by R. K. Thorne
She lit the black candle beside the mirror and directed the view to Vanae.
Zama leaned in behind her, his face set in its grimmest expression, like one of Seluvae’s stone guardians perched on her shoulder. Truly formidable. His silver eyes seemed larger, yellower, more like a cat’s, and his fangs gleamed.
Vanae’s face shimmered into focus, and the woman gasped. “Lady Unira! And— By Seluvae, who is that?”
The words burst out of Vanae. The woman could get so sloppy when she was caught off guard. Or really anytime. It was all Unira could do not to yawn. She ignored the rude outburst.
Vanae fidgeted in the glass. “I— Have you heard the news? Got the message I sent?”
“I received no message,” Unira said coolly.
Vanae laughed, high and nervous. “I, uh, it’s on its way. I swear it.”
“I’m sure it is. But why don’t you tell me what you have to say yourself?”
“I—uh—” She paused, apparently gathering her wits, because she continued a little more evenly after that. “Nyalin. Linali’s son. He’s moved beyond my reach now.”
“How so?”
“He’s left the clan. Become a Bone, of all things.” She spat the word.
Unira rolled her eyes. So many Obsidians were so obsessed with status, but none more than Vanae. Unira herself could hardly fault the boy. Who wouldn’t want to do everything they could to wield magic?
Too bad nothing he did would help him.
“I believe you may have run out of usefulness,” Zama murmured, reaching slowly toward the mirror. At the last second, he glanced at Unira. She nodded her assent.
Vanae reeled back, sputtering, so he had to lunge forward, his arm plunging into the mirror up to his elbow. Unira fought the urge to laugh.
Zama ruled three afterworlds, yet he was so eager to help her with her problems. Sweet of him, really. Or perhaps he just loved frightening people. Still, he had more than just his helpfulness to recommend him—his clever silver eyes, his sexy fangs that bit demon magic hot and burning into her veins, and that glittering, evil smile. Hopefully all those traits would hang around for quite a while.
At least long enough for them to destroy an empire together. Yes. Together, they would set the world against itself watch it all crumble down.
Part of this plan included keeping Nyalin from a sword, and indeed from magic altogether. She knew what he was, even if the young man didn’t himself. Bladed, the boy would be an even greater risk.
So far, Vanae had succeeded in forcing Elix to keep the boy from being taught.
It would have been easiest to just have him killed. But Vanae had tried so many times. The fool was unbelievably, uncannily lucky. She had failed at it so often it was almost comical. But it really didn’t matter. It might have been vindicating to see Linali’s progeny meet his end, but in truth, Unira knew better than anyone that he’d just end up in the next world, and then the next.
While she’d been lost in her thoughts, Zama had spent his time growling and Vanae groveling. Finally Zama relented, shoving her back and withdrawing his hand from the portal.
Unira drew a slow breath. “Fine. You may live. For now. But you will speak to the sword smith again. The right son must get the clanblade.”
“Of course. Of course, honored clanswoman.”
The amount of pleasure she got from hearing Vanae grovel was probably a bit unseemly. But taking the haughty woman down a degree after all the days she’d spent looking down that long, thin nose… It was impossible not to revel in it. Vanae had beaten her when it came to Elix, but Unira would win the war.
Of course, the “right” son was not going to get the clanblade. The one who deserved it, Grel, would continue to be denied; she had made sure of it from several different angles. Vanae of course believed that Unira was referring to her other son Raelt as the heir to their clan. What a laugh. The boy might do as a slave or servant to Zama, if the demon even wanted slaves. But neither of Vanae’s sons would get the clanblade.
It would go to Idak. Let them think what they wanted in the meantime, though.
Unira dismissed Vanae with a wave of her hand and a sigh.
Zama propped his hip on the armchair and folded his arms. “Think anything will come of this boy and his ambitions?”
She shrugged. “Of Linali’s spawn?”
“Yes. Of the half spirit.”
“Oh, he’s barely a quarter spirit.”
“Any amount of spirit is enough.” His mirth was fading fast.
“I doubt it. But we’ll keep watch, won’t we.”
“Yes. Yes, we will.”
“We could always try killing him again, I suppose.” She shrugged. Just because Vanae had been incompetent at the task didn’t make it impossible. Although it sure seemed to be.
He reached out and ran a smooth palm across her cheek, his hand hot and a little rough, like stone baked by the sun. “Let’s kill him. We’ve hardly killed anyone so far.”
“My father advises caution. I doubt he’d approve of half the things I’ve done in the name of his goals.” She sighed.
“And has caution gotten him where he wanted?” He grinned, silver eyes shimmering and shifting.
She smiled. “Not at all.”
“You have a new advisor now. And this one misses the heady fragrance of blood.”
She hadn’t expected her demon servant to be so… alluring. “All right. Why not? For you, Zama. If nothing else. I’d hate for you to grow bored.” She strolled back to her worktable and held up her creation in clay.
He squinted at it, then shook his head.
She crushed it back to an unformed lump, smiling wider.
“Well, shall I open the next portal for you?” He pretended to trudge wearily back to the chair. “A demon’s work is never done.”
“Yes please. That Bone Clan fellow this time. Hopefully he’s seized the charms as ordered and hidden them well.”
“Such an easy way to weaken a clan’s mages. You’d think they’d keep them under lock and key.”
“Some people are more trusting than you, Zama.” Her wink alluded to her sarcasm.
“Some people are stupid.”
She chuckled. “Not everyone can be as wise as my demon.”
Chapter 5
Wishful Thinking
The punch came out of nowhere.
Nyalin had found a spot as far back as he could and sat cross-legged, surveying the atrium once again. A far superior place to have class than a stuffy, dusty classroom, if it was a little cool. Voices hummed among the students and the building around them, and it was easy to feel like this was the very center of the clan. He’d barely turned back to face the front when the air moved, shifting to his right and behind him.
He jerked his head back just in time.
A fist crossed in front of his eyes where his temple had been. But years of surprise abuse from Raelt had trained him well. On instinct, he caught the forearm and pulled, then connected his other palm to the man’s shoulder and pushed out and down. Hard.
His assailant tumbled forward, his balance thrown off, and sprawled on his back, staring up at the sky.
Nyalin still held his attacker’s arm in a lock. “Can I help you?”
The boy—for he looked maybe fifteen or sixteen—jerked his arm away and glanced up at someone else.
Standing beside them was the heavily muscled young man who’d directed the guards in the kitchens. Up close, he was maybe twenty summers or more. Like the rest of the students, he had no blade, but he did have two or three charms hanging on his belt at his hip. He had a handsome face with a wide brow, full lips, and expressive brown eyes. His thick, black hair fell long around his shoulders, and his dusky skin was only a little darker than Nyalin’s.
“Who do you think you are?” The man’s words weren’t haughty but measured and controlled. Quietly offended. Almost polite.
Nyalin blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Who. Do you. Think you are.”
Nyalin narrowed his eyes. There was danger laced in the man’s civil tone. Nyalin had lived long enough with danger to recognize it.
“Nyalin moLinali,” he said simply. “Pleasure to meet you both. And you are?”
The man’s laugh was light and easy. He glanced at the others. “I’m sure the pleasure is all yours.”
“That’s Andius,” grunted his attacker, who’d shaken his arm free and gotten up as far as one knee. He was glowering and holding his elbow.
Nyalin looked blandly from the kid to the lordly fellow and back. Was that supposed to mean something to him?
When Andius spoke again, his voice was casual even as the words were dipped in venom. “Do you think your mother matters to us here?”
Nyalin shrugged. “It doesn’t matter to me if she matters to you.”
Andius cocked his head, no doubt surprised at the lack of response. “You were born an Obsidian. You can’t just change that by donning a new robe.”
“I wasn’t born an Obsidian, actually,” Nyalin shot back.
“Once an Obsidian, always an Obsidian.”
“No. I wasn’t born anything.” Okay, maybe that one had gotten under his skin. He forced a deep breath. Calm. Be calm. Release the clenched jaw. The edge in his voice was what Andius wanted. Nyalin wouldn’t give him an excuse to justify his bullying if he could help it. He would keep his words as calm and neutral as the surface of a morning lake.
Andius’s face darkened further. “You mock the greatness of our clan. Our clan must grow stronger, more independent of other clans, not accept their rejects. You disrespect us with your presence.”
“I don’t see how.” Nyalin caught Andius’s dark gaze now and held it. “I only seek to join your ranks.”
“Don’t play dumb. You can never truly be one of us.” His full lips pressed into a thin line.
“The emperor disagrees.” Lara’s voice cut across the atrium from the archway entrance.
Nyalin started to smile, but then Andius smiled at her too. It was a smile that sent a chill through Nyalin’s bones.
“This Obsidian has been rejected by his clan,” said Andius. “That’s what I hear.”
“Rumors travel that fast?” Lara folded her arms across her chest.
“Because he doesn’t have any magic.”
Lara’s chin jutted up as a dozen sets of eyes flicked to her, even those students who had pretended not to be watching. “He does have magic. I’ve seen it.”
“So you claim.”
Her eyes and her nostrils flared. “Are you calling me a liar?”
He snorted. “You certainly have no ulterior motives. Are you calling your father a liar? The entire Obsidian Clan?”
Lara opened her mouth but faltered. She had done that, and she’d do it again, but did she want to so loudly, so soon?
Andius smirked at her. “Is our clan now to accept all the runts and defectives?”
Lara glowered at him. “Well, you’re already here, so what difference does it make?”
Nyalin cut in, bowing in his seat. “I’m only here to observe. What harm is there in that?”
Andius’s amused expression brightened even further, threat cloaked in a playful veneer. “Now who is the liar?”
“Certainly not me, I assure you.” Keeping his eyes trained on the ground, Nyalin bowed further to underscore the words—and maintain the moral high ground. He’d sense any blow coming, just as he had the first one. He waited a long moment, then straightened slowly.
“The Bone Clan does not need—” Andius started.
Just at that moment, Cerivil cleared his throat from the archway. He stopped beside Lara, picking up on the tension even if he’d heard none of the words. “What’s going on here?”
“We were welcoming our newest clan member,” Andius said smoothly, bowing to Cerivil.
“Good.” From the edge to the word and his glance at the young man still cradling his elbow, Cerivil didn’t believe Andius for a second. “The emperor himself has seen fit to allow him into our clan. We must honor Nyalin as we would any other clan member. And we must respect the honor the emperor grants us in entrusting us with Linali’s only son.”
Nyalin bowed again even lower, hiding his wince. He didn’t think invoking his mother had much effect on people who’d never met her. “I thank you for accepting me, Clan Leader.”
His words were muffled into the floor, which he felt was a nice touch. The bow and the words were nothing he wouldn’t have done with Elix, nothing he hadn’t done many times. And it couldn’t hurt to start working on not looking like an arrogant Obsidian. Still, a wave of surprise swept through them all at the gesture. They glanced at each other, whispered. He held the bow an extra second longer. Had he done something wrong? Did they bow some other way? Or perhaps his willingness to bow frightened them because it meant he must have nothing to offer.
Well, he didn’t have anything to offer, so let them be afraid.
Class commenced after that. Andius and his crony moved to the front and left him alone, and Nyalin listened as Cerivil spoke.
It was a somewhat advanced lesson on variations in the light charm, one of the more common charms swordmages carved. At times, the clan leader backfilled more simple concepts. That and the questions from some students told Nyalin the class’s abilities were very mixed. As soon as his training had started to look doubtful, he had read as much as he could in the Obsidian library. Elix had no shortage of magical tomes, so in the end, he had learned a lot—from books. Nothing Cerivil covered was unfamiliar to him. From a theory perspective, he knew a great deal about magic.
He just couldn’t actually do any.
The group settled into exercises of what had been taught: beaming light into a small, wooden box on its side. The box gave them a darkness to fill. Each student sat cross-legged with a practice blade across their knees or waist, a light charm dangling from its hilt.
As far as he’d read, casting any spell through a charm worked like a prism, only in reverse. Normal prisms took in ordinary light and produced a rainbow of colors. But where magic was concerned, the charm acted as a focus, a funnel, gathering up strands of energy from the blade and the ambient world and focusing them down, down, tighter, spinning the energy into a single, specialized beam: the spell.
Some great theorists he’d read claimed that it was perfectly possible to cast without the charms, but most mages couldn’t manage it—or simply didn’t train to.
In this case, the blade’s energy should—if everything went right—be spun into a glorious flash of light. Holding up a hand, a nearby student waited for a tense moment before an orb formed at his palm and shot forward, filling the box with a splash of light. Meanwhile, older students yawned and practiced different colors and intensities. Younger students faltered. Some didn’t do more than wave an empty palm at the box—Nyalin included.
Andius’s lights blared bright over and over again, enough to make students around him wince or shield their eyes.
Who could have guessed he’d do such a thing.
Interesting that Cerivil was their primary—possibly only?—teacher. Nyalin alternated between observing them and meditating. After about an hour, Lara took a break and came to sit beside him.
“Sorry about that welcome you got,” she said, her soft voice bordering on a whisper. In the back of the class, he sat closer to the burbling water pavilion. She didn’t intend for others to hear her words. “I should have warned you about him.”
He shrugged. “There hasn’t been much time.”
“And who wants to spend more time talking about him than we have to?”
Nyalin smirked at that. “Who is he?”
She sighed. “Since my brother died, Andius is my father’s likely heir. And my future husband.”
Nyalin winced, his stomach dropping. His dislike of the man had suddenly doubled. Tripled, perhaps. “So he’s won your Contests?” The book he’d read last night said that the Bone Clan kept the tradition of the
Feasts of Contest each year. Obsidian hadn’t regularly held that feast in recent memory, but several of the other clans continued this particular old tradition. This feast in particular was meant to determine a line of succession and nonhereditary heirs by pitting the clan’s best and brightest against each other.
“He was always second to my brother, eight years in a row. But now…” Her eyes were grim. “This year, he’ll win. It’s a formality, I suppose, but we’re just waiting for the feasts to come around. And for him to win it. There’s no reason he wouldn’t win.” Then she shrugged.
Nyalin’s mouth jerked open, and he started to say something but choked a little on the words. He’d wanted to say… what had he wanted to say? That maybe he could be that reason?
That was extremely wishful thinking. Even if he was able to unearth his magic in this new clan, Andius was at least a decade ahead of him in study. If he wanted to beat Andius, he was already starting off at a major disadvantage.
And he didn’t want to beat Andius. Did he? He’d seen how miserable being the heir to a clan leader could be. Grel’s days were chock-full of political maneuvering, boring talks about nothing over tea, and the occasional actual decision about the clan. And those decisions were so rare because being the clan leader was like being a sparrow in the midst of a dust storm—pulled every which way, and beaten up by it, with only luck to help find a landing place.
Still, as she fidgeted with the hem of her crossover—a more yellowy gold today, edges embroidered with small trees in a deep brown—something swelled in his chest, something confusing.
He cleared his throat. “There haven’t been Contests in the Obsidian Clan any time I can remember.”
“Because they have enough heirs? Or because they don’t care for the tradition?”
“I’m not sure. I should ask Grel. But I’ve never seen a Contest. What’s it like?”
She smiled, gazing around the group. “Exciting. Celebratory. Energizing. They pound drums, and people cheer. Action and activity all around.”