausted, she sagged against the side of her prison. At least until the sharp pokes reminded her that standing up would be more comfortable, as long as she had the energy for it.
That obviously couldn’t last, though.
She clenched her fist, thinking of that healer. Nyor. When she got out of here, she’d… well, she didn’t know what she’d do, but it wouldn’t be good. He’d betrayed her and locked her in a magic-suppressing prison, a rock made of the Great Stone or something very much like it.
And she was trapped inside.
The dim light beyond the bars grew brighter, and a doorway was lit with fiery light from a torch or lantern coming up the stairs toward her.
Miara rushed forward, gripping the bars and positioning herself to grab that healer by the neck if she needed to. Anything to get out of this hell.
But it wasn’t Nyor who appeared.
It was a woman’s form silhouetted in the doorway. The outline of a wide, sweeping skirt was clear, even in the darkness. She approached slowly, more men filing in behind her in dark hoods, carrying lanterns, some lit by flames, others lit by purple stones glowing with an orange, ember-like light.
The woman’s face came slowly into view, and Miara’s blood ran cold.
The Devoted Knight smiled at her, insincere and predatory. The knight from Mage Hall, the one they’d also encountered in the woods who’d seemed attached to Aven. A woman who’d already tried to burn Miara once.
Miara tightened her grip on the bars.
“We meet again, mage,” the knight said. Delight shimmered in her pale-blue eyes, even in the darkness.
“Give me back my shoes,” Miara said bluntly.
“You won’t be needing them.”
If they’d taken her shoes, what else had they taken? Miara reached for her neck, but only bare skin met her fingers. The queen’s pendant.
“You won’t be needing that either,” the knight growled, “as you won’t be going back. Be happy I let you keep the dress. My squires were all too enthusiastic to relieve you of it.”
“So generous.”
“Your tongue, however, you do not have to keep.”
Miara opened her mouth, about to point out that she cold just heal any such injury. But she stopped short. Here, in this prison, that was no longer true. “What do you want?” she said instead.
The knight smirked. “Other than to watch you suffer?”
“Why should you want me to suffer?”
The smirk melted into a glare. “Is it true you’re betrothed to him?”
Miara blinked. “What?”
Slowly, almost delicately, the knight held a hand up to her throat, and Miara’s eyes caught on the glimmer of emerald in the dim light. “I may be a knight,” she whispered, “but I am also a noble. Unlike yourself. I’m more fit to wear this than you are.”
“You didn’t want it,” Miara snapped. “You betrayed him to them.”
“I am a princess, third born, in addition to a holy woman. Princess Evana Paranelin of Isolte. What are you? The offspring of boot scum and floorboard dust, and corrupted by magic to boot. That he would give you this is a disgrace. Not that I am surprised, as he’s just as corrupted as you are. Fortunately, I am here to remedy the situation.”
“You call yourself a holy woman? A noble? Absurd. You people aren’t holy. You’re—”
“Silence,” Evana snapped. “You’d do well to watch your tongue, or I’ll give you wounds to remind you just how powerless you are. I’ve got you trapped, little mage, and the sooner you admit this, the easier it will be.”
Miara scowled at her. Easier? Did she think Miara cared about making this easier? When had her life ever been easy? One more torture to add to the list was nothing in the scheme of things. She had a lifetime of experience with tolerating misery. Let the fool knight try to break her. She’d not find it so easy or simple as taking Miara’s shoes. Or her magic.
“Where is the brand?” demanded Evana.
Miara smirked. She’d known the knight wanted something other than watching Miara squirm. “It’s in Mage Hall.”
“Liar.”
“Excuse me?” Mock innocence soaked Miara’s voice.
“You know where it is.”
“It’s not in Mage Hall? What happened to it?”
Evana narrowed her eyes, her lips pursed. “You know exactly what happened to it, I think.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. It’s been lost?”
“You have it, and you’ll tell me where they’re keeping it.”
“No, I definitely don’t have it.” Miara gestured at the simple dress. “No brands in these pockets. Or any pockets at all, for that matter.” Of all the horrid, impractical things to get kidnapped in. She was never wearing a dress again.
“Don’t waste my time. You will tell me where it is before we’re through. It wasn’t in your rooms.”
Ah, so they had been the ones to do the kidnapping then. It hadn’t just been Nyor. Or even Opia. This must have been the purpose of drugging her, so she could be swept into this evil den of misery.
Miara shrugged. “I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”
Evana folded her arms across her chest and walked slowly toward the bars. She came so close, Miara could feel her breath, could have reached out, and—
As soon as the thought occurred to her, Miara lunged, fast as a snake reaching for Evana’s neck. But the knight seemed to have counted on that, stepping to the side slightly and reaching out herself to catch Miara by the hair. Her other hand swiftly drew a dagger from her belt and slashed, and Miara fell back, smashing into the stabbing rock behind her.
Evana smiled, stepping back with a handful of red hair. Another chill went through Miara, pondering what the knight planned to do with that.
“We shall see about that,” said Evana, and she turned and swept from the room.
And then Aven’s boot left the rock too, and there was no mistaking it. He was falling. His stomach dropped like a stone as icy acid surged into every limb and vein. He’d risen up above the cloud in the last few seconds, and it roiled beneath him, not far but how far exactly he had no bar to judge by.
All he knew was that he was approaching the grayish, swirling mass faster than he’d ever thought possible.
The cloud enveloped him, and he was drenched again, head to toe. But this time he felt the hair on the back of his neck, his arms, everywhere stand straight up.
Time slowed and then stopped altogether. A face flashed into his mind, both familiar and not, like someone from a dream he couldn’t quite remember. An old woman’s face, her dark hair crowned with a circlet of diamonds, like stars plucked from the sky to grace her brow.
What are you waiting for? Her voice into his mind was silvery and ethereal, like a dream, like a ghost. Where had he heard it before?
The woman’s brow furrowed, scowling at him as her voice grew commanding. The sky is yours. Control it. Now!
Then she was gone.
/> And he was still plummeting. This was some kind of clue—what was it? She had to be right. There must be some way to use his magic to stop this fall. Mustn’t there? How?
He tried to reach for the wind, and he gripped it for a second, pushing himself slightly to the left with a weak gust. But the sheer sensation of air screaming past him fed his terror, threw him off, made him lose it within a heartbeat.
No. He had to forget his body, forget his looming death, forget everything.
Up—he’d go up. His mind rose away from his body, reaching back toward the storm. And the wind. He could see his own body fall now, and he bid the air toward it, flowing up like spring water bubbling into a mountain stream. The sudden change sent a lurch of nausea into his body, almost slamming his mind back down into his brain, but he resisted, clinging to the storm. If he was going to survive, he had to.
He pushed the wind further up, up, and over, sweeping his corporeal form toward the nearest tall pine, away from the mages who’d certainly hurl him right back into the sky if he landed too close. He was just lucky that they seemed to have forgotten the storm for the moment. There would have been no time to wrestle for its control.
But his stomach dropped further to think of what they could be focused on instead. Siliana? Dyon? Jenec? Systematically burning alive the entire regiment?
Now that the air burbled underneath him, he could slide back to his body and try to grab on. It was awkward and he was still falling but not so fast now, and though he flailed dramatically, he could almost manage a little control. When he neared the first tree branch strong enough to hold him, he dove for it, lurching forward and bringing the air spout with him.
His first handhold missed, rough bark scraping a gash into his palm, and he thought he might have to fall farther, but his other hand caught, and soon he was standing on one branch, with another above him, clinging to a thick trunk.