A Wizard's Sacrifice

by Amanda Justice

  “And when Elekia took your blind mind-companion to her bed, was that a perverse indulgence or a depraved tactic?”

  Crystal jumped as Ashel’s fist slammed the sideboard. Fury ran white hot through his blood, multiplied by Geram’s outrage and shame and the anguish that had plagued him all summer. Muscles quivering, Ashel sucked in breath after breath until he’d corralled his rage. “I am counting on your desire to use a wizard to secure your place as Commissar, just as you are counting on me to be the tie that binds that wizard to you. I will stand beside you against Parnden because my love for her is greater than my hatred for you. But do not mistake alliance for allegiance.”

  Arms crossed, Lornk answered him with a menacing glare.

  “When do we strike?” Kelmair asked again. “That is all that matters.”

  Ashel refilled his glass and poured the heat down his throat. “Lathan forces are gathering for an assault tomorrow night. My mother will use her powers to help retake the Manor. If we attack Parnden at the same time, it may tie down his Kragnashian allies here, giving them a better chance in Latha.”

  “Elekia has openly declared herself a wizard?”

  Ashel growled the admission: “She has.”

  Lornk lips spread to reveal gleaming teeth. “In honor of my wife’s sacrifice, I agree. We make our assault tomorrow night.”

  Across the Ages

  The cool light of early morning breezed past sheer curtains. Wineyll rubbed at the grit on her cheeks. The horrible cramping was gone from her belly, but Vic’s ached as she lay on ferns between the folded roots of a massive tree.

  She holds him to her chest. Wrinkled skin, eyes shut tight, tiny, curled fingers. She wouldn’t have guessed he’d have hair already, but it was there, black wisps. The size of a kitten, he looked as whole as a living child, but he had been stiff when he emerged from her womb. Her eyelids blink over dry eyes. Hope sheds tears. But not despair.

  Wineyll hugged a pillow, tears leaking into her hair as she poured sympathy into the emptiness of Vic’s thoughts.

  No, Vic cried. Wineyll, don’t.

  Vic felt no surprise that Wineyll had been with her all night. The dead child overwhelmed everything else. Everything I’ve ever wanted . . . I’ve destroyed, she said.

  It was an accident—

  It’s all an accident! I do nothing with purpose! Nothing by choice.

  You chose to love Ashel. And you’re going to come home to him.

  Vic groaned, clutching the tiny body under her chin, her fingers pressed deep into its flesh. Caught in the other woman’s sorrow, Wineyll squeezed the pillow.

  “How are you?” Slipping inside, Earnk shut the door and sat on the bed. “How is she?”

  Wineyll crawled into the crook of his arm. In Direiellene, shock threaded through Vic’s grief.

  “Vic, I’m so sorry for your loss,” Earnk said, squeezing Wineyll’s shoulders. “I . . . I cannot imagine your pain. Please know we’re doing all we can to bring you home.”

  Wineyll shuddered as Vic screamed through another paroxysm of grief.

  Earnk let her go; a moment later he pressed the flute case into her hands. “Play something,” he whispered, opening the latches.

  She blinked at the softly gleaming pieces. “I dropped this yesterday.”

  “Would my brother leave that lying in the street? Play something.”

  Vic’s grip on the baby loosened. What brother? Does he mean Ashel?

  Assembling the flute, Wineyll blew softly over the mouthpiece, and a low C warmed the room. Ashel is here with us, she said. We’re all fighting for you. The note a bit flat, she adjusted the headjoint and tried again. The sound true, she blew softly at first, then louder without changing pitch, listening carefully to the purity of that single tone as it fluctuated up and down in volume. Breathe. The same note again, only this time scaled up, then down an octave, back and forth, her spine straightening to support her breath. Breathe. Soft. Loud. High. Low. Same exercise, faster, slower, longer, shorter, with the tongue, without. The sound wrapped around her like a white cocoon, blinding and familiar. I want to live in this sound, she thought.

  And never let anything in, Vic said. Not all those deaths. Not—

  Wineyll swooped into “The Cerrenil’s Joy,” which people sang at wakes. In Direiellene, Vic’s mouth stretched round a soundless rage. Wineyll closed her eyes, sunk into the melody, merged with it, feeling it as forgiveness.

  When the last note died, Vic put the baby down. Wineyll opened her eyes, and Earnk threaded his fingers through hers. She nestled her head on his shoulder while Vic lay down beside the little body, breathing slowly and deeply. Her chest moving in like rhythm, Wineyll felt the steady beating of Earnk’s heart.

  “I wanted your father to meet you,” Vic whispered, stroking the tiny head. “He would sing you to sleep if he were here.”

  “He should be here,” Earnk said. “I’ll get him.”

  Vic froze, and Wineyll could feel her protest—born of fear and grief and shame that she’d failed to protect this child.

  “No, no, let him come,” she murmured aloud.

  Earnk paused at the door, blue eyes absorbing the sorrow that spilled from Vic into Wineyll, a tsunami that could drown them all. “Do not refuse him his chance to say goodbye,” he said. “Do not deprive yourself of the comfort of those you love.”

  He left, carrying their grief away, and Wineyll knew the answer to his proposal.

  * * *

  Ashel fastened the last clasp on his vest, his gaze fixed on a narrow patio and garden and the city wall that loomed over it, the crenellations bright in the morning sun. His stomach growled with hunger, but he was anxious to know if Wineyll had recovered.

  What was wrong with her? Geram asked.

  Moralen wouldn’t say.

  You know how we affect one another.

  Gut twisted with foreboding, Ashel resisted the insight dawning in Geram’s mind. What do you mean?

  In Olmlablaire, for a time, she was connected to Vic. I thought we severed that connection, but what if some thread of it remained?

  An urgent knock rattled his door. When Ashel opened it, Earnk said, “Come to Wineyll’s room. Now.”

  His heart stopped, and he felt Geram’s lungs freeze. “Is Vic all right?”

  “She needs you.”

  His feet as twisted and uncertain as a babe’s, he stumbled after his brother. He is my brother, he thought, fixating on that notion, using it as an anchor to withstand the tempest swirling around him. Terror, regret, remorse, awe, incredulity, hope, and joy smashed at him like a violent sea.

  “All that strength and courage you showed in Olmlablaire,” Earnk said, gripping his arm. “She needs that now. She needs the best of you.” He opened Wineyll’s door.

  “Oh, Ashel.” Wineyll wrapped her arms round his waist.

  The darkness that had smothered him in the Roost loomed around him, and he fell to his knees. “Is Vic alive?”

  His Guild-sister dropped to the floor with him. “She lives. But . . . she lost the baby.”

  His breath trapped in his chest, he stared at brimming blue irises, replacing them in his mind’s eye with green. Air stuttered into his lungs, and he cupped Wineyll’s damp cheeks in his palms, knowing what Vic would feel. All the times Geram had kissed his mother, and he’d felt her lips on his mouth. Elesendar, all the time he’d spent drunk in taverns, in his bed, the night he’d lost himself to bliss, to Kelmair . . . he shoved it all aside. Vic needed him. Replacing Wineyll’s dark thick hair with fine spun amber, he kissed her forehead, spoke to the blue eyes that ought to be green: “My heart is yours. Always and forever yours. And your grief is mine. I share this burden of sadness with you, but when we see each other again, we’ll trade heartache for joy. The Concordance is here, my love, and you’re coming home.”

  “Shut your eyes,” Wineyll murmured, “and you’ll be with her.”

  The light dimmed into de
ep green shadows and rough brown bark. Vic lay upon the earth, hair ratted, face battered and streaked with dirt. One hand stroked black fuzz on a tiny head. The eyelids were folded shut over pouting lips, the skin translucent brown and delicate as porcelain.

  He sucked in a shuddering breath, blew it out slowly, and pulled in another and another until his lungs worked as smoothly as a bellows. He’d missed his father’s funeral. He would not miss his son’s.

  Over the mount,

  There lies a place

  Where love has lasting grace,

  Where peace and joy go hand in hand,

  Over the mountain, in that land.

  His wife moaned and curled around the babe. Her shoulders shook as he sang verses he wrote for her to show a warrior the path toward peace. He opened his chest and tightened his diaphragm, singing with all his power, just as he had for the Center. He would bring his love home with a song, even if the only home they ever knew together was in this moment, a thousand years away from each other.

  Vic’s sobs quieted. She pushed herself onto shaky knees. A scoop of dirt rose from between folded tree roots and plopped into a small mound. “Joseph, your father’s singing you to sleep.” She laid the baby into the hollowed earth and caressed his cheek until the last note faded.

  “I named him after my mother’s father. He was mayor of Ourtown. He died before I knew him, but they say he was a good mayor.”

  “It’s a good name,” Ashel said.

  “Goodbye, my love.” She bent down and kissed the little forehead, then used her hands to push the dirt into the grave. As the earth settled, the roots seemed to bend around the mound like the protective arms of a parent. Vic pressed her hand to the tree and said softly and aloud, “Thank you.” Sitting back against the trunk, she looked up at the canopy, far, far above. “I’m sorry I lost him.”

  “Oh, no,” he murmured, pulling Wineyll into his arms, knowing Vic would feel the embrace. “It’s not your fault.” He rocked Wineyll, giving comfort to both the minstrel and his wife.

  * * *

  Vic wept in the ethereal arms that held her other self, a world and an age away. She wanted to rest in Ashel’s embrace, but there wasn’t time—she had to reach the caldera. She begged Wineyll to push him away, but the minstrel clung to him, stubbornly refusing to let him go.

  Vic, you have to keep going, said Geram, cutting into their grief.

  Leave her be, Ashel said.

  We’ve all got a task, Geram replied, his voice like metal. I grieve for you both, but every one of us has a battle to fight today.

  She shut her eyes tight and saw Ashel’s careworn face, a ragged week-old beard, his eyes rimmed with shadows. He was not the beautiful, carefree fairytale prince she’d once pined for, but that had been an illusion, and the man she loved had never been so frivolous. I just want to come home.

  You know you can’t until this is finished.

  With a howl, she drew her knees to her forehead. Her womb ached and bled. Her mouth was dry as sand, and her limbs shook with fatigue. She needed rest, water, food. She was in no shape to fight.

  I know it hurts, Ashel said. I wish I could come to you, hold you, give you all the strength and healing you need . . . but Geram’s right.

  Startled and wounded, she stared at the trees. Rain dripped through foliage, splattering her hair. You’re not the one stuck here.

  This time tomorrow, it will be over, Ashel said. Tonight, we’re going to war to bring you home. But if you fail, history may change, and we won’t be able to bring you back. Please, my love, you’re the strongest person I know—

  You’re the sharpest, Geram said. You’re the Blade. You’re the one who never fails.

  Anguish flooded from Vic’s eyes and tore from her mouth. Fail? When haven’t I failed? She had no more tears for weeping, but the sobs poured forth. All three of you suffered because I failed.

  So redeem yourself, Wineyll said, her voice hard and thin, no longer thick with sympathy. We’re not the only ones depending on you—it’s all the peoples of Knownearth. You’re the One, Vic. And you know it’s possible for you to succeed because we’re living in a world shaped by the success of the One. But failure is possible too. Only you can choose which it will be.

  Coughing, Vic flopped back against a log. I don’t know how to kill her. Everything Bethniel and I thought we knew about this time—it’s completely different.

  You’ll find a way, Ashel said.

  You will and you must, Geram said. I grieve for your child, but remember all the other children. Remember Victory. Maynon and Silla need you to do this for her.

  Victory. Hands clenched, she moaned, remembering the soft, fragile warmth of her friends’ newborn daughter, named for her and for an ideal she couldn’t live up to. She’d said she wouldn’t let Thabean die, and she’d lost him. Failure.

  Come home to me, Ashel said. Bring my sister, and bring my wife. Bring my loves home.

  Bethniel. She’d sworn to protect her. The job’s not done. Groaning, she climbed to her feet and threw her head back, mouth open, wetting her throat with raindrops. Her knees shook, and she swayed into a thickly folded tree root. If she didn’t get more water, she’d collapse. Shutting her eyes, she pulled at the Woern. Pain shot through her skull, but she lifted herself into the air. The Woern were just as wounded as she was, but they would heal faster if she fed them, and they would, in return, give her strength. The Council might track her eddies, but Geram was right, there was no longer any time. She would bring her sister home if it killed her.

  The Marshaling

  Bethniel stumbled into the hospital. Soldiers and servants moaned in dense rows, victims of the cyclones that had ravaged the camp. Prenlin stepped over and around the wounded and bowed. “Are you ill, madam?”

  “No,” she sighed. “Just tired. I need to find Gustave of Sect Dameron.”

  “In the Caleisbahn ward. I’ll get you something to restore your energy.”

  Thanking her, Bethniel picked her way to the far side of the pavilion. In the week since their wedding, Thabean had secretly trained her to use the Woern, but her first real lessons had come when she helped disperse the cyclones that raged through the night. As dawn broke, the thunderclouds had shredded into wisps across an azure sky, and Bethniel had finally been able to look for Gustave. The commodore had sent her here.

  In a corner, the Caleisbahn physician slumped on a stool, surrounded by several dozen injured pirates. Gustave lay asleep, his right arm propped on a cushion. It ended at a thickly bandaged elbow.

  Gently squeezing his shoulder, she whispered his name in mindspeech. He remained insensate, his breathing deep and steady. Cursing, she shook the Caleisbahn doctor awake.

  “I must speak with Commander Gustave. Can you rouse him?”

  The man’s expression passed from groggy to scornful. “Be gone, woman! Master Healer,” he said as Prenlin arrived, bearing a steaming cup, “advise your pan cleaner not to disturb my patients!”

  “This will revive you, madam.” Prenlin handed the cup to Bethniel and raised an eyebrow at the other healer. “This is Bethniel Graystone, doctor. She has assumed Thabean Graystone’s place on the Council.”

  Eyes wide, he sprang to his feet and bowed. “Madam! My apologies. How may I serve you?”

  “I need to speak to Gustave,” she repeated and sipped the tincture. It was horribly bitter, but the nostril-flaring scent jolted through her blood, and the warmth eased her aches. The Caleisbahn physician held a potion under Gustave’s nose until he gagged and his eyes fluttered open.

  Bethniel shooed the healers away and knelt beside the pirate. “Gustave, Vic had to flee. She wanted you to meet her.”

  Head lolling, he mumbled the name “Samson.”

  “Gustave.” She shook his shoulder. “Vic said you should meet her ‘where you made your sally?’ What does that mean?”

  He sucked a deep, noisy breath and roused himself. “We fought Meylnara at
the caldera.” His eyes fell on his missing forearm. Yelping, he twisted right and left, as if looking for it.

  “Seaman!” the Caleisbahn healer barked. “Control yourself.”

  “Was he injured by the cyclones?” Bethniel asked.

  “No. Victoria brought him in yesterday, before your . . . ascension, madam. All the bones beneath the elbow were pulverized. We had no choice but to take it.”

  “Why did Meylnara attack you?” she asked Gustave.

  Gustave scrubbed his remaining hand over his cheeks. “She wanted to ask the Caldera tribe to harbor you. But Meylnara and her People had launched an assault on their stronghold. Victoria and I took the opportunity to try to kill her. We failed.”

  Bethniel stared at him, ears pumping with blood. What could Vic have been thinking, taking on Meylnara alone? And how could she have imagined Gustave would be capable of meeting her? Voice taut, she asked where to find the place.

  Furious, she stalked to Vic’s tent. Who did she think she was, the Blade still, going off alone to assassinate fieldmarshals? She had a child to think of! She has me to think of. In the pit of her stomach, a small voice wailed.

  She stuffed clothes and supplies into a satchel, went to the mess and asked for cheese and flatcakes. Still clearing away debris, the cooks provided the food immediately and without a hint of surprise, as if wizards wandered in, demanding a week’s rations all the time. Shoving the food into the satchel, she flew up and headed for the caldera.

  Flying had come easily to her, as had much of what Thabean had taught her. Her chest tight, she pushed aside her grief and used her anger at Vic to speed to the caldera. Still fuming, she landed in the clearing Gustave described. Elesendar, let her be all right. She scanned the empty ground, the hollow spaces beneath trees and bushes. Samovael had seemed determined to murder Vic, but he and Grunnaire had staggered into the Council chamber at dawn and admitted they hadn’t found her. Nelchior had insulted the returned wizards until the moment he vomited on the Council table.