Dagger of Bone

by R. K. Thorne

  They paused for a moment as a girl who couldn’t have been older than twelve dropped off their wine.

  “But enough about me,” Su said breezily. “And definitely enough about Elix. I propose a moratorium on discussion of the man for the rest of the night.”

  “Heartily agreed.”

  She raised her glass. “To new beginnings?”

  “To new beginnings.” Their glasses clinked, the bloodred wine swaying inside.

  “May they be more fruitful for you than the last.”

  “It’s only uphill from here.”

  Smiling, they both drank as the crowd hushed. A small stage took up the far side of the room. A young woman was preparing to play an instrument he couldn’t quite see; it was blocked by the heads of the crowd. If this was a theater, their seats were terrible, but he supposed that shouldn’t be surprising considering that they barely belonged here anyway.

  “Dinner and a show,” Su cooed. “You’re a good date, Nyalin.”

  It was idiotic, but he blushed. “If anyone is, it’s you, since you’re the one paying.”

  She chuckled. “So tell me, are you making any friends? Or do they all hate the Obsidian and his arrogant ways?”

  He relayed to her the highlights: working with Lara, eating with Faytou, and the whole Andius gang and his nonsense. He left out everything else, or he’d be talking till the sun rose. “It could have gone better, but it could have gone worse.”

  “It’s good you’ve had some guidance from Cerivil’s daughter. And you’re in their house. That does put my mind a bit at ease.”

  “Worried about me?”

  “Maybe a little. Our clans don’t exactly have a bloodless history.”

  “True. You’ve known Lara some, at court, right? What do you know about her? Raelt made some… comments.”

  Sutamae rolled her eyes. “He’s always criticizing anyone he can think to criticize. The woman gets real exercise, does real work, and then has the gall to show up to a royal function without spending eighty hours primping herself.” She pretended to scoff. “As if she—or anyone—needs to care what Raelt thinks of her.”

  “Can’t disagree with that.”

  “He’s not a charmer.”

  “That I know. But what of Lara?”

  “Oh, right. Sorry. Well, let’s see. I’d call her the only girl with a story more tragic than mine.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m exaggerating. There are many tragic stories beyond ours. But I never tasted freedom, like she did. Nor will I likely have the weight of the clan on my shoulders, like she will. She was almost there, almost her own woman… only to have it stolen away. Poor Lara.”

  “I heard as much.”

  Su shrugged. “Such is the torture of life.”

  “Know anything else about her?”

  “Hmm. A skilled horsewoman, I believe. Good swordmage. Her father cared to have her tested, but she can’t get a blade now. Tell me, Nyalin. Are your interests recreational or purely professional?” She arched one finely sculpted brow.

  “Uhhh. Professional of course.”

  “How disappointing.”

  He hesitated, but he couldn’t really admit something to her that he’d hardly admitted in his own head. “She’s just helping me a lot. I’d like not to let her down. Or needlessly insult her. Did you know they still hold the Feast of Contests? I’m just focusing on that as a goal. To compete once, even if it’s at the lowest level.”

  “I’ve heard they hold the Contests, but I’ve never made the time to see them. Apparently this will be the year. Competing can be quite grueling, I believe. Optimistic, when you came in with no magic at all.”

  “Well, actually. Lara can see it.”

  She frowned. “See what?”

  “My magic.”

  “Really? Tell me more.”

  He further summarized the attempts they’d made, the water spell, the initial time when she’d felt it and jumped.

  “Huh. How strange.”

  “I know. Any idea how that could happen?”

  She tapped a finger against her lips. “Well, there are tales. But you swore your interests were purely professional so…

  “What does it matter?”

  “Oh, my, well it matters all the world—”

  “Spit it out, Sutamae.”

  She laughed again. He wasn’t sure he’d seen her laugh so much in ages. “I have read a few magic books in my day. Mostly myths and ancient rumors and tales. I’m not sure how much of it is true, so you’ll have to double-check. But I’ve read stories of soul connections.”

  He frowned. “What?”

  “Honestly, it strikes me as implausible because it’s such a romantic notion. But the idea is that for any given soul, there are a number of souls out there that have traveled with it through the series of planes, across the worlds and across time. Souls that are fated, compatible. Destined, you might even say.”

  “Did you say… through the worlds?”

  “Yes, well, that’s how the stories go. Mind you, there aren’t just a pair. There’s a handful, perhaps five or six, for any given soul.”

  “But what does that have to do with magic?”

  “In addition to using blades and the ambient world for power, these souls can feed off each other.” She sighed a little. “I told you it was romantic.”

  “Uh… ‘feeding off’ someone sounds a little creepy, but I see where you’re going with this.”

  Su looked away from the musician and straight into his eyes now. “So, is this Lara your soul mate?”

  He raised his eyebrows, leaning back in his chair. “No! Of course not.” He swallowed, forced himself to take a drink. “I mean, I don’t know.”

  “You don’t like her.”

  “No! It’s not that, it’s just—”

  “So you do like her.”

  “Sutamae!”

  She grinned.

  “She’s betrothed,” he blurted out suddenly, without entirely intending to.

  “Ahh. To whom?”

  “To whomever wins the Contests.”

  Her face burst to light with laughter. “Oh, I see! The single thing you’re focusing all your energy on.”

  He winced and let his face fall into his hands. When he spoke, the words were muffled. “You’re terrible.”

  “I try.” She sounded delighted.

  They sat in silence for a while. Nyalin didn’t move.

  “Nothing can come of it,” he said without moving his hands. It was admitting more than he wanted to, but what was the point of holding back now? “I won’t win. I’m optimistic, but I’m not that optimistic.”

  “You never know, Nyalin. You might surprise yourself.”

  The streets were dark when Nyalin and Su left the restaurant. Torches danced on two street corners, but the city was mostly empty. Only the sounds of muffled conversation and music reached them.

  “Let me walk you back,” he said. “I could go find Grel after I see you to the house.”

  She shook her head. “I’m not going back yet.”

  He winced but tried to hide it.

  She only smiled in return. “Besides, Grel’s at a feast with Jylan. He wanted to come along with me instead, trust me, but she was having none of it.”

  “I bet.” Jylan wasn’t betrothed to Grel, but everyone wondered if it was coming soon. Her family was the most powerful in the Obsidian Clan next to Grel’s own; her mother ran a vast silk business that had amassed quite a fortune.

  “He won’t be back until late. Although I shall likely be later.”

  There was mischief in her smile, but he couldn’t return the sentiment. “Tell him I’ll come calling. Tomorrow or the next. Or maybe next week. As soon as I have time.”

  “Of course.” She gave him a nod. “Good luck, Nyalin.” She hesitated for a moment, then surprised him with an embrace.

  He returned the hug, patting her back, and she turned away with one final wave.

  He wove
through the streets, not taking the most direct route back. With his long nap, he wasn’t tired, and there were so many parts of this city he had never seen. He’d kept to the Obsidian District most of his life, and it wasn’t like he’d ventured out of his home that much anyway. The city had been built with the six separate districts to encourage peace and cooperation between the clans, without asking anything so crazy as to have them actually live mixed together. They were even buried separately; his mother and Lara’s brother were only buried together because of their status, in the emperor’s royal graveyard specifically set aside for the nobility.

  It had never occurred to him to visit the Bone District, whether because of its general poverty or its distance; it was on the other side of the city. People generally stuck to their own districts, and that helped keep the peace too. He followed the road to the river, then doubled back, gradually making his way closer to the Bone Clan manor. Several of the clans maintained large houses or meeting halls nearer the city center, although Elix’s home was deep within the Obsidian District. Why, he had no idea.

  The streets were quiet and empty, but the houses and establishments hummed with muffled life: laughter, the cries of children, the coughs and wheezes of the sick and elderly, the occasional worse sound. Lively music drifted from one tavern, shouts of brawling from another. The smell of beer and bread and the less appealing results of tavern visits drifted past him, memorializing the adventures of people strolling or stumbling or racing down this street.

  The city was alive and vibrant, a beating, writhing heart. One he stood just to the side of, watched and even admired but never felt fully a part of.

  A strange mixture of loneliness and longing had settled over him by the time he reached the bridge. Perhaps it was the heavy introspection that kept him from noticing them at first, or perhaps they were just skilled assassins, but as he set foot on the bridge’s first few cobblestones, he finally saw them.

  Both before and behind—at least two dark shadows turning after him from the street he’d just left, three more blocking the way about fifty paces ahead. One of those ones had a limp.

  As if in unison, they all began to move, slowly closing in his direction. He quickened his pace, glanced to the side. The river was wide here, which was good, but it was at least a ten-foot drop, maybe more. Not an easy one, and the wider river meant it could be flowing fast and deep at this point.

  He would only get a choice or two in this encounter, and he was about to run out of time to make them. Did he rush forward, engage the three head-on, give himself a chance to blow past some of them, or at least avoid being surrounded? Or did he go straight for the river and jump?

  He’d fought a lot of fights in his day, both in martial training and in life, but he hadn’t jumped over many bridges. The fall looked survivable… but it probably wasn’t something he should take a chance on.

  He centered himself and headed for the pack of three ahead of him at a run.

  They didn’t shy away or hurry, but they did circle in tighter. The shadows behind him picked up speed.

  He stopped just short of meeting them, silent, tense. Waiting. He would meet them head-on, but he would never strike first. Their crossovers were black, although that didn’t guarantee they were Obsidians. Or they could be impersonating Obsidians, especially if this was personal and not just a random pack of thieves. Thieves weren’t a bad bet, since their faces and heads were also wrapped in black. Only their eyes were showing.

  The leader stopped before him and met Nyalin’s gaze. A sword hung from his belt. “Oh, look,” said a deep masculine voice. Was it familiar, or did he just hope it was? “A runt’s wandered away from its pack.”

  “Dog went looking for a bone,” muttered one of them.

  “I’d say he found some,” said another.

  Nyalin said nothing, simply studied them, but their shadowy forms in the darkness didn’t reveal much. Nyalin wasn’t a bad fighter, though five to one were not good odds. But not many men could use a sword without revealing much about themselves.

  “You think you can leave the Obsidian Clan?” murmured the leader.

  “You can’t,” snapped his mouthy sidekick.

  “You trying to embarrass us all, becoming a Bone?” said the third.

  The two behind remained silent.

  Nyalin took a deep, steadying breath and waited, keyed in to every sense.

  The leader took a step forward. “Rumor has it you’ve been lying about our clan. Saying our clan leader is inept. Because he can’t see your supposed magical greatness.” Voice dripping with derision, the leader caught Nyalin off guard with a sudden step forward and push to the chest.

  Nyalin caught his balance but glared up at the man, eyes flashing. Yes. Those eyes were familiar and so was that push.

  Raelt.

  Raelt caught the recognition in his gaze, Nyalin could see it in the slight narrowing of the eyes.

  “Come to kill me, after all these years?” he murmured.

  Raelt said nothing. Instead, he sank into a fighting stance, hands hardening into fists.

  “We’ve come to avenge our clan leader,” said the second man, oblivious to the tension twisting between the two of them.

  “We’ve come to stop the spread of your lies,” added the third.

  “It’s the rumors that are lies,” Nyalin said, voice calm as still water. “I’ve said no such thing. But that doesn’t matter, does it?”

  Slowly, Raelt shook his head.

  “Did she lead you here?” Nyalin said. He relented and crouched, preparing to fight. All the others tensed now too, even the two behind him. Nyalin swallowed.

  “Who?”

  “You know who.”

  But by the slight twitch of Raelt’s eyes and tilt of his head, he did not know who. Either he was an excellent actor, or Sutamae had had no part in this.

  “No one has led you to this but yourself,” said Raelt coolly. “Now. Fight.”

  “Make me.” Nyalin took a deep breath and shifted his weight forward onto his toes. Raelt braced.

  Seconds passed, as tense as cord twisted into a rope.

  Finally, Raelt took the bait, aiming for his jaw. Nyalin leapt back, lashing out with a kick and hitting one of the two quiet shadows behind him in the stomach. The man staggered back, hit the wooden handrail of the bridge, and shrieked as he crashed into the water.

  The other men froze, eyes wide—long enough for Nyalin to swing round and land another roundhouse kick to the solar plexus of the second man behind him. The blow wasn’t powerful enough to send him into the water, or even to the edge of the bridge, but it did send the man tumbling sideways onto his ass.

  That was the extent of his streak, though, because an elbow came down on his cheekbone and ear, sending him crumbling toward the pavement. He fell to his knees, then tried to twist away. The kick that should have met his chest whistled past his ear.

  A foot crushed down on his fingers, grinding them into the cobblestones. Something hard struck his kidney. He groaned as he forced his twist into a roll, pushing farther away from his assailants and in the direction of the space he’d created. He tried to roll fast, then stagger to his feet, but he wasn’t quite fast enough. Hands caught his collar, dragged him up, thrust him forward.

  Someone caught him—Raelt. Hot breath puffed against Nyalin’s face, and Raelt’s eyes were wild.

  “You could never kill me before,” Nyalin whispered. So what the hell was he doing provoking Raelt to do so now? “What makes you think you can now, just because you brought some friends?”

  Raelt’s eyes narrowed. “That’s not why I’m going to kill you. It has nothing to do with that.”

  “Because you’re wearing a practice sword on your hip?”

  Fury ignited in Raelt’s gaze as he teetered on the edge of control. So it was true. Raelt didn’t have a sword any more than Grel did; he’d simply taken one he wasn’t bonded to from the practice rooms.

  Nyalin clucked his tongue, for once
egging Raelt on. But he didn’t want to live in fear of his so-called brother anymore. It was time to call his bluff. “I’ve taken sounder beatings in my first days as a Bone. You never even use your magic.”

  “You want magic? I’ll give you magic, you little—”

  The wave of energy hit Nyalin before Raelt even finished his words, along with the choking, awful smell of pepper. He didn’t know what level of spell sent him flying so hard, but Raelt couldn’t have achieved it without the borrowed blade. It also couldn’t have been an entirely controlled attack, because he collided with the remaining man behind him, who’d only just recovered from the kick to his stomach.

  The two of them went sprawling into the street. Footsteps pounded through the night toward them. Then something loud crashed far behind him, near the houses, but he had no idea what. Then another loud rumble, on the other side of the bridge this time.

  Nyalin scrambled off the man and onto his hands and knees, wincing at his injured fingers, the ache in his back. Nausea swept him as he tried to steady himself over the cobblestones. They were cool, rough under his palms. Real. Solid.

  The cobblestones flickered, swept to the side, then steadied. But then they flickered again.

  Oh, no. Oh, no.

  Raelt’s two remaining henchmen reached him at about the same time. The two men each took a side—and launched a kick to his ribs in sync.

  He collapsed onto his side, groaning from the pain, his head lolling back. Where was Raelt?

  His foster brother’s thin form was walking toward him—slow, calm. Controlled. He raised an arm and a palm.

  A scream erupted from Nyalin’s throat without his consent as the magic washed over him. The energy hot in his veins slashed like a thousand needles over the tender skin of his soul.

  Now Raelt stood over him, the blade raised. He wasn’t actually going to use the practice sword to try to kill him, was he? People never fought with practice swords. Most weren’t even sharp. Magical swords were for magic, not bloodshed.

  But Raelt was gripping the hilt with both hands.

  He plunged. The blade dug into Nyalin’s stomach, and the power in it radiated through him, covered him like a thick, dark sludge that made it hard to move.