by R. K. Thorne
He coughed. “People.”
Pavan frowned, then glanced at the quiet people in the street, who were ignoring them, then back to Nyalin. “Care to be more specific?”
“Fine. Dead people,” Nyalin amended. “At least, I think. No, it can’t be real. I must be hallucinating.”
Pavan was shaking his head.
“How can you be so sure?”
The emperor’s face had sobered now. “Because your mother saw them too.”
Well. He hadn’t expected that. “She did?”
“She did.”
“No one ever told me that.”
“She didn’t tell most people that.”
“She saw them… how, exactly?”
“In a trance, usually. Sometimes in her sleep. Sometimes… just any old time. Those weren’t common days, though.”
Nyalin’s eyes widened. “How has no one mentioned this to me before?”
Pavan grinned. “I told you she was special to me. Wait, actually, no I didn’t, because you wouldn’t let me.”
He’d heard that line enough times that it had started to lose meaning, and now suddenly he’d found someone for whom it was really true. There was a light, a distance in Pavan’s blue eyes as he spoke of his mother, an expression Nyalin didn’t think could be faked. At the very least, that smile and those warm eyes were brimming with affection. He shouldn’t be surprised, but he was.
Pavan ducked his head now. “Clearly we need to talk more.” Straightening, the emperor patted him on the shoulder and glanced at the street again. “But this is hardly the place. Why don’t you and I meet? Tomorrow morning? We can take a walk in the park by the river, away from prying eyes.”
“As if I don’t have enough problems fitting in with these people without taking special walks alone with the emperor.” He kicked at the dirt and dust on the ground, and when he glanced back up, there was the bearded baker again.
“It won’t be with the emperor. Just a new friend from the Bone Clan.”
“That’s… You’re quite good at that.”
“I know. Transformation is my best spell.”
It was also one of the hardest to master. Some argued that the only thing harder was transforming into something from the plant and animal spheres, humans being slightly more familiar. But Nyalin was not so sure. There were plenty of difficult third-level spells, and most swordmages only grasped one in their lifetimes. His mother had mastered at least three, which was part of what had made her exceptional. Nyalin shut his mouth, which had been hanging open of its own accord. “I—I have class in the morning. Working with Cerivil and Lara in the afternoon.”
“At lunchtime then.”
“All right. Noon.”
Emperor Pavan grinned. “Meet me at the Aoelin Shrine. See you then. Now—if I try to leave, are you going to tackle me again? Good show, by the way.”
Numbly, Nyalin shook his head.
“All right then. Until tomorrow.” And then he clapped again, and the world flooded with sudden sound. Before Nyalin had recovered from the wave of sensation flooding him, Pavan was turning the corner of the wall and was gone.
Chapter 7
Wild
Lara woke again before morning. The manor and the city were quiet. The black sky outside hung close and warm, like the inside of a cloak.
Yes. Today. Today she would do it. She’d waited long enough.
She rose and dressed in the plainest crossover she had, a faded walnut brown one that matched the dark cloak she tied around her shoulders. She tied the market bag to her belt, as she had the fateful day she’d stolen the thing.
She had gathered a few supplies the day before, and she shouldered them now and slipped out into the hallway. The manor was still quiet under the dark blanket of night.
She would miss the morning’s class. But if she rode hard, maybe she could be back by the afternoon for Nyalin’s daily lesson. It all depended on how far out she planned to go. Other than that, she shouldn’t really be missed.
She would find somewhere desolate to dig her hole. And then no one would know what she’d done.
The sun was beginning to bring a blush to the sky as her horse’s hooves pounded down the packed-earth streets. The merchant stalls were still empty, although a few stirred inside, preparing to open for the day.
The city slept. Except for her.
She took the direct route, the bridge across the Elzindor to the Yarow Gate, and headed for the desert.
The blade rested against her hip, tied high and secure so as not to bounce or attract attention. To her surprise, it—and the Bone Dragon—said nothing.
The next day’s class for Nyalin was far more boring, in part because the students were studying a sand-shaping spell and in part because Lara didn’t show up for it. He doubted she needed practice at the simple spell, so he couldn’t blame her, but something about her unannounced absence bothered him.
Cerivil discretely gave him a Shape Sand charm—a sandstone one, ironically enough, gritty and cold under his fingers—and so he made his attempts to practice. He imagined the ambient magic gathering at his core, floating into the charm clenched in his fist, and blowing out like a gust of wind to swirl at the dust.
No sand moved across the boards before him. No deluge opened out of the sky.
Between attempts, he wondered where Lara might be. Certainly she must have other responsibilities, other things to do than to tend to him. He was lucky he’d gotten so much of her attention, especially since she’s also been attending his afternoon sessions.
He yawned and stretched and leaned back on his fists behind him. Without her he felt… bored.
He missed her, in fact.
Before he could ponder that thought much further, Faytou strode up and plopped down beside him. “How goes it?”
Great. Another heart he had to break. “It doesn’t.” Nyalin shrugged.
“Check this out.” Grinning, Faytou proceeded to hold one hand in the air, palm facing the ground. With the other, he spun his finger like he was winding thread around it. In the space between his hands, sand gathered, even the poor neglected sand scattered in front of Nyalin, and in a matter of seconds it had formed a tiny dragon, its particles shifting and tiny but undeniably there.
“Wow.” He leaned forward to get a better look. “You’ll have to teach me this one. Some day.”
“Glowy-eye trick first.”
“I still have to figure out that trick.” Or any trick, for that matter.
“Still working on waking it up?” the boy asked, cocking his head. The dragon spun and twisted but remained, even as Faytou ignored the spell. He was talented, that was for sure.
“Something like that. It’s sort of… Let’s just say sometimes it wants to play and sometimes it doesn’t and we’re not sure what’s causing what.”
“Ah,” said Faytou, as if that were perfectly normal.
Nyalin didn’t really want to go further into it. Or risk folks like Andius, who was clearly watching out of the corner of his eye, overhearing too many of his weaknesses. “So, will you fight in the Contests this year?”
The boy shrugged. “Doesn’t seem to be much point, does there?”
“I have no idea.”
“Well, you see, my brother has been second to… well, second place for eight years in a row now. Since he started competing.” Faytou’s face fell a bit before he forced a perky grin back on it. Curious. The boy didn’t want to name the deceased heir? Everyone was having a hard time forgetting Lara’s brother—they talked about him all the time—yet Nyalin had never caught the young man’s actual name. “I don’t know if there’s much point to it now.”
“Why not?”
“Well, I certainly won’t win, and there’s a good chance I’ll get beaten as purple as a grape, so… not sure the risk is worth the reward.”
“Beaten purple, eh? How exactly does that happen?”
And that was how Nyalin found himself deep in a discussion about the intricacies o
f the Contests: the tests in each sphere of magic, the obstacle course, the fights. It was a relief, both because he’d begun wondering and because it was far more interesting than yet another failed Shape Sand attempt.
If they hadn’t had an audience, he’d have taken notes.
Lara was panting by the time she’d won a hole the size of her head in the rocky terrain. Clearly there was a reason no one was farming here: soil quality. While that meant no farmer would plow up the precious blade, it didn’t make her work any easier.
How deep was it necessary to bury a secret? One foot? Two? Did the size of the secret matter? Did you measure it in physical size, or in its ability to destroy your life?
The Bone Dragon hadn’t uttered so much as a growl the whole morning. Dala’s light, it was strange. Strange enough she felt almost called to address the dragon herself. But what would she say? She didn’t care to apologize.
Was… was Yeska pouting? Was it possible for a dragon to pout?
Perhaps she had now withdrawn her power, as she had for clan leaders before her. No—she wasn’t a clan leader. Just an interim carrier, a guide. A mistake. But Yeska must know of her plans to bury the blade here. And the dragon certainly couldn’t approve.
Why didn’t she object?
Lara’s panting had eased and now she just listened as she surveyed the slopes around her. The silence was deafening. Oh, the wind blew, and children were playing—and shrieking—far in the village below. But there were no words, no laughter.
A rock clattered down the hillside. She’d chosen a stand of trees and brush as her final resting place for the clanblade, and the brush blocked her view of the rock—or whatever had caused it to go rolling down.
Whatever or whoever.
She jumped back just in time as a man leapt into the air she’d so recently occupied. He tumbled to the ground and rolled, crying out as his back slammed into the tree behind the hole she’d dug.
But he wasn’t alone. She scampered back, brandishing the shovel, as two more men loomed around the other side of the brush. Their eyes narrowed, suspicious. Appraising.
“What’re you doin’ up here, woman?” said one, while the other helped up the leaping fool.
“I could ask the same of you,” she said back.
“Those boots don’t belong out here. What do you think?” he said to his companion, who nodded.
Hell. She could dress down all she wanted, but her boots were too fine, too clean, and probably too flimsy to belong out here. She didn’t exactly keep beaten boots around for this purpose.
“These’re not your lands.”
She pressed her lips together in a thin line to hold in the retort that all the lands were hers, that all the lands belonged to the family of the clan leader.
Especially when the clan leader is you.
Oh, now you decide to speak up? Lara struggled not to groan aloud.
And fail to point that out? I couldn’t resist.
“Just digging for roots,” she said, aiming for demure. Nonthreatening. It wasn’t her strong suit.
If you want to be nonthreatening, you should put down the shovel.
Do you think so?
No, I think you should draw me and have at them.
I didn’t come out here to attack simple farmers.
What about bandits?
Lara’s brow furrowed as she realized the men hadn’t answered. They were exchanging glances. Planning something. Lara knew this was a terrible spot to dig for roots, but she could think of no other excuse. But the men weren’t pointing that out. She eyed their clothes… Leather, mostly. One had a good button at the wrist.
They’re not farmers? she asked Yeska.
No. They are not.
“Leave me be,” she said, tightening her grip on the shovel and redrawing their gaze. “I haven’t got anything worth taking.” Except a sacred and powerful magical sword. Other than that.
They all narrowed their eyes. “What’s in that market bag at your belt then?” The last one pointed. They glanced at each other again, and the first one took a step forward.
She hardened her gaze, slowed her breath. She had few charms useful for this sort of thing, and although she had plenty of martial practice, it’d still be three to one. She’d rather scare them away with magic. If she could.
She straightened from her fighting stance even as one ventured a few steps closer. She moved the shovel to one hand and held up a palm.
Light flashed out, white and hot, a brilliant blur. The men staggered back, gasping. She held the light for a moment longer, brightened it a little further, then let it drop.
Cursing now, the men exchanged looks again.
“A mage,” one whispered.
“I bet she’s a bladed woman,” another snapped.
“I’m not—” she started.
Is that technically true? Yeska put in. You are a woman. You have a blade.
You are not helping.
They glowered at her now.
“Let’s take that magic from her,” the third whispered. And they charged.
Well, that had worked well. Instead of frightening them off, she’d incensed them. Excellent.
She dropped her grip lower on the shovel and spun, swinging it in a wide circle around her as the first neared. The broad metal base slammed flat into his side, hard. As this man had been the overzealous tree leaper, his back was already in bad shape, making the second blow to the torso more devastating. He lost his balance along with a variety of curses, and this time his tumble sent him rolling down the hill.
The other two, though, seized the opening to lurch for both of her arms. She caught one of them on the upswing with her weapon, hacking at the knee and then scraping it up his side. She was inches from slamming it into his armpit when the third man clamped down hard on her other shoulder and startled her into losing her grip. The shovel twisted and slipped.
She staggered and fell, the third man’s heavy frame falling on top of her. One of his hands still gripped her shoulder, the other groped at her neck. She drove a punch into his gut. His eyes bulged, but his grip didn’t falter.
She grappled for leverage, bucking and twisting, but whether because of bad luck or the man’s skill, she got no traction. Seconds later, the second bandit had recovered enough to pile on.
Her mind raced for some magical solution. Palm Flash was just for show. Perhaps she could blind them again briefly, but she’d need more than that to truly get away, and without a blade to power herself, she couldn’t invoke any of the more powerful spells. Float Water would do nothing but drench them. She’d never been great with Ignite—she was liable to set herself on fire right along with them, and it was a small area anyway.
Although perhaps setting them both on fire would be preferable to whatever they had planned.
She continued sorting through her mental list of spells as she kicked, scratched. One hand closed over her mouth, and she bit. Hard. The second man cried out and backed off just a moment.
Small Animals—no, it was too new, she wasn’t good at it, and it’d take too much time. Throw Sound might distract them, but who knew if it’d be loud enough for them to hear it? Shape Sand—yes. Yes!
She squeezed her eyes shut as she cast it, flinging nearby dust and dirt into their eyes. One cursed. The other spat it back at her, making her gag.
Perhaps Cast Shadow would frighten them? Darkness looming from above. Yes, but first, more sand.
She gave two or three good throws, her own eyes still squeezed shut, and they backed off a little and were cursing at her like she had set them on fire, when a large shadow loomed overhead. It was dark enough she could see it through her eyelids. But… she hadn’t cast the spell yet. She hadn’t—
A familiar peal of deep, slow laughter rolled around in her mind like rocks in a tumbler.
She scampered back on her butt, brushed as much dust and other nonsense as she could from her face, and squinted up.
A huge gust of wind blew more of the
dust away, along with several chunks of hair. The gusts came regular as wing beats, throwing both wind and fear in their midst. Regular as wing beats because they were wing beats.
Both she and the men goggled at the creature that slowed and landed with a powerful thud next to the stand of trees.
She was the height of three or four men. Maybe more. Plates and spines stood out in all directions, but especially in a bony ridge along her back. Purple-gray eyes under bony ridges scowled at them all, a low growl emanating from her throat.
“Yeska!” Lara breathed.
The men had no such greeting, nor did they need any further display of power from the Bone Dragon. They rushed so quickly to escape they ran into each other and tumbled end over end down the rocky terrain. She was too stunned to enjoy watching them grunting as rocks hit them in the ass. Mostly.
Not enough of a punishment, if you ask me. Yeska looked blandly down the hill and then swung in Lara’s direction. The dragon’s head alone was easily the height of Lara’s torso, and the spikes on her cheeks flayed out just as wide.
“Thank you,” Lara hurried to say.
Yeska’s head reared back, as if she were surprised. Do you still wish to be rid of me?
Lara hesitated. “No… But you don’t wish to be rid of me, now?”
No.
Shaking a little still, Lara managed to stagger to her feet. “All right then. What do we do now?”
Either you finish burying the dagger, or you come with me.
“Where?”
You’ll see.
“What about my horse?”
I’ll carry him.
Her eyes widened. “And give him a heart attack?”
Tie him off here then, and we’ll come back. But I can’t promise those bandits won’t come back and steal him.
“Or worse,” Lara muttered. “Fine. Give me a second.” She dashed back to where she’d left her things, pulled the cloak back over her shoulders, ignored the stupid shovel she never wanted to see again, and picked up her pack. If she had a blade, she’d have learned spells to talk to the horse. Or at least calm it. But it wasn’t to be. Instead, she straightened. “Okay. What now?”