The Whitefire Crossing (32 page)

Simon’s eyes narrowed. Kiran felt a small, fierce surge of satisfaction.

Despite his narrowed eyes, Simon’s voice remained calm. “Brave words, young Kiran, when I hold your soul in my hands.”

“You hold nothing of the kind.” Without the hennanwort blurring his thoughts, Kiran remembered quite well the supposed advantages of the binding Ruslan had cast on him during the
akhelashva
ritual. The mark-bond gave Ruslan near total control over Kiran; yet the bond’s very nature meant no other mage could supplant or dissolve it, and it protected Kiran’s mind and magic from many of the worst bindings an enemy mage might cast.

Though Simon could cast far nastier spells on Kiran’s body than a mere snare-binding. Kiran shoved down memories of Ruslan’s more vicious punishments, and kept his expression contemptuous.

“I’m not a fool,” he told Simon. “You can block my power, or kill me, but you cannot touch my will.”

“Did Ruslan tell you that?” Simon’s gaze dropped to Ruslan’s mark, half revealed by the ragged tear in Kiran’s shirt. “What faith you have in him. He’d be so pleased, if he knew.”

Kiran bit back his first furious denial. “I should have faith in your words instead? A powerless mage skulking behind the border, afraid to face the one who defeated him?”

He’d hoped to provoke Simon further, but Simon only looked amused. “The only powerless mage I see here is you.”

Kiran refused to look at the hateful charms spiraling over his skin. “What do you want with me? I don’t care what you claim, I know the meaning of a mark-bond. You can’t control my mind, or use my magic against Ruslan.”

“Not as long as you are mark-bound,” Simon agreed, mildly. “But you lack imagination if you believe that is the only use I’d have for an apprentice of Ruslan’s.” He drew the slender silver dagger from his belt.

Kiran scrabbled backward on the bed. Simon flicked a hand. Power rippled under Kiran’s skin. His muscles went slack, dumping him flat on his back.

Curse the man, of course he’d kept his snare-binding in place. Kiran watched in helpless frustration as Simon nicked his own finger. Simon traced a bloody rune on Kiran’s forehead, and spoke soft words. The blood burned on Kiran’s skin, power pressing inward. The room dissolved before his eyes.

“Ow!” Kiran yanked his hands back from the spell channel, his fingers already blistering. Magefire erupted in crackling arcs, only to subside as the exercise room wards blazed to life and damped the energies back to safe levels.

“Watch it, stupid.” Mikail scowled at him from across the silver tangle of channels laid out on the floor. “What were you thinking, disrupting the channels like that? Now we’ll have to start all over again.” His aggrieved expression changed to one of concern, as Kiran hissed and sucked on his burned fingers. “Are you all right? Did I channel too much power for you to hold?”

“No.” Ruslan’s voice made Kiran start and jerk his fingers from his mouth. He hadn’t heard Ruslan come in, but there he stood, leaning against the wall with folded arms. The ebbing fire of the wards turned his chestnut hair to burnished copper and cast shadows beneath the smooth golden planes of his cheekbones. “Mikail, you did well. The error was Kiran’s alone.” His voice grew stern. “Kiran, had this been a real spell, your lapse in focus would have meant death for you both.”

Kiran flinched. Ruslan was right. He’d let his attention wander, just for an instant, and lost control. “I’m sorry,” he said, looking anxiously at Ruslan. “I didn’t mean to. It’s just—the weather is so nice today—Mero said the baby songbirds would be hatching, and—” Too late, he noticed Mikail’s subtle shake of his head.

Ruslan’s expression darkened. He strode across the room and bent to grip Kiran’s shoulders. “Mero? Who is this?”

Kiran swallowed. Mikail’s expression made it clear Kiran had done something that would anger Ruslan far more than his error with the spell. “I...he...”

“He’s the cook’s boy,” Mikail said hurriedly, his eyes on Ruslan’s face. “We talk to him sometimes. When he brings food to our room. That’s all.”

Ruslan turned and looked at Mikail, then back at Kiran. “Is that all?” His voice was soft, but his eyes were anything but. Kiran knew it would only be worse if he lied. Ruslan always knew when they lied.

“I, um. Sometimes I play with him,” Kiran admitted in a voice that was little more than a whisper. He liked Mero, who was friendly and talkative, unlike the rest of the servants. Mero knew all kinds of interesting things, like where the birds nested and the lizards hid at night, and he was happy to show off his Taint.

“Kiran.” Ruslan didn’t look angry now, only disappointed, his deep voice sorrowful. “What have I told you?”

“You said the
nathahlen
aren’t like us and they’re just stupid and we shouldn’t bother with them, but Mero’s not like that, he’s nice—” Kiran’s explanation stumbled to a halt as Ruslan’s mouth tightened.

“I told you to keep yourself apart from them, Kiran, and you did not listen.” Ruslan’s voice was stern again, his hazel eyes cold.

“I didn’t think you meant Mero,” Kiran said miserably. He bowed his head, knowing what would come.

“It’s my fault, Ruslan, I should have watched him better.” Mikail’s slanted gray eyes creased with anxiety. “Kiran’s only little, he gets mixed up sometimes.”

Ruslan raised his eyebrows at Mikail. “Your instinct to protect your mage-brother is commendable, but Kiran is old enough to know better. I fear I must reinforce the lesson.” He lifted a hand. Kiran tried to brace himself, but it didn’t help.

The world turned to fire, flames melting his skin and charring his insides as his screams tore his throat raw, the agony building until it threatened to rip his mind apart...

The pain ebbed at last, leaving Kiran in a crumpled, whimpering heap. Through a blur of tears, he saw Mikail backed white-faced against the wall, his hands over his ears.

Strong arms lifted him, enfolding him in solid warmth. “There, now,” Ruslan said tenderly into his ear. “All over.” He cradled Kiran against his chest, one hand stroking through Kiran’s hair.

Kiran buried his face in the silken folds of Ruslan’s shirt and cried. Ruslan hummed softly and rubbed Kiran’s back in soothing circles, until Kiran’s sobs died away to sniffles.

A tentative finger touched Kiran’s shoulder. He lifted his head to see Mikail, his face still pale and his eyes solemn. Ruslan freed an arm and pulled Mikail in against his other side.

“You’ll remember now, Kiran, yes? You won’t make me hurt you anymore?”

Kiran nodded, gulping. Ruslan turned to Mikail. “And you’ll set him a good example—no more idle conversations with servants.”

“Yes, Ruslan,” Mikail said earnestly.

“Good.” Ruslan gave them both a last hug and stood. “Now. Perform the exercise again. If you hold your focus properly this time, Kiran, I’ll heal your fingers.”

Disorientation washed over Kiran as the memory abruptly receded. His fingers ached with remembered pain, his nose full of the jasmine and citrus-scented air of Ruslan’s house in Ninavel.

Belatedly, he realized he could move. Simon had relaxed the snare-binding. Kiran quelled the urge to scramble backward again, knowing it wouldn’t make any difference.

“What...what was that for?” From the
ighantya
rune still tingling Kiran’s skin, Simon must have experienced the spell-triggered memory along with Kiran, using his existing snare-binding as a link. Again, too subtle of a casting to disturb the Council’s detection spells. But what had Simon hoped to learn from such a commonplace childhood moment?

Simon only tapped a finger on the chair arm, his dark brows drawn together in dissatisfaction. “Perhaps some adjustments to the arcana,” he muttered.

Ah. So subtle a spell was difficult to target properly. Simon hadn’t wanted that memory, but another—which one, Kiran couldn’t tell. Perhaps Simon imagined Kiran possessed knowledge of the complex, layered defensive spells that guarded Ruslan’s mind and
ikilhia
. The idea startled Kiran into a bitter chuckle. If Simon thought Ruslan confided in his apprentices, he didn’t know Ruslan at all.

Simon glanced at Kiran. “If you mock your master’s indulgence of your disobedience, I share the sentiment.” He shook his head. “What a fool Ruslan is. Why he didn’t burn out your will the moment he took you as his apprentice, I’ll never know. That ridiculous obsession of his with creating a family, I suppose.” He gave a scornful laugh. “Not that I’m complaining. His weakness will mean his death.”

Kiran’s eyes widened. Simon’s hatred for Ruslan had been evident from the start. But to kill Ruslan...not even in Kiran’s darkest, wildest dreams had he imagined such a thing was possible. Ruslan was far too clever and strong, his defenses so thickly layered not even a channeled spell could penetrate them.

Yet Simon’s sharp derision when he’d spoken of Ruslan and family...Kiran’s mouth went dry.
Akheli
were exquisitely skilled in the art of torture. Did Simon think to gain advantage over Ruslan by threatening—or worse, enacting—some savage torment upon Kiran?

Torment is what you deserve, after the horrors I endured,
Alisa’s voice whispered within. Kiran fought to project only confidence. “You must know Ruslan would never bow to an enemy’s demands, no matter what you do to me.”

“True; not even Ruslan is so foolish as that.” Dark amusement lit Simon’s eyes as he stood. “Though you are wise to fear my casting. Ruslan’s corrections will seem as love-taps compared to the agonies my wards will visit upon you, if you brave them.” He tapped the black ward lines etched into the doorframe, meaningfully. The lines flashed a quick, vivid green as the door shut behind him.

Kiran concentrated. Even with his magic blocked by Simon’s charms, he could sense a low, snarling mutter of power within walls, ceiling and floor. Not strong enough to kill, but enough to savage his nerves and blast him unconscious.

He studied the silver banding on his forearms. He’d never succeed in reading a spell pattern through pain so intense as Simon’s charms could inflict, but if he could damage the filigree badly enough, he might shatter the bonds on his power.

Kiran scooted over to the nearest bedpost, a chunky wooden column broader than his hand. Bracing himself as best he could with one arm, he slammed the other against the post.

The charm flashed a violent blue, and agony blurred his vision. Kiran doubled over, gasping. Gradually, the pain ebbed. He peered at the silver, seeing it unmarked as he’d suspected. The flash meant the charms contained protective wardings to prevent damage.

The few room furnishings were heavy, carved wooden things. Kiran reached for the oil lamp overhead, hope rising, but Simon had anticipated him. The lamp was warded as strongly as the walls. Kiran growled in frustration and glared at the floor, covered in a thick, soft rug marked by subtle colors and patterns. Simon was wealthy despite his exile.

An exile he clearly believed would end, now he had Kiran. He must think Kiran’s memory held some key to Ruslan’s defenses, unlikely as that seemed.

New unease cramped Kiran’s stomach, as he recalled Simon’s amused condescension when he’d agreed about the mark-binding, and the covetous heat of his gaze when they’d first met.

The only release from a mark-bond was in death; but Ruslan’s death or Kiran’s, either would suffice to dissolve the link. If Simon killed Ruslan, afterward he could mark-bind Kiran for his own, if he chose. But why bind Kiran rather than simply kill him along with Ruslan?

In all Simon’s talk of his exile and his plans, he’d said
I
, never
we
. Kiran straightened, in a blaze of certainty. Simon was alone. Without a partner mage, he couldn’t cast channeled spells—of course he’d be eager to bind a trained apprentice.

But Ruslan’s magic outweighed Simon’s by a thousandfold, with Mikail and Lizaveta to channel for his casting while Simon cast alone. How could Simon possibly think to defeat Ruslan with such a handicap?

Yet if Simon destroyed Ruslan, and Kiran somehow escaped before Simon could mark-bind him... for an instant, Kiran pictured it: true freedom, the sort he’d barely dared to imagine. A dizzying vista expanded. He might seek out a different, more innocent form of magic. Travel to distant lands, the way explorers did in the tales both he and Alisa had loved.

The memory of Alisa’s bright eyes and wistful smile closed Kiran’s throat and brought him tumbling back to reality. Even if by some miracle he achieved freedom from both Ruslan and Simon, Kiran would remain one of the
akheli
. The
akhelashva
ritual had changed him in more ways than the mark-bond, and from everything he’d read, there was no way back. He’d always be a pawn to more powerful mages, and a dangerous but profitable commodity to men like Dev.

Dev. Kiran’s hands clawed into the bedquilt. His other memories of Kost were hazy from the drugs, but his last moments with Dev stood out with painful clarity. Not a hint of surprise had shown on Dev’s face when Gerran’s man had grabbed Kiran. Dev had known it would happen—and he’d neither warned Kiran, nor lifted a finger to help him.

A black wave of anger crested. Kiran forced it down to a roiling undercurrent. Foolish, to feel so bitter. He’d known the chances of betrayal were high. But he’d been so relieved, when Dev had returned to the cabin—he’d let down his guard, started to trust.

Ruslan had always insisted the
nathahlen
could never be trusted.
They’ll turn on you like jackals the instant they see an opportunity, jealous of your power.
Kiran hadn’t wanted to believe him, preferring Alisa’s far rosier view. But all his attempts to embrace her ideals had only led to disaster.

He shook off the thought. The only thing that mattered now was finding a means of escape. Otherwise if Simon did kill Ruslan, Kiran would only exchange one monstrous master for another.
Why he didn’t burn out your will the moment he took you as an apprentice, I’ll never know,
Simon had said. Kiran shivered, his gorge rising.