Dagger of Bone

by R. K. Thorne

  He headed up the main mansion steps. The doors were propped open due to the heat, the main foyer empty and cavernous and refreshingly cool with its stone floors and walls. He crossed the great room and stopped just short of the two guards on either side of the arch leading to the atrium.

  “What do you want, Obsidian?” grunted the guard.

  Not much decorum, that one. She frowned at him, and he suddenly perked up, noticing her behind the young man.

  Their visitor missed it, however, as his dark form was bowing deeply. “I seek an audience with Clan Leader Cerivil.”

  “Who requests it?”

  “Nyalin moLinali.”

  Still catching up with him, she tripped on the carpet at the words. MoLinali? MoLinali?

  “Right away!” The guard leapt to his feet and dashed into the atrium and toward the great dais in the center.

  She reached his side. “Wait. You’re the son of—?”

  He pursed his lips and crossed his arms. “Oh, so that would have changed things?”

  “No,” she said, defiant. Her cheeks flamed red.

  “Right. Sure. Okay.”

  She opened her mouth but couldn’t seem to force out a stubborn lie. It probably would have changed things. What did that mean?

  “Don’t deny it.”

  She hated him all the more for calling her on it. “Fine. Maybe I would have been a tad more polite.”

  “Maybe you should—”

  He stopped as the guard reappeared, impressively fast. “The clan leader will see you now.”

  He gave her a triumphant grin that made something weird twist in her insides. Those eyes were even more intense when they were amused. “Maybe you should be polite to people no matter who their mothers are.”

  She snorted. “That’s a rich thing for an Obsidian to say.”

  “Nyalin moLinali.” The guard cleared his throat, and the young man—Nyalin—started forward. “Right this way. And, uh, you should know she’s like that with everyone.”

  She cackled as his grin faded a little at the guard’s words. Perhaps she should be chastising the man, but the comment was gratifying. “He’s right, you know. I’m equally rude to everyone. Venerable mothers or no.”

  “Well, I suppose that’s allowable then. And here I thought I was special.” He faked disappointment well. His long, puppy-eyed look made her heart twist in her chest a second time. What was it about him?

  Cheeks heating further, she cursed her skin. What the hell was she blushing over? “Well, I… I’m not always rude while standing in a tree. Perhaps that makes you feel better?”

  “Doesn’t.”

  “It really should.”

  “Do you need my insults to be special? I should think sons of great mages are special enough.”

  “I…” He blinked. “I’m not…”

  The guard laughed. “Only the daughters of clan leaders get to be rude while standing in trees, I guess. Us lowly guards have to content ourselves with doorways.”

  His eyebrows rose, and she hoped he’d trip in surprise, falter, something. But he just kept walking, cool as ever. She squished her lips together and resolved to get under his skin. She’d find a way somehow.

  Wait—no. He was Obsidian Clan, she was Bone. She’d likely not see him again after today.

  Well, then, she had best make use of what time she had to ruffle his feathers. Although it meant she’d likely end up in class, she rushed after him to hear what he had to say to her father.

  The girl—Cerivil’s daughter?—kept at his heels, which of course only poured acid on Nyalin’s already jangled nerves. Hopefully she wouldn’t throw another punch or insult at him while he was trying to get his point out without stuttering. As if a respected clan leader and one of his mother’s oldest friends wasn’t intimidating enough, he had to brave this girl and her wild mane of hair and eyes like sparks ready to start a brush fire.

  Small trees and shrubs hugged the manor on all sides of the inner garden atrium. A dusky wooden platform rose at the center from a lush sea of green leaves, dark needles, and red and purple blossoms. Cerivil congregated with a small group of students, all within a few years of his eighteen summers. Each person knelt or sat cross-legged, concentrating on bowls of sand before them. Cerivil sat before them on a little stool, whittling at a stick with a small knife.

  Nyalin took the short set of six stairs before his companion could beat him to it, reaching Cerivil just before her.

  Not one to be outdone, she called out from behind him. “Da!” She cleared her throat. “You have a guest.”

  Cerivil’s bushy eyebrows rose at the exuberant edge to her voice, but then a grin broke across his face as his eyes landed on him. “Nyalin. What a nice surprise.” His voice was gentle, warm as he sheathed his knife. Cerivil’s short brown linen crossover and robe were much the same as the last time Nyalin had seen him, but the clan leader’s back was a bit more stooped, his belly a bit more round, his face a bit more wrinkled. A neat brown beard was new and accompanied by a smattering of gray.

  In addition to Cerivil’s attention, all the other students were eying Nyalin too. Eyes that seemed to bore into his head. He pretended not to notice.

  “Lara, glad you’re feeling better,” Cerivil added. He held out the stick he’d been whittling; he’d transformed it into a simple rugged flower.

  Her face lit up with a smile as she took it. “Thanks, Da.”

  “Joining us?”

  “Sure.” She tucked the twig behind her ear, circled around the students, and headed toward the back. She hadn’t been headed to class as far as he could tell. She was only here because she’d been tailing him. Some sort of slacker then? She didn’t seem the type. A mystery, that’s what she was.

  And he was staring.

  Cerivil’s hand clapped down on his shoulder a moment later, making him jump. Nyalin remembered himself and bowed low, which was quickly cut short by a crushing hug and several hearty back slaps. “Strength to you, Clan Leader Cerivil,” he grunted under the onslaught, using the proper formal Obsidian greeting, although he hated to further remind their onlookers that he wore black and all the arrogant nonsense that went with it. “It’s good to see you too.”

  “And luck to you, Nyalin!”

  “Is this a bad time? I should come back—”

  “Not at all. If I have to watch these fine students stare at sand any longer, I’m going to fall asleep. Could I trouble you to join me over a cup of tea while they work? I can only find so many ladies to accept my woodcraft handiwork.”

  He grinned. “If you’re sure I’m not interrupting.”

  Cerivil shook his head. “Not at all. Come along.”

  He eyed the group as he followed Cerivil, if only to force some of them to stare at their work instead of him. One student sitting toward the front, though, met his gaze rather than dodging it. The young man had to be about his age, with black hair and a strong jaw. Nyalin stared back. There was no way he was going to drop his gaze in the contest of stares that ensued, but he wanted to shake his head. He got enough of these looks from Raelt. Nyalin was no one to fight with or posture around. Why did so many men not see that?

  A clatter and shout beside his challenger drew both their gazes before one of them could win. A bowl of sand rocked sideways and dumped its contents onto the student’s shoe.

  Nyalin was careful not to look back. Instead, he simply followed Cerivil to a sheltered area on the far end of the platform, where trees and a canvas shade pulled taut to filter out the sun slanting down into the atrium. Lara had settled down with the other students in front of a bowl of her own, hands floating palms down over the substance. Something was taking shape there, but he couldn’t quite make it out yet.

  Water bubbled vigorously nearby, loudly enough that low voices would be lost in the background. Artful. The Bone Clan leader could say what he wished while still keeping an eye on his students. Cerivil gestured for Nyalin to sit down near the low table, and he complied, curling
his legs under him.

  “How is your family?” he asked, trying to keep up with the polite manners he so rarely got to practice. If only he could have just written a letter, stayed in his library, and avoided people altogether. Elix truly hated him.

  The crease in Cerivil’s brow alerted him right away that something had happened. And of course. He should have realized—why else would Cerivil’s daughter be crying in a graveyard? Someone must be dead. “Well, you met my daughter, Lara,” he said slowly.

  Nyalin nodded. “Briefly, yes.”

  “Did she tell you her brother has, uh, gone on?”

  The polite term for death—her brother had journeyed on to the next world. No one knew how many worlds there were, or even if any of the others truly existed, but the nuns of the shrines taught that there were many pairs. Each world had its mirrored afterworld, and the pairs were linked in an endless sequence of greater refinement and evolution. Souls journeyed through the sequence. Or so the faithful believed.

  “I’m so sorry to hear that, Clan Leader,” Nyalin said.

  “Call me Cerivil. Your mother did, so should you.”

  “My condolences on your loss. No, she didn’t tell me.” Although perhaps he should have asked. If he hadn’t been so busy being flippant or breezing past her when she asked him questions, maybe he would have found that out before.

  Cerivil raised his eyebrows. “That’s interesting. She usually doesn’t let anyone forget it.” He shook his head and ran a hand over tired features, looking thoughtful. Then he reached beside him, opened a cabinet, and removed a tray with a teapot and cups, already steaming.

  Nyalin blinked, then smiled. “That was quick.”

  “What good is magic if you don’t use it, boy?” Cerivil said, his eyes laughing. “This tea set is well enchanted and has earned its keep. Spiced or green?”

  “Green, please.”

  “I like to keep my tea steaming, especially for welcome visitors. Much worse things to use magic for.”

  “It’s funny you should say that,” Nyalin said slowly, urging himself on, “because that’s sort of why I came to talk to you.” He frowned at the unease in his voice.

  Cerivil arched a bushy eyebrow. “You came to talk about tea?” He handed a cup to Nyalin.

  “Heh, no.” His short laugh was high and thin as he swirled the green liquid and searched for words. He took a sip to stall for time; the tea was smooth and hot and a little bitter on his tongue. Perfect. “About magic.”

  “What about it?”

  How could he put this? It was going to be painful no matter what. He might as well just get it over with. “Elix says that I have no magic.” And he thought the tea was bitter.

  Cerivil’s eyebrows rose and froze in place. “Surely you’re not serious.”

  “Oh, I’m very serious. He won’t put it in exactly those words, though. He says that he has searched for a long time and that it’d be a waste of resources to teach me.”

  “He—he forbade your teaching?”

  He nodded. “Grel appealed to the council. Defied his father for me.”

  “He’s a better man than they deserve.”

  “One of the best, I think. But the council formally ruled this morning. The Obsidian Council has ‘declined to enroll me in that path.’ ”

  “Does the emperor know of this?” Cerivil said.

  He took a sip of tea as he shrugged. “If the emperor cared, he wouldn’t have sent me to live with Elix in the first place.”

  Cerivil scowled. “That’s not so, Nyalin. Doesn’t he come to see you often?”

  “He comes to see Elix often. I’m usually there.”

  “He speaks often of you. And it wasn’t like that,” Cerivil continued. “When the emperor placed you with Elix… Elix wasn’t always like this, you must understand. Vanae, yes, but not Elix. Must be her influence.” Cerivil seemed caught between alarm and disgust. “That diamond-eating daughter of a serpent. And Elix is the diamond. And a power-hoarding fool.”

  “Power? I haven’t got any power to take from him.”

  Cerivil patted one fist against his palm. “Your name is power. He wants you in his pocket, but not able to climb out. This is irresponsible of him, after all the trust Emperor Pavan has put in him. It’s lower than I thought he would sink, to be honest. Really, Nyalin, Emperor Pavan could not have known how Elix would turn out, you shouldn’t blame him. I would never have guessed. When we were younger, when your mother was alive, Elix was… a much different man.”

  Nyalin looked away. Everything had been different when his mother was alive. Mostly better, it seemed, except for the war. His mother had helped the emperor bring about a surprising and lasting peace—at least with their external foes. The clans still fought among themselves a little, but for now they were united against others. Nyalin waved off the subject. “It doesn’t matter now. He is who he is. I came hoping for—I’d like to—Well, I’d wondered if you could give me a second opinion.”

  “A second opinion?”

  “Do you think he’s right, Cerivil? That I have no magic at all?”

  “No.”

  “I’m not so sure.”

  “No, you must. What he’s saying is impossible. How could it happen? Linali—”

  “Elix says it must be my father’s blood.”

  Cerivil snorted, his lip curling. “That jealous, horse-arsed bastard.”

  Nyalin blinked at the intensity in the older man’s voice and refrained from pointing out that it was Nyalin who was the bastard.

  “You know, everyone supposed Pavan put you with him because he was your father. I should have pointed that out long ago. I thought it somewhat obvious.”

  He stilled. Did people really think that?

  “Oh, very few accused him to his face. But most of us suspected it. Many also suspected me, but I can assure you that’s not the case. Not that I would have denied your mother, but she never offered. And I was just starting to fall for the love of my life then.”

  He wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to know this. “Well, I have a feeling it wasn’t Elix either at this point. He’s been far from fatherly.”

  “Hmm,” Cerivil grumbled, as if he were trying to solve some puzzle. The puzzle of Nyalin’s parentage perhaps? The clan leader seemed to notice his impatient stare. “Ah. It doesn’t matter. Even if your unknown father had no magic at all, it still wouldn’t make sense that you lack magic. Magic is dominant in offspring, nearly always passed down. We have many mages with only one parent with the talent.”

  He leaned forward now, set his cup down. “Cerivil, if I knew for sure that I had magic, if I could prove it… then Elix would have to teach me. Right?” And the Raven monastery would have to let him in. Not that that would motivate Cerivil much.

  The clan leader’s face sobered. After a long moment, he nodded. “I see. While I can’t guarantee any action on his part, it can’t hurt to look. I’m sure it would also give you peace of mind to know for sure.”

  Nyalin nodded, stomach churning.

  Cerivil set his jaw. “Lara!” he called back to the students.

  By the way her head snapped up sharply, she’d been paying a little too much attention to their conversation. She strode over, grinning at the invitation. “Yes, Da?”

  “I need your assistance for a moment, dear, for a quick procedure with our friend Nyalin here.”

  Procedure? Now? With her? “Surely it can wait—” he started, his eyes on Lara.

  “No need. They’ll be working with sand for weeks!” Cerivil said. “Besides, she’s been missing a few classes due to our mutual sorrow over our loss. Another won’t hurt.”

  Lara ducked her head as she knelt next to Nyalin, not meeting anyone’s eye.

  “I was sorry to hear of your loss,” he rushed to say. “I hadn’t heard.”

  She shook herself, as if visibly throwing off the emotion—and his condolences. “I figured.”

  Cerivil gave her a soft smile, then looked at Nyalin. “What she m
eans to say is, thank you for the condolences.”

  He swallowed. His palms were starting to sweat. This wasn’t exactly how he’d imagined this going.

  “Okay, Nyalin, just lean back here.” Cerivil indicated an open area to the side of the low tea table. “That’s it. Rest your head. Some people lose consciousness temporarily. Are you ready?”

  “Lose consciousness? Elix never tried anything like that.” he said, hoping his voice didn’t falter noticeably as he settled further on his back between Cerivil and Lara.

  This was stupid, wasn’t it? By the Twins, he was a fool. No, he should bite his tongue. The twin goddesses worshipped within the Empire wouldn’t appreciate being invoked for this pointless, pathetic attempt. If Raelt or Elix were here, they’d be laughing him out of the room—er, courtyard. He didn’t have magic. Now he would find that out in front of a bonus audience. Nothing good could come of this. And what had made him think that the Bone Clan could find his magic when the Obsidian, the greatest of clans, could not? When the dark dragon herself couldn’t find it?

  “Every clan has different techniques for identifying talent, Nyalin, even if we all wield the same magic.” Cerivil raised his bushy eyebrows. “Ready?”

  He swallowed again, squirmed one last time, and nodded.

  Cerivil took one of his hands, Lara the other. Her tanned skin was rough against his, his hand cradling between hers, their fingertips brushing.

  Balls, he was staring again. He forced his eyes to the ceiling.

  A strange flicker twinged in the back of his skull, like a spark of lightning or the snap of a tree branch. His fingers between hers twitched, curled for a moment. Something deep in his head stirred.

  He risked one more glance at Lara, who was now frowning. A strange feeling washed through him. Exuberance. Pure and vibrant energy. Life.

  “Is this… part of the procedure?” he muttered, mostly at her.

  She met his gaze, and her lips parted, but she said nothing.

  Cerivil laid his hand on Nyalin’s forehead. “Let us begin.”

  Hmm, apparently not.

  “Close your eyes,” murmured Cerivil.

  He squeezed them shut.