“What way?” The sudden flicker of hope in Dev’s eyes revealed how badly he wanted another solution.
“I could contact Ruslan. Bargain for your life. For everyone’s lives. He—”
“Don’t you even think about it,” Dev snapped. “You summon him, all that’ll happen is you’ll be mindburned and I’ll be dead. He’ll walk off whistling to find the demons, and Cara and Melly will die screaming—” Dev’s voice cracked. He turned his face away.
“You don’t know Ruslan. Not like I do.” Speech came easier to Kiran now, his reluctance drowned by the need to make Dev understand. “He wants me willing. A partner to cast at his side, not a mind-crippled slave barely capable of channeling.” Even with the depth of control provided him by the mark-bond, Ruslan couldn’t truly alter a resisting Kiran’s innermost self. He could only destroy Kiran’s mind and will, either in whole or in part, as he had done with Kiran’s memories in Ninavel. But if Kiran willingly let Ruslan remake him…
Revulsion shivered through Kiran; he stamped it down. “If I offer surrender without resistance, vow to abandon all defiance—trust me, Ruslan would give almost anything for that. Like healing charms capable of saving your life, plus a blood vow to never cause harm to you or Alathia by any means, demonic or otherwise.”
“Didn’t you learn a damn thing in Ninavel?” Dev’s grip on Kiran’s wrist tightened to the point of pain. “I don’t care what Ruslan vows, it won’t stop him. He’ll only find an even worse way to take his revenge.”
“Of course he won’t stop!” Kiran tore free of Dev’s hold to pace in agitated frustration. “I don’t say it’s a permanent solution. But if I ensure he can’t set the demons on you or Alathia, that buys you time and safety while he searches for another way. You and Cara can find the demons instead and send their hunters after him.”
“How, without you and your memories? You’re the one with a connection to them. The demon dismissed the rest of us as no better than rats, even Ruslan. It was you he treated as an equal.” Dev retched again. He dashed a hand across his mouth and looked up at Kiran with angry, accusatory eyes.
Equal was not the impression Kiran had from his fragmented memories of the conversation, but the last thing he wanted was to revisit that moment further. “My past isn’t the only possible source of knowledge. Remember when we talked in the mountains about gaining entrance to the collegium library in Prosul Akheba so we could search historical and religious treatises—”
“We planned that I’d help you sneak into the library so you could search! Cara and I are outriders, not scholars. It’d take me years to finish even one dusty old book, and I wouldn’t understand half of what I read.”
“Talk a scholar into helping you, then,” Kiran said, exasperated. “Or forget finding the demons and instead use your clever tongue to goad Ruslan into breaking his vows. That should be well within your abilities.”
“Fuck, Kiran. You can’t goad a man who’s already got everything he wants!” Dev lurched toward Kiran. “You’re dying to throw yourself on the fire, is that it? Want your magic back so bad you don’t care if Ruslan makes you into a monster?”
Kiran recoiled, the breath leaving his lungs. “This isn’t about my magic. This is about saving lives. Yours, Cara’s, Melly’s, all of Alathia’s!”
“Makes a nice story to tell yourself, doesn’t it?” Dev said. “But answer me this: How many people will you murder as Ruslan’s devoted lapdog?”
“Fewer than will die if Ruslan bargains with demons! Do you think I want to be forever changed? To give over my mind, my very soul to the man who ripped away my memories, who murdered my lover just to teach me obedience?” The black, bitter maelstrom of anguish and betrayal and loss rose to batter Kiran’s heart anew. “Part of me would rather see the entire world burn than let Ruslan touch me again. But don’t you see? That’s how he would react in my place. If I let thousands die—if I let you die, to spare myself—how am I any different from him?”
“Gods. Kiran.” Dev passed a hand over his eyes. “You want to prove you’re different, so you’ll let him mindburn that difference right out of you? Tell me you hear how fucked up that logic is.”
“That’s not the point. If I cast, it will bring Ruslan anyway, and I don’t know how to help you without magic. I can’t just sit on my hands and watch you die.”
“Would you quit assuming the worst?” Dev’s glare intensified. “I’m sick, yeah. But nowhere near death, and we are not out of options. Hell, even if I did die—whether by poison, or spell, or even a fucking rock falling on my head—don’t you dare roll over for Ruslan. You keep going, understand?”
How? Kiran wanted to demand. You claim you can’t succeed without me; how am I to do the same without you? But faced with Dev’s desperate determination, Kiran couldn’t gainsay him. Dev had never once given up on freeing Kiran in Ninavel despite confronting equally terrible odds.
Yet Kiran couldn’t bring himself to make any promises. “If you can drag yourself, I’ll carry the packs.”
The taut lines of Dev’s body eased. He gave a slow nod. “About time you had a turn as pack mule.” He clamped an arm over his stomach and squinted down the twilit gorge. “When I was belaying you down the cliff, I spotted rubble from a rockfall about a mile down-canyon. I figure that’s our best bet for shelter. Try to stick to rock and not leave any footprints in sand.” He started off in a crabbed stagger. Kiran hefted the packs, wincing at the weight, and followed.
There had never been a longer mile. The packs Kiran carried grew heavier with every step. The gorge was eerily silent; the only sound was the scrape of their footsteps. Far from reassuring Kiran, the quiet only heightened his nerves. He kept imagining he saw stealthy figures creeping along the gorge rim or lurking in the deepening shadows. If the clanfolk intended to spring another ambush, the oncoming darkness would bring ample opportunity. Kiran strained his senses through his barriers, seeking the least hint of human life, but all he felt was the distressingly faint glimmer of Dev at his side.
The gathering gloom made it impossible to see if any clan symbols marked the gorge walls. The viciously thorny plants seemed to multiply, springing up all over the rock to bar their path, even as the occasional drifted dunes remained tantalizingly clear of obstacles. Soon Kiran’s trousers were ripped in a dozen places and his skin burning from needle-stabs.
Worse was the awareness of his ikilhia inexorably losing cohesion. No question any longer that the water he’d drunk was as fouled as Dev’s. The pull of his body on his magic was obvious now, a nagging, relentless demand. But his fear for himself paled beside his concern for Dev.
At first, Dev had cursed whenever he impaled a limb on a swordplant or had to stop for another session of vomiting. Now he plodded along in grim, strained silence. His pace grew ever slower, his body listing. He didn’t protest when Kiran offered a supportive arm, only leaned heavily on Kiran’s already-burdened shoulder. Kiran locked his arm around Dev’s waist and tugged him onward, fighting to ignore the burn in his own exhausted muscles.
Just when he thought his legs might fail under the combined weight of Dev and the packs, the ragged black outline of the rockfall at last appeared against the star-sprinkled sky.
“Wait here,” he said, releasing Dev. “I’ll find a sheltered spot.”
Dev slid down to his knees, his head bowed. Kiran clambered over rocks, straining to see through near-darkness. Oh, for a magelight! At last he located a sandy hollow beneath two leaning boulders. From within, only a thin ribbon of stars showed overhead. All other sightlines were blocked by rock. They’d have a good chance of using their firestone charm unseen.
Kiran dumped the packs and set out to collect Dev. When he returned to the rockfall’s edge, the dark lump of Dev’s body was so still that for a terrifying instant Kiran wasn’t certain he still breathed. But when Kiran called his name, Dev groaned and raised his head. With assistance from Kiran, he managed to negotiate the rockfall to reach the hollow.
; Kiran settled Dev against one of the boulders forming the hollow’s walls. His own legs trembled so much he could barely stand. The disorder of his ikilhia would soon reach the point where he must take more of the drug. Already his head ached as badly as his muscles.
Dev croaked out something about water.
“Let me boil it first.” Kiran’s own throat felt as arid and cracked as if he’d gone days without water instead of hours. He fumbled through the contents of Dev’s pack, seeking the firestones and their single battered pot, all the while aware of the raw, painful sound of Dev’s breathing. Dev had vomited for so long and so often his body must lack even the least trace of moisture.
Kiran set the smooth ovals of the firestones in the sand and sparked the charm, using a drop of his blood and a whispered trigger word like the most magic-blind of nathahlen. His ikilhia was so unsettled he feared to use even a trickle of touch-sent power.
Violet and crimson flames leapt up. In the magefire’s light, Dev looked worse than ever. His cheeks were sunken hollows and his eyes were slitted and dull. Kiran balanced the pot on the firestones and poured in water from a skin. The water looked clear and clean as any he’d drunk in Ninavel. So difficult, not to simply snatch up the pot and drink!
“How long should I boil it?” He feared he wouldn’t get a response, but Dev coughed and straightened.
In a grating whisper, he said, “Only a few moments. If that doesn’t work, longer won’t help.”
Kiran hovered over the pot in anxious anticipation. He scrutinized the water as it boiled, looking for any odd residue, any sign at all of contamination, but saw nothing. Hardest of all was to wait for the water to cool after he removed the pot from the fire. The moment he judged he wouldn’t blister his tongue, he snatched up the pot and tasted its contents—only to spit in dismay.
“What?” Dev rasped.
“The water tastes strange. Boiling didn’t work, it must have concentrated the poison—”
“Water always tastes odd after you boil it. Give it here.”
Kiran passed the pot over. Dev took a cautious sip. Then a long series of full-throated gulps, ignoring Kiran’s uneasy protest.
When Dev spoke, his voice sounded stronger. “Tastes like any boiled water to me. No way to know if boiling cleansed it, but either we drink or we’ll never reach another clan.”
Kiran couldn’t argue with that. He took the pot back and downed a few swallows, grimacing at the flat, mineral taste. His parched body clamored for more, but if boiling hadn’t worked, Kiran didn’t want to add more foulness to what his body already fought.
“I’ll boil what’s in the other skins,” he told Dev. “You rest.”
“Until moonrise,” Dev said. “Then we keep walking.”
Kiran wasn’t at all certain a few scant hours of rest would help. Even as he watched, Dev made a choked noise and clamped his hands over his mouth. If Dev couldn’t keep the water down, what then? But Dev took slow, shallow breaths and at last lowered his hands.
“Maybe at moonrise you should keep resting here, and I’ll go scout,” Kiran said. “I’m still well enough to move quickly. Even with the moon’s light, it’ll be difficult to spot clan symbols on the rocks, but I have another idea. Currents of earth-power sometimes follow valleys and pool where water does. If I can discover a current, tracing its flow could lead me to a seep or a spring, hopefully on another clan’s ground. You’ve said such places are guarded, but we could strike another bargain there or try another plan.” Searching out one of the sparse currents of natural magic that threaded the desert wouldn’t be easy with his barriers obstructing his senses. But none of their choices were easy now.
Dev was silent for a long moment. “Maybe. See how I feel at moonrise.”
Kiran’s worry edged higher; Dev’s reluctant agreement was an admission of just how sick he really was. He started another skin’s worth of water boiling in the pot. Dev’s eyes drifted shut, though the tight lines of his body didn’t relax.
Pain spiked through Kiran’s head. The magefire’s flames were abruptly too bright, colors spangling across his vision. Hurriedly he retrieved the drug vial. So little liquid remained! His hand shook as he tipped a careful few drops into his mouth.
We are not out of options, Dev had said. But if the drug ran out before they reached Prosul Akheba, only two choices would remain for Kiran: death, or Ruslan.
Dev might well change his mind about bargaining with Ruslan then. Kiran’s death would leave little hope for Cara and Melly.
“Put the damn vial away and stop fretting. We’ll make it.” Dev’s eyes had slitted open again, watching Kiran with unnerving intensity.
“You needn’t stare at me like you’re afraid I’ll slink off to summon Ruslan the moment you stop looking. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Good.” But Dev’s gaze stayed fixed on him.
Kiran tucked the vial away. The pain in his head faded as the drug took effect and his ikilhia settled back into a sullen knot. Methodically he boiled water, rinsed out waterskins, and replaced their contents, careful not to waste a drop more than he must. It was a relief to lose himself in a repetitive yet absorbing task. It reminded him of hours spent stacking and sorting silver rods meant for creating channel patterns, with Mikail working at his side.
A swelling wave of homesickness drowned him, and Kiran cursed his own traitorous heart. He hated these moments most of all, when despite everything he’d seen in Dev’s memories, he missed Mikail, Lizaveta, even Ruslan, with a force that tore his soul raw. What was wrong with him? He knew the depth of Ruslan’s cruelty. Yet he still caught himself yearning to wake in his familiar bedroom in Ninavel and find that all this was only a terrible nightmare; that none of his memories were missing, none of the betrayals were real. Mikail would tease him with dry, gentle wit and summon Ruslan and Lizaveta to reassure Kiran that he’d only imagined the horrors, he was still safe in their love…
He was such a fool. Even if he did wake that way, he couldn’t possibly trust it. Ruslan had tricked him once already. Now Kiran couldn’t even trust himself. Was his determination to save lives merely a rationalization covering a craven, selfish desire to regain his magic and his mage-family?
He didn’t know. Yet another reason he so desperately needed Dev. Kiran had far more faith in Dev’s character and decisions than his own.
Dev’s eyes had shut, but Kiran could tell by the sound of his breathing that he wasn’t asleep. Driven by snarled emotions, Kiran asked, “When you Changed, I know you missed flying, and breaking wards, and all the things the Taint let you do as a child. But your handler, Red Dal…you said he raised you, that you thought him a father to you, until you lost your power and he sold you. You must have hated him for that, but…did you ever miss him, too?”
Without opening his eyes, Dev said, “At first. Later, when I realized everything I missed about him was a lie—then all I felt was hate, and everything was easier. You’ll get there too. You already had when I first met you.”
Kiran hoped he might get there soon. How much easier if he could hate Ruslan with the same pure, uncomplicated fervor as Dev—or even with the bitter venom he’d seen himself display in Dev’s memories. Back then, Kiran had apparently felt that nothing else mattered but escape from Ruslan. He envied that clarity of purpose.
His former self had been whole, possessed of a full set of memories. All Kiran had of the three years prior to this summer were tattered threads marred by gaping voids. He’d seen Dev’s memories, but they felt as unreal as a scry-vision. Knowing the truth with his head wasn’t the same as feeling it with his heart. He did have the memory Lena had returned to him of Alisa’s agonizing death at Ruslan’s hands—a brutally vivid horror impossible to deny. Yet set against that one memory were a thousand others from his childhood and his recent days in Ninavel that insisted his mage-family’s love was not a lie the way Red Dal’s had been.
Mikail’s mind meshing swift and sure with Kiran’s, his joy in casting echoing Kiran�
�s own, his quiet strength an anchor that would never fail; Lizaveta singing to Kiran in a dark, honeyed voice, sharing with him a wondrous saga from a city lost in the mists of time; Ruslan’s hand warm on Kiran’s shoulder as they prepared to break Vidai’s wards in the Cirque of the Knives, fierce pride and affection flooding through the mark-bond, unmistakable, undeniable…
Ruslan and Lizaveta, their bodies twining around Kiran’s, hands and mouths and magic setting his nerves afire until he screamed with the rapture of it—
Nausea cramped Kiran’s stomach and stifled his breath. He would not, would not think of that.
“What’s wrong?” Dev shoved up on an elbow, peering at him.
“I…” He would rather bite his own tongue off than explain. “Nothing. Just an unpleasant memory.” Kiran resealed a waterskin with sharp efficiency. “I’ve finished with the water. Do you think you can eat something?”
Dev shuddered, looking like he might vomit again at the very thought. “Later.”
Kiran didn’t feel like eating, either. They’d have to replenish their strength, but perhaps eating could wait until moonrise. “I’ll put out the magefire and we both can rest.”
Dev sighed and slumped onto his side. After snuffing the firestones, Kiran lay down and stared into darkness with hot, aching eyes, listening to the slow rasp of Dev’s breathing. Moonrise was yet several hours away. He should try for a glimpse of his earliest memories as he’d promised Dev he would. The pain of it had to be less than what scoured his heart now.
He summoned his concentration and sank toward the heart of his damaged memories. The wall waited there, impenetrable and enduring, so familiar a part of him that for much of his childhood he’d barely thought of it.
Attempting to breach the wall would bring pain too strong to shut out, so he held back, scrutinizing the spell’s weaving. A crack must have opened when he met the demon in the mountains. He should find the fault line and push there before pain overwhelmed him.
The Labyrinth of Flame Page 5