Mage Strike (The Enslaved Chronicles Book 2)

by R. K. Thorne

  I’d almost think you find plotting insubordination alluring.

  When you do it, I do.

  She let out a musical laugh. I’ll wait until you should be on the morning road, then I will get out of Estun with the help of your map. If that doesn’t work, I can always try my window, then try to acquire some supplies on the way. Of course, I’ll have to borrow a horse, but that shouldn’t be a problem.

  We won’t be going terribly fast. That may give you a few hours’ head start. You might be able to catch us.

  Maybe, but I’d rather reach you closer to Panar, she said. Too late to send me back, you know? And I’ll head to the palace you marked—isn’t that the address you told Daes on the scroll?

  Yes. Let him go ahead and try. Most heavily fortified building in the city. We’ll think of a way to get to your sister, to stop Daes somehow. I promise you.

  Don’t promise the impossible. He felt her ache like it was his own.

  You’re right. But I’ll do my best to think of something.

  And I’ll do my best to get to that address. If I can’t make it there, or you aren’t there, I’ll leave and head to the lake and wait there.

  “Good plan,” he whispered in her ear.

  “Be careful, Aven. The mages who caused that cave-in, those assassins, they’ll likely follow you.”

  “I know. Try not to worry.”

  “I don’t worry about such things. I prepare for them.”

  “Of course.” He gave her another small kiss and nestled into her neck. Lavender, cinnamon, and rosemary.

  You can’t stay, can you? she said softly.

  I shouldn’t. We ride in a few hours. But I’ll spend those hours here with you if you wish.

  She clung harder to him for a moment before saying, No, no, you should go. We needn’t try so hard to point out this visit to your father. And… I can’t imagine your stay here would be very restful.

  No pillow is as restful as your arms.

  Ah, but my arms do not have restful activities in mind.

  He let out a muted rumble of a laugh, still conscious of the guards outside and potential eavesdroppers.

  I… did not entirely mean to share this line of thinking.

  Let me in again, like you did the last time. One more moment, and I will go.

  The walls of their minds fall away, thoughts mingling together in curious harmony, a sea of flashing images, most of them plans for future minglings that would be slightly more physical and slightly less abstract.

  I need to never let you go, he told her. Ever.

  But you must.

  I know.

  Finally, he stepped back from her, reluctant but exhausted, afraid and yet also relieved.

  “See you in Panar,” she whispered, taking the maps from the desk and folding them. Her sleepy eyes twinkled, a smile gracing her lips.

  “I’m counting on it.”

  The sound of the door creaking open woke Miara. Aven was gone, of course, and the fire had burned low. She didn’t open her eyes as the door creaked shut again. She lay on her back, left arm over her head, the other straight by her side. The handle of the dagger under her pillow was unfortunately readied for her right hand, but her left was the one close to it.

  It could be just a servant.

  But she had a feeling it wasn’t. She reached out gently to check.

  A mage. Someone who seemed—familiar. She mustn’t let them realize she’d awoken. She eased her left hand over the top of the pillow and closer to the blade, all in the guise of sleep.

  The edge of the bed dipped. Whoever it was had climbed onto the bed.

  Could it be Aven? He’d have to be crazy to come back at this early hour, before the long trip. It wasn’t unthinkable, but he could also have just stayed and never left. She was tempted to reach out further, but that would alert them to her wakefulness.

  Her instincts blared danger, and she eased her hand further under the pillow. That said, she did need to figure out how to be sure it wasn’t him, but that would cost her precious moments.

  The form eased closer. They made their way up the bed, coming toward her. Over her.

  Good. Fine. Better to get them in range. Her first strike would be the easiest, as they wouldn’t expect it.

  Except—gruff hands suddenly seized her forearms, yanking her right hand up over her head. She ignored that and pushed her left hand further under the pillow, getting her fingers at least partially around the handle of the blade. It was an awkward angle, and she had to reach farther, but she almost had it—

  She bridged, lifting her hips into the air, sending her attacker flying over her head and colliding into the bed frame. While their balance was off, she twisted beneath, scrambling to land a blow or slide away. A lucky kick made contact, sending them rolling, and she scrambled to the other side of the bed, dagger in hand.

  Hearth light fell across a familiar face.

  “Sorin! By the gods, what are you doing here?” That son of a bitch.

  “Just my duty. Tell me how you got free, and I’ll make this easy on you.”

  “Make what easy on me? You getting a beating?

  “You’re dangerous. You need to be stopped.”

  “What? Why would I need to be stopped?”

  “Nefrana teaches we are evil. Without their chains on you, who knows what you will do? You must be stopped, for all our sakes, or there are even greater dark days to come.”

  “Did the Dark Master send you here for this?” No, he was not her master anymore. “Did Daes send you?”

  “The Masters sent us for the prince. Coming for you was my personal choice.”

  He leapt over the bed and lunged at her again. She was faster, though, easily dodging and scampering across the room, taking cover behind the desk.

  “How did you get free?” he demanded.

  “What does it matter? Do you want to be free?”

  “Was it that damn prince—the one just in here plowing you—”

  “He was not—” she started. Wait. “How did you know he was just here? He was not plowing me.”

  “Sure, he wasn’t.”

  “How did you know?”

  “I was right outside, dutifully guarding you,” he said, his voice sickly sweet.

  He sauntered slowly across the room toward her, trying to intimidate, perhaps. She readied herself to dodge in the direction of the main door. Didn’t need to be cornered. Where were the guards? “How can you not want to be free?”

  He had reached the other side of the desk and stopped. His voice was breathy, just above a whisper. “I don’t need freedom if I have Nefrana’s eternal favor.”

  “You really believe all that?”

  Suddenly, the desk lurched before her. He heaved it, sending it toppling over and to the side and leaving no barrier between them. She recoiled another step. “How can you deny it, Miara? Who are you to question the gods?”

  “Who are you to know their will perfectly?”

  “See, I told you, denial. You must accept—”

  He lunged, mid sentence, seeking to catch her off guard. It worked, partially. He captured her wrist and swung her with her own momentum. She flew into the nearby wall, and he rushed to pin her.

  She rode the momentum of the spin and stabbed. The dagger gored into his neck.

  The spurt of blood covered everything, it seemed. That sickly, hot wetness was answer enough that she’d made contact in the darkness. Still, she thrust him away from her. He collapsed to the floor. One gurgling breath, then another. Then nothing.

  “Let me know what they say,” she whispered into the silence.

  She stared at his still form for a long time, feeling hollow. The Akarians were leaving her, her family had drawn the Dark Master’s ire. Now this. Was Sorin truly dead?

  After a while, she blinked, trying to snap herself out of the shock. It was over. She was safe for now. She’d had to defend herself in a way she’d never wanted. But for now, it was done.

  Miara made
her way to the bath, which felt like an entirely too cold and unfeeling thing to do right after you’d murdered someone. But she wasn’t touching his body again if she could avoid it. She was unsafe here, and she would be even more so once Aven and the others left in a few hours for Panar.

  Looked like the time for escape had come. An hour or two earlier than she’d planned. But there was no way she was staying here now.

  Water remained in the pool from earlier, and although it was as cold as the rock it sat in, it would wash off the blood. It would have been more frigid without the slumbering coals that still heated it a little from beneath. She scrubbed with the rosemary and lavender, again and again, and yet again, even after the blood was mostly gone.

  She didn’t call for help. Part of her feared that she’d discover more bodies in the outer room if Sorin had dispatched them. She doubted he could have bested them, though. At least not alone. But he must have gotten through somehow. Had he truly been hiding as one of the guards all along? Could the assassins have been helping him? Perhaps the creature mage assassin had transformed him or created a distraction. Either way—she would enter the outer room with caution and see what awaited her.

  Something about seeing Sorin brought the seriousness of everything back. This was not a game played for votes. If Sorin could get to her, past all those guards, what would stop the assassins from getting to Aven?

  It was time to go.

  Shaking now, she climbed from the water and dried herself as best she could. Were her old leathers here? Yes. Not the cleanest, but she knew them best for traveling, knew they wouldn’t vex her, knew the pockets without a thought. She pulled them on quickly and twisted her hair back into a bun. Camil wasn’t there to use Miara’s hair as her canvas for creative expression, nor would that be ideal at the moment, but she felt a pang of sadness. Would she see Camil again? Would King Samul be furious when he found out she’d left? If the king discovered how Aven had disobeyed him and helped her? Some might try to twist her escape as a sign that she had been the assassin all along, and if they hadn’t believed her about the assassination attempt, how would they believe her about this? But it was a risk she had to take. Hopefully Sorin’s body would be a clue that foul play was afoot.

  At least, she hoped so.

  Lastly, the dagger. She yanked it from Sorin’s neck as best she could and returned to the bath to clean it. Gods, how could he do this? She had once counted him a friend. Someone she had come to believe was a bit of a fool, but she’d had no idea this hatred simmered beneath the surface. She had never realized he’d been indoctrinated into the Masters’ ideology so completely. That he’d truly believed that mages deserved to be slaves.

  She swallowed as she wiped the blood away. Anara forgive me. You steadied my blade against him. I will not waste this opportunity to fight for the other mages who are enslaved. Even the indoctrinated and foolish ones.

  Once clean, she tucked the dagger into its sheath on her calf, hidden by her boot. Then she strode as silently as she could to the door, took a deep breath, and twisted her body into the shape of a small black spider.

  Creeping under the bottom of the doorframe, she peered out as best she could with her strange arachnid eyes. There—one guard lay on the ground just ahead of her. She pushed the rising dread aside and stalked slowly forward, trying to survey the room as best she could, first with her eyes, then her mind.

  No, it was not the guard, it was only the guard’s clothing. Nine points of energy remained in the room. Eight were clustered near the door, entirely too close together.

  One was sitting near the hearth. And now her odd eyes could see the ninth—a woman. A creature mage had been helping Sorin.

  She stopped. Where were the guards? She spotted a wooden box by the door. Tiny squeaks issued from it. Mice. The creature mage had changed them all into mice and deliberately neglected to transform their clothes with the spell. That was one way to get a person naked.

  Miara turned her focus toward the mage. Should she confront the intruder? Continue forward and sneak away? If this mage was here, then it was unlikely more were attacking Aven. If she could capture them, she could prove her innocence. Or could she? If assassins had disguised themselves as Miara, she had no way to prove it had been this mage specifically that had impersonated her and not someone else. Indeed, it was technically possible this was an entirely different mage. In fact, Sorin could have lied to this mage, and they might not even know his nefarious purpose. That meant Miara didn’t feel justified in killing this mage too, if she could even accomplish such a thing.

  The idea hit her all at once. The soul chain, that spell she’d bound Aven with not so long ago. She could trap this mage here and let the guards and whoever found Sorin’s body in the morning sort it out.

  First, Miara crept as close as she could to the door. Then, she plucked a bit of energy and twisted. Done. She’d spun a chain around the mage’s wrists and then looped it through the workings of a heavy, ornate iron candelabra. That should take her a while to figure out.

  The mage did not seem to sense the spell or react. Good. Sorin hadn’t noticed it the first time she’d tested it on him either. Until it held its captive in place, it was a quiet little invocation. Preparations for her mission to kidnap Aven just kept paying off. She had never learned such a spell in any class; indeed, it probably ought to be on the questionable list, if not outright forbidden. But it had been there in the tomes, if you knew where to look and looked hard enough. She would have to remember to tell Wunik about it. Assuming she ever saw him again.

  She inched her way out the door and toward the main entrance. Time to put her plan and Aven’s maps into action.

  12

  The Road

  Jaena awoke to a glorious sunrise. Bands of purple and pink hues danced across the horizon before them. So they were indeed heading east. Toward Akaria. Toward freedom.

  “Are we close yet?” she croaked, voice groggy with sleep.

  “No. Unfortunately, it’s probably a half day’s ride away,” he said. “We’re not the fastest, two to a horse like this.”

  She nodded and realized suddenly she was nuzzled against his neck. How long had she spent like this? How uninvited, and she’d dozed off and left him to do all the work of getting them there. That said, he was enough larger than her that it was unlikely he could sleep resting on her shoulder.

  “We need to stop and rest,” he said. “Let’s camp out in these woods for a few hours and then get back on the road when there are more people on it.”

  She only nodded.

  “You can sleep some more or watch for trouble. Or a bit of both.”

  He led them off the edge of the road and dismounted, leading Yada by the reins into a forest of tall oaks and ash and low ferns and other leafy things. The forest was thinner here but grew denser up ahead. But if they could get through it, it would also help to hide them from the road.

  He found his way around it easily. Though he’d grown up on the streets, he seemed to know the forest well enough too. He helped her down, watered the horse, set down two bedrolls, and promptly went to sleep.

  Why had he insisted on coming with her? She had a lot of questions for him when they were back on the road.

  She lay beside him and considered trying to rest or listening for trouble. They were fairly concealed from the road, and the Devoted would have little reason to look for anyone at this particular spot. She and Tharomar had tried to leave no trail, but even if they had, any two lovers could have made a path back behind these brambles, not just a renegade mage and her—what was he, even? She had no idea.

  She found herself blushing at the thought of two lovers hiding back behind these trees. Her imagination flirted with the idea for a moment before she brushed the heated thoughts aside. As if he could ever love a mage, with all he believed. Even if he was one, she seriously doubted he would ever consider someone like her. He was probably betrothed to some temple priestess anyway.

  Besides, she co
uld never love someone who could be convinced that something as beautiful and natural as magic was evil. Never, ever, ever.

  Could she?

  It was probably best if she didn’t tell him of his powers. He didn’t need to know, did he? It’d be best if he remained ignorant. She had seen self-hate do terrible things to mages in Mage Hall, her sister included, although for different reasons. She didn’t wish such a fate on someone as good and kind as him.

  Her sister had been good and kind once too. Gentle, until the Masters had gotten their hooks in her. She had still been a gentle person, but not when doing their bidding. For a while, Dekana had told her sister of her missions. They’d started as petty theft or eavesdropping, then slowly built up to more. One day, she’d come home and refused to tell Jaena where she’d been. What she’d done. No news reliably reached Mage Hall, so Jaena had never been sure what had been the deed that broke her, but her sister had never been the same after that.

  Three months later, she’d been dead. They all said committing suicide was impossible, that someone must have killed her. Many eyed the Dark Master with suspicion when his back was turned, and he certainly deserved that. Jaena did not know which story she preferred to believe.

  She hated her sister sometimes, for leaving her. For caring more about death than about surviving this hell with her little sister. For wanting to get out more than she loved Jaena.

  She hated Dekana a little because deep down, Jaena knew. She knew that no one had killed Dekana. They’d had no incentive to; she’d been a valuable tool. She was of no use to them dead. She had just been strong and beautiful and fragile in her own way, and the Masters had pushed her beyond what she could take. And in many ways, Jaena liked to think that her sister had beaten them. Found a way out. That when it had seemed impossible to escape their torture, Dekana had figured out her own way.

  Of course, if only she had held on. Just a little longer. Perhaps she, too, would be free. Jaena tried to blink hot tears out of her eyes and thanked the gods Tharomar seemed to be quite sound asleep. Why was she letting herself think about this now, as the morning light played cheerily through the trees? It must be the exhaustion.