The Tainted City

by Courtney Schafer

Yet when he stole a sidelong glance at her, he found Lena’s eyes had gone distant, her straight brows drawn together. She said slowly, “Most mageborn children in Alathia are identified and brought to the Arcanum quite young, two or three years old, but my family lived deep in the Kilshasa Hills, two days’ ride from the nearest town. I was six before a Council magefinder came through the area. I’d shown no sign of talent, so when she proclaimed me mageborn it was a shock to everyone. My parents asked if she could burn out my magic rather than take me away to Tamanath. I begged for that as well, but the magefinder said such a thing isn’t possible without damaging the mind beyond repair.”

  Lena smoothed a hand over the cover of her book. “The first months at the Arcanum were hard. I missed my parents and sisters terribly. I thought I hated magic, because it had taken me from them. Yet the first time I cast a spell…” She held out her hand. A whisper of magic brushed Kiran’s senses. A shining ball of palest rose appeared, floating in her cupped fingers. “The joy of it, the rightness that I felt, was—”

  “Incredible,” Kiran finished softly, remembering his own first spell, a simple illusion of the little copper wagon that had been his favorite toy. His own excitement, Ruslan’s pride, Mikail’s delight, all of it secondary to the soul-deep satisfaction the trickle of power had left behind.

  “Yes.” Lena snapped her fingers shut and the ball of light vanished. “Do you truly wish you’d never experienced magic?”

  “If I’d been born nathahlen, I wouldn’t know what I was missing.” Unlike now, when his soul cried out for it like a desert traveler deprived of water. “Did you ever see your parents again?” Kiran couldn’t keep the wistfulness from his voice. He’d never known his parents, hadn’t even a single memory of a time before Ruslan.

  “Yes, though not until I was inducted into the Watch. The journey to Tamanath is long, and they couldn’t afford to leave their steading. We wrote letters through the years, but by the time I went back to visit…” She shrugged. “My sisters had married, had children of their own, and I was no longer the little girl my parents remembered. We had little left in common.”

  “I’m sorry,” Kiran said awkwardly.

  “Don’t be.” Lena raised her eyes to meet his. “I don’t regret my talent now. You may feel differently about your own in years to come.”

  Kiran released a bitter chuckle. “Oh, certainly. The day Ruslan miraculously relinquishes his claim and the Council decides I’m not a demon in disguise, I’ll delight in magic once more. Yet to hope for that feels as foolish as wishing for snow in Ninavel.”

  “Even Ninavel has…” Lena stood, her head tilting, as a muffled sound of feet and voices filtered through the study door. Kiran straightened, torn between curiosity and worry. If Marten had returned at last, his visit would be welcome if he brought news of Dev. Yet Kiran couldn’t shake the fear the tidings might be darker.

  A smile lit Lena’s face. “Ah, Kiran, this should help your troubles fade. Look: you have a visitor.”

  The study door swung open. Marten strode in, beaming. Behind him trailed a wiry young man wearing dirt-streaked leathers, a thin gold torc gleaming around his neck.

  “Dev!” Kiran hurried forward, delight banishing fear. “You’re here, and safe—I’m so glad, I wasn’t sure—” He stopped, not wanting to admit he’d doubted Marten’s promises, and abruptly struck by worry that Dev’s friendship might have faded into resentment during his time in the mines.

  Dev grinned. He looked thinner than Kiran remembered. His bones were sharp under skin the rich brown of seasoned mahogany, his vivid green eyes as startling as ever in contrast. “Good to see you, too.” He caught Kiran up in a quick, rough hug.

  A knot loosened in Kiran’s chest. He ducked his head, embarrassed at the force of his relief.

  “I’ll leave you two to catch up,” Marten said. “I have a few matters that need discussing with Lena, and then I’m afraid I must dash back to the Arcanum for a meeting. I’ll return afterward—at which time, Kiran, I hope I can be more forthcoming in response to your questions about these recent tremors.”

  Dev cast Marten a sharp glance. Kiran nodded, an uneasy mix of nerves and hope churning in his gut.

  “One last thing…” Marten laid a finger on Dev’s torc. The faint mutter of quiescent magic in the study’s walls abruptly heightened, then resettled.

  “Dev, I’ve keyed your collaring charm to the wards here,” Marten said. “You’ll have the freedom of the house and back garden, but one step past the walls, and—”

  “Your gods-damned charm strangles me into submission, yeah, I know.” Dev rubbed a hand over his throat.

  The darker shading of skin there—not dirt, but old bruises. Guilt stabbed Kiran.

  With a bow and a last genial wave, Marten exited, Lena following. The moment the door shut, Kiran spoke.

  “Dev, I’m sorry. For the mines, and for—for everything…” He couldn’t take his gaze from the black shadows ringing Dev’s throat. “I worked every waking moment on Simon’s spell. I was so close to finishing before all this. If only I’d deciphered the pattern faster—”

  “Hey.” Dev cuffed his shoulder. “Don’t tie yourself in knots. Who’s to say the Council would’ve kept their end of the deal, even if you’d finished? Never mind me…” His green eyes searched Kiran’s face. “I’d ask how you’re holding up in the face of these quakes, but the answer’s written all over you. When was the last time you slept, huh?”

  “Sleep has…been a little difficult.” He hadn’t managed more than scant moments of rest in between the nightmares that woke him, shuddering and sweating, the remembered taste of blood gagging his throat.

  “I’ll bet.” Dev studied him, frowning. “Look, the quakes…you’re certain they’re, uh, unnatural?”

  From his hesitant phrasing, he must think Kiran would dissolve into a whimpering heap if he mentioned Ruslan’s name. Kiran said dryly, “You mean, are they caused by overspill from Ruslan attacking Alathia’s wards?”

  Dev spread his hands in silent, self-mocking apology. “Yeah.”

  Kiran sighed. “With my power bound, I can barely sense spells cast in the same room, let alone what might be happening a hundred miles distant at the border. But I’m certain it’s Ruslan. Who else would have the strength and desire to damage the wards?” He told Dev of the diseased-looking holes he’d seen in Stevannes’s spell, and his banishment thereafter from the Arcanum. Dev’s expression turned grim as he listened.

  Kiran finished off with, “The Alathians won’t tell me a thing, or listen to my offers of help. Marten says to be patient, but—”

  “Marten, is it now?” Dev cast a dark glance at the door.

  “I know you’re wary of him,” Kiran said. “But he and Lena have been kind to me. The others, well…” He trailed off, embarrassed. Even Stevannes at his most acerbic couldn’t compare to what Dev must have endured at the mine.

  “The others, what?” Dev demanded.

  Kiran shrugged. “They never forget I’m a blood mage.” Stevannes was the most vocal about it, but Kiran had seen the wary revulsion in the other Alathians’ eyes.

  “You’re not a blood mage,” Dev said flatly. “Not anymore. Fuck the Alathians, if they can’t get that through their heads. But…I know what you’re afraid of, because I am too. Question is, how do we stop the Council from tossing us back to Ruslan?”

  Kiran’s chest tightened at the thought. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I thought if I could devise some defensive spellwork to offer…but it’s difficult, without access to proper materials and information.”

  “Access.” Dev’s fingers rose to tap on his torc, and his gaze drifted to the wards bracketing the study window.

  Kiran sucked in a breath of sudden surmise. Dev had spent his childhood as a thief. As an adult he no longer had the Taint to help him slip past wards, but he’d proved on their trip through the Whitefires that his cleverness could make up for the lack. Perhaps Dev thought he could sneak into the
Arcanum and find the information Kiran needed? Between Dev’s collaring charm and the mages guarding them, it seemed an impossible task. But then, Dev’s specialty seemed to be succeeding at impossible tasks.

  Dev raked a hand through his coarse dark hair. He darted another glance at the door and slid a folded letter from his shirt.

  “I’ve news from Cara. Thought you might like to read it, know she’s okay.” He brushed a finger over his lips, a warning clear in the intensity of his gaze.

  The wards in the study walls were fully quiescent to Kiran’s inner senses, with no hint of scry-magic tinging the aether. But if Dev was so concerned over eavesdroppers from the Watch, Kiran would be cautious. He gave Dev a slight nod and took the letter, curiosity rising.

  As he scanned the scrawled text, Kiran’s breath caught, his fingers whitening on the paper. Before Marten had escorted Cara to the border, she’d pulled Kiran aside and told him in a sharp, hurried whisper of her intent to sell information to the spy Pello in exchange for his help freeing Melly. Kiran had been so relieved; Cara seemed so competent, so assured, he’d thought she’d surely succeed in fulfilling the promise Dev had forsaken to help Kiran. But if this letter referred to Pello, and she couldn’t find him, or some other way to rescue Melly in time…“Your drover friend…the one from the convoy, with the patchwork cap?”

  Dev nodded, his mouth a tight line.

  “Dev…” Kiran felt sick. He leaned close and whispered, “I know it’s my fault you’re trapped here. Truly, I’d almost finished the spell. Perhaps I can bargain with Marten—”

  “Don’t bargain with Martennan,” Dev whispered harshly. “Not yet. If you can help me get this Shaikar-cursed snapthroat charm off and cross the wards, I’ve an idea—”

  The door creaked, and Dev hastily sat back. Lena poked her head into the study. “Dev, the housekeeper says your room is prepared. After your journey, I thought you might like the chance for a hot bath and some clean clothes.”

  Dev stood. “Sure. Khalmet knows I’ve got a minecart’s worth of coal grit to scrub off.”

  “Perhaps afterward I can show you the garden,” Kiran said. “It’s really quite beautiful.” Unlike the wards in the study, those on the garden walls held no element of scrying, and the splashing of the central fountain would cover the sound of conversation. If he could touch Dev’s torc, see the spell pattern Marten had set within…spells could be disrupted if a charm was physically damaged or altered in a spot critical to the pattern’s flow. Then again, even if Kiran could circumvent the charm so Dev could safely cross the wards, he didn’t know what Dev might do to help Melly after that. Sneaking into the Arcanum had seemed difficult enough. Dev would never make it to the border before Marten and the others noticed his absence.

  “The garden sounds good,” Dev agreed. The glint of wary hope in his eyes brought an answering thread of warmth to Kiran’s chest. Whatever Dev’s plan, Kiran wouldn’t fail him. Not after Dev had given up so much for Kiran’s sake.

  * * *

  “Khalmet’s hand, I can’t get over how green it is here.” Dev surveyed the garden, looking bemused. Kiran knew the feeling. The garden’s high stone walls enclosed flowerbeds and vine-covered arbors whose lush vibrancy far outmatched any he’d seen in Ninavel. But then, water was no jealously rationed resource here. Kiran still marveled at the mildness of Alathia’s climate. In Ninavel, summer’s searing heat kept even the lowest of servants from venturing outside while the sun was high. Yet here in Tamanath, he stood with Dev in full sun on a midsummer afternoon and felt no more than pleasant warmth.

  Dev’s gaze settled on the walls. “Damn,” he muttered. “They know how to place wards. And no trees or anything nearby high enough to let me jump clear. Can’t even get close enough for a good look, thanks to those rosebushes.” Roses in shades of deepest red and violet lined the base of the walls, their canes bristling with thorns. Fifteen feet above the blooms, black whorls and loops marked the gray stone, warding every inch of the wall’s top.

  “Come see the fountain,” Kiran said. At the garden’s center, low wooden benches bracketed an obsidian sculpture of four rearing swans. Water arced from the swans’ beaks to splash in a pond dotted with floating, jewel-toned flowers. Kiran led Dev around the fountain’s back side. When he was sure the swans blocked the view from the house windows, he halted.

  “I’ll try and read your collaring charm’s pattern,” he told Dev. “Hold still.” Kiran reached for Dev’s torc—and jerked his fingers back, hissing, as fire seared his nerves.

  “What’s wrong?” Dev demanded.

  “Marten warded your charm against me.” Of course; the healers had taken several vials of blood from Kiran during their examination of him. Marten must have used one to design and key a warding spell. Remembering that casual brush of Marten’s finger over Dev’s torc, Kiran felt a twinge of admiration for the man’s skill.

  “Shit.” Dev aimed a fierce glare at the house. “Should’ve known. Don’t suppose you have any kalumite?”

  “Kalumite?” Kiran had never heard of it.

  “It’s a mineral found in sandstone. Glassblowers and mosaicists use it for color. But if you mix it with copper and oil in the right ratios, you can burn out a charm. The cliffs in Cheltman had veins of it, but I didn’t get a chance to get any before I got dragged back here.”

  “Burn out a charm…” Kiran dropped to sit on a bench, thoughts racing. The kalumite and copper mix must provide an alternate conduit for the charm’s magic, diverting it from its intended paths in an uncontrolled release of power. “There are geological texts in the study. If I can identify kalumite’s properties, perhaps I can devise another way to produce the same effect.”

  Dev thumped a fist on the slate rim of the fountain bowl. “Good. Once past the house wards, I’ll go find the nearest merchant house that deals in exports to Ninavel. In high summer, merchanters send dispatches out by courier every few days. I’ll sneak in and slip a message for Cara into the next batch marked for delivery to Ninavel. I know a few secrets that can get her audience with a ganglord capable of brokering a deal with Sechaveh, and even keep her from getting stabbed in the back, if she plays it right.”

  Hesitantly, Kiran said, “But it’ll take some time for us to circumvent the wards, and then weeks for a message to reach Ninavel. Won’t it arrive too late?”

  Dev’s shoulders slumped. “Probably.” When he turned, his stark desperation hit Kiran like a blow. “That’s the best I can think of for now. I also mean to scout the Arcanum, try and find if they’ve got a stash of confiscated illegal charms. If we could get hold of that old amulet of yours, the one that blocks magic—”

  “Ah! There you two are.” Marten strode around the fountain, his smile as cheerful as ever. Dev shut his mouth and leaned against a bench as casually as if he and Kiran had merely been discussing the garden’s splendor. Kiran tried not to look guilty.

  Marten’s round face settled into serious lines. “Kiran, I have an important matter to discuss with you.”

  Kiran’s stomach curdled. Was the Council reconsidering their decision to give him asylum from Ruslan? “What is it?”

  “I know you understand the ramifications of the recent earth tremors,” Marten said. “I’m sure you’ve guessed the tremors are not the sole source of our concern.”

  Kiran nodded. The lump in his stomach grew heavier yet.

  “In short, we’ve seen some alarming fluctuations in the border wards, of late.”

  Kiran shut his eyes. He’d suspected since the moment he’d seen those dismaying voids in Stevannes’s spell. Yet to hear it confirmed…the icy ball of fear within grew razor-sharp claws. “How much longer will your wards hold against Ruslan?”

  “I fear I can’t discuss the wards’ specific state,” Marten said. “I can say this: Ruslan may not be the cause of the damage.” At Kiran’s incredulous look, he gave a mirthless chuckle. “Oh, we’d certainly assumed his involvement. Yet today we received a dispatch from our ambassador i
n Ninavel that throws the issue into serious doubt.”

  Kiran exchanged a wary, disbelieving glance with Dev. Ruslan was subtle and clever enough to have found a way to cover his spellcasting, but Kiran wouldn’t be fooled. From the skeptical scowl on Dev’s face, he felt much the same.

  “What did the dispatch say?” Kiran asked.

  Marten trailed a hand in the fountain bowl and flicked water from his fingers. “Our ambassador believes the quakes are related to a series of magical disturbances in Ninavel that have killed several mages and appear to be aimed at disrupting the city’s supply of water.”

  “What?” Dev straightened, his eyes narrowing. Kiran knew his concern. The Painted Valley held no natural sources of water. If the magic that kept Ninavel’s cisterns replenished were to fail, the lives of thousands of untalented residents would be at risk.

  Marten said to Dev, “There have been no serious shortages as yet, and Lord Sechaveh has been keeping the matter quiet. So far as the city’s populace knows, a few mages are dead, nothing more. Even our ambassador hasn’t succeeded in learning much else. But she believes Ninavel is the real target, and not Alathia.”

  Could Marten be right? No. This had to be some ploy of Ruslan’s meant to distract the Council until it was too late. Kiran rubbed his head, where an ache was building.

  Dev slouched against the bench with a sharp, sarcastic grin. “Now you think it’s Ninavel in trouble and not your precious border, the Council’s gonna just sit back and watch Sechaveh scramble, is that it?”

  “You don’t understand,” Marten said. “It doesn’t matter if the damage to our wards is merely a byproduct of someone’s spellcasting against Ninavel. We can’t afford to let anything disrupt them.”

  He turned to Kiran, grave and intent. “The Council has authorized me to take a team to Ninavel to investigate. Kiran, I’d like to bring you with us.”

  Shock set Kiran’s heart hammering. He shook his head in mute, stunned denial. Return to the city Ruslan called home? How could Marten even think to ask it of him?