“Tamaryl,” said Ewan quietly.
Power swelled within the room, crackling through their robes and rustling papers on the desk. The shape of the boy Tam expanded and shredded into light, and a winged Ryuven stood in his place.
Tamaryl stepped forward, clasping Ewan close once more. “Goodbye, my lord mage. May we never meet again.” He turned and faced Ariana. “My lady.”
She caught his wrist. “I….”
He bent swiftly and kissed her, surprising her with both action and intensity. But it ended as quickly as it began, leaving her with the taste of him and a tingling of power on her lips. Then he pulled backward. “I love you both,” he said, looking between them. “Goodbye.”
The air stretched and cracked with the opening between worlds, and then Tamaryl was gone. Ariana’s ears popped as she stared at where he had been.
There was a tumult outside the door. Ewan turned, raising his hands for calm, as the door flung open and mages and soldiers pushed inside. “It’s all right,” he called over their excited voices. “Everything’s fine. He’s gone now, and he did not succeed in taking the Shard.”
The generalized anxiety subsided, and the crowd settled to discussing the near disaster. “Not a moment too soon for the Shield,” Elysia Parma muttered. “The audacity of coming into the Wheel!”
“It will be only a few minutes, now,” Ewan soothed her.
But Ariana wondered if it were too soon. She would never again see the Ryuven world, Maru, Tamaryl. She pressed her tingling lips together as they left the White Mage’s office. Her father brushed away questions, protesting that the recreation of the shield took priority over discussion of a Ryuven already banished.
In the cellar, the White Mage knelt before the Shard of Elan and emptied a vial over it. Dark, viscous liquid seeped over the Shard and sank unnaturally into the crystal—Ryuven blood, against which the shield would harmonize. Then he walked to his designated position, straightening his robes. This time Ariana took her place among the Circle, and at her father’s signal they began as one, carving signs from the air.
The iridescent indigo hemisphere appeared, solidified, expanded. Ariana felt a ripple of recalled terror and shoved it away; she had to concentrate on her task. It wouldn’t do to stumble in her first formal charge as Black Mage, and in something so important and visible as the shield-making.
And then the shield rushed outward, running past them and over the kingdom, and the magic was finished. The mages let their arms drop, tired and drained, as a cheer went up around the room. Ariana smiled and took a step toward her father, surprised as she staggered a little. The effort had required more than she’d thought.
The White Mage smiled and nodded, exchanging comments and congratulations, as he made his way toward Ariana. “How do you feel?” he asked her, slipping an arm around her shoulders.
Tired, Ariana meant to answer, but her voice said, “I wish we hadn’t.”
Quickly her father pulled her close. “I know,” he whispered, his voice husky. “I’ll miss him, too. You can’t imagine how much I came to rely upon him, and—and he was a good friend, for all that he was Pairvyn ni’Ai.” He gave her a final squeeze. “I think Elysia has ordered refreshment. She must have remembered it’s a difficult working.” He left his arm about her shoulders and they ascended the stairs.
To Be Continued
Blood & Bond
Kin & Kind
Author's Note
Please, don’t anyone in our modern world rely upon our heroes’ protocol for treating hypothermia! Young Shianan was lucky, but it’s astonishing Luca survived. We can attribute that miracle to a strong dose of Ewan Hazelrig’s fantastic magic and the overwhelming juggernaut of authorial necessity. So much physical handling might have stopped his bradycardic heart, killing him rather more permanently. And of course, Luca’s resistance to such subsequent nuisances as pneumonia may be best laid to his arcane treatment; without Mage Hazelrig, he would not have fared so well.
Many good things can be learned from fiction, but there are far safer and more effective methods in our modern and mundane world for warming a hypothermic individual than a steaming bath.
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Preview of Blood & Bond
Shianan hesitated in the sheltering shadow of a corner, a few paces from where traffic streamed steadily through the torch-lit doors. He glanced down at his formal clothing and tugged fretfully at it, making the metallic gold and silver geometric bands in his unaccustomed doublet flash with reflected firelight. The overlapping belts, one black leather tooled with indigo and one with burgundy, shifted unfamiliarly over his hips without the weight of a weapon.
It was too much, really. The entire ensemble had been a gift from his majordomo and new estate of Fhure when Shianan had come into possession of a title, but it was too extravagant for a mere commander. Even now as a count, Shianan had little reason to wear formal or rich attire; he appeared at court functions rarely and briefly, and more often present in a military capacity than in his comital rank. He had put away the fancy trappings and nearly forgotten them.
But he could not appear in his usual serviceable gear to such an invitation as this, and he had retrieved the bundled outfit from the rear of a chest. It fit well enough and was not far out of fashion, and it was his only hope to be admitted gracefully. But….
He adjusted the cape’s textured edge and fidgeted once more with the pointed collar, his fingernail flicking a tiny dangling stone. He wasn’t sure he wanted to be here at all, in these clothes or any other. But royal invitations were not to be spurned. He straightened, exhaled, and started for the entrance.
“Commander,” said a familiar voice. “Good evening.”
Shianan looked over the collar at General Septime with a weakening stab of embarrassing relief. “Oh, sir, good evening. I’m glad to see you.”
Septime nodded at the guards flanking the door as they passed together. A second rush of relief swept through Shianan; he’d been half-afraid someone would challenge his right to enter. But the general was unconcerned.“You, too, commander. I didn’t know if you’d come.”
“I received an invitation,” Shianan answered too quickly. Steady, he warned himself. No need to be defensive.
“Of course.” Septime paused as a brightly-dressed slave appeared to take his cloak. “I only meant I hadn’t pegged you for a dancing man.”
Shianan chewed at his lip. “Perhaps I only haven’t had the opportunity.” There had been few dances at the frontier outpost, after all, and few women to partner.
But there were women here. The great hall was filled with people, dazzling in their finery and bright with laughter. In the center, the elite swayed and dipped to the merry music provided by liveried musicians in the balcony above, as encircling courtiers joked or gossiped or complimented or politicked or observed or posed. It was a brilliant and terrifying scene.
Septime had already moved into the crowd, greeting and laughing with acquaintances. Shianan blinked into the hall, suddenly quite alone. A part of him wanted to flee, to return to the dark night and grieve for Luca and stay safely away from this unfamiliar gaiety. But another part of him wanted to remain, to see what might be in this strange and fascinating society.
He moved hesitantly through the crowded room, smiling faces gliding past him on either side, and took refuge in the lee of a decorated column. Around him the music played, and people laughed and called to one another. He pushed his shoulder against the column and watched, trying to look as if he were waiting for someone.
“Your Highness!” A lady gestured for Soren to join their group. “Come and see what Glynde has brought!”
Soren allowed himself to be drawn in, as he liked Glynde and his friends. “What have you found us now, Glynde?”
“Look at this.” Glynde offered a stiffened paper to him. “What do you see?”
It seemed to be a mash of black and red, dots and lines swirled together. Soren frowned. “Nothing much. Perhaps an accident at the colored glass workshop.”
“Ha, the glass workshop!” Several in the group giggled more than the weak jest deserved, and Soren found himself annoyed.
Glynde shook his head with a smile. “No accident, and how curious that you mentioned colored glass.”
“Now try these!” urged a girl—young Lady Fanshawe?—as she thrust binocles at him, set with pale red glass.
Soren held up the binocles, feeling faintly foolish, and looked at the paper. The red ink was muted by the glass, and now he could see a leaping horse. He was impressed despite himself. “Very clever,” he said. “Where did these come from? Who thought of such a thing?”
“There’s a craftsman in my march who first brought them to me,” Glynde explained. “Very clever, as you say. Here, look at this one.”
Again, viewed by itself, the card was an uninteresting blur. But with the colored binocles, Soren saw a lady having her hair coiffed by a slave.
A surreptitious nudge at his arm interrupted his viewing and he glanced over his shoulder to glimpse Ethan. He nodded and turned back, presenting the card and binocles to Glynde with a smile. “Duty calls,” he said lightly, and he withdrew from the group amid a flurry of bows and curtsies.
Ethan waited a short distance away at the edge of the wide stair landing. He handed Soren a fresh goblet of wine and murmured, “He’s here, my lord.”
“Where?” Soren looked over the hall from their vantage point. It was hard to distinguish a single face in the blur of dancing and socializing.
“At the far end. Near the oak leaf column.”
“There! I see.” Soren took a drink of the wine. Shianan looked lost, even at this distance. “How long has he been there?”
“He came only a few minutes ago. I had his arrival from a slave taking cloaks.”
Soren nodded. “I have another task first. Keep an eye on him, if you would, please. I’ll want to find him later.”
Ethan made his typical small bow and Soren left him. He threaded his way down the stairs, as much a gathering place now as a means of ascent or descent, and moved through the crowd. Along the way he smiled and nodded and promised to return, never pausing as he worked toward the knot alongside the dancers.
“Your Highness!” A hand landed on his arm, a bit forward for catching the attention of the prince-heir. “Will you join us? Maria has just wagered that Barstow will—”
“I beg your pardon,” Soren inserted politely. “I’m on my way to my lord father. Could I come back to you in a few minutes, perhaps?”
He slid into the cluster of courtiers that marked the king’s presence and smiled his way to the center. He seized a moment when his father was taking a drink and leaned conspiratorially close. “That was well done, Father.”
King Jerome glanced at him. “What’s that?”
“Bailaha’s here. That will clear up any questions regarding your faith in his innocence and his commission.” Soren nodded approvingly. If manipulation was a tool of royal governance, he would use it toward his own end and the general benefit. “I hadn’t thought myself of how to reassure the court and troops of your trust in him after the trial, but this will quell any rumor. That was brilliant.”
“He’s here?” King Jerome’s eyes jerked about them. He kept his voice low. “Where—”
“Didn’t you think he’d heed your invitation? He’s there, at the end, by the column. Waiting for someone to join him, by the look of—”
“I didn’t send for him,” whispered the king.
Soren knew that. “You didn’t? Someone must have supposed you meant to. And it will only help—”
“Get him out.” Jerome’s hand fell heavily on Soren’s arm. “Your mother’s here.”
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Also by Laura VanArendonk Baugh
Kitsune Tales
Kitsune-Tsuki
The Lonely Frost
Kitsune-Mochi
The Shard of Elan
Shard & Shield
Blood & Bond
Standalone
Fired Up, Frantic, and Freaked Out: Training Crazy Dogs from Over the Top to Under Control
Smoke and Fears
Con Job
So To Honor Him: the Magi and the Drummer
Bait
The Songweaver's Vow
Social, Civil, and Savvy: Training and Socializing Puppies to Become the Best Possible Dogs
Circles & Crossroads: Two Robin Archer Tales
Watch for more at Laura VanArendonk Baugh’s site.
Shard & Shield Page 47