by Tia Reed
“The boy is entitled to a Stead Plea,” Levi said at length, “but your position precludes it. Choose another to represent you.”
Arun turned to the ranks. “I promised this boy’s family I would accept responsibility for him. We intended his visit today to be a courtesy. We planned instruction, and his initiation at a future date. He was not informed of the consequences of his choice, nor was he prepared for his ordeal. Let me stand in his stead, or let him go unharmed from here.”
A single boot stomped. “He should have been tutored before he was tested,” Branak of the amber crystal said. By a small mercy, the apprentices were nowhere in sight. “That fault is ours. There is no need to have one stand in his stead. Let him leave.”
“It shall be by vote of the Inner Circle,” Levi declared. He stomped. Eight mahktashaan stepped forward with precise military timing to form a circle around Vinsant as the others filed from the room.
“This boy never received instruction on the terms of his initiation,” Levi said. “For that Minoria, you will atone.”
Arun bowed his head. “It is as you decree, Majoria.”
“The boy’s lack of preparation is not in dispute,” Levi stated. “I, Majoria, ask you of the Inner Circle of Mahktashaan, is Vinsant deq Wilshem free to leave with his life?”
The room darkened as the mahktashaan crystals died. Vinsant took a deep breath. For three heartbeats, nothing happened. Then, one by one, the crystals glowed at their owner’s chests. Two, three, four, threw their light into the room. Vinsant looked to Arun to see if a majority was enough. Five of the eight now glowed.
“So it is decreed, Levi said.
“Come, my prince,” Arun said.
Vinsant felt a flutter of panic. “I have to go?” He couldn’t. Kordahla needed his help. She needed magic.
“Mahktos has rejected you. You may not train as a mahktashaan.” Arun’s hand was steady on his shoulder.
“What happens if someone stands in my stead?” Vinsant asked, staring straight at a mahktashaan whose apricot crystal was dark.
“That man will ask Mahktos to accept you in their name,” Levi said.
“And I can train? If Mahktos recognises them, I can become a mahktashaan?”
“You can train,” Levi conceded. “But heed you well, Mahktos chooses which apprentices to initiate into their full powers as mahktashaan. If you train and fail his final test, you will suffer the sword.”
“And if…if Mahktos doesn’t accept my champion?”
“There will not be a second reprieve. You will be put to death, Prince Vinsant.”
“Not them? Not the one in my stead?”
“If the Inner Circle deem they have offended Mahktos by supporting your cause, they will share your fate.”
Vinsant considered a moment. “I want someone to stand in my stead,” he said, talking right over Arun’s, My Prince, no. “Someone you don’t think will offend Mahktos by doing this.”
Low and urgent, Arun whispered in his ear. “You must retract that statement. Neither I nor your father can protect you if you fail.”
“I want to be a mahktashaan.” He crossed his arms and set his mouth in a line of grim determination.
“The child must learn deference,” the mahktashaan with the dead apricot crystal stated. “Is that possible for one such as him?”
“I can learn anything,” Vinsant said, not even bothering to glare at the stupid man.
“Enough,” Levi said. “His aptitude for magic is indisputable. It is his loyalty to Mahktos which is in question.” He pointed at Vinsant. “I urge you to think carefully before you answer, Prince. Do you recant your wish?”
“No,” Vinsant said straight away. He let his hands fall to his side and stood soldier-straight. “I want to train.” If loyalty were all it took, he would stop praying to Vae’oeldin, and switch his allegiance to Mahktos from his very next prayer.
The Majoria’s shoulder’s twitched. “Very well.” In a quiet tone, he asked, “Is there one who will stand in his stead?”
Head bowed, Arun walked between the crystal knees of the statue. “I, Arun, humble mahktashaan servant of Mahktos and Terlaan, request you, Divine God of Old, accept Vinsant deq Wilshem, Prince of Terlaan and Spark of the Crystal, as apprentice.”
Vinsant lifted his chin. Arun’s calm, measured voice was awesome reassurance. It had to mean the Minoria thought Mahktos would accept him.
“I, Arun, Minoria of the mahktashaan, vouch for his loyal and dedicated service.”
An unsettling murmur rippled through the mahktashaan when Arun stated his title. Vinsant couldn’t help shifting from one foot to the other. So much for confidence. He had no clue what was really going on. He was about to risk questioning the nearest mahktashaan when light surged from the statue. Arun’s head jerked back, his hood fell off, and cerulean rays streamed from his eyes to those of the god. The beam disappeared and Arun’s head fell forward as the god spat a chunk of quartz at the Minoria.
“All praise to Mahktos,” the Inner Circle of mahktashaan chanted as one. The moment the last word was out, they exploded into argument.
“Silence!” Levi thundered.
The response was immediate, a stomp from each man in perfect unison, and hush as Levi and Arun again held each other’s gaze. The intensity between them prickled over Vinsant’s skin. He gasped as Arun nodded, bowed his head and replaced his hood. The mahktashaan were communicating without words! All his questions threatened to overflow, but a warning look from Arun as he placed the threaded crystal over Vinsant’s head stemmed the tide.
“This crystal is a gift from our god, Mahktos. It is the core of your being as an apprentice. Keep it safe, for to lose it is to lose more than your right to become a mahktashaan. It is to lose your right to life,” the Minoria said. He clasped Vinsant’s shoulder. “Congratulations, apprentice,” he said. Vinsant beamed. Then Arun stepped aside.
“Vinsant deq Wilshem,” Levi said. “You are apprenticed to the mahktashaan.”
Vinsant’s elation dampened at the misgiving in the gravelly voice. The Majoria’s stare lingered as the Inner Circle marched out.
Chapter Eleven
“At last, darling,” Jordayne said, pulling Drucilamere into her petal-strewn, candlelit chamber. She pushed the door and let it bang shut. “I thought I was going to have to send a forcible escort.” She stopped short of kissing him, sobering when she saw his sombre face and empty hands. “You’re not brooding, are you?” she asked, sliding a hand into his kurta and through the hair on his chest. She had made a mistake splashing her favourite oriental perfume around. Its woody notes mingled with the rose oils in the candles to overpower his masculine scent. “And how careless of you to forget the wine.”
She had an inkling of what might be wrong; the brooding comment had nudged the thought awake. Drucilamere would only be fretting over one thing, one person, and Jordayne, who never, ever shirked the unpleasant, found herself inexplicably burying the thought deep beneath her cultivated passions. She drew him onto the floral carpet, kneading her painted toes into the pile and turning her face up as her fingers found a nipple. Taking her lead, Drucilamere grabbed her wrist, thrust his head at hers and kissed her with such force that it drove her back. As she collided with the bureau, she threw her arms up around his head and returned the favour. Their passions sent a silver handled brush crashing to the petals she had strewn over the floor.
“Enough,” he said, pulling away, turning away.
She watched him with shrewd eyes, waiting for him to spill his troubles. The candles flickered in a draught.
“You were lovers,” he said in the darkest moment. His voice choked on his emotion.
After this morning’s performance, it was hardly necessary to name the other party. She crossed to an ornate, painted sideboard, poured herself a goblet of wine and took a generous but elegant sip. “Don’t be a bore. No one is the slightest bit offended that Ordosteen beds a different lady every few months. Why should I be any diff
erent?” She twirled the long stem, guessing, not wanting to, there was more.
“How long?” he demanded. “How long were you lovers?”
She arched an eyebrow. He was in fine form now. “It is hardly your business Druce, since it happened well before I took you to my bed.”
“Is that it? Am I no more than the man who best satisfies your desires? Someone to share your body but not your secrets.” He was still by the bureau, appraising her with equal measures of lust and disgust.
“You know me,” she said setting the goblet down on a blood red petal. “You know full well what a relationship with me holds.”
“He was right you know. You’re heartless.”
“And you’re not? To fling a past passion at me like this?” She sounded so very in control.
“Is it past? Or are we? Will you discard me if my body ceases to arouse you?”
“You know I will,” she said, wanting to be cruel, to wound the way he was wounding her. And yet, what she feared most, in this land where women were all but equal to men, what she feared most after committing herself, was losing him.
A heavy silence hung between them. The hurt in his eyes brought no softness to hers. Jordayne had designs and no man, however profusely she ached for him, figured into them.
Drucilamere broke the tension. “He’s dying,” he said flatly.
“I gathered,” she replied without any sarcasm. They were still feet apart, a first for them in this room after this length of time.
She might have sunk to the floor if Druce’s shaky breath had not warned her to place a hand on the bureau. “I meant now,” he said, giving her the explanation for their distance. “He never fully recovered from the second dose of porrin. I had to complete the divination.”
Ah, she thought, pain creeping into her eyes. The porrin had left her mage jittery, not entirely himself. “Where is he?” she asked with a swallow. The grief was so very, very deep. Few who knew her would guess at the strength of her friendships, or her loves, those that mattered anyway. But her bonds were intimate, and life-long, and Trove most of all held a treasured place in her heart.
“The hospice.”
Her why caught in her throat. Drucilamere read it, though, in the critical draw of her brows.
“The physicians there are well versed in treating porrin’s daze.”
The awkwardness lasted a moment longer. Then they were both striding towards each other, embracing, kissing, poignantly this time, as their tears flowed. Without another word, she donned a cloak over the emerald silks she had so seductively arranged an hour before, and tied sandals on her feet. Understanding, Druce opened the door. The two guards in the corridor fell in step behind her, their surprised looks making plain they had not expected Lady Jordayne to be abroad quite so soon after admitting a male guest. She hurried past the gilded mouldings of laden fruits trees and floral wreaths. Their glitter was obscene on this sombre night.
Outside the marble palace, the air was stifling. The servants carried baskets or carted armour at a languid pace, dallying at idle conversation beneath the cloudy twilight.
“Four years,” she said in answer to his question, while waiting for the grooms to saddle their horses, and the horses of the retinue she must, of necessity, collect. She looked at him to see if he understood of what she spoke.
His thoughts had obviously not left their quarrel. “So long,” he murmured, gazing straight ahead.
For her, indeed it was. Her lovers were so often random, picked sporadically over the years for the physical pleasures they could share, but there had been only two to truly touch her heart, and one was standing beside her while the other lay on his deathbed. What was it about the magi that moved her so?
They mounted, her on a white mare, him on a black gelding, and rode out of the gate wrought with the creatures of old: the tiny, flittering muid and the feather-throated schkaan, the thorny, tentacled bazwaeel and the scaled veli. Were it any other evening, she would have goaded the men sneaking glances of appreciation her way, flirted openly, laughing at their embarrassment and Druce’s pout. This was Myklaan, after all. Tonight, though, she devoted her attention to the mage as they traversed the clean, wide streets, down the slope toward the centre of Kaijoor, under Daesoa’s muted glow.
You have no need to be jealous,” she said, uncharacteristic in her straightforwardness. The night’s anguish demanded it.
“Was it so very long ago?”
Her sharp glance was lost on him. Porrin and circumstances were allowing this conversation, she decided, for against her nature she felt inclined to answer, if only to honour Trove, to remember what he was to her. She counted the clops on the cobbles, one, two, three.
“I was fourteen, and he was my first.” Her lips twitched a smile as his expression turned to shock.
“Then it was…” His eyes flashed, his furious mind working.
“Under my father’s roof, yes.”
His hands tightened on the reins. His gelding quickened its pace. “By Vae’oenka, Jordayne, he had your father’s trust.”
“And mine. The seduction was mutual. I was ready for what he had to offer, and he never treated me as a child.”
“You were a child.”
Sensing her mood, her mare tossed her head. Silky mane fell to both sides of the elegant neck. “I don’t think I was ever that. I wanted to marry him, you know. He refused, said Myklaan expected great things of me.”
“So he used you, alluring as you were, and kept himself free.”
“I rather think it was the other way around,” she said, tiring of the conversation, of the seriousness of it. “He kept me unfettered. I do not think I would be so accomplished as someone’s wife.” She steeled herself against his look of disappointment. She had never encouraged him in that regard. She did not wish to encourage him now. Turning forward was the clearest indication she could give him that her candour was at an end.
They passed into narrower streets, their lanterns illuminating bright shop signs. Down the street, the strains of drunken discord spilled from a tavern. A pair of inebriated men sauntered out, gesturing wide and singing loud despite the early hour. One drunk tripped, cursed and turned back to boot the leg that had blocked his way. The owner of the leg, slumped in an unswept doorway, keeled into scraps of orange peel.
“Don’t!” a shabby boy lingering across the street yelled as the drunk aimed a second kick.
“Do see what the problem is,” she asked Sergeant Rokan.
“What you about, then?” he called, urging his horse ahead and tapping the hilt of his sword. Whether it was that or the maniacal smile he adopted at the first sign of trouble, the drunks took one look at his broad chest and skittered down the street. It was telling the boy let him close to within five paces before darting into shadow.
“Get you home, boy,” Rokan growled, dismounting. He squatted to check the miscreant for signs of life.
“He’s in porrin’s bliss.”
“Then bring him along,” Jordayne said with a sigh. The day the populace adopted the term porrin’s curse she would proclaim an annual day of celebration.
Her trusted sergeant hefted the unconscious man onto his horse. Wasted and sour smelling, the addict was too deep in the drug’s grip to so much as groan at his rough treatment. A wave of her hand directed half her guards into the tavern to ferret out the dealer. The remainder escorted her into deepening night.
The two-storey hospice, purpose-built to her specifications, boasted a manicured garden with a canal that gleamed in the moonlight. The sick, Jordayne believed, required a peaceful setting to convalesce. What they did not need were spiked gates to restrict their access to the best physicians in the land. At least three major moons had passed since she had visited this project, choosing instead to summon physicians and builders to the palace. It seemed that timesaving measure had been a monumental mistake. She wondered what other developments would try her patience tonight. A quick word with her guards had them dismantling the bar
rier as soon as the yawning beanstalk of a watchman admitting her party.
“Hold,” the sluggish man ordered as she started to the main door.
Jordayne turned in her saddle, ready with a cutting remark. Just as well the word had been directed at the grubby, dusty-haired boy from the tavern. Ignoring the command, he ducked through the gates and around the watchman, determined to follow her in.
“I’m with her,” the boy said pointing at Jordayne, a cheeky confidence on his oval face.
“Then don’t dawdle,” she snapped. “And you,” she addressed the dismayed watchman, who was rather entertaining in his aimless fumble with his sword now she had sanctioned the big, bad enemy, “have the honour of personally escorting every patient who arrives at this entrance to a physic.”
Such was her ire, she trotted right up the white gravel path, unaffected by the rustle of the towering palms and ignoring the grinning boy with the protruding ears who ran alongside.
“Bin tryin’ to get in for three days,” he said as Rokan knocked on the bolted door.
“I’ve been trying,” she corrected absently, dismounting.
“I’ve succeeded now,” he said with a cocky thrust of his pointed chin.
“Indeed,” she replied, appreciating his quickness. She spared him a look. Thin, but not gaunt, with brown eyes that remained suspicious of the people they alighted on, he seemed a hale twelve years.
“What business have you here at this hour?” Druce asked.
“Any hour’s fine if I get in,” the child replied, pulling up a sleeve. The crude bandage he had tied around his arm was bloodstained and dirty.
“You might not do that yet,” Rokan growled. He pounded on the door.
At last, a harried, greying fellow opened up. “Lady Jordayne,” he said, his worry wrinkles smoothing as he bowed. She recognised him as one of the senior physicians. Judging by the dark circles ringing his eyes and the waxen cast to his face, he might well have been in need of a colleague’s attention.