by R. K. Thorne
“Let them.” His brother waved a hand at the air. “They’re stuck with me, whether they like it or not. I’m not going to turn my eyes when they pull this bullshit later. They might as well get used to it.”
That was Grel—always pissing on politics for the sake of principle. “You will need to cooperate with their whims sometimes. Someday. Or the lot of you will never get anything done.”
“Well, I don’t need to start trying to impress them or build cooperation over this. It’s not right, and you know it. I would rather fight them on this than abide by it—I have to be able to sleep at night.”
“I understand. If you were clan leader already, this would all be a lot easier.”
“Yes, but unfortunately the sword smith turned me down for a sword again. And of course, my father is still alive, the old coot.”
“You don’t mean that,” he said quickly, his chair stumbling forward. “And—I didn’t mean it like that either.” Much as the decision was idiotic and ensured Nyalin would never join the Order of the Raven, let alone become a swordmage, he didn’t wish death on someone just to get some education. Even if that someone was Elix.
“Of course I don’t. I want him to live to a ripe old age. But I’d also love it if he didn’t do stupid shit like forbidding the teaching of the son of the greatest mage who has ever lived.”
His face flushed hot. Thankfully the restaurant was empty, so he didn’t need to endure curious stares. He didn’t feel like the son of a great mage. He felt like an orphan who’d grown up mooching off his rich benefactors and turned out not to have any magic anyway. He was an investment that had not panned out, at best. At worst, an embarrassment. And truth be told, a small part of him was relieved. He had never wanted to be a pawn in Elix’s game. But he wasn’t going to tell Grel that, especially when his brother had no choice but to play.
He tried to shrug it off. “It’s not his fault I’ve got no talent.”
“That’s horse shit, and you know it.” Grel stabbed a finger at him. “Even he won’t say for sure.”
“Didn’t stop the council from saying as much.”
“Too bad the Order of the Raven won’t accept anything but a straight answer.”
“They’re picky like that.” He hid behind a gulp of his beer. His oldest brother—the only member of his foster family who’d always loved him and treated him like family—had always been surer of Nyalin’s abilities than he was himself. He tried not to argue with someone who believed in him, but it wasn’t easy to do when this particular subject came up.
“There has to be something you can do,” Grel grumbled.
Nyalin shrugged. “Do you think they accept sons of great mages at brewing school? At least I could drink my woes away more cheaply.”
“Maybe you can find a sexy bladed woman to teach you in secret.” Grel’s eyes twinkled over a sip from his mug.
“Sounds dangerous. What about baked goods? Dalas could teach me.” The house baker had always treated him with more care and kindness than anyone but Grel, and the scent of blackberries still hung in his mind.
Grel snorted. “You’re not giving up that easily.”
“Oh, come on, Grel. What choice do I have?”
“Do you want to give up?” His brother leaned back and folded his arms across his chest, eying Nyalin.
He sighed. “No. I can’t bear that my mother sacrificed everything for it to end like this. I just don’t see what else I can do. Teaching myself hasn’t worked. None of them can find my magic. What if they’re right? What if I am a dud?” They were, of course. They had to be. “I need to give up on all this and just find something else.” Something meaningful, even if it wasn’t magic.
“First of all, you’re not a dud. Second of all, even if you were, with your lineage, they should still spend ten more years checking, just to be sure. Especially since they’re not sure.”
“I wish I had your confidence in me.” He downed another, possibly overzealous gulp of beer.
“Why are you giving up?”
“I’m not, it’s just… I think they are sure. It just hurts their bragging rights to admit it. They don’t want people to know that I’m not what everyone hoped. If they don’t say anything for sure, then the potential for another great mage is still there. News of my failure can’t spread.”
Grel’s face fell. “That’s… plausible. You’ve thought a lot about this.”
“Yes.”
“But with this—it could spread now. The council always was a bit overzealous. Perhaps my father hoped to keep them to a nonanswer as well but failed.” Grel sighed. “You always were the more politically perceptive one.”
Nyalin shrugged. “Hasn’t done me much good, though, has it?”
“Listen. I have an idea. But I’m only telling you if you are not actually beaten and hoping to give up.”
“I’m not giving up, damn you.” He set the tankard down with a thud. “What is it? I’ll try anything.”
“You sure you don’t want to spend your days baking fruit pies?”
“Dalas has kept me sane, but my mother didn’t die birthing me so I could make a better fruit pie.”
“That’s more like it.”
“Tell me your idea, damn it.”
Grel grinned. “Go to one of the other clans.”
Nyalin stared at him. “Excuse me? I must have misheard you. Either that, or you just went insane.”
“Get a second opinion. My father and the council will not be easily convinced. But if it’s appearances they care about, use it against them. Except instead of telling people you’re a dud, you’re going to tell them the Obsidians are too foolish to truly search for your magic. You’ll ask for their help, and you’ll get it. Maybe they’ll succeed where Elix and I failed. And if changing the council’s mind is possible at this point, your best bet would be another clan leader’s opinion.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Elix would kill me.”
“Exactly. If your theory is right, maybe embarrassing him is just the ticket. But he won’t kill you. I won’t let him.”
“Do you really think they’d talk to me?”
Grel nodded gravely. “Any of them would. Even without magic, it’d be a slight to Elix that any of them would benefit from. You’re the politician—am I wrong?”
Nyalin winced. “What a label.”
“C’mon.”
“You’re not wrong. And that doesn’t bother you to suggest it?”
“Not at all. He brought it on himself.” His brother folded his arms across his chest. “My only question is which clan.”
The girl from that morning flashed through his mind. Razor-sharp wit in those fiery, hurting eyes, and a wealth of beauty besides… Who was the leader of the Bone Clan?
“What about Cerivil?” he blurted.
His brother clapped his hands and leaned forward. “I like it. I mean, you’d be starting at the bottom.”
“But Cerivil is the one most likely to help,” he said, rubbing his chin and turning the idea over in his mind. Cerivil had always kept track of Nyalin, writing and visiting now and then. Cerivil and Nyalin’s mother had been friends, and some had speculated possibly more than friends. That was only wild speculation; he’d searched high and low for clues as to who his father was, but nothing he’d found had pointed to the Bone Clan. All clues he’d found indicated the man was likely an Obsidian and somehow connected to the Order of the Raven.
Hence where he needed to go next. Where he’d planned to go if Elix would just pronounce him a swordmage and fit for teaching—or not. He didn’t particularly care if he joined the monastery or not, but he wanted answers. And how else was he going to make a living?
If Cerivil had been his father, what reason would he have for hiding it? He could have just said so, and the prestige he would have gained would have been beyond worth it. No, it was more likely that his father, whoever he was, either didn’t know or had something to hide.
“Yes, I agree. And he has the most t
o gain. And besides, everyone knows Cerivil is talented beyond his birth. He’s also widely respected for his honesty,” Grel mused.
Nyalin nodded and then stated the obvious. “But he’s… not particularly high in social standing.”
“That will work in your favor if he’s more willing to help. And it’s a very humble choice. No one can accuse you of self-importance there. Of course, some of the stupider council members will ignore him based on his clan alone, but… Father won’t. He respects Cerivil. If Cerivil proves your magic exists and Father refuses to listen to even him… well, then, that would be beyond rational.”
He hesitated. Elix had never seemed particularly rational to him, but he didn’t point that out to his brother now. “So… you think I should talk to him?”
Grel smiled and shrugged. “Well, what have you got to lose? The worst he can say is no.”
He laughed. “Not like I haven’t heard that before. Okay—I’ll go tomorrow.”
“Nyalin.” Grel’s fingers drummed along the side of the tankard.
“What?”
“I know you too well.” His brother eyed him.
“What?”
“Go today. Go right now, or it’ll be weeks before you work up the nerve.”
Nyalin glared at him and then took another gulp of beer. Grel was right, he was already shying away from the idea. Asking Cerivil, the leader of the weakest clan under the emperor, to consider butting heads with someone like Elix… it was no small request.
If it were just about him, he wouldn’t bother. Dalas could certainly teach him how to bake. And to enjoy it, even.
But it wasn’t just about him. Someone other than Grel had maybe loved him once, even if only while he’d been in her belly. It was about her.
And about getting answers. Cerivil might be the only person who could give him that.
“All right, fine. I’ll split the difference with you. Tomorrow first thing.”
Grel narrowed his eyes and took a sip. “I’ll be making sure of it.”
Lara’s hand hovered over the black velvet interior of the dagger case. Last chance to turn back. She still had time to think the better of this plan of hers.
She breathed deep the cold air that whistled through the armory. Outside, pale curtains flapped in the darkening evening breeze, the foyer empty as the guards rotated through their rounds. It would remain empty for about two minutes more.
She had that much time to decide.
In spite of being called the Bone Dagger, the small knife was not predominantly made of bone. The blade was the length of her hand, perhaps a bit longer, with a thin fuller down its center. The hilt was the ancient part—and the magical part—its lovely bone carved from the Bone Dragon’s own scales. The scale piece curved into a natural guard, or something close to one, but as handles went, it was not particularly practical. The design didn’t make much sense. Some bitter sword smith had probably deliberately undermined the balance, angry there was a magic more powerful than his own. The handle looked as likely to injure her hand as protect it in a fight.
She wasn’t supposed to know about these sorts of things. But Da had always doted on her, given her far more leeway than council members and fancy ladies said he should, especially after her mother had died. And now with the loss of her brother…
Well, it didn’t matter. With the way things were, Andius would put an end to all that.
There is no stopping Andius now.
Actually, Da wasn’t quite right about that one. She had this one idea to stop him. It was extreme. Desperate, even. Possibly a betrayal of her clan, her father, and all she held dear.
But doing nothing was worse—a betrayal of herself, one she wasn’t sure she’d survive.
She drew out the golden scarf she’d tucked inside her crossover and laid it over the dagger’s handle. She’d explored her options, racked her brain. This was all that was left.
The clan leader always carried the clanblade, but Myandrin’s death had thrown things awry. Da had already passed the blade down to Myandrin, leaving them in this awkward limbo where no one carried the clanblade. Other, wealthier clans made new blades from fresh scales for each new heir, but this one dagger had always been the royal blade. And there were no Bone sword smiths anymore anyway. The last had died decades ago. They could beseech one in another clan, but that would require trusting them a great deal. There was no sister clan they trusted that much; there had never seemed a need to find one.
And so now the blade awaited a new heir to be chosen. The new clan leader would take up the mantle before the hard of winter came, if not much, much sooner.
If there was no blade for him to take, however…
Then maybe he wouldn’t be able to become clan leader in the first place.
She glanced over her shoulder. The guards were still on their rotation. She had another minute, perhaps two. She raised her hand again over the hilt and the scarf she’d covered it with.
Did she really want to do this?
No one would suspect. She’d take it and ride out and bury it in the desert. Or at the bottom of a well. The theft would cause chaos, maybe hurt the clan. They’d be the only clan without a sacred clanblade. But they were already the lowest of the low. The Bone Dragon had already withdrawn most of its power two generations ago, for no reason she knew. What did it matter? They’d survive, as they always did. Maybe they’d be the better for it. Maybe new traditions would grow. Less stupid ones. Less cruel.
And if not? Maybe they’d kill her. Or send her into exile. She’d still end up ahead—and no possession of Andius’s.
Never that. No matter what, he wasn’t getting this dagger. Or her.
She lowered a hand and carefully gripped the hilt, keeping the cloth between her skin and the scale of bone. With her other hand, she shook open the sack she’d tied at her belt, the kind women used to carry flowers and market goods to and from home. Men couldn’t be asked to carry apples home to feed the family, of course. That was women’s work.
A fitting container for a dagger they insisted she could not have. She held the dagger over the bag and lowered it slowly. The cloth was slipping at this angle, but she needed it to prevent imprinting. No one was quite sure how the process of imprinting worked, and she wasn’t taking any chances. But dropping the dagger any faster might slice through the bottom and give her no way to smuggle it out, not to mention the noise it would make hitting the floor.
Just as the blade was halfway into the bag, footsteps shuffled out in the foyer. She jumped, ice shooting through her veins. Her startle caused the scarf to slip farther, the knife twisting in her grip. Rough bone brushed her sweaty fingers, cold to the touch. She gasped.
Well. Hello, daughter.
The blade dropped the last few inches, hitting the bottom with nothing but a soft swish, as if it were no sharper than her neglected hairbrush.
A sudden rush of wind hit her, the leathery flap of wings filling her ears. No—it wasn’t really hitting her. It was hitting her mind. Stars in a brilliant night’s sky flew past at an incredible speed. An upsurge, a spin, her stomach leaping into her throat—
And then it was gone.
“What was—” she started. But she clapped a hand over her mouth. Damn—where was the owner of those footsteps? The hall was silent now. And what the hell had just happened?
The imprinting? No—no, it couldn’t be. It required pomp and circumstance. Ritual, ceremony, calling upon the dragon to accept the new clan leader. It couldn’t be done so quickly. It couldn’t.
She mouthed silent curses as she closed the dagger case, hot tears pricking the corners of her eyes. If it was done, there really was no going back. If there ever had been. She would have to hope that her gut was mistaken, that imprinting took more than a brush of a fingertip across bone.
She tightened the drawstrings on her bag and hurried out. She had moments before the guards ended their rotation. She left the armory looking just as it had before. Her room was only a floor and a
few dozen paces away.
All too easily, it was done.
She shut the door of her room and leaned her back against the simple wood. Her bag and the dagger inside pressed against her knee, demanding further action, to finish the job. Her eyes caught on the black handkerchief where she’d dropped it beside her bed. It still vibrated hot with magic, its scent teasing her. His was something bright and fruity. Maybe lemon? Or no, blackberries? Something of the forest—not something any Bone Clan child knew much about. It was kind of nice.
Strange that the scent was so faint given the amount of power the handkerchief still held. She should tap it and use it for something more practical. Perhaps that was the intent, stored energy he was sharing with her? A pick-me-up for a low moment? Had he suspected she was a mage too? That would be even more strange, as she’d worn no visible charms or blades or other signs of being a swordmage. She hadn’t noticed such tools on him either, but she hadn’t been looking carefully.
The memory of his fingers brushing her cheek flashed in her mind. She covered the spot with her hand, savoring the memory, then shook it off. It’d be foolish to get worked up over a small bit of compassion, even with its rarity in this world.
A shame she’d probably never see him again. Or if she did pass him in the street years down the road, chances were she wouldn’t recognize him as the one who’d seen into her soul and lit a strange spark that even now was quietly smoldering, craving his touch on her cheek again.
What a ridiculous thing to be thinking about, after what she’d just done. She wouldn’t pass him in the street because she’d be dead.
My, she was being rash today. She sighed. Oh, well. It was a rash world.
She had work to do. The kind that required hiding one of the six most recognizable blades in the empire. She knelt beside her bed, drew out her chest of silk undergarments, and set to concealing the blade linked so inextricably with her fate.
“You should have been Elix’s wife.”
The fire crackled in the hearth. Unira wished it would crackle louder. Loud enough to drown out her father and his reminders of her failings. She’d been pretending to be too engrossed in the demonology book on her lap to hear him for about an hour, but it wasn’t shutting him up.