by R. K. Thorne
Inside Nyalin’s mind, there was a low, angry growl.
What the hell? There was no reason for him to cross over now, and he’d never seen anything that could growl in the afterworld. Was he actually going mad this time?
“You don’t deserve to lead this clan.” Her voice was acid.
He straightened, chest expanding. “I’m the most powerful. Of course I do.”
“You’re not more powerful than me.”
“You’re a pathetic woman. Of course I am. Draw your sword, and let’s see. Oh, wait, you don’t have one.”
“Neither do you. And you don’t honor the dragon.”
“And you don’t honor your betters.”
“You’re not my better. I don’t answer to you.”
“You will.”
“I won’t. Ever.”
“That too can be arranged, if you insist. But I’d rather not.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“What? Of course not. What an imagination.” His voice was smug. Andius grabbed her by the hair and pulled her closer, and Nyalin clenched his teeth to stifle a second gasp.
“Let me go,” she spat, her hands clawing at his wrists. Lines of blood welled against his skin, but he didn’t let go. “Get out of my room.”
Nyalin edged closer, trying to see better, his blood boiling. At what point would he no longer hide? If he hurt her—
“I don’t care if you stole it,” Andius whispered. He smiled at her then, a smile that could freeze a hot spring. “Because you’ll be mine either way.”
“Get—out,” she grunted, digging her nails in even harder.
He released her, sending her staggering. The door slammed shut behind him.
Nyalin shoved the curtain aside, grabbed her shoulders, steadied her. For a moment she just leaned against him as they listened for any chance Andius might return. His footsteps faded into silence.
“You’re shaking like a leaf.” He pulled her toward the nightstand. “Here. Have some water.” He held up a glass.
Still shaking, she ignored the glass and bent over the wash basin, splashing some water on her face and gulping some down. Slowly he set the glass by her bedside. A mirror hung over the wash table, and now she stared at it, panting.
Then, hand as fast as an adder, she seized scissors from beside the basin and lopped off a lock of hair. Then another, and another.
“Lara—whoa—stop!” He grabbed for her hand, but he didn’t want to get stabbed. Or worse, stab her. “Wait—what are you—” She’d shorn off several more handfuls before he’d disarmed her. Golden locks scattered across the wood of the nightstand and floor.
She turned wild eyes on him. “I’ll never be his, Nyalin. Never. Do you understand?”
“Let’s not be hasty.”
“You saw what he did. What he is.”
“I did—and I don’t want you to let him win. You can leave. Run away. There’s so much of the world you still want to see, remember?”
An edge of the madness in her eyes lifted. “Run away?”
“Yes. Look—I’ll go along with your plan. We can try to win this thing together. But in exchange, you’ve got to promise me you’ll work on a backup plan. Pack supplies. Some transportation.”
She sniffed. “Are you sure you want to deal with all of this? With me?”
He squeezed her shoulder. “I’ve never been more sure. I always regretted not having magic, because it meant my mother’s sacrifice was meaningless. I’ve been searching for something big enough to make it matter. Somehow—this is my chance. I can help you even without magic, or maybe even because I don’t have it.”
“But you do—”
He held up a hand to quiet her. “You deserve to be the clan leader just as much as your brother did. You can use me to achieve it. I never thought being a puppet would be meaningful, but I’ll take it.”
“You’ll still cast the spells.”
“Whatever. Just promise me—”
“I promise.” She glanced at her reflection. “Although I may have to trim off more to look presentable.”
He winced, ran a hand over the remaining locks. “They’re beautiful, so that’s a shame, but they’ll grow back.”
She leaned toward the mirror as if searching for something in her appearance. After a long moment, her eyes flicked to meet his in the reflection. “You think they’re beautiful? Not wild? Not uncouth?”
“No, not at all. I think of them like… your crown of gold.” Hell, had he just admitted that out loud? That was a ridiculous thing to say, especially given the situation.
“You think of them?” She straightened and turned toward him.
“Maybe. So what if I do?”
She stepped forward once, then again, and surprised him by pressing her mouth against his. No part of them touched but their lips, but that same feeling ran through him, of fire and energy igniting like a star in the sky. It was achingly sweet and still timid, fragile like the first snowflake against the warm ground. It was exactly what he wanted.
And also entirely wrong.
He lifted a hand to brush her cheek, trying to memorize this feeling. Then after a long moment, and then one more to savor the sensation he’d certainly never feel again after what he was about to say, he gently gripped her shoulders and eased her away.
“Don’t, Lara,” he whispered. “A kiss isn’t a thank-you. Or a payment.” And he didn’t want to labor under the illusion that her gratitude was anything deeper or grander than it was. His imagination would run wild.
“It wasn’t—” she started.
“Let’s promise to be honest with each other. As allies at war, we’ll have to be. Always.” His hands squeezed her shoulders tighter.
Her brow was furrowed as her eyes searched his face. He had no idea if she found what she was looking for, but eventually she murmured, “Always. Of course. I promise.”
“All right, then.” He let go of her shoulders, took a slight step back, and pretended nothing had happened and that her hair wasn’t two radically different lengths.
It was time to start figuring out how to cheat.
“Now tell me. Just exactly how do you think we’re going to do this? Are you going to use a practice blade to power all this? We’re going to need more than first-level spells.”
She raised one shoulder. “Not exactly.”
“I’ll have to learn higher spells. We have a lot of work to do, and not much time to do it in.”
“Agreed.” She dove in—showing him a crate of goods and a dozen new charms. She explained her theories, what she thought would work, what they needed to do.
He nodded along. It wasn’t a bad plan. It wasn’t a great one—but there was no time for perfection.
Still. As they continued to plan, a bad feeling brewed in his stomach. The ending of this story of theirs… It might not be a happy one. But while there were many easier paths, this was the only one that had a chance at something meaningful, and it was the only one he wanted to take. He was hopelessly devoted to her, and he had been since that first day in the graveyard.
There was no going back, and there never had been.
Chapter 12
Brave
It was a long two weeks, with more than a few sleepless nights. But they’d had a lot of spells to spin, and a lot of practice at modulating her magic so that he had enough for the appropriate spells. There were whole spheres of magic they didn’t have the charms for—or any practice at—but he hoped to the Twins it would be enough.
They rotated between their rooms and the library late at night or early in the morning. Somehow Smoke always found them, as if she had no interest in returning to her Obsidian home. She’d curl in his lap, or Lara’s, or do figure eights between their legs if they were on their feet, practicing the combat spells of the shadow sphere as well as one could, given the lack of time and resources and their all-around secrecy.
But they made something like progress.
On the day he usually vi
sited his mother, he made the trek to the stadium grounds just after dawn. Of course, he’d visited her grave first. He needed all the support or luck he could get. But then he’d headed off to do something a little ridiculous.
Throw his name in for the Contests.
Built by the emperor and used by all the clans, the stadiums were a series of tall, round buildings open to the sky. They facilitated clan competitions as well as empire-wide festivals and more.
But today, he lined up outside the smaller one, with about four dozen other young men in similar bone-pale garb. And he waited.
At the front, it wasn’t Cerivil taking names, nor any clan member he’d ever met before. An elderly woman with sharp blue eyes and a beige hood raised her eyebrows at him.
“I’d like to sign up for the Contests.”
She frowned at him and said nothing for a long moment.
He cleared his throat uneasily. “Is there a problem?”
Silence. Except for the whispers that started to swirl behind him.
“Do I need to pay something, or…?” he asked, even though he knew he didn’t.
The woman’s eyes narrowed like an eagle zeroing in on prey. “I thought you were the one with no magic.”
He shrugged. “Rumors are wild. It’s true that I’m not very good, though.”
She reared back a little. “Not much like your mother, eh?”
The words stung, but he brushed the feeling aside. “I’d just like to get a little experience. Now that I’m in the Bone Clan, I’m getting better every day.”
She eyed him for a moment longer, then finally relented. “Fine. Nyalin moLinali—write it down,” she said to a hooded assistant who never looked up. “Be here the day after next. The midday gong exactly. And bring anything you plan to use to compete. Questions?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Next.”
And just like that, the deed was done.
Walking away, he shook his head. What the hell was he doing? Trying to steal the leadership of this clan he’d only been in for not even a month?
No. Of course not. He’d never cared for leadership or power. He was just trying to save someone very worthy from a torturous, tragic end. Someone who’d become a great friend, who was loyal and smart and kind. Though friend wasn’t quite the right word for it.
Did the end justify the means, though? Was it the act or the consequences that mattered?
Maybe it was a little of both. If the rule requiring her to marry was unjust, was defying that law by cheating the right thing to do? Or was it just a convenient excuse?
He had no answers to questions like these. And it didn’t change the fact that, for Lara, he was going to do this.
Later that night, as he was getting into his bed, Smoke already curled on the linens and the dresser pushed over to block the doorway, he noticed one of the books had fallen off his shelf.
Odd.
He bent to pick it up. It was the book Grel had left for him in his room. Unusual Magical Phenomena.
As if interested, the cat sniffed at it as he sat down with it on the bed and began to read.
As the days passed, Lara’s sense of the dragon grew. It seemed to grow by the hour, in fact, until just under every waking moment was another one, a parallel existence. Yeska bathing in her glorious mountain waterfall, diving and spinning through the air, snacking on fish.
Even now, as Lara lay in bed trying to sleep, another part of her mind was gliding over the waving grasslands, lit only by the moon, a dark velvet-blue sky stretching above. The scent of woodsmoke and mutton caught her nose on the wind, and she veered to the east. Perhaps there would be a roast going near the village… either forgotten or unattended.
In bed, Lara’s stomach growled even though she’d eaten plenty for dinner. She rolled from her back to her stomach, grumbling. Then she punched her pillow, pulled her covers up in a bunch near her chin, and, in spite of all the images and the worry, fell asleep.
The great gray-purple eye blinked. The dream had enveloped her, and now for the first time, she could look around, away from the great eye. They were at the waterfall. The dragon lounged in the water, ripples from the falls lapping against her bony plates. Lara sat on a sandy beach that she did not remember being quite so large, or maybe it hadn’t existed at all. She wrapped her arms around her knees and hugged them close.
Tell me how to help you, daughter. The dragon gave a little flutter of its wings in the water, shaking them dry. The gesture was surprisingly doglike.
She only hesitated for a moment. “Did you hear what I suggested to my friend? To Nyalin?”
Your friend… The one you insisted is not your mate.
Uh. Yeah, that one.
You kissed him.
Her face flushed. I know! I don’t know what I was thinking.
You were thinking he should be your mate in things other than magic.
Lara slapped a hand over her face. Her punishment for the theft of the clanblade was going to be Yeska’s permanent over-the-shoulder commentary. Can we just focus on what I asked him? He wasn’t interested.
Only if you admit I was right.
She rolled her eyes. About what?
You have wanted him as a mate all along.
Damn it, Yeska! She let out a frustrated moan. Okay, fine. Fine. You were right all along. He’s handsome and smart. And even better, he’s actually nice to me. Imagine that. Now can we talk about my plans?
Yes. Yeska’s voice purred, she was so pleased with herself. It is a bold and daring deception. I love it.
Lara couldn’t help but wince. “I hate to lie. Can you think of any other way? Anything?”
It is not only lying, I believe. It is outright cheating.
You’re not helping.
The dragon chuffed through its nose. I admire that you will do what it takes to change our fates. I do not mean to judge you. I wish you to win. And succeed. You have found a way you might be able to lead without risk of death—through him.
She blew out a breath. She’d been worried the dragon might hate the idea, and then what would Lara do? But can you think of any way cheating could be avoided?
And still fight for the clan? You could always simply leave and abandon them.
“No, no. I still want to fight.”
Then fight. I know of no other way. This one is strange enough.
Lara hung her head for a moment. Yes. She hadn’t seen it before, because to see it required questionable morals, something she was rapidly acquiring. “So this young man, the one you flew me back to save—”
Yes, I like that one for you. Exotic, but good stock.
She frowned. “I have no idea what that means.”
Well matched in more than just magic.
“That’s not what I meant!”
It’s what I meant. Yes, perhaps aunt is the correct term for me. Do aunts not concern themselves with encouraging the marriage and mating of their families?
Shaking her head, she rubbed her forehead. “He doesn’t want me. He made that clear enough.”
Does that matter? If I were your age, I would fly to Resravakot and insist that—
“I am not sure I want to know this.”
Fine. What do you want to know then?
“He’s been told he has no magic. But I can see it, and sometimes if he’s using my energy, he can cast spells anyway. Why would that be? And how can I help him?”
A lock—a magical one, the Dragon offered.
“Truly?” Pyaris had mentioned something like that. Damn, she should have consulted Yeska earlier.
I know, I’m very useful. Magical locks are possible at the highest levels of ‘control magic,’ I believe you call it. A soul lock is a simple spell if you know it, although not as simple as locks on boxes. It requires training and a great deal of energy. The mage must specialize to reach it, of course, as with all the highest-level spells.
“What does it do?”
It cuts the target off from their source.
The blades? Their source. Of course. But when she fed him magic, he wasn’t so cut off.
There are many sources of magic. The blades are one source, but there are others too. A soul lock cuts the target off from ambient magic as well as their internal source, their own life force. From everything. Blades may be usable, temporarily, or magic if it is loaned. Or they can borrow from the dead.
She frowned. “You talk like those are all equal.”
The dragon sent a ruffle through her plates that sent water flying, almost like a shrug. Because they are.
“I wouldn’t take advantage of the dead.”
No, you’re quite content to exploit the power of the living.
“What do you mean?”
You’re happy to take advantage of my power, aren’t you? And I’m happy to let you. But blades are not so different from the blood magic or whatever you call this thing that you’re doing.
“What are you saying?”
Where do you think the blades get their power from?
She faltered. “I-I don’t know.”
What makes you so right to use my soul, and them so wrong to use the souls of the dead? Is the blood of frogs so beneath mine?
“Of course not. I-I didn’t realize. I didn’t mean it like that.”
Of course you did. But now you know better and can take care to not let your friend know of these thoughts.
“I will correct them. And I want to know more about what you mean about the blades. But first—Pyaris could see the lock or thought she could. Why would she, as a necromancer, be able to see it, but my father and I can’t?”
A good question.
“Could it be because a necromancer put it there?”
Possibly, but nonnecromantic mages cast lock spells just as often. There is no reason to prefer one over the other.
“Damn. Thought I was onto something. How can I know for sure if a soul lock is responsible?”
Well, if he has a soul lock, he’s been cut off from his source. Many sources, it seems, not just the ambient. It should be all sources, including you. But somehow you are exempt.
“There’s never an end to the strangeness with him.”
Indeed. It could be my power coming through. Or… there is another option.