Mage Strike (The Enslaved Chronicles Book 2)

by R. K. Thorne

  She stopped in the center of the ring before them. The king, Assembly members, advisers, arms masters, and a bevy of stewards and servants had gathered. Wonderful. Many were still chatting, although a few stopped and waited at the sight of her.

  Siliana and Derk joined her, one on each side. Miara took a deep breath and squinted at the crowd, lifting her jaw, straightening her shoulders, and readying herself.

  To her surprise, the rest of the crowd quickly quieted at this gesture.

  “King Samul and Prince Aven have requested that the three of us give you some education in magic,” she said. She chose her words carefully, wanting them to feel drawn in, that they would now have the knowledge all mages did. “We’ve prepared a few training tasks for you with relevance to war. As such, they may seem dangerous, and they are, but we assure you, you will be in no mortal danger at any time.”

  “Only we will be,” Derk muttered.

  Miara silenced him with a glance. She was the one with the riskiest task, why was he complaining? “Ready?” she said, glancing at Siliana now. Both mages nodded.

  Time to light the firewood and see what happened.

  “Siliana, something to burn, please?” Miara asked.

  The other mage responded, raising a dozen patches of tall, dryish grass from the dull earth. It waved in the mountain wind. Or was it Aven’s? She hoped it was.

  “Derk,” she barked. He stepped forward, thankfully cooperative. “Light them.”

  A crisp nod, and the grass burst into flames. Forms in the crowd shifted, growing uncomfortable. Good. They should be.

  “Care to put it out?” she asked.

  The smile of a child invited to play with a flint striker took over Derk’s face as the first peal of thunder rumbled above them.

  “Siliana. Something more to burn. I don’t think Derk’s been adequately challenged.”

  “On it.” Saplings of three young oak trees curled from the ground to the far left, startling the crowd. Even as they grew, flames appeared and licked the branches.

  Drops of rain fell. He was an apprentice, and the storm wasn’t so neat that it didn’t hit the crowd. Sorin could have done better, but she was annoyed for even thinking of that fool. She’d much prefer Derk’s company to Sorin’s at this point, and that said a lot.

  The rain fell on the flaming plants, gradually extinguishing them.

  “And now the lightning, if you please, Derk,” she ordered. And again, thankfully, he complied. A crack and flash of light split the air, and suddenly the sapling—which had grown into a small tree nearly as thick as her thigh—exploded, shards flying.

  Miara opened her mouth but stopped an oath in time. Too hot. Figured that a mage like Derk would have little control. Thankfully, she had enough control not to curse him in front of all these people.

  He surprised her by being competent enough to send a gust of air toward the lords. The gust sent some off-balance but also flung the wood away, keeping it from impaling anyone.

  Dom stalked into the ring, bow in hand. She was worried the Assembly members wouldn’t spot him as they watched the rain or stared at the shards of tree that could have killed them, but Beneral pointed out the new arrival.

  Dom drew the bow back and fired three arrows at Derk in rapid succession. The air mage held up a palm as if it would shield him, and in seconds, two arrows met an early end in the dirt, and the third turned to cinder midair.

  Miara’s turn. She stepped forward and waited as the chaos calmed. Eventually, all eyes were on her. The rain had calmed, the flames were out. Only the wind clanging the stable doors met her ears. She’d never sheathed her dagger, she realized. Well, all the better to prepare them for what they were about to see.

  Without hesitation, she plunged the dagger into her left side and dragged it to the right, slicing a gash the length of two hands across her torso. She staggered back as a wave of pain hit her, then dropped to her knees. Horrified gasps and murmurs flitted through the crowd.

  Miara struggled to focus above the cries of warning from her body for a moment, but her eyes locked on the nearest dubious noble—Lady Toyl. The merchant wore a fine cloak of pale blue and a dress the shade of the sky before a storm, and her brown hair swayed in the mountain wind.

  “Is this a real wound, my lady?” Miara called. “Would you care to come inspect it?”

  “Real enough to get blood on my cloak,” she grunted. Her gruff attempt at indifference seemed a cover for the shock and touch of unsettled panic lurking behind her eyes. Even Alikar’s hardened visage had melted into horror. The king’s gaze remained stoic. “I’ll observe from here, thank you,” Toyl said.

  Miara withdrew the dagger from her gut and tossed it at the feet of the crowd. The blood came quickly now, and other things too, and she would have to heal herself soon. “Would anyone else care to examine it?”

  Asten strode forth and fell to her own knees before Miara, her face creased with concern. Asten’s gaze flicked from the wound to Miara’s face and back, but the warden did not recoil from the blood. How often would lightning strikes come in handy in war, Miara wondered as she stared into the warden’s icy blue eyes. Hopefully, the universal usefulness of healing should be inarguable.

  “I don’t doubt you,” Asten said quietly. “But I must perform my due diligence.” She crouched and rose, returning to the crowd.

  Miara waited one moment longer. She caught Aven’s eye, his expression one of near terror as he squinted in the harsh overcast light. The air around her twitched, jolted. Was this his energy, or the earth’s? He gave her a nod of support.

  Enough time. Enough pain. She shut her eyes and began closing the wound. Healing it seared almost more than the initial injury, although at least she had no bones to pop back into place. Organs globbed back together, skin pulling tight across it all, leaving no trace. She growled through the pain as she felt Siliana approach and rest her hand on Miara’s shoulder, feeding her a slight stream of supportive energy. The growl grew to a roar before she finally fell forward on her hands and knees, panting, exhausted.

  It was done.

  Siliana continued to push energy, pillaging the mountain trees and flora to feed her. Miara accepted it gratefully. They’d made sure energy would be adequate here, plentiful even. If the plants did not fill the need, they could also tap the horses, the crowd, passing birds. They were as far as possible from the Great Stone.

  But it was still a massive wound she’d inflicted on herself.

  The pain eased, and she regained her composure. Still kneeling, she wiped away some of the blood with a red cloth Camil had dug up, particularly so the lords could see clearly her regrown skin. She was a bloody mess, and her insides were still sorting themselves out, but that skin was clear and smooth as the snow on the mountain.

  “And now, my lady?” she asked Toyl.

  Lord Alikar stood just behind the assemblywoman, glaring at Miara, as if he were still determined to believe this was a trick. Figured. Or perhaps he just thought he was in the presence of utter evil. She wasn’t sure which she thought more moronic.

  One of Toyl’s eyebrows arched. “I see no wound. Impressive.”

  “Thank you.” She bit the words out as if to say, you’re right, you sure as hell don’t. She glanced at the king. His expression was stern, unreadable.

  Miara hoped this risk, this effort would be worth it. Energy continued to drain from her as her body reeled with the effort. If she lost consciousness, Siliana should be able to finish the job, and Elise could too, in a dire emergency. It should be safe enough, but the flow of energy could be hard to judge between two people, as she and Aven had seen so well. He had been inexperienced, and the wound they healed far more fatal and damaging than these. But still.

  Miara felt herself lose her balance a bit and fall to one side. She had lost track of her body in the vicious transfer of energy. No. She did not want help from the real queen for this. It would do little to convince others of either the power of her magic or of her l
eadership potential if she collapsed unconscious, a husk bereft of energy, cast aside on the pale dirt of the stable.

  And then—suddenly, to her relief—it was enough. Her stores were replenished, her mind clearing as she felt hands steadying her, lifting her up. Gods, let it not be Derk.

  She blinked open bleary eyes—when had they closed?—to see Aven’s face. She smiled, although she could feel eyes watching him touching her. Would the king disapprove?

  How did we do? she whispered to him. Should we keep going?

  You are an extraordinary woman, Miara Floren. How many of them do you think could do what you just did? You scared the piss out of them. Gods and ancestors, you’re bloody. I think that’s very much enough for now.

  No vines?

  Oh, yes, let’s forget those vines forever, unless you have other goals in mind for them.

  His eyes twinkled as she straightened herself. Thankfully, Derk had quieted the storm without needing to be told to and had helped Siliana to her feet as well. Miara felt too exhausted to stride over to the crowd. Hopefully the lords and ladies could see well enough from where they were. She leaned on Aven and closed her eyes.

  “I hope this has been informative for all of you,” Aven called over the whispers as they stared. “I believe our mages are quite exhausted now and will need to rest.”

  “Can you do all that, Aven?” Asten asked, an edge to her voice. Miara couldn’t read if it was hope or fear, and the warden’s deadly serious expression revealed little. Funny, she hadn’t seemed so serious by her mare. A soft spot for her?

  “Not all of that, not yet,” he replied.

  Oh, who cared if the man could call lightning if he could free an entire people? Miara wanted to snap. But it was a good question. And who knew which answer they had wanted to hear? They might fear a king who could start spontaneous fires, and she couldn’t blame them. But Aven would learn, and they didn’t know him half as well as she did if they thought he would abuse such powers.

  “My lord?” Toyl called now, her voice loud enough to be heard over the wind that was picking up.

  “Yes, Lady Toyl?” Aven answered, a sharpness to his voice.

  “May I speak with you privately after this?” she called. “With our attendants, of course.”

  Aven nodded. “I will find you shortly.” On the surface, Aven remained composed, but she could see the smallest twitch in his eyebrow and the corner of his mouth. She could feel the hope he kept bridled under the surface.

  “Thank you all for coming,” Aven said. “Let us retire. Looks like our fine apprentice has stirred up more than just a baby storm for show.”

  “A baby storm!” Derk grumbled. He held Siliana’s arm as they headed toward the main gate. She had given nearly as much as Miara in the end, although with less bloodletting. She leaned heavily on Derk as the thrill of the moment wore off. “That was a work of artistry! It takes control to keep it small and contained. I had nothing to do with this nonsense sweeping in. Don’t you blame that on me; I wanted to go for another ride away from this stinking place after this!”

  “Oh, shut it, Derk,” Siliana grunted. Of course, he didn’t listen. But the two mages had gotten far enough ahead of Miara and Aven that she couldn’t hear them anymore. She leaned heavily on Aven too. This once she had an excuse, although she glanced nervously around, wary of disapproving glares from the king. But Aven’s father appeared to be gone, headed inside more quickly than the rest.

  Together she and Aven walked inside. Worrying about what her audience might think must have taken more out of Miara than she’d thought. She wanted to sleep for days. Shouldn’t she have more energy back by now?

  Something niggled at her about this new storm. It felt off. Too sudden. She stopped in the entryway and peered back at the sky.

  “What is it?” Aven said.

  “Something’s not right with this storm,” she whispered back to him. “Can you feel anything?” She tried to reach out, into the clouds, down the hills. Was someone building this storm? She couldn’t feel it as directly as an air mage would, and Aven likely hadn’t learned how yet.

  “There is—something,” Aven said slowly. “Someone?”

  Who could be doing this? And for what purpose? She glanced around. Wunik had watched them like a doting tutor, and he had followed Siliana inside. Her eyes caught on Elise, who saw them stopped and came over. “Something’s not right with this storm,” Miara repeated to her. “Do you feel it?”

  Elise frowned. “Derk—”

  Miara shook her head. “He claimed it was not his doing just a moment ago. Besides, he’s hardly even winded. He wanted to make sure he had every chance to show off. He wouldn’t risk screwing up and getting shot by an arrow to brew this up after everyone had gone inside.”

  “But… who? Or why?”

  Miara shook her head. “I don’t know, but let’s get inside.”

  Tharomar stoked the coals of the hearth and carefully placed the single shaft of wheat into the embers. A flicker of light and smoke went up, and he dropped to his knees in the smithy, offering up the morning’s devotions to Nefrana.

  He felt the holy connection open, divine joy and encouragement bathing him from within. He sighed with relief. Some days he needed to feel the gods more than others.

  The mage had not asked about any altar, and he did not expect she would. She showed no signs of being the pious type, even when the subject of the temple came up. He couldn’t blame her. If his only experience of Nefrana’s favor had been the Devoted burning a hole in his shoulder and making him a slave, he would probably be pretty unenthusiastic too.

  But if she would not pray for herself, he could pray on her behalf.

  Only luck had helped him find her. He had had no idea where or how she’d been hiding under that bridge, but he’d nearly given up and turned back toward town. When those Devoted had come knocking on doors, he’d gone hunting to see if he could find whoever they were looking for first.

  The priestesses would appreciate this news, even if the mage had fled by the time he returned. He’d been on assignment for his order here for nigh on three years now, and he had not yet encountered a mage he could actually help. They were all already enslaved, this close to Mage Hall. The Order of the Silver Grove was not a particularly patient group of women, and he wasn’t sure how long they would let him hold this location. They’d argued it was too risky in the first place. But Tharomar was the most battle hardened of any of their order—well, street hardened, anyway—and when a smith had died and bequeathed his smithy to the order, Tharomar had argued it was not an opportunity they could pass up. Plus, it had made them more money than most locations, since he was in fact a half-decent blacksmith.

  So much time had passed, though, that some days he forgot his mission altogether. Some days he forgot that he was anything more than a small-town blacksmith for these farms.

  The sight of Devoted banging on his door had been enough of a reminder, though. Those hoods had called up memories he had spent a long time pushing away. He’d known many in the streets that had fallen to their brutality, as well as others who had fallen to those who ruled Evrical with more force than persuasion.

  Sasha’s face sprang to mind, eyes wide with surprise, blood on the cobblestones. He pushed the memory back down again. Not now. Well, maybe just a prayer in her memory.

  He had to get more of the mage’s story out of her before he explained this to her. She hadn’t even told him her own name. If she proved worthy, he might be able to help her completely evade them. Were she a criminal, well, he would never turn her in to the likes of them, but he couldn’t be so sure it was Nefrana’s will to help her either. Still, she had seemed like a sweet person, quiet but confident in her way. Appropriately wary of him, but also… He had long ago set his course on a mission to help people like her, but he was starting to wonder if that was his only reason for charming her into his home. And his bed, for that matter.

  The hot energy of the hearth surrounded
him as it began heating up for the day’s work. They’d take a quick meal, and then he had work to do. But before then he always let the hearth burn in honor of the great holy three for a few minutes, a few prayers.

  He tossed in a rose petal for Anara now, and spoke her prayers, plus a few invocations of healing for the girl and protection for Nemin. They’d probably need it.

  Would she even be in the house when he returned? She would have bolted away at first sight of him, if it weren’t for that ankle. He found himself feeling a little glad that the injury had waylaid her, and then he realized that was a horrible thought. She’d probably be off and out of the Devoted’s clutches by now, if it weren’t for that.

  Was that really true? On the road, they’d probably have found her. Did she have the skill to get to the forest, to leave no trails even in a wheat field? To outrun both men and the dogs he’d seen? She didn’t seem the type. Her athletic frame seemed more strong than nimble.

  Was she an innocent? A charlatan? A thief? A murderer?

  You need to know more about her before you go thinking about her athletic frame, he told himself. He couldn’t help criminals. The order only had so many resources and kept themselves secret, staying small to keep themselves that way. Being enemies of the Devoted was a dangerous thing to be. Temple priestesses hid mages from those bastards when they could. Of course, they encouraged them not to use their magic or risk corrupting their souls. But it was a free choice, something only the mages could decide for themselves. He sighed, watching the coals burn. One day, his brothers and sisters would stop the Devoted forever. Someday soon, the priestesses would find a way.

  Perhaps he could even help his mage if she had done something. Escaping them this close to Mage Hall would be extraordinarily difficult. No one deserved to be enslaved. Or any of the other things the Devoted meted out to mages they captured.