by Aaron Hodges
He was watching her now, his eyes following her as she topped the stairs and came to a stop before the throne. The other councillors fell silent as he stood to meet her.
“Alana, I thought you were resting–”
“I know everything, father,” she interrupted, her voice like stone. “I remember.”
For half a second, she thought he would deny it. A flicker passed across his face, but then the mask settled back into place, the emotion fading away. He turned to his councillors. “Leave me.”
He swung back to Alana without allowing them a chance to argue. They hesitated a moment, before striding past Alana and down the stairs to the exit. The guards remained, spears still bristling, but at a wave from her father, they lowered the weapons and retreated.
“And what is it you remember, my daughter?” the Tsar said finally.
Alana advanced, her skin still crawling at the thought of what he’d wrought on her memories, the hole he’d left when he’d helped restore her past. She felt a sick sense of betrayal rise in her chest.
“Everything,” she snapped, lifting her sabre to point it at his chest. “You dared to interfere with my memories?”
To her surprise, the Tsar chuckled. “Me, daughter? I only did what you asked. It was you who made such a mess of them in the first place!”
“To hide from you!” Alana shrieked.
The guards started forward again, but she was faster still. She closed in on the Tsar, her sabre lancing forward. He made no move to stop her, and she felt a moment’s thrill as the blade plunged towards him. But as the point touched his chest her sword shrieked and grated to a stop, as though she’d struck solid stone. Her hands jarred at the impact, the vibrations almost tearing the hilt from her grasp. Instead of fading, the shrieking sound grew until it reached a fever pitch, until with a sudden boom, her blade shattered.
A wave of energy struck Alana, throwing her on her back. Shards of steel rattled on the marble floors as the remnants of her blade scattered across the dais. On the ground, Alana groaned as she struggled to regain her breath. She lay staring up at her father, hate curdling in her stomach.
The Tsar pursed his lips, face impassive. “It was smart, I’ll admit,” he said pleasantly, as though she had not just tried to stab him. “Altering your own mind, and your brother’s, to conceal yourselves from my powers.” He shook his head. “I trained you well.”
Alana shivered, seeing again the memories Antonia had unlocked, of her brother coming to her before his birthday, his eyes alive with fear.
I can’t do it, Alana, he had told her.
Looking into his eyes, she had wanted to tell him it would be alright, that he would discover the strength he needed to master his magic. Yet the words had died in her throat, and all she could see was the bright child she had helped raise after her mother’s death; the one good, pure thing in her otherwise joyless existence.
And Alana had seen the truth then—that one way or another, she would lose him. Either he would become the hard, unyielding man their father wanted him to be, or he would perish, consumed by his own magic.
That life of darkness was all Alana had ever known. Long ago, she had come to terms with her place in the world, sacrificing her freedom and embracing her role as the Tsar’s daughter. She had hoped she might spare her brother the same fate, but she had only delayed the inevitable.
The day Braidon had come to her, she’d known what she needed to do. That very night, she had smuggled them both out of the citadel, to what she hoped was freedom. As the midnight bell chimed, Braidon’s fear had taken hold, unleashing his magic, but she’d used her own power to render him unconscious before his power could be detected. She’d managed to carry him deep into the city, but slowed down by his dead-weight, they hadn’t reached the gates in time. The city guard were already on alert for their disappearance.
So they had taken refuge in the city, concealing themselves from their father’s magic in the mass of humanity that was the slums of Ardath. For weeks, they’d fled from abandoned buildings to crumbling shacks, waiting for the hunt to die down. Through all the long days and nights, she had sensed her father’s power, humming in the skies overhead as he searched for them. It was only then that she’d realised they could never escape him. The moment they left the crowds of Ardath, their minds would be exposed, and his magic would find them.
Only when the boy’s wild magic had set fire to the stepwell, had Alana seen her opportunity. Using his power to mask her own, she had turned her magic on herself and Braidon. Wrapping their minds in bands of green fire, she’d buried their memories deep, allowing their subconscious to form new lives for themselves. They had become new people—people her father would not have recognised, even had he touched their minds with his magic.
Alana was still surprised by the girl who had emerged to replace her. Perhaps she had only unlocked a part of herself she’d never known existed, one buried deep by her father’s teachings, consumed by the harsh reality of life as the Daughter of the Tsar.
Thinking of her other self now, Alana’s animosity faded, replaced by a cautious respect. Whatever her faults, the girl had escaped the Tsar’s Stalkers, had succeeded in rescuing her brother, where Alana herself had failed. With the release of her final memories, she felt almost at peace with her other self.
Their hatred for the Tsar had united them.
Glaring at her father, Alana climbed slowly to her feet.
“I won’t let you bring him back,” she said.
“You cannot stop me, my daughter,” the Tsar replied. “He must face his examination.”
“He will fail!”
“Such little faith, my daughter,” her father replied. “He is of the blood of kings. He will prevail—as you once did.”
“Ay, I remember how you prepared me,” Alana replied bitterly.
“Did you not impart on your students the same preparations?” The Tsar responded. “Did your teachings not prepare them for the challenge, and a life in my service?”
Shame filled Alana as she recalled her charges, their terror as she faced them. She knew the emotion came from her other self, but with memories of her brother’s terror fresh in her mind, she embraced it, finally seeing the mindless cruelty of her actions. Her methods had been pointless—only necessary because the young Magickers were given just a month to prepare for their examinations.
In all the time Alana had served as teacher, she had never regretted her students’ suffering. After all, their torments were nothing to what her father had subjected her too. She clenched her fists, recalling the agony of losing a limb, only for the Tsar to touch her with his power, restoring it. A shudder swept through her as she looked up into his eyes.
“You are a monster. You will destroy your own son.”
“If that is his fate, then so be it,” her father replied sadly. “If he does not have the strength to master his magic, he is no son of mine.”
“No!” Alana shrieked, throwing herself forward. An invisible barrier brought her up short. She slammed her fists against it. “You will not turn him!”
Against her will, she saw again the demon that had come for her on the ship back in Lon, its youthful face and jet-black eyes. She knew now that had not been the first time she’d seen that face, the first time she’d looked into those eyes—though before they had been sky green. With her memories restored, she knew now who he was.
His name was Anish, and he had been her student.
Before his magic took him.
The thought of her brother facing the same fate set her stomach heaving, and she slid down the invisible barrier to the floor. Looking up at her father, she shook her head, sobbing now, powerless before his magic.
“Please,” she whispered.
He shrugged. “His fate is in his own hands, daughter,” he replied. “When our emissaries return with him, he will face the examination like any other Magicker. I will release the bonds of his magic. He will face the beast, and either defeat it, or suc
cumb to its power. I have no wish to see my son a demon, but I will not save him should it take him.”
“But you could!” Alana shrieked. “You saved me!”
“You were not yourself.”
“I…I don’t want to be myself!” Alana said, her voice fading as she realised it was true. Her eyes burned as she thought of Devon and Kellian, locked away because of her. Pain wrenched at her heart. “I want to be free.”
The Tsar moved towards her. “Free?” he sighed. “What is freedom? I have given you everything, child! Life, magic, an empire! I have endured your wilfulness for years, yet still you demand more.”
“I don’t want anything from you.”
Her father sighed, his eyes shining. “Then I will take it all. You will serve me, daughter. You think your magic can protect you? I have a dozen Magickers in my thrall with the same power.”
Ice spread though Alana’s stomach as her heart started to palpitate. Her father’s eyes had hardened, all traces of kindness draining from them. Taken by a sudden fear, she rose and backed away on trembling legs. Another invisible barrier brought her up short. Her father started towards her.
Alana spun, slamming her hands against the barrier, desperate to escape. But there was nowhere to run, and she froze as a hand clutched her by the shoulder, forcing her to look back. Her mouth parted as she looked up at her father, her vision shimmering.
“No…” she said.
The Tsar shook his head. “Why do you hate me, daughter?” he asked. “Everything I have ever done was to build a better world for you. Yet still you spurn me.”
Hot tears ran down Alana’s cheeks. “Go ahead and do it,” she said. “You have already taken everything from me. My childhood, my joy, my soul. You made me into your executioner, had me drive scores of children into the darkness. And you have the gall to ask me why I hate you?”
“I am sorry,” he murmured, still holding to her shoulder. “This is my fault. I thought I could fix you by holding back your memories. But the weakness is rooted too deep.”
“And weakness must be destroyed,” Alana whispered.
“I will start afresh,” her father agreed. His face tightened. “But you will feel nothing.”
Before Alana could react, she felt the burning touch of his magic wash through her. She gasped, her own power rising to defend her, but it was nothing to the forces in the Tsar’s command. The burning green of her magic was engulfed, swept away like a sandcastle before the incoming tide. Her body shook as she fought him, but it was no use. She opened her mouth to scream…
And the roar of thunder filled her ears.
Chapter 33
Devon stumbled to a halt as a crash echoed through the corridors of the citadel. Kellian drew up alongside him. Together they looked back. Flashes of light burst through the open windows, and it seemed as though the very air was alive with energy. They shared a glance, then returned their eyes to the lightning flickering in the sky.
Somewhere in the citadel, the old man had engaged with the enemy.
Eric.
The name sent a shiver down Devon’s spine. It couldn’t be true…and yet, surely it could not be a coincidence? Eric was the last Magicker to have seen the Gods alive, the last to have wielded the Sword of Light, one of the few to stand to the end against the Dark Magicker, Archon.
And he was Enala’s brother.
“You think he can win?” Devon heard himself asking.
“No,” Kellian replied shortly.
Devon nodded, though he wasn’t so sure. Somehow Eric had survived the Tsar’s corrupting magic, had lived for decades in the darkness below the citadel, where so many others had succumbed. And when he’d looked into the man’s eyes, there had been an indomitable will there, a determination to finally have his revenge.
Yet now Eric stood against the most powerful Magicker in the Empire, a man who could draw on the magic of hundreds, who commanded demons and dragons with a wave of his sword.
In the distance, the rumble of thunder died away, and outside the clouds parted. A ray of sunshine burst over the citadel. Seeing it, the hope withered in Devon’s chest as he realised Eric’s storm magic had been defeated. He turned back to Kellian.
“Let’s go,” he said.
They started down the corridor, but they’d only made it a few more feet when they heard the soft patter of running boots ahead of them. Before they could react, a squadron of black-garbed Stalkers raced into view. Quinn stood at their head, his eyes widening as he saw them standing in the middle of the corridor.
“What–?” he started.
Hefting his hammer, Devon charged at Quinn, but the man already had his sword drawn, and the blade leapt to meet his attack. Steel clashed as Kellian joined him. Devon ducked as Quinn’s sabre slashed for his face, then he dropped his shoulder and drove it into Quinn’s chest. The blow hurled his foe back into his comrades, creating a hole. Devon rushed through it, kanker sweeping out, catching a Stalker in the head with a sickening crunch.
Then they were clear, the scattered Stalkers turning to follow. Angry shouts chased them down the corridor as Devon glanced back, his heart pounding hard. Kellian was just behind him, a blade in either hand. They shared a grin as a voice chased after them.
“Devon!” Quinn roared.
A shriek came from the windows alongside Devon, and he looked up in time to see the glass shatter. Spinning, he lifted kanker in time to meet the gale Quinn had summoned with his power. It came rushing into the corridor, but with a hiss it was absorbed by his hammer, though its force still forced Devon back several steps.
Alongside him, Kellian was not so lucky. Without the protection of kanker, Quinn’s winds caught him midstride, and hurled him backwards. He struck the marble wall of the corridor with an awful thud, his blades skittering loudly on the stone floor, and he slumped to the floor, unconscious.
Devon cried out and started towards him, but Quinn’s voice brought him up short.
“Don’t move, hammerman,” he hissed, “or I’ll crush his skull against the bloody wall.”
The lieutenant came striding towards him. The Stalkers followed, though Devon noted several lay on the ground behind them, unmoving. He smirked.
“Can’t say it’s good to see you, sonny,” he said.
Fury etched across his face, Quinn stepped up and touched his sabre to Devon’s neck. “Drop the hammer.”
Devon hesitated, and the wind whistled louder. The thunk as kanker hit the ground echoed loudly in the corridor.
A dark smile spread across Quinn’s face as he withdrew his sabre, then slammed a fist into Devon’s stomach. Unprepared, Devon doubled over, the breath whistling between across his teeth. He looked up in time to see Quinn’s knee rising to catch him in the face, before stars exploded his vision as he toppled back.
When his vision cleared, he found Quinn looking down at him. “So, the rats escaped their cell.”
Devon struggled to find a reply, but Quinn’s boot slammed into his ribs. Something went crack as pain tore through Devon’s chest. Rolling onto his side, he coughed, the agony redoubling as he found himself suddenly breathless.
“Get them up,” Quinn said. “I’d like to continue on our way to the throne room. Something is going on with Alana and the Tsar.”
Despite himself, Devon’s chest clenched at the mention of Alana’s name. He groaned as rough hands gripped him beneath the arms and hauled him up. Head swimming, he saw Quinn already moving away. Two more Stalkers had hefted Kellian between them, though his friend still appeared unconscious.
As Devon was dragged down the corridor, he tried to get the lieutenant’s attention. “I hope Eric killed him.”
Quinn paused. “The old man?” he raised an eyebrow. “That was the legendary Eric?” Laughter echoed in the corridor. “I guess age makes fools of everyone, in the end! Now stop delaying, Devon. Or Kellian will suffer for it.”
Devon knew he wasn’t bluffing. The last of the fight went from him as he slumped in the arm
s of the men carrying him. His stomach twisted as he realised one held kanker.
Quinn chuckled as the Stalkers dragged Devon alongside him. “I must say I’m impressed, Devon,” he said conversationally. “You’ll have to tell me how you escaped, one day. It’s a shame your weakness betrayed you in the end. I mean, you must know you’re both going to die now? You could have saved yourself, but instead you chose…what? A pointless death?”
“A man like you wouldn’t understand,” Devon whispered.
One of the men carrying him paused long enough to slam his fist into Devon’s stomach. He cried out as the broken rib sliced deeper into his chest. His vision swirled, red closing in on all sides, but he fought to stay conscious.
“It’s no wonder Alana spurned you,” Quinn was saying now.
“Where is she?” he gasped, barely able to breathe.
“She’s mine now,” Quinn snapped, though Devon sensed there was more behind his words.
“Is that so?” he rasped.
Quinn hesitated. His face was dark, his eyes shining with suppressed rage, but he made no move to attack Devon again. After a moment, he shook his head and swung away.
“She’ll never be yours, Devon.”
Devon was about to reply when a cry came from the Stalkers carrying Kellian. Somehow, he had slipped from their arms, tripping one of them as he tumbled to the ground. The other was bending over them, trying to get them up, but as Devon watched, the man jerked, stiffening suddenly.
“What’s going on?” Quinn growled, running towards the men.
In that instant, Kellian rolled, leaving the second Stalker to topple dead to the floor. He held a bloody dagger clutched in one hand, and with a flick of his wrist, sent it hurtling at Quinn.
Quinn saw it just in time. He lurched back, and the blade hissed past, just a hair’s breadth from his throat. With a scream, he threw out an arm. The wind roared, rushing down the corridor to catch Kellian where he still crouched on the ground. He flew through the air, his legs slamming awkwardly into the wall, and an awful crack echoed down the corridor. Screaming, Kellian crumpled to the ground clutching his leg.