The Whitefire Crossing (34 page)

“Sit down.” Simon put a hand on a chair. Kiran shook his head, backing up a few paces for good measure.

Simon sighed. “Why waste time with vain attempts at defiance?”

Because it irritates you,
Kiran didn’t say. Small hope that Simon’s irritation would lead to a mistake in casting, but Kiran had to seize any hope, no matter how small. He shrugged.

“Suit yourself,” Simon said, with a shrug of his own and a flick of his hand. Kiran fell sprawling onto the floor. Simon called, “Morvain!”

A gray-haired man with a scar bisecting his jawline poked his head around the open door. Simon pointed at Kiran, then the chair. Morvain entered and hoisted Kiran with broad, callused hands, depositing him in the chair with no apparent effort. Kiran recognized the stubbornly blank look on the man’s scarred face. Ruslan’s servants had worn much the same expression. This man had been with Simon far longer than Pello, and would know well the crushing grip of Simon’s binding. A tiny spark of hope rekindled. If Pello had the sense to talk to Morvain, he might yet realize the truth of Kiran’s words.

As Morvain hurried out, Simon drew up the second chair to face Kiran’s. He sat, his silver dagger gleaming in one hand.

Kiran marshaled his concentration. If Simon meant to touch his memories again, he wasn’t without defenses. Yet better first to wait and see which memory Simon’s spell retrieved, in hopes of gaining insight into Simon’s plan.

Simon sliced a finger and traced another bloody
ighantya
rune on Kiran’s forehead. But this time, before he cast, he dabbed more blood on a thumb-sized chunk of amber and held it over Kiran’s heart. The amber glowed like a miniature star as Simon spoke and the spell took hold.

Kiran stood tall in his white robe as Lizaveta draped a crimson length of rune-patterned fabric around his neck.

“Today you come of age,
akhelysh
. Are you ready?”

Kiran nodded, striving to match her solemnity, afraid his voice would betray his excitement if he spoke. He’d been waiting for so long. Mikail had undergone the
akhelashva
ritual three years ago. Kiran had pleaded for Ruslan to perform the ritual for him as well, but Ruslan had only smiled and told him to be patient.

Now at last the time had come. Ruslan and Mikail had been preparing for days and he hadn’t been allowed to help. He’d asked Mikail a thousand times what the ritual was like, but Mikail always refused to discuss it. He’d shake his head and give Kiran a superior look, saying it was a secret only true
akheli
might know.

Lizaveta kissed him gently on each cheek, then took his hand and led him to the door of Ruslan’s workroom. There Ruslan stood in full ceremonial robes, marked with the red and black sigils of his magical lineage. Lizaveta put Kiran’s hand in Ruslan’s and stepped back, her face grave but her eyes bright. Ruslan bound another piece of crimson fabric over Kiran’s eyes.

“You go into this room sightless, soundless, voiceless...ready to be reborn,” he said, his voice resonant. Kiran’s senses faded as the spell took effect, his world narrowing to the feeling of Ruslan’s renewed grip on his hand. Ruslan led him forward, and—

Kiran’s mind recoiled, his entire being focused in rejection of the memory. He caught a flashing glimpse of Simon’s intent face, felt the rune burn on his forehead. Simon spoke, harshly. Magic dragged at Kiran, yanking him back down into memory. Instead of fighting the pull, he reinforced it, casting himself down at a speed that rushed him past the
akhelashva
ritual, further into the past...

Kiran straddled the high stone wall, watching the kittens play on the sunlit flagstones beyond. They were feral cats and would be killed if noticed, but they lived within the walled sanctum of a very old, reclusive factor from Suns-Eye House who didn’t seem to care that his outer courtyards were slowly falling to ruin. The sweeping mosaics patterning the flagstones were sand-dulled and cracked, and spineweed sprouted in the corners. Kiran rarely saw the mother cat, who was skinny and kept to the shadows, but the kittens were bolder. They ventured out onto sunwarmed stone, pouncing on each other and chasing whiptail lizards.

“What are you looking at?”

Kiran turned so quickly he nearly fell off the wall. A girl stood on the walkway below, watching him. She looked about his own age, somewhere in her early teens, her dark hair curling free from a single braid. Her loose shirt and trousers were clean but simple, bound by a brightly patterned sash around her slim waist, and she carried a woven basket with parcels inside. Kiran thought she was likely a servant or a shopkeeper’s daughter, out on errands.

Kiran shrugged, hoping that if he didn’t answer, she’d go away.

“You come here every week. I just want to know what’s so interesting.”

Kiran was startled into speech. “You’ve been following me?”

The girl shrugged, and set her basket down on the paving stones. She eyed the wall, hands on her hips, then grabbed one of the knotted karva vines clinging to the stone. She hauled herself high enough to thrust an imperious brown hand at Kiran. “Help me up.”

Kiran hesitated, then took her hand and pulled. She heaved a trousered leg over the wall and settled, facing him. Wide amber eyes darted from his face to the courtyard. “Oh,” she said, seeing the kittens. She sounded disappointed. “I was hoping it was something really good.”

“Like what?” Kiran asked, curious despite himself.

She sighed, blowing a stray curl of hair out of her face. “I don’t know. A baby dragon, maybe? Something exotic I could tell my family about. Ever since we arrived in Ninavel, they spend all day working on their precious business ledgers, and they hardly even notice me.”

A merchant’s daughter, then, despite her simple clothes. “There’s no such thing as dragons,” Kiran said.

“How do you know?” She gave him an arch look. “Plenty of mages live around here, you know. One of them could have made one. A magic dragon.” Mischief sparkled in her eyes. “I heard when Sechaveh’s great-granddaughter got married, he had his mages conjure her a team of unicorns to draw her carriage.”

Kiran opened his mouth to tell her that it was likely mere illusion, that the amount of power needed to create some fantastical animal was impossibly huge, but that thought reminded him he shouldn’t even be talking to her in the first place.

“I should go,” he mumbled, and reached for a karva vine. If he didn’t return home soon, Ruslan would want to know why a simple purchase of spell-grade silver had taken him so long. And if Ruslan decided he’d been too friendly with this
nathahlen
girl...his hands cramped around the vine.

“What’s your name?” the girl asked. He shook his head, avoiding her eyes. She smiled at him, winningly. “Come on, don’t be shy. I’m Alisa. My uncle warned me Ninavel boys aren’t so well mannered as those back east, but surely you can see now you’ve got to tell me your name, or else it’s terribly impolite.”

He’d never seen someone smile like that, like she was lit from within. A queer pang squeezed his heart. Before he could stop himself, he answered, “Kiran.”

Alisa rewarded him with another radiant smile. “Well then, Kiran, I’ll see you next week.” She winked at him and slithered down the wall to pick up her basket once more. Her head was high as she sauntered out through the archway that led to the main street. Kiran stared after her, rooted to the spot. Next week; suddenly, the time until Ruslan sent him out for more spell material seemed far too long.

This time when the spell released him, Kiran struck Simon’s hand away and vaulted from the chair in one convulsive motion. “Stop it!” Alisa, vivid and beautiful and alive...pain seared him, worse than any magefire strike.

On Simon’s face, surprise changed to dawning comprehension. “I see...your redirection didn’t completely succeed. The two memories must not be unrelated. How interesting.” He eyed the chunk of amber in his hand, thoughtfully.

“You seek my memory of the
akhelashva
ritual?
Why?
The mark-binding cannot be dissolved while Ruslan yet lives, and you must already know the ritual’s forms!” The very thought of reliving it choked the breath from Kiran’s lungs. Did Simon imagine Ruslan had exposed some vital weakness that day? Kiran swallowed a half-hysterical laugh. The weakness had all been his, not Ruslan’s.

“I have my reasons.” Simon’s gaze lingered on Kiran’s clenched hands. “The distress it causes you is only a side benefit, I assure you.” He smiled, slow and cruel.

Kiran drew a steadying breath. So far Simon had cast only simple contact bindings and spells so minor they barely required a source of power. Proof that Simon had to tiptoe around the Alathian detection magic, and dared not attempt spells of any real strength. Against minor spells, Kiran had every chance of weaving mental defenses with his own
ikilhia
to keep the memory safely hidden.

He lifted his chin and locked eyes with Simon. “You think I haven’t realized how weak you truly are? You’re alone. No way to cast channeled magic...compared to Ruslan, you may as well be
nathahlen
.”

“Ruslan certainly thought so, after he slaughtered my apprentices.” Simon’s smile sharpened. “Beautiful symmetry, isn’t it? He destroyed my property, and now I’ll use his to destroy him and regain all I lost.”

Property. Kiran’s hands clenched. “You’ll never get that memory. I’ll fight you with every spark of
ikilhia
I possess.”

“Such passion,” Simon said softly. “A shame to destroy it. But when I bind you as my own, I’ll not make Ruslan’s mistake of leaving your mind intact. Your capacity for independent thought is a small price to pay for your eager, unthinking obedience to my every desire.” His gaze traveled Kiran’s body. The dark anticipation in his eyes swept away all Kiran’s restraint.

“When Ruslan tears you apart, I’ll rejoice in your agony,” Kiran snarled.

Simon chuckled. “At last, the cub bares his fangs. I’d wondered if you were truly
akheli
, but I see Ruslan did not choose in error.”

Kiran clamped his teeth on a shout. Simon only sought to goad him further. Rage wouldn’t help him; he needed cold, clear calculation, to construct mental blocks and shifting veils of misdirection that Simon’s spells could never breach. He settled for glaring icily at Simon, who stood, amusement still shading his smile.

“Fight, if it pleases you,” Simon said. “The end result will be the same. For all Ruslan’s training, you are but a child in the ways of power.”

Kiran held his tongue. Simon might have more experience, but he’d surely underestimate the strength of Kiran’s determination. He’d rather die than relive the day that in one stroke had destroyed all he’d ever loved.

***

(Dev)

The arrival of a major convoy was the only time Kost got half so lively as Ninavel. A chattering crowd of traders, merchant house factors, and bankers packed the cobbled square around me, all of them jostling for a view of the wagons undergoing inspection beyond the broad arch of the border gate.

Meldon’s convoy had arrived at last, preceded by a host of wild, contradictory rumors brought by hard-riding watchmen from the Sondran Valley. Magic, death, destruction of trade goods...the merchanters looked tense enough to spit nails, while the independent traders craned their necks with gleeful curiosity.

I kept the brim of my hat pulled well down over my eyes. Joining the crowd was a risk, but I didn’t care. Eight long days spent in vigil over the mage’s house in a cramped drain hole meant I’d had far too much time to revisit all my fears. I wasn’t going to wait one instant longer for news of Cara and Jerik’s fate.

Eight days, and I’d dreamed up a whole host of possible plans to free Kiran. Too bad every single one ended up with one or both of us dead or in the Council’s hands. The mage was a careful bastard, and no mistake. Not only was his house warded like one of Sechaveh’s gem vaults, he personally inspected all deliveries, and allowed no one to enter except Pello and two others: an ancient crone of a housekeeper, and a gray-haired guy with the scars and grim competence of a former soldier, both of them tight-lipped as a prospector sitting on a rich ore vein. The only thing I’d overhead of interest was the mage’s name, Simon Levanian. Not that it did me much good, other than to curse him properly.

I’d stayed well clear of Pello, but I’d shadowed the other two on errands. They’d visited feed and dry goods shops, stables, and a packing yard, all of which confirmed for me Simon meant to leave Kost, and soon. Good news, because then he might take Kiran out of that gods-damned vault of a house, but bad news, because I was running out of time.

If Simon wanted to work serious magic, he surely meant to cross the border back into Arkennland, and the Alathians were just as nosy with their exit inspections. To pass the gate wards and the Alathian mage, he’d have to use something like the hennanwort dose I’d given Kiran. The brief window of time between Simon taking hennanwort and a border crossing would be my best chance to intervene. Arrange a distraction to keep Pello and that ex-soldier busy, snatch Kiran, tie his amulet back on him to block any tracking charms, and run like Shaikar himself was after us.

Nice idea in theory, but the details were a bitch, all the way from the start. The best chance of keeping Kiran free of the Council was to act before Simon reached the gate. No way to know Simon’s route in advance, so I’d have to catch them leaving the house. But I couldn’t lurk in that gods-damned hole all day and night. The tunnel slanted at an awkward angle that meant I had to brace myself the entire time to keep from sliding out. Rest while on vigil was impossible. I was already running far short on sleep, and while I could maybe force myself to stay awake long enough to guarantee I’d be in place when they left, then I’d be so exhausted I’d be in no condition for the rest of the job. And that was only the first problem of many.

A full-throated cheer rose from the crowd as the first wagon creaked through the gate. I elbowed aside an annoyingly tall trader, straining for a view of the riders who paced alongside the mule team.