Mage Strike (The Enslaved Chronicles Book 2)

by R. K. Thorne

  As the men neared the door, Aven’s head lifted with a strange, abrupt jerk. He glanced over his shoulder at her, frowning in puzzlement. A thrill of fear ran through her. He’d heard that, hadn’t he. She’d let the veil drop farther than normal, and it had taken longer to pull away than she’d thought. He frowned as if unsure he’d truly heard her thoughts, but she knew he had. He just didn’t want to believe them.

  What kind of fool was she? A kind, intelligent man wants to give me more power than nearly anyone in the land, and I’m not sure I want it.

  They lurched awkwardly through the door and around the bend, Aven’s eyes trailing her till the last.

  Of course, she was thinking about what he would have wanted her to think about, she reminded herself. The good of his kingdom—was she really the type of queen they’d need in the future? Would they ever accept her? Would she be able to do the job? If she believed she was entirely unfit, Aven would want to know that. Wouldn’t he?

  It was too late to ask him now. Miara rose to help Wunik put away his tools. Then, with a pat on the old elder’s shoulder and an assurance that he needed no more help, she headed back to her rooms.

  Alone.

  Yet another laborious dinner. Daes yawned widely, not caring which courtier or hanger-on might notice. He’d maneuvered for years to be outside their reach, and he would enjoy the benefits of that effort now. No matter how many of the king’s feasts he attended, he had yet to find a way to entertain himself. His presence was of course required periodically to maintain his powerful station and the king’s favor. Too many absences would draw unneeded and useless attention.

  As a younger man, before he’d been a Master, these events had been far more useful. But now they were more maintenance than anything else.

  He surveyed the court. No one was worth talking to. What a tedious waste of time.

  He rose and headed toward the promenade. A wide balcony stretched beyond the hall, built of cream and pink marble. He strolled along, gazing up at the setting sun, thoughts clear. The stars were just coming out. They brought to mind the prince and his growing ability to bring everything Daes had worked so hard for crashing down.

  He had better hear back from his mages soon, or he was sending a dozen more.

  Elegant staircases zigzagged down two stories to the manicured gardens, where hedges were sculpted into fanciful creations, real and imagined. The sound of water burbling graced the air as fountains stretched out into the gardens. He headed down the stairs. On this promenade so close to the hall, someone annoying was liable to see him and corner him with some inane conversation—or worse, a ridiculous request. He shouldn’t be away too long, but enjoying the gardens was a perfectly acceptable feast activity. He must remember to compliment the king on them later, in case the fool noticed his absence.

  Daes forgot about this plan, however, when he turned a corner of the hedgerow and saw the queen. She sat on a marble bench, face turned into the corner of the surrounding hedges and hidden by her hands. Her shoulders shook, and although she was silent, it was obvious to him that she wept.

  Queen Marielle. He remembered her first days at court, around the same time he had begun his upward climb. Unlike Seulka, she was a clever and pragmatic type. Daes had to confess he’d felt a touch of jealousy at the old king at finding someone so… reasonable. Most women of her type were beyond annoying, whether because they had never really had a problem in their lives, or because of how insanely driven they were by their machinations. She was not typical, and he’d had more than one rewarding conversation in those early days. Of late, she often sat sullenly at the king’s side or didn’t attend the feasts at all. How many years ago had she come from Reilin, on the southwestern continent, to marry the king? He had no idea. She had borne no heir, and it had been long enough. It should have happened. Was this why she wept? Or perhaps something else was afoot.

  He came closer, his boots crunching on the gravel. Her head hung low for a moment, indicating she heard his approach, but she did not turn or straighten. That bad, was it? He stopped just before her, now close enough to hear the faint sound of her weeping.

  He took a calculated risk. He reached out and gently placed his hand on her shoulder, his thumb resting ever so softly on the back of her neck. He patted gently, then moved his thumb so softly, it only grazed the soft delicate hairs at her nape. Treason, perhaps. Or a way to win a powerful ally.

  She turned, shocked, but did not jerk fully away from his touch.

  “Daes—”

  “Your Majesty, are you all right?” he said, filling his voice with as much concern as he could muster. He withdrew his touch, bent down to one knee, and drew a handkerchief from an inner pocket of his red dress gambeson. While some wore finer clothing to affairs like these, he would have preferred full armor, as much as he trusted any of them. But the thick cloth protection of the gambeson was the closest he could get away with.

  She received the handkerchief gratefully, straightening. “Forgive me, Lord Daes—”

  “I see not what you have to forgive.”

  She gave him a small smile for his chivalry. “A queen must always be poised,” she said. She quoted someone who’d often chastised her thusly, he suspected.

  “No one is always poised,” he replied.

  “Says the man who is always the picture of composure.” Huh. Interesting that she had such thoughts about him, or any thoughts at all.

  “We are not always what we seem on the surface,” he said. “Are we?” Her smile faded into a relaxed nod. If she ever saw him wake up from his dreams in a rage, she might think differently. She seemed to remember her troubles but resist bursting into tears. Good. If he’d only calmed her, certainly she would still remember his kindness. It could come in handy later. But his gut told him there was more potential gratitude to be created here. “Who has wronged you?” he said softly. “Are you all right?”

  “I am much better now, thanks to you,” she said, dabbing an eye and looking at him with sincere gratitude, but dodging his question. He let the silence linger for a moment, giving her space to fill it. She fidgeted.

  “Is there some way I can help you, my lady?” he nudged again.

  “Oh, you needn’t worry about my foolish woes.” She waved him off. “You have a war to plan, don’t you? I have heard of your many great plans for this kingdom.” She had?

  The gravel was beginning to dig into his knee. “May I join you on this seat, my lady?”

  “Oh, of course,” she said quickly, scooting over a few inches as if to make room for him, although this put her nearly in the hedgerow. Indeed, a queen should not be so willing to give up her space and power so easily. But many a queen was more battered than powerful. If such had been Marielle’s fate, it was no surprise she would readily make room for a friendly face. He sat much farther over, leaving her ample room, and then took her hand and pulled her toward him.

  “No need for hedges in your back, there’s quite enough room.”

  She smiled, looking down at her lap and not meeting his eyes.

  He should let go of her hand. He didn’t. She didn’t either.

  “My mage armies are preparing for war, indeed. But I am taken away from such measures by this… delightful feast.” She snorted a bit of laughter at his clear lack of enthusiasm. “But may I remind you, my queen, that my mages are forever at your disposal.”

  She looked up and met his eyes in earnest surprise. Was she shocked that he offered his power to her, or that he recognized her power as queen? Or was it something else? His hand clasping hers should have been much more surprising than a reminder of power she did in fact wield, should she choose to use it.

  “Have your mages ever… No. Forget I said anything.”

  “What is it?” He squeezed her hand. “I am happy to educate you on my forces’ capabilities. In a general manner, of course.”

  She straightened again, regaining her power by the moment, as if his hand’s touch strengthened her. “Of course, of co
urse. Are your mages equipped for smaller activities than wars? Such as… perhaps… assassination?”

  Oh, ho ho. What have we here? Calculated risk, indeed! What gold mine had he just discovered?

  “As a matter of fact, yes. They are not very common, but I have several…” He refused to think about the escaped mage, or the creature mage, or that the Tall Master had misplaced the brand, of all things. He’d focus on none of that nonsense at this prime moment. “Several mages who are skilled spies, capable of various forms of information gathering and intelligence activities.” He smiled warmly. “Assassination among them, of course.”

  She stared hard at him now as if weighing his whole worth. It was not wise to trust him. He was clearly manipulating her in a weak moment to gain her trust, and he’d made no effort to hide his fairly transparent ploy. Many would not notice, but just as many would be fully aware of his potentially self-serving motivations. She did not know his loyalties or really anything about him. Or so he suspected from her reactions. If she had made any effort to keep tabs on him, to learn of his past or his present, it had been behind closed doors. But why should she? He tried to keep as low a profile as possible in terms of gossip, and aside from the war, there should not have been much worth knowing about him.

  And yet, he was not being insincere. He did hope to comfort her. She was a beautiful, well-liked, and reasonable woman, thoroughly wasted on the king. Her ties to her homeland of Asraet—and their powerful navy—across the sea remained strong. Daes had kept his own tabs on her, and he’d heard reports of her addressing grievances of a minor noble here, a frustrated landholder there at least a dozen separate times. All were grievances the king had ignored. It was possible their agendas aligned.

  “What about kidnapping… or perhaps, escape?”

  “It might be best if you simply told me of your troubles, my lady.”

  “The king’s mistress,” she blurted, shoulders slumping as a few more tears seeped out.

  His eyes fell to his lap as he shook his head. Fool. The king was a fool, but dallying with a mistress while he had no heir? But perhaps he called Marielle barren, and it was not just a foolish dalliance. “I am sorry to hear that the king does not properly honor you, my lady.”

  She straightened again and shook her head. “I no longer desire his affections,” she said, although the words came out stilted. So she had hoped to love him once? Idealistic for a royal. Or perhaps it was simply innuendo for his heir-producing activities. “And it is all well and good, as she has produced no heir either.” Her voice grew bitter as her hand clenched his tighter. “But she is insufferable. Constantly flouting her place in his bed in the court, with the servants. She thinks it’s a matter of time before she conceives.”

  “You disagree,” he offered.

  “I have done my duties as queen. And she has done hers for nigh on two years. It has been long enough. If only he would find another mistress, it would at least buy me some peace. But I fear he loves her.” She stared off into the distance as if hoping to see the answers to her problems.

  She needn’t look. He had a diverse array of options. Time to seal the deal, he thought.

  “My lady, dry those tears. This beautiful garden you maintain is so large and open.” Her eyes widened as she caught the meaning in his words. “But were you able to visit me at Mage Hall, I would be able to better acquaint you with the capabilities of my estate and forces.”

  “I don’t know if the king would approve of my interest in… your martial affairs,” she said, fidgeting.

  “Perhaps a visit to his cousin, our lady Seulka then. She has not attended tonight, claiming ill health. It has been too long since you visited; perhaps you should check up on her.” He smiled, letting a little of his natural deviousness through.

  Her eyes lit up. “Indeed. I am quite concerned about her health,” she said. She was a good actress, sounding sincerely worried. Good, one less liability.

  He stood, still clasping her hand in his. “I fear I have been gone too long from the feast. I must let the king know how much I appreciate the fine treasures I’ve discovered in his gardens. Will you give me my leave, Your Majesty?”

  “Of course,” she said, although she looked disappointed he was leaving so soon. But this was a promising start. He could not afford to raise suspicions of any connection between them before their plots were even begun. He could see so much potential here. Respected by the king or not, the queen held real power. While Demikin dallied, she had sown gratitude among many of those lesser nobles, and many would feel indebted, even if she hadn’t yet realized it. Those seeds of appreciation could be reaped later. Although he had the impression she’d acted more out of boredom and duty than determined maneuvering, Daes could help her take advantage of these bonds she’d naturally made. The king was a fool to make an enemy of her. Another way the king and Daes were quite different.

  He bowed deeply and brought her hand up, carefully pressing his lips to her fingers with a slow, soft kiss, leaving a trace of cold wetness behind. All the while, he watched her eyes flick from his gaze to his hand and back again, her mouth dropping open slightly. Then, before he could ruin it, he took his leave.

  He heard no footsteps behind him, so fortunately she’d taken his lead not to return together. He found himself striding back to the feast with a spring in his step. This was good. Very good. And he was not the only one who’d struck gold tonight. Queen Marielle had received a valuable reminder of her actual power and comfort besides.

  This could only get better.

  7

  Instruction

  Jaena awoke to a knock at the door. Tharomar had been asleep beside her, apparently, because he roused with a snort and a start and stumbled to the door. Good thing he’d slept with his clothes on. A part of her had expected some sort of betrayal in the night, and she couldn’t believe in the bleary morning light that he could possibly be just what he said he was. But it seemed so. He had treated her ankle and given her a place to sleep and nothing more. And he hadn’t asked for anything in return.

  He squinted and ran a hand over his face as he stumbled to the door and opened it. Jaena’s heart leapt as reality rushed back into her groggy mind. It could be Devoted or others from Mage Hall looking for her. Should she hide, pull the cover over her head? She lay facing away from the door. She decided not to move. Motion might just draw more attention.

  “Mornin’, Ro. You wanted me to stop before I headed into the city?” said a gravelly man’s voice. Apparently her host had a nickname.

  “Morning, Nemin. Yes—one moment.” Tharomar strode across the room, opened his cupboards, and rummaged around.

  “Another share for the womenfolk?”

  Jaena felt another leap and sputter in her chest. Perhaps he was not so unattached after all. Curse her, why did she care? She did not have time to moon after this man. Or any man. It did not matter if he had ten wives in ten different cities and a dozen children by each of them. It should make no difference to her.

  “Aye,” he said, striding back with a burlap pouch in both hands. Coins clinked against each other. “It’s not much, but tell them…” He stopped, looking thoughtful.

  Nemin laughed. “You’re not trying to think up a reason why you aren’t sending more, are you?”

  Tharomar looked surprised. “I was, why?”

  “They haven’t even let me finish telling them your tales the last three times.”

  Tharomar grimaced but still seemed intent on thinking of something.

  “No, no. Don’t misunderstand me, Ro. They don’t care. You could send them nothing. They’re just happy you’ve made this life here at all. Better than many of their kids end up. They don’t care about a single coin.”

  “They need it.” His voice had an edge.

  “They raised you without it somehow. I’ll have to ask them if they know any way to get you to relax.”

  “Tell them I should be able to take an apprentice by the spring.” Apparently Ro was determ
ined not to relax.

  “Aye, well, that they’ll listen to. But don’t be so hard on yourself, all right, my boy?”

  “I’m hardly a boy, Nemin.” He finally handed the visitor the pouch of coins.

  “I’ll see this there safely, Ro. Don’t worry.”

  “Blessed be, as the spring blooms, Nemin. Safe travels.”

  “May her sun watch over you, my friend.”

  And then the visitor was gone. Tharomar flopped back down on the cot, stretched, and seemed to consider sleeping more. But after a moment, he said quietly, “You’re awake?”

  She turned on her back to face him and was rewarded with a reminder of the horrible pain in her ankle. She stifled a groan. What a mess she’d gotten herself into. “How did you know?”

  He sat up and rubbed the sleep from his face again, then shrugged. “I’ve spent more of my time sleeping near others than alone. You learn to tell.”

  She snorted. “I could interpret that more than a few ways, you know. Soldier? Patron of brothels, perhaps?”

  He turned and gave her a grin that was entirely too charming. She should get out of here as soon as she could. “I was raised in a temple of Nefrana. Well, mostly.”

  Oh. That explained… a lot. The necklace, the pious fear of mages, the womenfolk Nemin mentioned. His generosity. His determination to help her, without seeming to seek a reward. She had never encountered much kindness from someone who was devout—except perhaps him—but the sermons did speak of caring for one’s neighbor. Perhaps he was the one fool who had actually listened? He hadn’t exactly denied or even flinched at her brothel accusation, though, she noted. “You were raised in a temple? To be a priest?”

  “Yes, it was inside a temple, although it was more like an orphanage. They just didn’t call it that. No, not to be a priest. They have enough priests, charity isn’t a great way to feed a temple full of parentless children, and they were all women anyway. I’m happy to contribute in other ways.”