Mage Strike (The Enslaved Chronicles Book 2)

by R. K. Thorne

  She nodded and eased herself to sitting as he spoke. She winced but tried to hide it. “Like coin?” Or were there other ways?

  “Like coin. They set me up with this smithy. I can never repay them for everything they’ve done for me. But—well, at least I can try. So when Nemin takes his goods to the city, I send help along. It should really be more, but it’s hard to charge more for a horseshoe when you know a farmer needs it to survive and can’t pay any more. But the temple has been struggling too. Some merchants have no trouble charging more, no matter who you are.”

  “You said ‘mostly’ raised there.”

  His smile turned sheepish. “Well—let’s just say I know my way around alleys more than anyone really needs to.”

  She nodded. Alleys and maybe brothels too, she suspected. A gasp escaped as she tried to put weight on her ankle, and instead he helped her to the edge of the bed. She swung her feet to the floor. Her head didn’t pound, which seemed remarkable. What was in that mead?

  “Did those priestesses give you those salves too?” she asked, putting the facts together.

  “Exactly. Nothing gets by you, I see.” He grinned. “And it looks—and sounds—like time for another application, eh?”

  She nodded, scowling at her ankle in disgust as he squatted down to inspect it. She wanted to hide back under the covers so he couldn’t see. It’d swollen up and turned black and blue and purple. Like a beaten hog’s leg. Damn it to all seven hells.

  After a thoughtful inspection, he grinned up at her, straightened, and headed back to his cabinet for the salve. He’s a smith, she reminded herself. He’s probably turned his thumb or his knee that color more than once. Nothing he cares about. Why are you being such a fool around this man? The sooner she could heal and get away, the better.

  He handed her the salve this time. “If you can put this on, I can get us some breakfast.”

  She opened her mouth, thinking she should deny needing any breakfast, since she certainly had no coin. But that hadn’t mattered before, had it, nor had he accepted any of her objections. And she wasn’t healing and getting away any faster on an empty stomach.

  Instead, she took the jar. “Got it.”

  Aven had woken with a headache after they’d freed the first warrior mage, but this morning was worse. He’d gone back to sleep for a while, his head pounding. Perhaps even with help, there was some cost to these spells that he wasn’t quite compensating for.

  He should probably just stick to one a night. If he got Wunik and the others doing it, maybe he wouldn’t end up feeling like a mace was crushing his head from both sides. In between dreams and pained bits of sleep, he worried.

  The thoughts he’d felt from Miara last night had scared him deeply. So much… doubt. So much concern. Her feelings for him were as strong as ever, if not stronger. But then in that one unguarded moment, he’d seen deeper. He’d felt her fears, her inadequacies.

  Everyone had such feelings, of course. What worried him was… what was she going to do about it? Her affection was so constant, he had never questioned if she’d want to marry him. That was a bit foolish in hindsight. And of course, she did want him. But unfortunately he, like most men, came with a job description attached. One she seemed to think she was ill-suited and unprepared for.

  She was wrong. So wrong. And yet, he knew enough about insecurity to know he couldn’t just argue the point. He couldn’t simply insist to her she would be an excellent queen, a strong leader, a steady and careful hand at his side. She would dismiss anything he said as biased, as said only out of love and not out of logic. But of course the things he logically thought would be good he also found terribly attractive. Was that so hard to believe?

  No. He’d have to get others to convince her. Or help her find that in herself. Or put her in situations where she could see that she was more than the slave she’d thought of herself as for so long.

  When the pounding had finally subsided—which might have been partially due to inhaling the dumplings, sausages, and tea that had appeared next to his bed while he was sleeping—he sat on his bed, scratching his jaw.

  He’d hoped to show her his room last night, but again, that hadn’t worked out. And he’d intended to head there to check in with her this morning, but… he found himself hesitating. He wasn’t ready to talk about whether or not she wanted to be queen, and he didn’t think she was ready to talk about it either. But the idea fogged his mind—and he didn’t feel much like talking about some other topic.

  He dressed and, with some mixed feelings, went looking for Wunik instead. There was time to figure things out with Miara, time to show her his room, time to talk about their whole situation when he wouldn’t be so tempted to go to insane lengths to convince her of her worth. In a few hours, he had a feeling he’d be much more rational about it, and he’d have something else to talk about—namely, spells.

  Wunik was delighted to see him so early, and they spent the morning practicing setting things on fire and then putting them out. Wunik also showed him the strange pastime of building up a static charge in one iron orb and then jumping the charge to another—exercises in tiny, well-controlled lightning bolts. The practical use of this, he wasn’t certain, but it sure looked impressive.

  By lunchtime, though, Aven was wondering where Miara was. And regretting he hadn’t gone to see her. Would she be wondering what had happened to him? If he’d been okay? She hadn’t been completely comfortable with his departure with Dom and Derk at his side. Damn, that was thoughtless. He should have already gone to see her.

  Her rooms, however, were empty when he strolled by. Fayton had said she’d been at the Proving Grounds one morning. He’d never found out why. Perhaps she was there again, so he headed that way.

  He stood at the top of the high stairs and surveyed the Grounds and the many seats that surrounded them. Off to the left, Thel sat with Renala, watching a group of young prospective wardens practice. Well, that was an interesting match—was Thel interested in her, perhaps? That would take the pressure off Aven, at least. At the bottom of the steps, Derk was chatting with Siliana and Dom. No Miara, no red hair anywhere.

  Hmm. Where could she be?

  “I heard you’ve been practicing spells with Wunik.” Aven roused to realize Derk was talking to him.

  “Uh, yes. All morning. Yesterday too.”

  “Well, come on then. Let’s see. There’s room down there, right?”

  “What?” Aven blinked.

  “Let’s spar. Show those soldiers over there another kind of battle, eh? What do you think?” Derk grinned and held up a hand like it cradled a ball. A flicker of flame burst to life in his palm, mildly threatening.

  “When I spar with swords, I know how not to go killing my opponent. I’ve learned. I don’t know how to do that with magic, yet. Just as importantly, do you?”

  Derk shrugged. “We’ve got some healers. We’ll be fine.”

  Well, that was encouraging. But Derk brought out a competitive streak in him, and he found himself nodding and following the blond mage back down toward the main ring. There was room for three times as many soldiers on the field as they had, so they shouldn’t have to worry too much about hitting anyone. He hoped.

  This was also a good excuse to live out the violent fantasies he got every time Derk looked at Miara. Or talked to her. Or was in the same room as her.

  He sighed. Was this jealousy? He had nothing to be jealous of, did he? Miara had no interest in the fellow. Did she? He knew better than to let jealousy eat at him.

  This is new to you, Aven, he reminded himself. You’re no veteran. He would be more likely to get trounced by the more experienced mage than to live out any fantasies of jealousy or dominance or socking him in the jaw.

  But then again, if he surprised the bastard, that would be delicious. Worth the risk of getting knocked on his ass.

  Aven stepped out onto the field. “What did you have in mind? Obviously my sparring experience is strictly limited to blunted and slicing i
mplements.”

  “Well, what has the old man been teaching you?”

  “Farsight—”

  “Not much combat use, I’m afraid.”

  “Fire—”

  “Now we’re talking.”

  “—and small charges, lightning sorts of things.”

  “Oh, balls of iron are my favorite.” Aven had no idea if that was sarcasm, innuendo, or something else altogether. “Well, take your pick. Oh, and I also heard you know how to cast a breeze or two. You should definitely conjure us some pleasant weather, maybe a tropical breeze for our affair.” He laughed now.

  Aven gathered the energy inside him like a fist clenching and sent a rush of air at Derk’s left.

  Not expecting it, the mage stumbled and nearly fell. He recovered just in time, blinking and laughing. “All right, you proved your point,” he said. “My turn.”

  A crackle in the air was all the warning Aven had. Lightning arced out of the air as if originating from the ether and stabbed into his left thigh.

  He swore and stumbled backward, but thankfully he didn’t lose his footing. Damn, how was he supposed to defend against that?

  Another crackle. This time, Aven held up the palm of his left hand, which dutifully caught the brunt of the crack of lightning but failed to defend him in any meaningful way. Getting shot with an arrow in the hand was not really an improvement on getting shot in the thigh. His palm was black, like he’d been handling burned logs. Well, that was just great.

  How could he defend against—

  Another crackle. This time, Aven jumped to one side, but it was no help. An arc of light connected with his shoulder and sent the muscles of his arm spasming.

  Well, this was far too lopsided to be called sparring at this point. Aven concentrated for a moment, ignoring the spasms as best he could, and lit the soles of Derk’s shoes on fire.

  The stream of curses was all that told Aven he’d succeeded, for he was busy trying to calm his arm down with his singed palm.

  How did they defend themselves? Certainly there had to be a way, especially if you could see the spell coming. He wanted to bounce the lightning back to him, or catch it and—

  That must be it. Something like that had to be possible.

  Another crackle broke through the musty air. No, two this time.

  Aven tried not to look for them. He didn’t need sight or sound. He needed that extra sense, to feel the energy in the air as it moved toward him. He could sense an arc of mental energy mirroring the light that shot through the air.

  He reached out and—

  He missed the first. It slammed into his ear, of all places, and sent him spinning. But the second, he caught. It soaked into him like water into a sponge.

  He felt hot, euphoric. Too much. He hadn’t expended the energy, and it bounced around inside him now, jockeying for release.

  He sent his own arc of lightning back, but it shot wide, connecting with the practice rack behind Derk with a small shake. A few of the warden students stopped and stared for a moment, then diligently pretended to return to their own activities. He could feel at least a few of them watching. Derk raised one cocky eyebrow at him, and Aven felt him readying something.

  The air filled with more of a roar than a crackle, and Aven knew before he could see it that this meant fire. He was not afraid; he could do the same thing and catch it.

  He snatched the fireball and sent it back like on a sling.

  And Derk returned the favor.

  They exchanged volleys like this three or four times before Derk gave him a grin.

  “What?” Aven grunted.

  “You got it. Now you know how to spar.”

  “You knew I didn’t know, and you still wanted to?”

  “You’ve got to learn somehow. Wunik waits forever. You don’t have forever.”

  “You could have just told me.”

  “Nah, this was much more fun. Besides, you’ll remember this better. It’s how Wunik taught me.”

  Probably because he was a snide little bastard and Wunik longed to pummel him with a shovel. But perhaps he was right. No practice was as effective as when you truly believed your life was at stake.

  “He’s so damn delighted to be here, I don’t think he’s been of much mind to go shocking anyone or knocking them on their asses, least of all princely members of his ruling family. But like I said, you don’t have time. Aren’t you going to thank me?”

  “No,” Aven said. His pounding headache had returned, which made it hard to be terribly grateful. Plus, Aven was fairly sure Derk was more interested in having fun at Aven’s expense than actually helping.

  Derk rolled his eyes and sent a flame that spiraled unpredictably toward Aven’s torso. Aven managed to catch and absorb it, but just barely. He glared at the other mage. “I have other duties to attend to.”

  “But we’ve only just gotten started!” Derk shot out two spiraling bolts, and one almost slipped by Aven’s notice, but he caught it at the last moment.

  Aven’s glare deepened to a scowl. “We’re done here.”

  He sensed Derk readying a shot anyway. Aven caught the arc of lightning and made his first attempt at multiple shots, three bolts at once directed at Derk’s knees.

  One made it through, and Derk cackled and swore in surprise.

  Derk gave him an annoyed look. “Fine. You’re no fun. You win.” He straightened and brushed himself off, striding toward Aven and holding out his hand to shake.

  Aven felt like this was some kind of trick, but he wouldn’t be seen snubbing a handshake, especially not with impressionable wardens practicing nearby. They shook hands.

  Derk wiped his brow, smirking. “My knees are burnt thanks to you. I guess I better go spend some time with our healer friend. Do you think she’ll mind if I take off my shirt?”

  Aven knew he shouldn’t, but he scowled and stepped closer. “Find your own damn healer.”

  Derk sidled forward too, inches from Aven’s face. “Why should I?”

  “Stay away from her,” Aven said.

  “She isn’t yours.”

  Aven opened his mouth but stopped himself barely in time.

  “Is she.” Derk stated it like a fact, but his eyes pierced Aven in question. He suspected something.

  “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

  “You really going to make a mage your queen? A commoner?” Derk hissed, his voice hushed.

  Aven almost said, “That’s the plan,” but he held back. He glared harder at Derk, willing him to back down.

  “Are you going after her or not?” Derk pressed.

  “What does it matter?” said Aven.

  “If you aren’t, I am.”

  Aven lowered his voice and said, deathly quiet, “I said, stay away from her.”

  Aven turned and started to stalk away, but Derk’s hand thudded on his shoulder, stopping him.

  Aven slowly turned back, barely concealed rage smoldering beneath the surface. Derk’s eyes were hard as glass. “She deserves better than to be kept a secret on the side while you swive some noble wife.” Derk jutted at Renala with his chin.

  Hmm. Looked like this sparring hadn’t decreased Aven’s desire to punch Derk in the jaw. Or maybe the gut would be better. Not many had the gall to take that tone of voice with him, let alone a newcomer he didn’t trust, let alone tell him how to live his life, and on top of it all insult his integrity. The only thing that stopped him from launching into an outright brawl was that, well, Derk was right. The man’s intentions seemed almost noble, clad in the sarcasm of a cad. Was he a decent man disguising himself behind the veneer of a scoundrel, or the other way around? Derk, of course, had no way of knowing if Aven was an honorable man. And the mage must have been picking up on something between Aven and Miara, and yet he’d also noticed they were hiding something. And what possible reason could they have for hiding it?

  “You forget yourself,” Aven said, glaring down at Derk’s hand. The mage withdrew it from Aven
’s shoulder, backing down slightly, but his frame was still tensed and ready for a fight. “And I assure you, that’s not what’s happening.”

  Aven stalked away, hoping Derk would finally drop it. He heard no steps following him, so he immediately headed straight for Miara’s room.

  This was stupid. Keeping it all secret was impossible and probably just looked worse in the end. He’d had enough.

  “Oh, Aven—there you are.” Miara sat on the bench by the fire, a book in hand, but she rose to greet him. A long, crimson tunic fell to her knees, belted with black leather. “I was worried when you didn’t come by this morning. I talked to Dom about—”

  He pulled her into his arms and kissed her fiercely. Her lips wasted no time in returning his affections, her intensity quickly surpassing his. Camil, not three feet from them, dropped her laundry basket.

  “Please keep this to yourself, Camil,” he muttered, and then returned his lips to Miara, pulling her closer as he ran a free hand over those soft, red locks. Camil recovered her basket and bustled into the next room. Well, there went the rumors. He couldn’t bring himself to care anymore.

  Finally he let their lips part, for just a moment, maybe two. He should probably explain this outburst, shouldn’t he? “I’m sorry I didn’t come by this morning. I should have.”

  “Oh, no—it’s fine.” She frowned, mystified, cheeks flushed.

  “And I’m sorry about—this whole—everything.” Her eyes darkened, knowing what he referred to. “I heard a few thoughts more than I think you intended.”

  “I’m the one who should be sorry.”

  “No. You didn’t ask for this.”

  “Neither did you.”

  “I wish I could throw it off so you didn’t have to even ask that question—”

  “No, you can’t. I wouldn’t want you to either. Don’t think that way. This is just… it’s not what I’m good at. I’m good at sneaking in the shadows and not being seen and coming up with good excuses for being places I shouldn’t be, like you said. And also curing horse stomachaches. Civil war? Fancy banquets? I am out of my element.”

  “That doesn’t mean— Ah, damn. I promised myself I wouldn’t try to push you on it. I know! Maybe I’ll lose the vote and we won’t have to worry about any of it.”