by Aaron Hodges
Hesitantly, she tilted her tankard in his direction. “Cheers.”
Quinn smiled and lifting his own drink, clinked it against hers. “Cheers.”
Meeting his eyes, Alana took a long swig of the bitter ale, enjoying the cool liquid in the heat of the dining hall.
“What do you think?” Quinn asked.
“It’s good,” Alana replied, though she knew he wasn’t talking about the ale. When he only raised an eyebrow, she sighed and went on. “I don’t know what to think of all this, Quinn. I’m…sorry I’ve been so hard on you. I know you’re only trying to help but…it’s just all so overwhelming.”
“I know…” he began, but she raised a hand and he trailed off.
“You have to understand, just a few days ago I thought all the Magickers…captured by the Tsar were dead. And now it turns out I was teaching them?”
Quinn laughed at that. “Yes, I guess I can see how that would be confusing.”
Alana shook her head. “I don’t understand though: why haven’t the people been told what happens here? About what happens to the Magickers who are brought to the citadel?”
“Because they cannot know their children live.” Alana made to speak, but at a look from Quinn, closed her mouth again. After a moment he went on. “It is one of the reasons they are brought here. Once, before the Tsar, magic was ungoverned. It was chaos. Wild magic was free to wreak havoc across the Three Nations, taking lives at random. There is a legend in my hometown, about a boy who once levelled our town and brought its community to its knees. Such power cannot go unchecked.”
“Yes, but that doesn’t explain why you allow–”
“Please, let me finish, Alana,” Quinn interrupted her. She saw the pain behind his eyes. Gritting her teeth, she nodded, and he continued. “As I was saying, before the Tsar, people with magic were free to exploit their powers, to take advantage of the powerless, to destroy the lives of others, usually without repercussions.”
“The Tsar’s rule has changed that. After he was crowned, he passed laws to protect the people from exploitation by Magickers. Those who used their powers to harm others were brought before his judgement, while the benevolent were allowed their freedom. It worked for a while—until a General overthrew the Trolan king and led an uprising against the Empire. Hundreds of Magickers stood with him. Their powers enacted a terrible price, and while ultimately the rebellion failed, their treachery convinced the Tsar that the price of free magic was too great.”
“And so magic was outlawed. Those Magickers known to the crown were brought here and offered a choice: imprisonment, or service to the Tsar. So it has continued with every new Magicker we discover.”
“But that doesn’t explain why the people can’t know what happens to the Magickers you capture!”
Quinn sighed. “They cannot know, because the children cannot know of their lives before this place.”
“What…” Alana trailed off as realisation struck her, her stomach curdling. She stared at Quinn, open-mouthed. “I wiped their memories,” she breathed.
“Yes,” Quinn said solemnly. “The children are made to forget their past, so they will never be tempted to use their magic to benefit their former families.”
“No wonder you wanted me back so badly,” she croaked, the words catching in her throat.
Quinn reached across the table and placed his hand on hers, but she flinched away. He looked at her, a frown on his lips. “It’s more than that and you know it, Alana,” he said. “Your father loves you, and your brother too. He would do anything to protect you.”
“Oh?” Alana snapped, on her feet now. “Is that why he sent his dragons? Can you honestly say he wasn’t trying to kill us with those beasts?”
“He was…desperate. He thought you were lost to him.”
Alana swallowed. “So he ordered us killed, rather than let us escape.”
“No…he only wished to stop you,” Quinn said quickly. “He would never have seen you harmed, Alana.”
Alana stared down at him, trying to judge the truth behind his words. She could still remember her terror as the scarlet creature dropped from the sky, still recall the searing heat of its flames, the stench of rotting meat and burning ash. Looking at Quinn now, seeing the pain in his eyes, Alana knew he would never have sent such creatures to kill her. Yet her own father had. Or was Quinn telling the truth? Had the dragons only ever been meant to stop them?
The anger left her in a rush as she slumped back into her chair. She stared at her food for a moment, the roast lamb and vegetables still untouched. Absently, she picked up a fork and began to push them around the plate. Memories swam before her eyes, of Quinn and Devon, her brother and Kellian. The faces of her students followed, one by one, and she felt the weight of guilt on her shoulders. She had stolen their families from them, robbed them of their pasts.
Who are you?
Yet even as the question rang in her mind, she found herself looking around the dining hall, watching the other Magickers as they sat together. Many wore smiles on their faces, and most seemed at peace, content with their place in life. She shivered, wondering if they could sense the hole in their lives, the abyss she had left within them. Or had her spell been a gift to them? Had her magic released them from the pain of loss, of being separated from their parents forever?
Across from her, concern lurked in Quinn’s eyes. In a flash of intuition, she realised the compassion he’d shown her today had been far more than that of a servant. With the students, she had wondered why none of them had seemed to really know her, why they had been distant, indifferent to her loss. Now, as she looked at Quinn, she realised he had been the only one to show her true kindness since arriving in this cold palace. And she knew there was something more between them, something he had not yet revealed.
The question came unbidden to her lips before she could stop herself. “Who are you to me, Quinn?”
He smiled then, his eyes alight. “I am your teacher, Alana.”
Chapter 5
“Well, I’m waiting.” Godrin stood with his arms crossed, eyes glowering as he watched them.
Devon studied the crossbow men standing behind the hulking crime lord, trying to judge the distance between them. On flat ground he might have risked charging Godrin, but waist-deep in the bath, there was no way he would be fast enough. Letting out a long breath, he smiled at the mobster.
“Really, is this any way to treat friends?” Kellian spoke before Devon could. Moving in front of the others, he gestured to the archers, who quickly redirected their crossbows at him.
“Friends?” Godrin spat the word like he’d swallowed poison. “Do you know how many of my countrymen lost their lives to his hammer, Kellian? To your blades, for that matter?”
“Eighty-six,” Devon interrupted. “Now ask how many friends I lost to Trolan swords.”
Godrin sneered. “They got what they deserved, as will you. If this is all the Butcher of Kalgan has to say for himself…”
“My friend, please, do not be so hasty!” Kellian cut in. Holding up his hands, he continued smoothly. “We did not come here to rehash the past, though no doubt we could debate for hours who was responsible for the war. No, we came to talk of the future, of a chance for Trola to regain its former glory.”
The man froze at Kellian’s words, his eyes narrowing. “And how exactly do two Plorsean rebels propose to accomplish such a task?”
“By bringing down the Tsar, and the Empire with him.”
“Ha! You must think me a fool, Kellian. Do you think you can tempt Trola into a war it cannot possibly hope to win? We would be crushed in the first battle. And then where would my people be? The Tsar would slaughter or enslave the survivors. Trola would truly be doomed.”
“I took you for an intelligent man, Godrin. Can you not see that Trola is doomed regardless? You hardly have the people to till the fields or man your ships, and any progress you make is crippled by the Tsar’s taxes. How long before your people starve? Two ye
ars? Three?”
“We are Trolans. We will survive.”
“You will die as paupers in your own country,” Kellian snapped. He paused, and a sly smile spread across his lips. “Or you can join us, and fight for your freedom.”
“I will not drag my people into another war.”
“Who said anything about a war?” Kellian retorted.
“How else do you intend to free us from the Empire?”
“By assassinating the Tsar. Without his magic, without the dragons and demons, the Empire would be sundered. Trola and Lonia could be free once more. Northland would support you, send aid to your freedom fighters, as your nations once did for them.”
Godrin stared at them, lips pursed, expression unreadable. Then he began to laugh, softly at first but quickly growing louder, until the sound of his mirth echoed from the stone walls. “Assassinate the Tsar?” he gasped. “A brilliant plan—if not for, how did you put it, the magic, demons and dragons that protect him!”
“Enala believes there is a way to defeat him—if we can get close enough to the man.”
“Then the old woman has finally lost her mind,” Godrin snapped, the laughter dying in his throat, “and anyone mad enough to believe her is a fool.”
“Fools we might be,” Devon said, wading up alongside Kellian, “but at least we’re not cowards, wallowing in the former glory of a fallen city.”
“What did you say to me?” Godrin hissed, lurching forward. Behind him, the archers raised their crossbows. The steel points of the loaded bolts glittered in the lantern light.
Ignoring the weapons pointed at his chest, Devon laughed. “You heard me! I called you a coward, Godrin. You’re nothing but a washed-up commander, using your power to prey on the same people you claim to care about, to terrorize the same citizens who once looked to you for protection. You call me a butcher, but at least I never betrayed my own people!”
“Terrorize…betray…” A vein bulged on Godrin’s forehead as he sputtered out the words. “How…dare…you?”
Devon took another step forward, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Tell me, Godrin, how did you survive the battle for Kalgan? I know for a fact the Tsar burned everyone in the city to death. So how did an entire cohort survive?”
Baring his teeth, Godrin stepped forward, so that he stood eye-to-eye with Devon. “We ran,” he spat. “I told the King the war was lost, that we had no choice but to surrender ourselves to the Tsar’s mercy. He refused. So I took my cohort, along with any citizens who would follow us, and commandeered a ship. The city fell two days later, but we were already gone.”
“So you left your former comrades to die?”
“Yes,” Godrin said quietly, his eyes flashing, “and I would do it again. Because of me, there is still order in Kalgan. Without my men, the city would still be a wasteland, a battlefield to be fought over by the survivors.”
“Or you might have tipped the balance for Kalgan, saved the city from destruction.”
“Do not mock me, Devon,” Godrin replied. “We were both there. You know there was never a chance. The Tsar had already destroyed most of our forces in the Brunei Pass. The city was doomed from the moment the Tsar marched across the border.”
A strained silence fell across the baths then, as the two warriors stared at one another. Devon was close enough to reach Godrin now. One quick rush, and he could use the man as a shield against the archers, giving his friends a chance to flee. But he made no move to attack. Instead, he reached out and placed a hand on the man’s shoulder.
“I cannot change the past, my friend,” he said, “but for what it’s worth, I am sorry for what became of your people, and the part I played in it. It is a regret I will carry with me forever.”
Godrin bowed his head, and Devon felt a shudder go through the former soldier. “Why are you here, butcher?” he whispered at the steaming waters. “And do not entertain me with tales of freedom and toppling empires.”
Sucking in a breath, Devon glanced at Kellian. His friend shook his head, but when Devon returned his gaze to the Trolan warrior, the lie he had planned turned to dust on his tongue. “To rescue a…friend,” he said instead.
Chuckling, the man straightened. “And for this friend you would go against the might of the Tsar?”
Devon grinned. “What’s the point of being friends if you wouldn’t walk through hell for one another?”
Godrin stared at him for a moment, the hate still lurking behind his eyes. Taking a breath, Devon moved alongside the man and sat on the stone bench running the length of the pool, exposing his back to the archers.
“You are a strange man, butcher,” the former General said.
“If we are to be friends, I would prefer to be called Devon,” he replied.
“Devon…” Godrin said, a pained look on his face. He shook his head. “I’m beginning to regret entertaining this meeting. I should have had my guards cut your throats and toss you in the harbour.”
“And doomed your people to a slow extinction,” Kellian interrupted.
“Perhaps, but they still would have thanked me for it.” He started to laugh. “As it is, if word gets out you left my bathhouse alive, my own days will be numbered.”
“Then you’re not going to kill us?” Quiet until now, Betran burst into life. “Thank you, sir!”
Godrin stared at the young man for a moment, his eyes dark. “Betran.” He said the man’s name like a curse. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten your part in this.”
Betran shrank before the former General’s gaze, retreating into the pool until he almost vanished into the steam. Shaking his head, Godrin turned his attention back to Devon and Kellian.
Kellian spread his hands. “You didn’t answer the man’s question.”
“And you have not told me how you plan to rescue this friend of yours. Or how you think you can kill the Tsar.”
“He is not the all-knowing, all-powerful immortal he would have you believe, Godrin,” Kellian insisted.
“No?” Godrin asked.
“No,” Kellian replied, “because we’re still here. He sentenced the two of us to death, sent his Stalkers and demons and dragons to hunt us down, and yet here we are. Is that not enough to make you curious?”
Godrin stared at the two of them a long while, his hands trailing in the waters to either side of him, as though weighing up their fates. Devon’s patience finally snapped.
“Look, sonny,” he growled. Pushing himself to his feet, he climbed from the pool. The archers bristled, the crossbows rattling in their grip. Contemptuously he turned his back on them and glared down at the crime lord. “It’s been a long night and my bed is calling. If you’re going to try and kill us, get it over with. But I promise you, I don’t die easily.” He turned and glared at the two bowmen. They took a collective step back.
“You’re a bold man, Devon,” Godrin growled.
“Bold? Not really.” Devon laughed, the sound booming from the stone walls. “Reckless, maybe. A few weeks ago I thought my time had finally come, but Alana and her brother saved me. I owe her for that. Now, are you going to help us, or not?”
Godrin’s face was grim, his eyes hard, but suddenly his face split, and he threw back his head and laughed. “By the Three Gods, I think I could have liked you, Devon. If you hadn’t marched with an army into my country and slaughtered my people, we might have been friends. As it is, I think that I will help you. You’re right, the Tsar is not immortal. It’s time we proved it. I’ll march with you to Ardath. I have contacts there, might be they know a way into the citadel.”
“We’ll be glad for the company,” Devon replied. He glanced behind him at the bowmen, who had finally lowered their weapons. “Hope you’ll be leaving your friends behind, though.”
Climbing from the water, Godrin offered his hand, which Devon took in his meaty grip. “What was your plan if I’d refused?”
“Kill you, and anyone else that got in my way. March up to the gates of the citadel and demand Alan
a’s return.” Devon shrugged. “I like to keep things simple.”
Godrin blinked, his eyes showing surprise for the first time. Twisting, he looked down at Kellian, who was still in the pool with Betran. “He’s not serious?”
Kellian smiled. “Devon is the most stubborn man I’ve ever met.” Climbing from the bath, he joined them. “Luckily for him, he usually has the strength to back up his words.”
Shaking his head, the Trolan looked from Kellian to Devon.
Devon grinned. “Admittedly, General, I’m hoping you have a better plan.”
Chapter 6
Quinn paused outside the giant oak doors to the throne room and took a moment to collect himself. The day had been long and strained, beginning with Alana’s precipitous plunge from the balcony. Remembering her tumbling backwards over the railing, he suppressed a shudder. In that instant he had thought her lost, but unexpectedly, his magic had come to her rescue. As his heart had lurched in his chest, his magic had rushed from him, drawing in the air currents and wrapping them around Alana.
It was an ability he had not known he’d possessed, though he had heard rumours of Storm Magickers who could fly with the winds. Either way, it had saved Alana, and by extension himself. He shuddered, imagining the Tsar’s rage if his daughter had succeeded in taking her own life. No, had Alana died, Quinn’s life would have been forfeit—and it would not have been an easy death.
Still, it had worked out in the end. The shock of her near-death experience seemed to have snapped Alana out of her depression—at least long enough for Quinn to talk with her. Reticent as she was, it was difficult to tell whether he’d succeeded in getting through, but she had at least seemed calmer when he’d left her.
He smiled then, remembering their fiery argument in the dining hall. However much Alana fought against it, he could see much of his former student in the young woman. As they’d spoken he’d caught glimpses of the Alana he’d known—of her calculating mind and dogged determination to hunt out the truth. And at the end, the fire in her eyes when she’d accused the Tsar of trying to kill her…he could have been looking into the past, when they’d spent long afternoons arguing over the best methods of tutoring young Magickers.