by R. K. Thorne
“Why?”
“This one says ‘slavery.’ ”
Miara took an involuntary step back. By the gods.
“What do you mean, slavery?” Aven asked.
“Just as you used star magic to free Miara, they used it to enslave in the first place.” Wunik’s voice seemed far away, underwater, under glass, as if she’d fallen out of the conversation and was simply watching Aven and Wunik from somewhere else. If this map could do what she thought it could… “This map contains clues to both. It means someone could use this map to control the minds of others, if they knew the right spell. This map tells us which stars control which energies, although not the appropriate spells. Starlight could reveal that.”
“But how could one enslave another with just a star?” Aven said slowly. The question brought Miara back to reality, and she stepped closer to them again. Any steps down this road must be stopped.
“How did you free them with just a star? But more importantly, do you really want to know the answer to that question?” Wunik squinted hard at Aven, indicating his opinion on the matter.
“Well… no.”
“You’re damn right, you don’t. It’s dangerous enough to have the knowledge, but for a king to have the knowledge—”
“A prince—”
“A crown prince who will someday be king, if we get our way. You want a kingdom ruled by laws? You want people who follow you happily and willingly? You cannot be tempted with this evil. You cannot have your political enemies know this evil even exists, to accuse you of it.”
But Aven was not easily deterred. “But to free Miara, I imitated a healing spell. Systems seek to return to their natural state. How… What would possibly be the opposite of that?”
She grimaced. “You can do a spell of injury. But it’s repulsive.”
Wunik nodded in agreement. “Few mages even speak of such things, let alone teach them. Hideous.”
“I don’t understand,” said Aven.
“It is possible for a creature mage to learn to rend flesh apart the same way they learn to mend it back together,” Wunik explained.
“Like maggots? Or something?” Aven looked thoughtful. Why had he said that?
“Or a knife. But I can’t imagine working such a spell.”
“Why did you ask that?” Miara cut in. “About maggots.”
“The brand—that was how the energy felt to me. Fire too, but a lot like maggots. Did it feel like that to you?”
Miara frowned. “It was twenty years go. I don’t really remember it.”
“A spell of injury would be physically painful to the caster, nauseating, and deeply against the Balance. It might even induce madness, although we’re not quite sure; it may simply be that mages who have chosen to cast such an awful spell were already mad. Also, we know a lot more energy-efficient ways to hurt someone, if that’s your goal. In a way, that is a blessing. The spell is rarely taught because for a creature mage, it’s much easier to charm an animal or grow your own claws than to rend another human’s flesh with your magic. But it is possible.”
“The Dark Days were deeply wrong, though, weren’t they?” said Aven.
“Well, there’s wrong and then there’s wrong,” muttered Wunik.
“What is that supposed to mean?” Miara said.
“We all generally agree that to kill a man is wrong.” Wunik straightened from looking at the table and leaned back in his chair. “But what about when that man is holding a knife to a child’s throat? Suddenly things get a lot more complicated.”
“Then is it more wrong to kill him or not to kill him?” she muttered.
Aven squinted at the map, almost glaring at it. “What are we going to do with this?”
Was he dodging her? “You didn’t answer my question.”
She must have surprised him with her insistence. He straightened with a blink and regarded her levelly. “I would kill him, and I wouldn’t think twice about it. You always defend a child.”
“Because of your Code?” she asked.
“But what if the child—” Wunik started.
Aven eyed him sidelong into silence, and the old man stopped, laughing a little at their seriousness. “A child has more of a chance to change,” Aven said in a hard voice. “The man has had more of a chance to become wise. There is always a way to turn a situation this way or that. You act as well as you can with as much information as you can get, and you don’t look back and worry on it.”
Miara found herself smiling at that.
“But yes, the Code says that too.” Why did he seem to admit that grudgingly? Frustrated with his Code these days?
“Why did you say that just now, though? About more than one type of wrong,” Aven asked Wunik.
“I have heard many stories of the Dark Days, some of them quite questionable tales. I thought this sort of thing was one of them.” He gestured at the map. “But some of the stories give the mages who created the tools for the Masters good reasons for doing so.”
“That’s hard to believe,” Miara cut in. But then again… what mage would want to do this? Perhaps they had been under duress? If someone ordered her to make a brand or they would kill Aven… she would probably do it. The first action could—hopefully—be reversed, while a death couldn’t. Gods, what a thought.
“So back to… what are we going to do with this?” Aven said.
Wunik jumped in. “I’ll tell you, I don’t want Derk looking at this, to be frank. This knowledge must be carefully guarded, if we distribute it at all. It might be better to put it back in that book and back on the high shelf where it had been hiding for so many years. You know the spell now. You know the star you need. You teach it to me. Perhaps we don’t even need the map.”
“We could destroy it,” she said slowly. “No one should have the power to enslave another.”
“True,” Aven said. “But destroying this map won’t guarantee we’ve destroyed the power to enslave. There could be other maps, other brands, other people who have this knowledge. We don’t know if this is the only way to enslave someone—perhaps there is another way. We can’t even translate all of these. If we can find someone versed in ancient languages—”
“Holy languages, in particular,” Wunik cut in, eying the map again.
“—then we will at least know what we are dealing with.”
Miara nodded. “As much as I want to stop it all… it’s best to know your enemy well. Any information about them is valuable.”
They all nodded. Wunik leaned forward and plucked a dried cherry from a delicate bowl. “I don’t see much else here I can translate. We need to find someone who knows ancient Serabain dialects. We can see what we see in the starlight. But doing that while avoiding my apprentices in this cave of a hold will not be easy.”
“And possibly not worth the risk,” Miara added.
“All right. Let’s not share it with the gathering tonight. I’ll keep it with me until we can figure out somewhere to lock it up or hide it.” Aven tucked it in his leather jerkin and the gray tunic beneath. “You mentioned Derk… Anyone else we should be very careful to keep it away from that either of you can think of?”
“Alikar, obviously,” Miara said. “I know he was against you, but he also had the scent of magic on him. Sorry I didn’t mention it earlier. Someone around him is a mage, even if he doesn’t know it.”
“And someone sent him that letter from Kavanar,” Aven agreed.
“None of your lords should see this,” Wunik said. “Or even know of it. You should not tempt them with the knowledge that this evil exists. Many a man or woman would long to use it to take the throne. If it could happen to the old king of Kavanar, it could happen to you or your father. Or they could accuse you of using it, even if you haven’t. You don’t want anyone to have even the option of being like those Kavanarian bastards. We don’t need to tempt people.”
Aven scowled and popped an olive in his mouth. “Indeed.”
“Now, are you ready for some
lessons?”
“You don’t need me, do you?” she asked. In some ways she wanted to stay and watch. Aven’s exuberance in every small discovery was rejuvenating to say the least. But she also longed for more of her newfound freedom. She could find Dom and ask about his pup, or she could simply sit in her room and do nothing.
The choice was hers. It was delightful. And also a little frightening.
“Not if you have other things to attend to,” said Aven.
“Just enjoying this new thing called ‘being able to do whatever the hell I want.’ Come and get me for the mage gathering? Or dinner before?”
They nodded and set to work, and she wandered out into the hallway, leaving them to their practice. A few feet later, she stopped. Decision time. Out of all her dozens of options, she needed to choose one. Or at the very least, she needed to choose a direction to start walking while she considered her options.
The library door opened behind her, and Aven’s boots came thudding out. “Your rooms are down there. Proving Grounds, kitchens, that way. Terrace to the left down that hall, another small library to the right of that one. You’ll learn it eventually, I’ve had years.”
“I know,” she said with a smile. “I keep track of these things when I can.”
“I should have guessed.” He smiled back and hesitated for a moment as if unsure if he should go back inside. She had a feeling these directions were just an excuse to follow for a moment anyway. She glanced around. The hallways were empty and silent at the moment, as if nothing lived for miles around, as if they were quite alone.
“Thank you, though,” she said. She stepped toward him and took his face in her hands, that shaggy brown hair brushing her fingers. She missed the feel of the stubble on his jaw, though she did not mind the addition of the musky smell of Estun’s soap. She leaned forward and pressed a long kiss to his lips. He reached for her, reached for more, but she pulled away. “Later,” she whispered. “Right? Later?” He gave her a chagrined, crooked smile.
There. Perhaps that would help him remember not to pass out tonight. Of course, she still had no idea how they would get a few moments alone even if he did manage to stay conscious. Or if sleeping beside him all night was an entirely ridiculous and impossible goal, at least for now. But she would cross that bridge when she came to it.
She turned away, striding down the hallway toward the Proving Grounds with a spring in her step. Maybe instead she would find Devol. Or go to the other library and read a book.
The choice was hers.
Twilight had fallen, and the air had started to cool when Jaena began to dig her way out. Since she couldn’t see who might be nearby, she started out gradually, slowly moving the earth back to where it had been before she’d built this fortress of dirt around her. Then she paused and waited for some exclamation, some expression of concern. But nothing came. She’d cleared about half the dirt, nearly enough for her to crawl out, when footsteps approached.
Should she tunnel herself back in? It was probably too late for that. She could simply stay still and quiet. The sky was darkening. No one would spot her here under the bridge.
Her senses caught a tendril of earth magic. How strange. Was there a mage here? A potential ally? How had the Devoted looking for her not captured that mage then?
The footsteps grew louder. Heavy, hulking, a large man’s boots. They went over the bridge and stopped just above her. If this was a mage, a potential ally, should she get out? Should she show herself?
The boots strode across to the other side of the bridge and down the path. She scampered out of the hole, clearing the last of the dirt in silence. At the very least, she’d like to get a look at this one who carried earth magic as he headed toward the main road. She took a few steps, straightening herself and brushing pointlessly at the half of her covered in dried mud from her fall on the bank. She started to coax the mud from her clothes with a spell when she felt eyes on her.
She glanced up and froze. On the opposite side of the bank, the boots had not continued on toward the main road, but they had instead turned around and come down to the stream. And they were facing her.
For a split second, she wanted to bolt—run—she hadn’t expected to actually come face to face with anyone. But it was too late for that, wasn’t it?
Her eyes locked with the man in the heavy boots. Heavily muscled and broad shouldered, covered with soot and ash, he wore a tawny leather apron over a commoner’s work clothes. For once, a man that was taller than she was. A blacksmith?
Had he seen her limp? His brown eyes flicked down to her ankle, then back to her face. He had the rosy, pale complexion of Kavanar and black hair braided at the back of his neck. The black locks were broken up by several streaks of white that caught in the rising moonlight and swept from over his left eye back into the braid.
He studied her. “You’re hurt,” he said simply. “Do you need help?”
She only stared for a moment, struggling to calculate how to respond. She must have stared too long because he asked the same thing again in another language. Did he think she might be Takaran? Silly. Takarans were not as dark as she. He tried a third. Was that Farsai? Not that she knew it. What kind of blacksmith knew three languages?
“Sorry, you startled me,” she managed quickly. “No, no, it’s all right. I’m—just passing through.” She wanted to wince at her words but managed to stifle it. That sounded ridiculous. Clearly she had not inherited her father’s talent for smooth talking. Aye, just passing through, hiding under a bridge covered in mud and not anywhere near the path, but I’m just a traveler passing through. She took a step back toward the path but only succeeded in emphasizing her horrid limp. She failed to hide her wince and closed her eyes to the pain for a moment. She’d either momentarily forgotten the agony, or it was getting worse.
“Your leg—let me help,” he said, starting forward. Only the stream he needed to cross made him hesitate. It was not even an arm’s length across but must run heavier in the spring for the bridge to be there. She gave him a wary look, hopping a few shambling steps away from the stream. What if he had heard they were looking for a mage? Could this be a trick?
He regarded her steadily for a moment, eyes locked with hers, but calm. Indeed, there was an unusual openness to his eyes, as if he hoped she could see his worth in his gaze. Not so guarded, not so squinting, nor so narrowed as most strangers’ were. At least, not at the moment.
“Where are you headed?”
Donkey balls, she hadn’t made up a story to cover her tracks. All day sitting in a damned hole, and she’d spent it plotting spells and traps and no backstory at all. What had she been thinking?
“I’m sorry, I forget myself. I don’t talk to many lovely women.”
She glanced down at her mud-covered leather tunic and formerly white tunic. At least the leggings had already been brown. She gave him a dubious look.
He was undeterred by her expression and took a quick leap across the small stream. He held out a hand. An optimist. She grudgingly shook it and managed a weak smile, mostly out of relief. “Mostly farmers come to visit my smithy. We’re all dirt covered here. I’m Tharomar.”
He seemed to trust her readily. Too readily, really. She could be a bandit, or a trickster. Have companions hiding in the grain, waiting to pounce. A woman looking to seduce him and then thoroughly rob him blind. Although she did mean him no harm, he had no real way of knowing that. Then again, his bicep was probably the width of her head. He probably had little to fear from anyone, if he knew anything much about the arts of defending himself.
“I was walking to Anonil, on the border,” she managed. Hey, that was the truth. Now for the lie. Perhaps she could pretend to be a merchant. That had always been the plan, the hope. “Meeting my brother there to pick up some items—goods—to trade back at home.”
Tharomar nodded gravely, pressing his lips together as his brow creased handsomely. “Well, my fine lady, I do make a fair number of excellent items in my smithy for p
assing traders to peruse. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I don’t know as you’ll be making it much farther tonight with that ankle. There’s no inn in this village, such as it is, but I’m sure you could board with someone. It’s nearly sunset anyway, and you’ll not do much better finding inns to the east. Especially at the pace you’ll be going. You should probably rest. Are you sure I can’t help? You could rest it, check my trade goods in the morning, and be on your way. How did you hurt it?”
She hesitated. Oh, just falling down a hill while not paying attention and probably costing me my life eventually, that’s all! Those Devoted bastards are scary, though. Can you blame me? She said nothing.
“Are you sure I can’t get you some wine to dull the pain, at least?” he said with a crooked smile. Damn, he was handsome for a smith.
A smile betrayed her true feelings on her lips.
“Beer? You don’t look like the type. I have an excellent mead. Could I tempt you with that? Oh, I know. Brandy?”
She snorted. “Are you trying to get me drunk?” She laughed because she meant it and also to warn him that she was not entirely naïve. “Is this a good method for parting trade customers from their coin?” Not that she had any.
He sobered quickly. “Oh, no, no—not at all. I just get injured myself often enough. Something to ease pain is a necessity in my craft.”
“You said you’re a smith?”
“Yes. Come, there’s no healer in this town, but I’ve got a few salves. They won’t speed the healing, but they’ll dull the ache. I swear on Nefrana’s blooms in the spring, I mean nothing but to help you.” He scratched the stubble on his chin and gave her a soft, friendly smile as he waited for her reply.
She hesitated. What was a smith doing out here on the path anyway, that he could just abandon it and turn around and head home again? “I’d hate to keep you from whatever errand had you on this path,” she said warily, taking another step away from him.
“Oh, I was just going to check on my neighbor Nemin. Supposed to carry a package for me into the city tomorrow. But he’ll be by in the morning anyway. Was nothing important.”