A Wizard's Sacrifice

by Amanda Justice

  “As well as can be expected. She is dehydrated and bruised but says the guards did not harm her otherwise. Have you returned to Emily’s, my lord?”

  Irritation and shame percolated through a craving for blissful oblivion. “No.”

  “Good. Grief and despair can damage the mind as badly as a sword to the gut. Liquor and bliss can relieve pain, but they don’t heal agony, they only prolong it.”

  “I haven’t been back there.”

  “The temptation will fester like a wound, especially while the Commissar’s troops occupy this house. There are cerrenils in the parklands ringing the city, if you want another source of peace.”

  “You’re counseling prayer?”

  “I wouldn’t presume to advise a scholar of the faith. However, I once found my path away from bliss in the same park. It might help you to seek solace from an old mother, and it certainly won’t hurt you. My lord.” With a curt bow, Moralen left.

  Ashel shook off the sour feeling the title my lord gave him and returned to his drawing.

  “May we speak, my lord?” Hair damp from a wash, Elsa wore an apron over clean, plain clothes.

  “Please don’t call me that. You’re not my servant.”

  She quirked a shrewd eyebrow. “There are some papers we must sign together. Please come with me.”

  He followed her to a door leading outside. “You know this is all a sham.”

  “The papers are in my office.” She stopped on the threshold, scowling as a pair of Demsch’s aides hurried across the courtyard and out the gate. “They have the run of the palazzo?”

  “By necessity.”

  The creases around her mouth deepened, and she crossed the flagstones to one of the two towers anchoring the north and south wings. Inside, stairs climbed the walls, sweet-scented sconces aglow along the square shaft.

  He stalled at the first step. In all the months he had been here, he had never ventured into either tower. “Is this where he kept her?”

  “I used it as my office. I’ll move my things back to the den by the kitchen.”

  “Elsa, please—”

  “Come, my lord.”

  His stomach twisted in knots, he trod the winding flights. Lornk and Vic. All he had ever imagined, had ever tried not to imagine, had happened in this tower. Geram’s attention was fully occupied in Olivet’s training yard, leaving Ashel to face this trial alone. A blessing, to feel neither Geram’s soldierly judgment nor counselor’s compassion, yet terror snagged at Ashel’s bowels, and his thighs shook harder with each step.

  Near the top, he stopped, wheezing. Elsa disappeared through a doorway. Sunlight cast a square upon the landing. “It’s just a room,” he said, taking a deep breath and tightening his abdomen. It’s only a room. His feet settled onto the last steps as if taking him to the gallows.

  The bookshelves startled him. Along every wall stood cabinets and shelves, filled with ledgers. A secretary’s desk sat beneath a window, warm sunlight falling on tidily filed papers and quills. A couch and two well-stuffed chairs surrounded an Eldanion carpet patterned in grain stalks.

  “I’m grateful they left things as they found them,” Elsa muttered as she rummaged in a cabinet. “I suppose it was Lornk’s idea to let them in?”

  “He thought it would rouse the Citizens.”

  “That it will.” She pulled out a sheaf of papers. “He drew these up after you came to Olmlablaire.”

  A sardonic chuckle escaped Ashel’s teeth. “You make it sound as if I’d been invited for a holiday in Lordhome.”

  Scowling, Elsa collected quill, ink, and a writing board and sat on the sofa. “Here. Please sign to formalize the title transfer.”

  His head fell into his hands as he remembered the last document Lornk wanted him to sign.

  I, Prince Ashel of Narath, wish for peace between the people of Relm and the people of Latha. I call upon my mother, Elekia of Reinoll Parish, elected Ruler of Latha, who came to her position through subterfuge and malicious intent, to end hostilities and withdraw all Lathan troops from Relman territory.

  He had refused to sign that statement, and Lornk’s torturer had burned his flesh with the same gauntlets Vic had used to extract Relman signatures on the peace treaty. After his hands had healed, Lornk had chopped off his fingers, severing him from everything he was. Another bitter laugh slipped out. “So, this is the room where he changes you.” When Lornk had kept Vic here, he’d stripped her of all she was so he could make her into something else. Yet in the end, she had remade herself. Could he do the same—create himself anew when he signed this paper, rejecting his Lathan heritage for a Betheljin one?

  He swallowed a lump that felt like salt and sand. “Do you believe him, that he saw that other version of our time?”

  Elsa’s lips tilted thoughtfully. “Parnden’s troops have been very courteous in their search—that wasn’t the case thirty years ago. Soldiers came from Latha and Relm, ransacked this house, tore through tenements and dives on the docks, looking for the two young princes. When no one asked a ransom, we feared they’d fallen afoul of a press gang and were pumping bilges aboard a smuggler’s scow. They’d been missing for nine days before they reappeared in Latha’s throne room. We didn’t see Lornk for more than a year after that because he refused to come home via the Device.” She snorted. “The Relmlady was incensed and almost disowned him because he wouldn’t visit her either. When he finally did come home, he had terrible nightmares. So yes, I believe him.

  “And I believe in him,” she added after a long moment. “I know him to be true to his word. He has promised to do all he can to bring home Victoria and your sister; he will do it, if it is possible.”

  Elesendar, let that be true. His fingers tight round the quill, he signed his name wherever she pointed.

  “I don’t know the first thing about running a Citizenry,” he said when they finished.

  Her lips twitched round a smirk, her eyes appraising. “Lornk’s mother squandered a legacy six generations old, and it took him almost twenty years to restore the fortune she lost to blissmongers and gaming cartels. Do not waste it like your grandmother did.” She restored the papers to the cabinet, handing him the key. “I’ll have my things cleared out by tomorrow. Let me know if you want the furnishings moved to another room.”

  The door shut behind her, and he expelled a heavy breath. One window overlooked the courtyard, deserted in the midday sun. The city’s spires shimmered through the other, the bay glittering beyond. “Lornk is not my father,” he whispered aloud, like a prayer, a wish. But only a wish. He bore the Korng surname now, and the Lathan Heralds would name his sister a bastard, his mother an adulteress, his father a cad. A legacy six generations old . . . do not waste it like your grandmother did. He sank to the floor, too desolate now for tears. He’d resisted Lornk in Olmlablaire at the cost of his hands, his talent. Here, he had capitulated, all for half a hope that by sacrificing one family, he could restore another. His wife. His child. Forehead butting his knees, he uttered a growling moan, voicing the resentful fury that still raged in his heart. What sort of resentment had Sashal carried, knowing his wife loved another man, especially one like Lornk? Yet Ashel had known only affection and pride from Sashal. How had he done it, loving a child so well who might not be his own? An ache seized his gut as he thought of Vic, facing Kragnashians, wizards, and other dangers while their child grew inside her. He had to purge the rage from his heart, or he’d never be half the husband and father Sashal had been.

  The only way to purge resentment was to forgive. Forgive them all: Lornk. Earnk. The Harmony. Geram. His mother. But he couldn’t do it. Not without Vic. Not without her here, so first of all, he could forgive her.

  Performances and Proposals

  The treacly soprano should have drowned beneath the strings and horns swelling from the orchestra pit, but the theater’s acoustics captured and amplified the soloist, bringing her thin voice to every seat. Elbows on the box raili
ng, Ashel soaked in the music like a hot bath on a cold day, and the wild thought crossed his mind that with the Korng fortune, he could buy this theater and employ better singers.

  Eyes alight, Wineyll clasped his hand, her nod eager.

  Behind them, Earnk whispered with a page and dropped another white card onto a growing pile. “You should be talking to these people,” he hissed after the box door shut.

  “You can’t bring me to a theater and expect me to ignore the music.”

  “They do.” Earnk flicked a hand at the jeweled coifs and sparkling garb stuffing the tiers. Gazes alighted on the Korng box and sprang away, like glowflies on a summer eve while gossip susurrated behind gloved hands and silken fans. Few eyes were aimed at the stage, and Ashel wondered how it would disrupt Betheljin politics if a gifted singer stood there.

  At last the curtain fell to desultory applause and another knock on their box door. The page announced the Storunds.

  Ashel stood as Ellen entered with Moralen and another man Ashel assumed was her husband. Lornk’s friend had a plain, dark face with sharp eyes.

  “I thought it was time you two met,” Ellen said. Elegantly attired, she bore little resemblance to the dockside tavernkeeper he knew, though she appeared as comfortable in bejeweled silks as an apron. “Ashel Korng, may I present Alek Storund.”

  He bit his tongue at hearing his name paired with the Korng surname. Alek gamely offered his left hand and said, “I understand you know Moralen already. He is a dear family friend. A surrogate father, after my own died.”

  “You and Lornk gave me what I needed at the time,” the physician said gruffly. “I’m not certain this is what you need,” he said to Ashel.

  “Music is always a welcome distraction. Does the Commissar ever come here?” Ashel waved at the Commissar’s private balcony. Occupying the entire first tier, it was empty.

  “Rarely.”

  “The intermission isn’t long,” Alek said. “Let’s meet some people.”

  In the foyer, a servant offered Eldanion in sleek goblets as a wave of avid gazes broke over them. Alek waded into the throng and Ashel followed, trading names and witticisms.

  A woman with rich chestnut spirals appraised him, tapping an index finger on pouting red lips. “I met you at the Commissar’s palace some years ago. You were only a youth, but you set Traine on fire that night.”

  “I did?” He beamed and for the span of a breath allowed her fluttering eyelashes to stoke his ego.

  “Be careful of setting any more fires, Citizen,” Major Demsch said. The crowd peeled away from the officer, and she walked a clear path to Ashel.

  “I should have guessed your love of music, major, when we met outside the Minstrels Guildhouse.”

  Her lip curled at his companions. “Citizen Storund. Doctor. Are you aware, Citizen Korng, of the history of sedition surrounding these two?”

  “I’m merely following the Commissar’s suggestion I get to know Citizen Storund and his literary endeavors.”

  Alek took a pencil out of his pocket and scribbled on a napkin. “Here, major. There’s a bit of my work you can pass on to our dear leader. It isn’t seditious, but it is salacious, so I think it should match his taste. Shall I recite it? There once was a barber from Traine—”

  “Careful, Citizen,” Demsch said, crumpling the napkin in her fist. “Or you might follow your father up the gallows steps.”

  Chimes sounded, and the audience melted into the tiers. Demsch glared at them, hand on her pommel.

  “Would you like to join us in the Korng box, major?” Ashel asked.

  She blinked at him. “What?”

  “I don’t want to miss the second act,” he replied. “You’re welcome to join us, or please excuse us.”

  Scowling, she stepped aside. “No, thank you.”

  “That was well done,” Alek said as the box door shut.

  “I’d love to hear the rest of that limerick.”

  Alek chuckled. “Moralen tells me you’ve been going out to the cerrenil grove to pray?”

  “I have. The trees are young, but they still give solace.”

  The older men exchanged wistful glances. “My father is buried in that grove. He’d approve of us using it as a place to meet, if it wouldn’t interfere with your prayers.”

  Regret pinched Ashel’s heart. He’d never visited Sashal’s grave, finding a thousand excuses not to. Now it was too late. “In Latha we say, ‘what can we know of the way of trees?’ The answer is, nothing, but I don’t think the cerrenils will mind hosting a gathering.”

  * * *

  When they reached the palazzo, Wineyll paused in the foyer and Earnk hesitated beside her, the pair of them swaying like chimes in a breeze. Smirking softly, Ashel bade them goodnight and headed off to the library.

  “Would you have a drink with me?” Earnk asked.

  Her heart sped, and she pulled in a long slow breath. “Yes, of course.”

  In a parlor, Earnk poured them each a harlolinde and sat beside her on the sofa. The liquor scalded the back of her throat like fire made from ice.

  “I can never seem to get used to that,” she coughed, eyes watering.

  “It just takes practice,” he said, and they shared a fleeting smile. “I’m going to Relm tomorrow morning.”

  “Elsa mentioned it.”

  “The invitation to play for the Council still stands. I could use a lovely bit of music, to drive out that soprano’s saccharine voice.”

  “She wasn’t very good.”

  “Come with me.” His fingers caught hers.

  Her breath stopped, snagged on the cusp of longing and terror. “I can’t.”

  “Your guild rules don’t matter to me, nor should they to you.”

  “It’s not that.” She inhaled with great deliberation, exhaled slowly. “I want . . . I can’t go with you. I need to stay here—Ashel needs a friend here. I can’t abandon him.”

  He brought her knuckles to his lips. The kiss sent fire up her arm, and her breathing became staccato whistles that grated on her ears. She thought he would shrink away, but his fingers grazed her temple and cheek, tucking her hair behind an ear. “What do you want, Wineyll?”

  “Jump!”

  Her feet push off the sandy bottom. Her body is lifted up and up, feet dangling above the earth, laughter ringing over the crashing surf.

  Her mouth fell open, but words wouldn’t come. He sat still, watching her with deep blue eyes that looked black in the flickering lamps, but his hair shone like gold. Clearing her throat, she forced an answer out. “Three years ago, I was touring with my father. We were in Alna. It was summer, and he took me swimming in the ocean. When the waves lifted us up, it felt like flying. It was the same sort of joy I felt every time we performed together. It was magic. All I want is to feel that again.”

  “I would give that to you if I could.”

  “Why?”

  His lips curved upward for a moment. “I have a soft spot for wounded things.”

  “Especially when they’re your father’s?”

  He laughed grimly. “I suppose it seems that way. I told you, I don’t love Vic. I hope she comes home safely and she and my brother find some happiness together.” Expelling a breath, he sat straighter. “I have a proposal for you.”

  Her skin pebbled over, she struggled to hold herself still. I can’t I can’t I can’t echoed, but beneath was a whispered please. Please what? She could not decipher her own hopes.

  “I spoke to Father about this—the choice is entirely yours, but there are political implications to everything I do, and in this matter it was better I obtain his consent. I want to make it clear, you don’t need his permission, but I do. Understood?”

  “I don’t know yet what you’re asking,” she said.

  Her body lifts up and up, feet dangling above the earth, laughter ringing over the crashing surf.

  “I’m sorry. This is awkward and will seem sudden, bu
t it’s something I’ve been thinking about since the journey from Olmlablaire to Re, and I thought of little else while I was hauling water for the nomads. You have abilities that could help me, Wineyll. Even with Father’s endorsement, even with the nomads’ allegiance, my hold on the Seat is tenuous. I could use a partner I trust, particularly one who’s a Listener. I’d like you to be my First Councilor.”

  “That’s the Relmlord’s spouse.”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re asking me to marry you?”

  “I know, it’s sudden. Think of it as a business proposition. I don’t expect you to . . . you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

  She met his gaze, her pulse fluttering like butterfly wings. “And if I did want to?”

  He gulped and pulled away from her. “There’s a condition.” Many silent heartbeats passed while he stared at his feet. “It’s audacious of me to ask, but here it is: you’d have to do the Penance.”

  A frothing monster slams her onto the hard, gritty surface.

  “The Penance.” Screams and the foul stink of burning flesh. Sobs and harsh orders. Fury and hatred and the pillaging of one boy’s knowledge and memory. Three weeks, she’d mined Mane Thrushwind’s thoughts so Vic’s company could thread through the Badlands unseen, and at the end of that journey, she’d killed him. A boy her own age, and she’d slit his throat.

  “I can’t,” she whispered.

  He stood, his face red. “Of course. I understand. I wish . . . I wish you a goodnight.”

  He left, and please please please rang like a bell in her mind.

  A Touch of Knowing

  Hefting a jug of water, Bethniel scanned the rows of wounded and pasted on a bright smile. Kragnashians no longer crossed the moat into camp, but they still tore through supply lines and ravaged perimeter patrols, leaving few empty cots in the hospital. Moving pallet to pallet, she filled troopers’ cups and waited until each took a few sips. Some refused, and she knelt beside them, asked about their homes, their families, their faith or lack thereof until they took some water. Few of the soldiers had mindspeech; Listening was easy, and many found it a comfort that she knew their minds without them saying a word. Some had grievous wounds and would be lucky to live beyond the night. That she hid from them.