Dagger of Bone

by R. K. Thorne

  “I guess so.”

  She propped her hands on her hips and surveyed him. He didn’t look so good. “Good choice. I approve.”

  “I’m glad.” There was an awkward silence. “Anyway, it wasn’t much. I’m famished now.”

  He didn’t look at all steady on his feet. “Nyalin, don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m not sure you’re ready to make it down the stairs. Let’s wait a minute, shall we?”

  “Okay,” he muttered.

  She paced around the room, glaring at the water still dripping off the table. All so strange. It didn’t make any sense. He obviously had magic. His scent had even returned—blackberries. Though he probably didn’t know what it was, did he? It’d be fun to tell him. When he didn’t look like he was about to pass out. That handkerchief had been scenting her room with blackberries since she’d dropped it on her desk, and—

  She stopped short. “Wait. A couple things don’t make sense.” How could he… He couldn’t be lying to them, could he?

  “Only a couple?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “If you don’t have any magic, what about that handkerchief you gave me?”

  He squinted up at her. “What? What about it?

  “Well it was chock-full of magic.”

  He frowned. “How can that be? Maybe someone else could have done it, but why would they?”

  She didn’t think he was lying. Could someone have been tracking him with the handkerchief? Protecting him? Cursing his luck? “Do you still have it?”

  “Sure. I mean—it’s in my room. I wasn’t exactly running around getting laundry done as a top priority.”

  Oh. Right. There was still snot on it. It was amazing this man wasn’t head over heels in love with her, with the impression she was making. She smacked a hand to her forehead. “Can we go get it?”

  “I gotta admit, I’m… still a little dizzy.”

  “Oh. Right.” She’d seen that but was so focused on the handkerchief question she’d forgotten.

  “I think I just need to recover for a minute.”

  “Here.” She went back to the still sopping table and returned with a cup of tea, wiping the dripping water from its base with the corner of her crossover. He watched the gesture intently, but she wasn’t sure why.

  “Thanks.” He had his head propped on his knees again.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I will be. Just a sec. Or two more.”

  On a whim, she stole a little magic from the practice blade—not that it minded, that one was always a bored sort—and fed it to him again, as she had during the ritual.

  He noticeably eased, leaning back in the chair now and tilting his head against the wall.

  Hmm. Very strange. Any mage ought to be able to replenish their stores with their own life force or the ambient magic around them. Drawing from the practice blade could be learned, but most mages didn’t need to be taught that and did it automatically when pushed this close to the point of exhaustion. What was broken in him that he couldn’t? That he didn’t? Best not to say anything about it just now.

  He gave his head a little shake and straightened. “There. All better. Where were we going again?”

  “Lunch. Well, second lunch. And to get the handkerchief.”

  “Right. Let’s go.”

  They made it to the dining hall in no time, but as they walked in, she sensed the way the room focused on him. She got her share of attention as Cerivil’s daughter and, technically, a noble, but nothing like this.

  She gave him a forced smile. “Uhh… let’s get something to go.”

  A few minutes later they were seated on a bench in the now deserted atrium, yak-stuffed bread pockets in hand. Silence stretched on, only the sound of their munching and the water gurgling filling the air. They had both been starving. The handkerchief sat between them on the bench, mostly forgotten. She’d studied it again, but she wasn’t surprised. Despite the energy that still clung to the thing, there was no particular spell present. It was as though the cloth had simply, almost naively been imbued with energy without anything to direct the magic to any real purpose.

  Strange indeed. She took another bite.

  He was the first to break the silence. “Can I ask you a question?”

  She braced herself. “Yes?”

  He glanced over her shoulder toward the library window for a moment before he spoke. “How exactly did your brother die?”

  A pain stabbed at her chest, and she stopped chewing. “How did you know he used to sit there?”

  He frowned. “Where? In the library window?”

  She nodded. He’d glanced at the exact spot Myandrin had loved to sit and read.

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Then why are you looking?” she demanded.

  “I just—I thought I saw something. It’s nothing. Would you mind talking about what happened to him?”

  She sighed. “As long as you don’t mind if the rainfall starts.”

  To her surprise, he patted her on her shoulder. “I’d never mind that.”

  She didn’t believe him, but it was reassurance enough. But where was she to start? “You know, he always had the worst luck. There were so many accidents over the years.”

  Now it was his turn to stop chewing. “Really. Like what?”

  She shrugged, thinking back. “He wasn’t clumsy, mostly. But if something could go wrong? It usually did, and he’d get hurt. Sometimes minor cuts and bruises, sometimes not so minor. I don’t know how many times he nicked himself with his own practice blade. Funny thing is, he always seemed to be trying hard not to. His face was always so—frustrated.”

  Nyalin nodded. “I know the feeling.”

  “You do?”

  “I’ve had more than my fair share of clumsy accidents myself. I always suspected that was why Elix sent me to work as a scribe rather than something harder. How much trouble could I get into in a library? Paper cuts? I found a way often enough, though.”

  How odd.

  “Maybe there’s something in the water.”

  “Or the ink? You boys with your noses in books.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Anyway…” She braced herself, then pushed the words out in a rush. “He was thrown from a horse. It’s happened dozens of times, to tell you the truth. He… He, uh, never let it stop him, although our mother worried when she was alive. She passed when I was ten, of a lung disease we couldn’t cure. But Mya… He’d broken bones, ribs—but the healers had always made it work, fixed the damage. And he couldn’t be a clan leader and not ride a horse, obviously, or a yak, but you have to ride. You can imagine he didn’t want to be famous for being a hermit or a coward. Anyway.” She took a deep breath. “You know that bridge across Dront River?”

  Those concerned eyes darkened. “Yes.”

  “For no reason whatsoever, his mount reared there on the side of the bridge.” Her voice quavered now, but she pushed forward. “And Mya, he… he didn’t just hit the ground like all those other times. He hit the side of the bridge and went over. Into the river. People saw it—but by the time anyone got him out, it was too late.”

  “How awful.”

  “It was terrible. Just a freak accident.”

  “I’m so sorry for your loss.” Frowning, he chewed his food intently.

  She watched him, letting his steady presence ease the sharpness of her grief. Breathe in, breathe out. Those clever eyes scanned the courtyard, studied his sandwich, and then… glanced over his shoulder at the same spot again.

  She snapped her fingers in the air between them. “There! You just did it again! Why?”

  “I told you—”

  “You can’t be thinking you saw something behind you.”

  He shrugged. “It feels like someone is watching me.”

  She squinted hard at the tower of windows, but there was no one there. She closed her eyes and felt.

  There was something. A wisp. Something faint, and far away, but still there. She couldn’t
explain it, or she’d alert whoever was watching them to what she knew. She would wait for another time and tell him then.

  But why would anyone be watching him? Or more accurately, them? They were just two young people sitting in an atrium eating sandwiches. Sure, they were nobles with illustrious parents. But that was about all either of them had going for them.

  And still… someone watched.

  She put down her sandwich, her chewing having slowed to a halt.

  “You okay?”

  “I think I just lost my appetite.”

  “I’m almost done. Think I need a rest.”

  “Here, you can have this back, since it’s not telling me anything new.” She handed him the handkerchief.

  “Oh goodie.”

  “Well, I’ll keep it if you’re going to act like that.” She snatched it back and tucked it in her pocket again. “I’ll walk up with you, and you can take a nap. Or go to bed. I know my days as a young mage included a lot of early bedtimes.”

  He grinned. “Sounds like an exciting adventure.”

  “It’s not. But it’s worth it.”

  “Maybe you just like naps. You do bring them up a lot.”

  “How can I argue with that?”

  The days continued in an easy pattern, morning class and afternoon tests, and two weeks passed before he could blink. The Feast of Souls came and went, which in the Bone Clan included a large roast boar and late night beer, or at least that’s what Faytou foisted on him.

  The classes continued to teach him little that he hadn’t already learned from books, and he continued doing very little every time he tried. It might have been frustrating had the company been worse, but between Faytou and Lara, he didn’t mind that much.

  After one particularly tiring day, he ended up in his room for an early nap and was awake again before the sun had gone down. They’d all been tired and getting a little discouraged on his latest failed magic test—this one had worked when Lara fed him magic, but not Cerivil, and offered no physical proof of his own magic yet again—so Cerivil had insisted they needed a break. The clan leader was probably right, but that didn’t keep Nyalin from wondering if the man would suggest an indefinite break sometime soon.

  He still hadn’t figured out when the clan kitchens stopped serving food, if ever, so he jogged down as soon as he’d shaken the sleep out of his eyes. He scanned the kitchens for the baker with the gray beard and bright blue eyes, as he had every day since that first day. Maybe it was paranoia, but all the hallucinations had started the day the baker had pushed that weird bread on him. He’d had a few more episodes since, but nothing like that first day. Although he also hadn’t been caught by Andius’s cronies since that first day either.

  But even more strangely, he hadn’t seen the baker again. He wasn’t exactly sure what he was going to say if he ever did track the man down, but he had to find the man to begin with.

  Once again, the bearded baker and his fallen bread weren’t there. Nyalin ate his meal and then stood outside the kitchens for a quarter of an hour, watching the cooks and bakers move. It’d become a habit of late. But again, no sign of the man. Sure, the guy could have simply gotten a job in a different kitchen or part of the clan.

  But Nyalin couldn’t shake the feeling that something strange was going on.

  Sighing, he gave up his vigil and grabbed an extra bag of mutton bites to snack on. All this lack of success at magic seemed to make him extra hungry. Hopefully these bites came without a massive side of next-world hallucinations.

  Most nights, he was passing out from exhaustion right about now. Maybe he could take advantage of his early nap to finally make it over to the Obsidian district and say hello to Grel. He strode toward the exit beyond the kitchens. If Grel wasn’t available, maybe he’d say hello to Dalas… or see if the Obsidian library had any books he could “borrow.” His research on several topics had stalled so far, including the strange jolts of energy from Lara’s touch, his hallucinations, and the glowing eyes everyone kept mentioning to him. At least he’d found plenty about what was involved in each phase of the Bone Clan’s Feasts of Contest and how to win.

  Out of purely academic curiosity, of course.

  Nyalin did a few laps around the kitchen, impressed by the sheer amount of food being prepared even now. From the look of it, a lot of clan members would eat their dinner late. Long days. On his last lap, he caught a glimpse of silvered hair from behind a tree, along the side wall.

  It was him. The baker with his beard and bright eyes. Their eyes locked for a moment. Then the baker turned and ran.

  Nyalin darted forward. “Hey! Hey, stop!”

  The baker did not stop.

  Fortunately for Nyalin, though, the only way out was through the front, unwalled portion of the estate. He ran at a diagonal, aiming to cut the baker off as the man ran along the wall. Nyalin followed close and leapt over a low bench and a few flower beds, trying not to damage anything. A flowerpot went spinning to the side, but he refused to look back. One ambitious jump almost sent him tumbling into a small decorative pond, but he got lucky. He usually did in these situations, and he tried not to let that make him nervous.

  He had nearly reached the baker, but the man had also nearly reached the end of the walled estate. He’d be out of the grounds and much harder to catch in a heartbeat.

  Nyalin jumped, diving headfirst toward the man. They tumbled together to the ground.

  But that was far from the end of it. The baker put up a much better fight than Nyalin expected for an older fellow, throwing Nyalin off his back and rolling away. The man staggered to his feet, but so did Nyalin, who lunged at him and tackled him against the last few feet of wall.

  “Who are you?” Nyalin spat, dodging as the man tried to grip him for a push or a throw. “And what did you put in that bread?” He shoved an elbow at the man’s throat instead, and the baker stilled.

  Oddly, there wasn’t exactly fear or alarm in the man’s eyes, just a slight twitch of his eyebrows. It was hardly conclusive evidence, but Nyalin’s gut instinct said the man was actually surprised.

  “Didn’t put anything in the bread other than not enough flour. I think.” Panting, the man frowned at him. “I don’t know. If I knew what made it fall, I wouldn’t have done it, don’t you think?”

  “Why did you run away from me?”

  “I typically run from people who chase me.”

  Nyalin frowned. Had he caused all this mess? “No. You were already getting out of here before I saw you. C’mon. You put something else in there. Or was it the eggs?”

  The baker shook his head but stared at Nyalin intently. “Why do you think so?”

  “Because—” he started. But did he want this man, this potential enemy, knowing his secrets? Nyalin shook his head. “Why were you running then? And who are you?”

  Lips pursing as he frowned, the man scrutinized Nyalin for one long second more. Then, face set in hard decision, he straightened a little. “Release me and I’ll explain.”

  Nyalin hesitated. But what other option did he really have? He wasn’t going to brutalize the answers out of the man. This already felt uncomfortably close to Raelt’s territory. But he needed to know how he’d been drugged, and why, and by whom. He dropped his hands to his sides.

  The baker brushed himself off in an eerily familiar gesture, and Nyalin wondered if that was what he looked like when he did it. Glancing around them and seeing no one, the baker met Nyalin’s eyes and then clapped once.

  Nyalin’s mouth fell open. The sounds of the birds in Cerivil’s trees dampened, then faded to silence. The people walking by on the street were moving, but he could no longer hear the calls, the footsteps, the animals.

  A silence spell. The baker was a mage?

  When he glanced back from the road, the baker and his thick white beard were gone. Someone else stood in his place.

  The emperor was straightening his tunic. He looked up and grinned.

  Bowing wouldn’t be low enough. N
yalin threw himself down and pressed his head to the earth. “Emperor Pavan!” Holy Twins, by Seluvae’s dark and Dala’s light, he was going to be thrown in a dungeon. Did the emperor have a dungeon? No, the sea. No, to the Mushin, to be eaten alive—

  “It’s all right, Nyalin. Rise. You don’t need to bow to me.”

  “I most certainly do,” he said, unmoving.

  “I surprised you. And your mother served this nation dutifully and deserved a station as high as any noble.” The emperor’s voice was a strange mix of warm and stern that Nyalin didn’t understand.

  “I think bowing is still in order for tackling you and throwing you against this wall.”

  Pavan chuckled softly. “Consider it forgiven. I am glad you are looking out for your life and your sanity, even if they were never in danger from me. Please, Nyalin. Rise. We don’t have much time.”

  Frowning, he climbed to his feet. “Pardon my question, Emperor, but—why are you posing as a baker in the Bone Clan’s kitchens?”

  Pavan smiled. “Why, to keep an eye on you, of course.”

  “On me. Surely you’re joking.”

  “I am quite serious.”

  “But why?”

  “Because your—”

  “Don’t give me that ‘your mother was so special to me’ crap. It was twenty years ago.”

  “Heard that a few times?” Pavan’s smile only broadened, laughter lighting his eyes in a way Nyalin had never seen. “If you already know the reason, I won’t repeat it.”

  “I don’t believe that’s your reason.”

  “Well, as emperor, I believe I’m allowed to direct the conversation. So… why do you think there was something in your bread?”

  Nyalin’s frown deepened. “Did you actually make that?”

  “Did you think the professional bakers made such failures?” Pavan grinned.

  He snorted in response. “No, but—”

  “Why did you think I poisoned your bread?”

  He bit the inside of his cheek. He definitely wouldn’t have told a shifty baker, but his emperor? “I’ve been… kind of… I don’t know. Seeing things?”

  “What kind of things?” Pavan leaned forward, his eyes narrowing like a hawk diving at its prey.