A Wizard's Sacrifice

by Amanda Justice

  One of the pirates nudged a fellow and jutted his chin at a shirtless woman, and they shared a jeering laugh. The woman spat a retort, and Vic’s eyes locked on the scars round her neck.

  “Come here, Kara,” Lornk says. The hot afternoon sweeps through the window. Blood thick in her face, her knees weak, she slips off the bed and stands beside him. “Look there,” he points. A Caleisbahnin struts down the street, one hand on a pommel decorated with a luxurious tuft of feathers, the other flourishing a hat to pantalooned Trainers. Behind him crawls a young woman, naked and muddied. Her head is shaved, her knees bloodied by the cobbles. “See her tattoos?” Lornk fingers the jeweled leather sewn around Vic’s neck, nodding at the blue ink spiraling round the woman’s. “She is a sea-mistress. What are you, Kara?”

  She peers up at him, her shoulders tight. “I’m yours, my Lord.”

  He smiles, cupping her chin in his hand. “Aren’t you glad?”

  “I hate the Caleisbahnin,” she hissed, needing to say it aloud.

  A sharp call rang out, and the pirates rose to attention. Lornk strode into their circle, golden hair aflame in the sun. Leaves crinkled against her cheeks as she breathed in the scent of the earth. Her fingernails dug into her palms, and she fought to cool the blood gushing toward her eyes. In Olmlablaire, she’d put aside vengeance in favor of justice. You let him live so you could free yourself. He has no hold on you whatsoever, she told herself. He means nothing to you.

  A Caleisbahn captain, his sword pommel decorated with silvered feathers, followed Lornk into the circle as another pirate, old but with muscles like knotted iron, climbed onto a fallen log. “A challenge among men is issued,” the old one announced in a grizzled voice. “The challenged may choose a champion, and the choice of weapons is his as well. What say you?”

  Lornk donned his cruelest smile. “For my champion, I choose Captain Thiellin. For weapons, I choose fists—I do not seek my challenger’s death, only his defeat, so we can put this farce to rest.”

  The old Caleisbahnin conferred briefly with another pirate, then nodded his head. “It is agreed.”

  The woman cried, “Thiellin, no! This is my chance!”

  “You’ll get your share,” the captain snapped. “It’s done. Let’s begin.”

  As the men stepped back, widening the circle, Vic wondered where the Kragnashian might be lurking. Lornk retired behind the line as another pair of men walked out from the trees. Ashel—his name in her throat, Vic swallowed a cry, instinct freezing her limbs as her worst fears were realized. Her gaze darted at his companion—Gustave, the pirate from the Cobblestone—then swung back to Ashel’s bruised, swollen face and the strip of linen wrapped round his head. He marched into the circle like a man determined to meet death.

  “Wagers!” the old pirate called and scribbled furiously while his companions shouted their bets. At a slice of his hand, they fell silent. Ashel raised his fists, a whole one and a half at the ready.

  A vortex spun in Vic’s chest. That half hand was hers to own. So was the fact he stood here at all. Before she could move to stop him, Ashel sprang forward and jabbed Thiellen’s ribs, dodged a counterblow to his jaw. She watched in shock as the men engaged and broke off. Ashel used his greater height and reach to land blows and avoid them, his movements graceful and economical, just like Geram’s. Did the other man guide him, or had Ashel tapped into his instincts? It didn’t matter, either way. Thiellin was tough and wily, taking some punches but dodging the worst ones. He danced around, letting Ashel wear himself down, biding his time. No doubt the pirate captain had decades of experience in brawls and duels. Even with Geram’s help, Vic doubted Ashel could win this fight, and she didn’t want to watch him get hurt any more than he already was.

  “Stop!” she cried.

  Swords rang out of sheaths, and gazes sprang round the clearing, searching for an ambush. When she climbed free of the hoarsgrout, the pirates hooted with relief. Just a woman alone, mud on her nose, leaves in her hair. Only Gustave’s eyes widened, and he grasped Thiellin’s arm, whispering. Ashel’s face rippled through surprise to sadness, his eyes flashing to Lornk. She shook her head. Not Lornk, she thought at him, as if he were Geram and could Hear her. This time, not Lornk. Surely Geram had told him she was coming for him. A breeze billowed, bringing a citrus scent, and Vic’s throat clogged with something between laughter and tears. She just had to show him she was here only for him.

  The Relmlord pushed into the circle, and she quickened her pace. Ashel’s eyes flicked again to Lornk and back to her. She reached him, and the laugh burbled forth as she pressed her cheek to his chest, her arms tight around him. Lornk’s stare was hot on her back, but her smile deepened when Ashel laid his hand on her hair.

  “This little snippet is yours?” asked a pirate.

  “She’s mine,” Lornk growled.

  The Woern tingled along her skin, straining toward Ashel’s. Rising on tiptoe, she brushed her lips against his, tongue darting for a whiff of his latent symbionts. A rough beard scraped her chin. “Kiss me and we’ll go,” she whispered.

  His eyes sad, his mouth was flat. “They’ve got Wineyll too.”

  Lornk barked the minstrel’s name, and Wineyll shuffled out from the trees, matted hair spilling over her face. She looked thin and worn, a shadow of the robust girl Vic had known. “Now hide yourself, Songbird,” he said, and Wineyll disappeared. Hatred spiked, and Vic funneled all her loathing into a glare.

  “My, my, Kara,” he chuckled. “Who abandoned them to me?” Turning to the pirates, he raised his arms. “May I introduce Victoria of Ourtown, Destroyer of Olmlablaire.”

  Mouths fell open; eyes darted, but no one moved. A bird chirped, and a chorus of tweets accompanied the old pirate as he climbed off the log and walked toward her in a rolling gait that echoed the sea. A moment later, the woman sprang forward, fists on her hips. “It’s my right,” she grated.

  “Step aside, sea-mistress,” the captain sneered.

  The woman turned to Vic. “Will you claim me?”

  Vic stared at her, bewildered.

  “Say yes,” Ashel whispered.

  Eyebrows drawn tight, Vic bobbed her head, though she had no idea what she was agreeing to.

  The woman held out a hand to Thiellin. Scowling, the captain gave her his sword. “I am no sea-mistress,” the woman hissed and knelt before Vic, sword tip in the dirt. “In honor of what was, I, Kelmair of Sect Dameron, pledge my life to yours. My sails and my sword are yours to command.” She spoke, the words halting and thickly accented, in the language of the Ancients, the language of Vic’s childhood. The captain and the old man knelt and repeated the words in Vic’s native tongue, followed by the other Caleisbahnin.

  Only one pirate stood. A bit of pink poked through his front teeth.

  “You,” Vic said. “You tried to burn down the Cobblestone.”

  “Yet it did not burn, madam.”

  “You nearly killed the cook.”

  “Yet he did not die.”

  She waved at the others. “What are they doing?”

  He grinned. “You could have had this pledge sooner.”

  Her anger boiled beneath a tight lid, and she could feel the energy in the air, prickling the hairs on her arms. “That’s not an answer.”

  “They think they see a legend.”

  “What do you see?”

  “Someone who has yet to earn the honors they give.”

  A chill scurled down her spine. “What is this about?” she asked Lornk.

  One corner of his mouth bent upward. “I once said to you, that the day would come when you would hold the world in your hands.”

  “I want you to hand it to me, without reservation,” he’d said. “This is not that day, Lornk. I wouldn’t give you a dirty handkerchief.”

  He chuckled, his eyes resting on Ashel for a moment. “No, not today, but soon enough. I want you to be prepared, my dear, and to have the help you will need. That is a
ll I’ve ever wanted.”

  “Whatever your scheme,” she grated, “I don’t care.” She took Ashel’s hand. “We’re leaving, and not one of you is going to stop us.”

  “Oh, they won’t stop you,” Lornk said with a vicious grin. “But they’ll follow you, wherever you go—to serve you, of course.”

  “Madam,” Thiellin said, “we aim for Betheljin, where we will overthrow Commissar Parnden and raise Lornk Korng in his place. Your name means victory in the Ancient’s tongue. With your help, we would be assured of it.”

  Harsh laughter tickled the back of Vic’s throat, an aching reminder of the absurd course her life had taken. She fought an urge to crush their skulls. “You’re all insane.”

  Kelmair stood. “Commissar Parnden has committed insult and injury against the Archipelago, yet the First cannot declare war on him directly—”

  “I don’t care!” Fury boiling, she imagined them all lying among the needles and leaves, heads smashed, blood soaking the litter, just like the dead on the field outside Re. How many had she killed with wizardry? Elesendar, it shouldn’t be so easy! The wrong of it robbed her breath, and she stood still, reaching for air that wouldn’t come.

  “Vic,” Ashel said her name aloud, kissing her forehead and eyes. “Vic.”

  Her lungs filled, and his gaze melted into the warmth that had always been there but which she’d so long refused to accept. “I went into Fembrosh and got lost,” she said. “Will you help me find the way home?”

  Even the wind stilled for his answer.

  “Of course,” he said, tugging her into a fierce embrace.

  “You can’t!” cried Kelmair.

  “The challenge,” hissed the old pirate.

  “Madam,” Thiellin said, “we have pledged ourselves to your service. You must accept that pledge and—”

  A scream sizzled out of her as an electric bolt sprang from her chest into the clear sky, throwing Ashel backward. Another bolt arched from her hand at the granite outcrop, blowing a spray of rock over the campsite. Ashel yelled her name, and she drew air across the face of the cliff like a curtain, thickening it. Rocks drifted toward the ground like pebbles sinking through honey. Kelmair gasped; the drunkard and the clay-haired man spun toward the outcropping, pointing at animals tethered there. A few Caleisbahnin sat frozen near the stone, their faces crumpling. Gently as feathers, the boulders settled, and Vic released the curtain. The pirates fell; the animals buckled, and an acrid stench plumed through the rattling downpour of dust and pebbles.

  Vic dropped to her knees. Three more people were dead. “I don’t ever want to do that again,” she whispered. Ashel’s arms encircled her as pain rolled through her, stopped her ears and blinded her. She fell into a dark well, then felt nothing.

  A Sensible Man

  I should just go, Geram thought, toweling freshly shaved cheeks. He gripped his washstand, quivering as imaginary fingers brushed his face. He fancied himself catching Elekia’s hand, bringing her knuckles to his lips, tasting the skin of wrist and arm and shoulder, all the way to her mouth. The more time he spent with her, the more his blood throbbed at the thought of her. The awful scenario reeked of Ancient legend: the orphan who loved and married a queen, then discovered the bride was his long-lost mother. Shrine, that wasn’t even his knowledge, it was Ashel’s! A sensible man would just go. Yet Geram’s sense had got up and left without him.

  So far, Ashel, preoccupied with his own troubles, hadn’t noticed the shift in Geram’s feelings. At the moment, the prince slept, exhausted from the day before. Vic remained unconscious, and Ashel had carried her while the Caleisbahnin hustled toward the plains. Geram hoped she’d wake up soon and get them away. If she didn’t . . . He imagined Elekia’s reaction to news of her foster daughter’s death: a single hoarse sob that would break his heart.

  Stop. He butted his forehead against the wall. Focus on your duty. A spy’s duty, the only job fit for a blind Alnan fisherman. Curse that woman, and curse his need to please her.

  He fumbled into a silk shirt and brocaded coat and hobbled out of the Manor. Paving stones bordered the road to the city, and he tapped his staff along them to guide his steps as he limped through hot and cool spaces, the road’s tells of sun and shade. Sweat trickled through his hair, dampened his shirt. Leg aching, he stopped in a cool patch and removed the heavy coat, wishing he hadn’t worn it. Wishing he had not attached himself to the royals in the first place.

  Carriage wheels ground the track, and tack jingled as horses stopped beside him.

  “Are you going to Narath?” asked Timny, Ashel’s teenage cousin. “You can ride with us.”

  Thanking him, Geram felt for the toeholds to climb up beside the driver, but the youth invited him to sit inside the cab.

  “Aunt Elekia won’t let us walk to the Academy anymore,” said Cimba, Timny’s sister.

  “The city’s not very safe these days.” Geram settled beside the girl. Twelve and fourteen, the royal cousins had been reared at the Manor after their parents died. Their father, King Sashal’s older brother, had been Heir during their grandfather Rivern’s reign. Geram chuckled whenever he thought about how he’d also been brought up by his aunt and uncle, but in a tavern instead of a palace.

  “My friend Melandy’s cook was robbed in the marketplace, right in front of other people,” Cimba said as the carriage rumbled down the hill. “And nobody did anything to stop it!”

  “An Eldanion boy in Fifth Year was killed when a mob attacked the wine market,” said Timny.

  “He wasn’t killed. I saw that boy in school yesterday.”

  “There was a mob though.”

  The siblings argued over the details of the attack, and Geram shook his head over how the city’s troubles had grown so fast. Beggars, robbers, and thugs seemed to have sprung out of the ground like weeds.

  When the carriage arrived at the Academy, he thanked the royal cousins and walked to the Senate. The streets stank of offal, and he had to borrow the vision of passersby, swinging from one to the next, to navigate through the piles of refuse that spilled out of bins at every corner. The Haulers were on strike. The Miners were marching. The Weavers were refusing to pay their taxes, and each day only added to the midden heap.

  The Senate building offered little respite from the stinking streets. The Opposition chambers were stuffy with tension and sweat, and when a junior clerk ushered him into Fensin’s office, the breeze through the open window brought more garbage stench.

  “Lieutenant.” A hand shook his. “My apologies that my calendar prevented us from convening sooner, but let me assure you how honored I am to meet one of the heroes of Olmlablaire, especially one from my home city. Please have a seat. May I take this?”

  Geram released his staff and settled into a cushioned chair. Tea things rattled, and a warm cup was placed in his hands. “Thank you, Senator. It’s an honor to meet you as well.”

  “What district are you from?” A loud slurp followed the question.

  “Southdock, sir. My aunt owns a tavern near Heretic House.”

  “I know the area well. There’s a place on Shoal where they serve chowder in a bread bowl.”

  “Emalin’s. Best chowder in the city, sir.”

  “Indeed! Regrettably the duties of state have kept me here this past year.”

  Geram Listened as they chatted about other favorite places, but Fensin kept his thoughts well muffled. A deeper probe could alert the Senator to the intrusion, so Geram set down his teacup and got to the point. “I came to ask for your help, Senator. We cannot allow another Kragnashian incursion, but as it stands, the Manor lacks the weaponry to stop them if they come back.”

  “Why did you come to me?” Fensin asked. “You have daily contact with the Ruler. Why not speak to her?”

  “I did, sir, and afterward I concluded it would be more effective to ask you.”

  “Why is that?”

  Here came the lie. “Her Majesty sides with
the Miners and believes crystal blades should be enough deterrent. She blames the guards for the incursion, not our equipage.”

  “That sounds unlike her. She’s always been a stalwart supporter of the military.”

  “Surely, Senator, you’ve noticed how the queen cloaks admonishments within blandishments.”

  Fensin laughed. “An astute observation, lieutenant. If I may ask, what exactly do you do at the Manor?”

  Geram sighed and told the truth. “A good question. I train with the guards but have no postings to the duty roster. Elekia has me sit in on various meetings, but she never asks for my counsel afterward—and obviously I’m not a scribe—so I don’t understand my purpose there. She said once I should be grateful for having a comfortable position on her staff, so I suppose it’s really just royal charity.”

  “And are you comfortable?”

  “Frankly, Senator, I’m bored. A hundred times I’ve almost resigned, but the queen also sends my aunt and uncle a pension, so I feel obliged to stay, for their sake.”

  “I think I could give you a purpose, lieutenant. And I promise you wouldn’t be bored.”

  Geram sat straighter. “If it would help secure the Manor, I’ll do it gladly.”

  The clerk opened the door. “The Ambassador is here, Senator.”

  “Good, send him in. Lieutenant Geram of Alna, may I introduce Ambassador Breon of Sect Moyere of the Caleisbahn Archipelago. I asked the ambassador to join us.”

  Taking the Senator’s sight, Geram stood. Silver wound round the Caleisbahnin’s earlobes and coated the feathers on his scabbard. Gemstones studded the hilt of his sword. Geram shook the offered hand, but he didn’t bother to temper his frown. “With respect, Senator, I do not think the ambassador should be part of our discussion, considering their role in Lornk Korng’s escape and the murder of dozens of Lathans at the prison.”