by R. K. Thorne
In fact, he had a theory. He’d lost consciousness during this latest attack, so his soul seemed to have followed his body and returned to it on its own. But he had used the afterworld to move—to teleport—away from Raelt. Could he use it to teleport out of this cell? Could he bring Lara with him? What happened if he went too far and teleported them into the solid dirt beyond?
He swallowed. Nothing worth having was ever easy… He eyed the distance to the door, the length of the hallway beyond. Was space the same across worlds? Exactly the same?
“Let me try something,” he said. “Give me some power. A lot, if you can manage. Let’s trigger my mother’s power again. I think I may be able to use it to get us out of here.”
“Really?” She tilted her head and came closer. He could already feel the magic flowing in.
The vertigo hit—awful, since his head was spinning just fine on its own if he moved—and the world flickered gently. He reached for it this time, embraced the transition like diving into deep water.
The green world was dark around him and nondescript. Was he underground? Did that matter in the afterlife?
He stood. It didn’t ache to do so; that was a nice side effect. He took exactly seven steps in the direction he’d faced himself. Then he opened his eyes and reached for Lara, for the other world once again.
Dark brown enveloped him, easier this time. He faced a blank dirt wall.
“You’re out!” Lara shouted from behind him, clutching the bars and grinning. “How did you do that? Your eyes went all white, and then it was just like—boom. A flash. And you’re out there now.”
“A gift from my mother, I guess.” He shrugged. That was as good an explanation as any.
“Look for a key.”
He limped around and searched through the rubble, but his strained efforts produced nothing. No key. Just a few supplies, discarded bags and rope, a lantern. “There’s not much out here. No keys. No charms.”
“Damn.” She pounded a fist against the cell door once. “Okay, well, go and get help and come back for me. No, go beat Andius at the Contests, then come back for me—”
“Let me try one other idea. Just a little more power, please.”
She nodded, and the energy surged on in. He reached more directly this time, waited less, and crossed over easily. Seven steps more, and he slipped back.
Well, this could get interesting.
He stepped toward her. “You had your secrets. I guess I have a few too.” She frowned up at him, but there was trust in her eyes. “Can you hold on to me?”
She hesitated. “Sure. If you want me to.”
Her words were casual, but as he slipped his arms around her, her returning grip was like a vise. He took a deep breath, her scent fortifying him, and then he reached for the next world again, imagining the green covering them, easing into them both.
He opened his eyes, not realizing he’d closed them, and there she was, lit by pale, sickly green but eyes as bright as ever.
She stared around them, her expression wild. “What is this?”
“It’s the next world. The next in the sequence. Our mirror world.”
“Where there are ghosts?” she whispered.
“Yes. But not many. I didn’t see any nearby.”
“You see them?” Her eyebrows flew higher.
“From time to time when I’m here. This is what I see when my power is triggered. I cross over to this other world. But it matches up to our world somewhat. Follow me this way.” He eased her the seven steps forward.
“Ready to go back?”
She nodded numbly, mouth hanging open, and he reached for their original world. It was harder this time, took more effort, but he squeezed her tighter and focused as hard as he could. He opened his eyes as he felt the vertigo fade and her grip on him loosen. He was loath to release her, but he understood his magic so poorly, he didn’t want to risk anything experimental with her in his arms.
Laughter burbled out of her. “We’re out! You did it! We’re out!”
He grinned. “We better get to the Contests.”
But she sobered quickly. “No—you get there. I’ve got to get the clanblade before Andius realizes I… well, you know.” She gave him a knowing look and glanced up the hallway. She’d clammed up because some of Andius’s cronies might still be nearby. “And they took all my charms.”
“Mine too. I can get by with the basic spells in the first round. It’d be better not to, but…”
“No, it will be quick to get more. I have a backup set of charms in my pack in my room. You said to have a backup plan, remember? I’ll meet you there.”
“Good. Let’s go.” Climbing the stairs bruised and bleeding wasn’t easy, but nothing could have stopped him.
Chapter 15
Birthright
“You’re late.”
Of course, it was the eagle-eyed old woman who caught him just outside the stadium. He nearly collapsed at her feet from panting.
“I came—as soon as—I could.”
“Oh, did our timing inconvenience you?”
“No, I—was unfortunately—indisposed—but I’m—here now.”
She pursed her lips, looked him up and down once, but apparently he was suitably miserable-looking. “Are you all right? What happened?”
He waved at the air. “It’s a—long story.”
“Fine, fine. We haven’t completed round one. The spheres test. Get in the line, and you shan’t be too late.”
He nodded and raced toward a young man in a bone-colored crossover, the last in a short line.
In the center of the wide stadium, thirteen copper bowls shone in the midday sun on elegant pale wood pedestals, one for each sphere of magic. He struggled to catch his breath without the others noticing as he peered around to watch.
A contestant strode forward, bowed to the crowd, then reached one arm out to the bowl at his left. His hand twisted, rotating palm up, and flame plumed up from the bowl.
The crowd gave a smattering of polite applause. It was a basic fire sphere spell, Ignite, and it would earn him one point. Any basic spell earned one point, while any higher-level spell earned double its level. Thus a third-level spell could accrue six points. Together they’d only practiced one of those, and he wasn’t sure he was going to try it. If only he knew how many points Andius had earned and what he was dealing with.
The current contestant skipped the next bowl to the disappointed sighs of the onlookers. Nyalin shook his head. With thirteen overall spheres of magic, there were going to be some spheres the young swordmages had not yet mastered. Too bad skipping any sphere resulted in a penalty.
Nyalin scratched his chin. He was back with all the young and inexperienced mages at the end of the line, wasn’t he? Or perhaps the experienced swordmages hadn’t even shown up, because they were all content to let Andius win.
Would it kill them to post the contestants or scores on the wall somewhere?
As he watched, the current mage managed to Palm Flash some white light and cast two Water and Earth Bubbles, which would get him nice first-level bonuses. Finally, he blossomed one flower and summoned a butterfly before he bowed his goodbyes.
His magic had earned him seven points total. Sadly, the young man earned just as many penalty points, as seven bowls remained quiet and empty. The crowd gave a muted reaction to this showing, and Contest officials ran up from the sides to douse flames, remove buds, and lay fresh soil and other spell substrates.
The other contestants waiting in line smiled and waved at the most recent one as he walked past, the scent of rosemary following him. His spirits seemed high. The boy hadn’t had any problems or embarrassments. He just hadn’t come here to win. Perhaps it was practice. Or tradition.
Nyalin couldn’t settle for that.
He fidgeted in his empty pocket where he’d taken to rolling his cold charms, Lara’s stolen gifts that would be his only chance of a decent showing here. They should get him through the round. If Lara made it b
ack and showed up with another set. And if Cerivil didn’t ask what the hell Nyalin was doing with them.
He stayed low behind the young man in front of him, who fortunately was a tall, beefy youth, and scanned the crowd for Andius while he waited.
There—across the stadium, sitting near Cerivil. Andius’s face was flushed, forehead shiny with sweat. Had that snake tried to find the clanblade in the well, or had he sent his cronies to do it for him? Either way, he must have hurried to get all the way back here and compete already.
“Nyalin.” The voice behind him froze him to his very core. A voice from his childhood, and not a good one. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”
Slowly Nyalin turned to face Elix.
“What are you doing here?” Nyalin’s voice was quiet, but inside panic danced through his veins. Elix knew about the lock. Had the emperor talked to Elix in such a short period of time? Past his foster father, a panting horse milled in imperial livery. Had Elix been at the palace even at the same time Nyalin had?
He braced himself for Elix’s words while his brain searched for a loophole. Elix would want to stop him. To tell everyone it was impossible that this weak boy cast any spells at all, let alone these. How could he cut the argument down? His mind raced but he came up with nothing. If Elix knew the truth, then he knew the truth.
It was going to be over before it began.
Elix’s voice was gruff. “I would have liked to do this some other time, under different circumstances. I’ve imagined this moment time and time again over the years. A time to explain things. But we’re out of time. For now, this will have to do.”
“What are you talking about?”
The Obsidian Clan leader had drawn nearly every contestant and hooded Contest official that could see him, although they were still out of sight of most people inside the stadium. Surprise grew as Elix dropped to a knee and held up a scabbard spread flat across both palms. Nyalin hadn’t noticed he’d been holding anything, he’d been so afraid it was all over.
“What is this?” he said, even as he reached to take it.
“Your mother’s sword.” Rising, Elix produced a sword belt as well and handed it to Nyalin.
“My—my what?”
“The sword of Linali. Your birthright.”
“By Seluvae…” he muttered. Old habits died hard.
Then, to Nyalin’s surprise, the huge man clutched him in a hug, the sword an awkward bar between their stomachs.
“It won’t do you much good,” Elix murmured in his ear.
Nyalin winced; that was the usual attitude he expected from his foster father, not this… weird generosity.
But Elix wasn’t done. “It doesn’t have the energy it once did. We don’t know why. But it will give you the excuse you need.”
Nyalin’s mouth hung open as Elix released him. Only then did Elix’s eyes seem to scan his face and notice the blood.
“What happened to you?”
“Long story.”
“Was one of my sons involved?” His already hard face hardened further.
“Not this time.”
Elix’s eyes closed for just a moment, barely longer than a blink, but the wave of power hit Nyalin like flames licking across his skin. He jumped—but the sudden absence of pain stilled him quickly. Elix had healed him. Elix. What insanity was this?
He was so stunned he almost forgot to bow as his former clan leader bowed to him. “Fight well, child. Seluvae’s blessings upon you.”
“Thank you, Clan Leader.” He bowed deeper even as he felt the other men in line bristle. He was only using the proper title—what else was he supposed to call the man?
Then, just like that, Elix turned and left without another word.
Nyalin stared down at the sword.
It radiated nothing, not even the little a practice sword did. Just wood and metal in his hands, although the scabbard was a beautiful, shining red lacquer. He untied the scabbard and drew the blade an inch. The shining metal was etched with leaves.
What the hell had just happened?
Lara is here, a deep voice growled in his head. She’s sending a messenger, hang on.
Thanks. I will. He hesitated. Did he need to say something more to properly thank a great dragon? Would she even hear him? This will take some getting used to.
Yes, it tends to. And no, I’m thoroughly thanked, and no need for titles.
He wasn’t going to have much chance to call her anything if this day didn’t start improving. He glanced at the shortening line ahead of him, wiped the sweat off his brow, and watched the next contestant stride out. Then he set to putting the belt on and getting the sword properly hung at his hip.
Elix had had it all this time and never mentioned it. What did he mean by imagining a time to explain things? What did he have to explain? The lock?
He scowled. If they were hiding all this, what else were they hiding?
The excuse you need. The sword could be the excuse for why he could now suddenly do magic when two weeks ago he’d been as magical as a doorframe. Was that the intent? Pavan knew Nyalin was cheating today, because he knew about the lock. And that meant that Elix knew too.
And that meant they weren’t stopping him.
What was going on? They both had a lot of explaining to do.
Just as another contestant left him and the line shortened further, a little dusty girl scampered up with a fabric bag. She held it up wordlessly, and he took it, bowing.
She waited.
Eying her uncomfortably, like a raven he’d summoned and didn’t know what to do with, he opened the drawstring. Indeed, inside were the goddess-given charms. Thank the Twins. He pocketed the charms, reassured by their cool weight.
The sun was beating down. The little girl was still there.
He groped inside the bag, a smile forming. If he had to partner with someone to cheat, he’d chosen just the right person. She’d foreseen this. He drew the silver from the bag and gave it to the girl.
Her eyes narrowed and went from him to the bag and back again.
Sighing, he handed over the empty bag too.
She fled.
His nerves should have been rubbed raw by the time his turn came after all that. But he was far too focused on remembering his spells and distracted by the sword and his damn father. He rubbed the charms, turned them over again and again, and tried to focus on memory rather than worry.
That was true, at least, until he stepped out onto the sand.
As he entered the arena, the bored crowd roused, and acid rushed his veins. Whispers—and some louder comments—flew.
“Who is this one?”
“Don’t you know? It’s Linali’s son.”
“Look at that sword!”
“Oh, this should be good.”
“No, no, I heard he flunked out as an Obsidian.”
“Why’s he here then? And why’d he come crawling down to us?”
Because he was clearly a glutton for punishment, it seemed. He lifted his chin, brushed off his robes, and strove to ignore the murmurs by bowing deeply to Cerivil and the officials.
Cerivil’s eyes flicked to the sword and widened. The excuse you need indeed—yes. Nyalin caught sight of Grel too, in a row just behind Cerivil, gaze intent. Sutamae clutched Grel’s arm and waved, a wicked twist of a smile on her face, although her eyebrows raised at the sword too. Damn—Grel might think Nyalin had earned this somehow. No, he doubted the damn sword smiths would have spent a moment to deny him. He’d have to find Grel afterward and explain.
And there was Andius, next to Cerivil, eyes wide and nostrils flared, looking ready to storm onto the sand and kill him. But Andius didn’t move.
Nyalin didn’t move either. The mood of the stadium quieted, knotting with anticipation. Then he simply reached out with his mind, finding the first bowl, the pedestal dedicated to all magic of the fire sphere. Sparks dashed off the rim of the copper bowl and into the dirt before the dry wood in the bowl burst into flames.
One point down. Many more to go.
The crowd’s applause was more than polite this time.
He could work his way around like several contestants had, but he didn’t want to. It was time to take some risks.
He focused on the bowl designated for sound, small symbols set inside as a potential medium. The highest-level spelled he’d attempted was Silent Space. And okay, maybe the emperor had inspired him a little. His admiration felt a little naïve and almost silly now, but Pavan was good at it, and the spell was impressive. Lara hadn’t been sure the higher level spell was strictly necessary, so they hadn’t settled on how far to go. Given the physical beating he’d taken, he should probably be playing it safe.
But he only had one shot at winning this thing.
He concentrated, drawing the energy together in his core, then gathering it at the charm. Then he flattened his palms against each other and clapped. It was more a social indicator than practical, as he still needed to twist the energy through the charm and—
The wave of silence exploded from his center out, magic moving through him fast. Maybe too fast. Maybe he’d run out and—
No. There she was—new energy flowed in, and just as fast. Thank the goddesses for her. The amount that flew through him startled him. It had to be bolstered by the dragon.
You’re welcome.
The scent of blackberries was like a punch in the nose, it was so strong. And the clan members in the highest seats had risen to their feet, shouting and waving hands. But he couldn’t hear them.
And neither could most of the stadium.
He stared. The space he’d carved out was ten times larger than what he’d planned. And many people inside the silent space were stunned into a different kind of silence. He glanced down at the sword on his hip.
Nah, that was all me. Yeska again.
Well. Thanks.
You’re welcome. This is fun!
Nyalin released the spell, and the murmurs only grew into cheering and shouts. But he had eleven copper bowls left, and no more tricks up his sleeve.