Flamecaster (2 page)

Compared to the freezing weather outside, the stable was warm and steamy and alive with the sleepy murmurings of horses.

Adrian sul'Han pulled off his fleece-lined gloves and stuffed them into his pockets. He went first to see if his father's pony, the latest in a long line of Raggers, was still in his stall.

He was, poking his head over the stall door, looking for a handout as usual. So his father hadn't left the city. Not yet, anyway. Adrian needed to talk to him before he did.

He walked on down the line of stalls to look in on the piebald mare. She came forward to meet him, lipping
hopefully at his hand. Adrian studied her critically. Her eyes were bright, ears pricked forward, and when he ran his hand over her shoulder, he could tell that the muscles of her withers were filling in.

Sliding his free hand under his coat, he gripped his amulet and sent a tendril of power into the mare, looking for trouble. To his relief, the white-hot focus of infection was nearly gone.

“You'll be all right,” he murmured, stroking her head, proud that it was true.

He heard Mancy's step-and-drag footsteps behind him. “I thought that was you, boy,” she said, coming up next to him. “Here to see my Priscilly? It's amazing, what you've done. I thought I had lost her, and now she's like a brand-new horse.”

“Actually, I'm looking for my da, and I thought I'd look in on Priscilly while I'm here,” Adrian said. “Have you seen him?”

She shook her head. “Not today, no.” Worry flickered across her face. “You don't think the High Wizard will come here, do you? See, I'm moving slow this morning, and I only just got the front stalls mucked out. I need to—”

“Don't worry,” Adrian said, raising both hands. “I just thought he might have stopped by.”

Mancy was a soldier who'd been assigned to the stables while she recovered from a nasty leg wound courtesy of
one of the kingdom of Arden's collared mages. Now her wound drew Adrian's attention like a poke in the eye. It wasn't healing properly, he could tell, and he wanted to know why.

In fact, Mancy had the smell of death on her.

“Hey! Did you hear me?”

That was when Adrian realized that Mancy had asked a question. “I'm sorry,” he said, wrenching his attention back to the conversation. “What was that?”

“I
said
, is it all right if I put her back on her regular feed?” Mancy said, a little huffily.

“Oh. Ah. Two more days of the mash, and then she can go back,” he said. Grain was hard to find after a quarter century of war. Nobody was getting fat in Fellsmarch these days.

“I was telling Hughes at West Gate about you,” Mancy said. “I told him you was just a lýtling, but you can work miracles with horses.”

I'm not a lýtling, Adrian thought. Maybe I don't have my growth, but I'm already thirteen.

“He's got a moonblind horse that an't getting any better, and he asked me to ask you if you might come by and take a look.”

The West Gate was two days' ride away. And Adrian was hoping to leave town in a week.

“I can't go out there right now, but I'll send over an ointment that might help,” he said. He paused, clearing his
throat. A lýtling healer might be good enough for horses, but . . . “How's the leg?”

Mancy grimaced. “It's all right, I guess. It's closed over, but it's still giving me a lot of pain. Plus, I can't seem to get my strength back. I been back to the healing halls three different times, but they don't want to see me.”

Mancy's collarbones stuck out more than before, and Adrian noticed that she leaned on the stall door for support. “Mind if I take a look?”

Mancy blinked at him. “At me? You do people, too?”

Adrian bit back the first response that came to mind. “Sometimes.”

“All right then. Be my guest.” Mancy sat down on an overturned bucket, and rolled back her uniform breeches. When he went to touch her leg, though, she flinched back. “You an't going to—do anything, are you?”

“Like?”

“Hex it or something?” Valefolk were wary of wizards, for good reason.

“I'm just going to take a look, all right?” The wound was closed, the skin tight and hot, the leg puffy all the way into the ankle. Adrian brushed his fingers over it, murmuring a charm, and saw that the infection had gone into the bone. He'd seen it before, in horses, and they always had to be put down.

Adrian looked up at Mancy, chewing his lower lip. The leg would have to come off, but he knew she wouldn't
take that verdict from a thirteen-year-old untrained wizard.

“Mancy,” he said, “your leg needs to be seen right away. Go back to the healing halls, and ask for Titus Gryphon. Don't get shuffled off to anyone else, and don't take no for an answer. Tell him I sent you, that he needs to look at your leg. Do it now.”

Mancy blinked at him, her brow furrowed. “Now? But right now I need to muck out the—”

“That can keep,” Adrian said. “If you want, I'll put in a word with Jarrett.” The stable master owed him a favor.

“You don't need to do that,” Mancy said. She swallowed hard. “I'll just let him know where I am. If you really think I need to go now.”

“You do.” Adrian put a hand on her shoulder, soothing her. “You'll be all right.”

With Mancy on her way to Gryphon, Adrian continued his search for his father. Outside again, it seemed even colder than before. The wind howled down from the Spirits, sending bits of greenery from the recent Solstice celebration spinning down the street.

He really, really needed to get a yes from his father before his mother the queen found out what he was up to. His father, the High Wizard, was a little more flexible when it came to rules. Like the one that said that wizards weren't supposed to receive their amulets until they turned sixteen.

Adrian reached for his amulet now, as he did a dozen times a day, feeling the usual flow of energy from wizard to amulet. Wizards continually produced flash, a magical energy. Amulets stored flash until enough accumulated to do something worthwhile. Without an amulet, flash leaked away, and was of no use to anyone.

His father had given him this hand-me-down amulet two years ago, on his eleventh name day, along with a lecture on all the bad things that would happen if he abused or misused it.

Adrian had worn the amulet—carved in the shape of a hunter—on a chain around his neck ever since. He'd trained hard in the use of magic—most often with his father, when he was home; elsewise with some of his father's handpicked friends. Yet it had made no difference. His older sister, Hana, was dead, and his little sister, Lyss, was heartbroken. And Adrian needed to get out of town.

If his da wasn't in the castle close, and if he hadn't ridden out, he'd be somewhere in the city. Likely Ragmarket or Southbridge. Adrian headed for the markets.

To call them “markets” these days was being generous. With Solstice just over, the shelves had been cleared of what little food there was. There was nothing on offer but some tired-looking root vegetables that had been held back till now so as to fetch the best prices. His father said it reminded him of the hard times during
the reign of Queen Marianna, when there was never enough to eat. Or during Arden's siege of Fellsmarch Castle, when they had contests to come up with new recipes for barley.

Hard times are back, Adrian thought, if they ever left. For Solstice, the royal family had dined on venison, courtesy of their upland clan relations. Otherwise, it would have been ham and barley pies (light on ham, heavy on barley).

Not that it mattered. None of them had much of an appetite. It was the first midwinter since Hana died.

Around him, the market was waking up: first, the bakers, produce sellers, and fishmongers. Then the secondhand shops selling hard-worn, picked-over goods (all claimed to be clan-made). This was his father's home ground. He'd once ruled this neighborhood as the notorious streetlord of the Ragger gang.

Adrian always drew attention, too, when he walked the markets. He was too easy to pick out as Han Alister's son, with his red hair and wizard's glow. Today it seemed worse than usual—he felt the pressure of eyes upon him wherever he went, the prickle on the back of his neck that meant he was being watched. He guessed it was because he'd been in the camps in the mountains when Hana died, and he hadn't been down to the markets since.

He asked after his da in several of the market stalls.
Nobody had seen him, but they all sent their good wishes for a brighter new year.

Adrian had nearly given up when he walked into the flower market, where the merchants were just unpacking their wares. There was his father, his back to Adrian, bargaining with one of the vendors, a young girl in beaded Demonai garb.

His da was dressed in the nondescript clothing he wore when he walked the city streets, but there was no mistaking the broad shoulders and deceptively slouchy stance. His sword slanted across his back, which was nothing unusual in a city filled with soldiers.

His hair glinted in the frail winter light, more silver than gold these days. His amulet was hidden, but he wore the aura that other wizards recognized. He was known, especially here, on his home ground, as Han “Cuffs” Alister, the lowborn hero who'd become High Wizard. The strategist who continually outfoxed the Ardenine king. He was a former street thief—
their
former street thief—who'd married a queen.

The flower vendor was flushed and fluttering at having such royalty in her shop, bringing blossoms forward and arranging them in a copper bucket to show them off.

Adrian edged closer, listening as his father bantered with the vendor. In the end, he chose red foxflowers, white lilies, and blue trueheart, along with a few stems
of bog marigold and maiden's kiss.

The girl wrapped them in paper and handed them over. When he tipped a handful of coins into her palm, she tried to give it back. “Oh, no, my lord, I couldn't. I'm so very sorry for your loss. I used to see the princess in the mountain camps sometimes. Running Wolf was . . . was always kind to me.”

Running Wolf was Hana's clan name.

His father closed her fingers over the money, looking her straight in the eyes. “Thank you,” he said. “We all miss her. But you still need to make a living.” He bowed and turned away, cloak kiting behind him. The girl looked after him, blinking back tears, clutching her hair in her fist to keep it from flying in the bone-chilling wind.

That was when his father spotted Adrian lurking nearby. “Ash! This is a surprise,” he said, using the nickname he favored. A-S-H, for Adrian sul'Han. Striding toward him, he extended the flowers. “What do you think?” he said, almost shyly. “Will your mother like them?”

“That depends on how much trouble you're in,” Adrian said, extracting a faint smile from his father. They both understood what the flowers were for, and why his father was in the market on this particular day.

Adrian's older sister, Hanalea ana'Raisa, the princess heir, had died six months ago, at the summer solstice,
in a skirmish along the border with Tamron. From the looks of things, she'd been the last one standing, taking down six Ardenine mudbacks before she went down herself. Her bound captain, Simon Byrne, had died at her side.

The Ardenine general, Marin Karn, had severed her head and carried it back to his king. King Gerard had ordered it paraded through the captive realms, then sent it back to her mother the queen in an ornate casket.

Hana was only twenty years old. She'd been the golden child who combined her father's good looks and street-savvy charm and her mother's ability to bring people together and lead. She was one who could walk into a room and command it within minutes. She'd been a symbol of hope, the promise that the Gray Wolf line would survive.

If the Maker is good, and all-powerful, Adrian thought, then why would this be allowed to happen? What cruel twist of fate sent a large Ardenine company into the borderlands in an area that hadn't seen fighting for nearly a year? Most importantly, why Hana? Why not Adrian? She was the heir; he was in every way the spare.

“What brings you to the markets?” his father said, draping an arm around Adrian's shoulders. He was never afraid to show affection in public. “Are you buying or selling?”

“I wanted to talk to you. Privately.”

His father eyed him keenly. “You're selling then, I believe,” he said. “I have some time right now. Come to breakfast, and we'll talk.”

They chose a place called the Drovers' Inn, a hostelry on market square that Adrian had never been to. Everyone knew his father, of course; the server led them to the very best table, near the hearth, and clunked steaming mugs of cider down in front of them. “I'm so sorry, Lord Alister,” she said, her cheeks pink with embarrassment. “All we got is porridge and a wee bit of ham, but the bread is fresh this morning.”

“I was hoping for porridge,” his father said, signaling for her to bring two bowls. Setting the bouquet carefully aside, he leaned his sword against the wall and slung his cloak over the back of a chair and sat. He always sat facing the door, a throwback to his streetlord days.

He looked tired, the dark circles under his eyes still visible against his sun-kissed skin. He'd lost weight, too, during the long marching season. Adrian resisted the temptation to reach out and grip his father's hand so he could look for damage. “Da,” he said. “Are you . . . ?”

“I'm all right,” his father said, taking a deep swallow of cider. “It's been a hard season for all of us.”

“But now you're leaving again.” Adrian had promised himself that he wouldn't sulk like a child, but he came close.

At that, his father hunched his shoulders and darted a guilty look his way. “Your mother's seen wolves every day for the last week. Something bad is about to happen, and I need to figure out what it is, and how to prevent it.”

Visions of gray wolves appeared to descendants of the Gray Wolf line of queens in times of trouble and change. They were actually the dead queens—ancestors of the living queens of the Fells, come back as a warning.

“How can you figure out how to prevent something when you don't know what it is?” Wolves had appeared in the days before Hana died, but it had happened anyway. To Adrian, a vague warning was worse than none at all.

The porridge arrived, steaming, with the promised bits of ham arranged on top for show.

When the server left again, his father said, “I think that the attack on Hana's triple was more than very bad luck. I think she was the target.”

“How would they know it was her?” Adrian asked. “How would they know where she was?”

His father leaned across the table. “I think someone told them. I think Arden has a spy on the inside.”

“No,” Adrian said, with conviction. “Who would do that? Everyone loved her. And why would Arden target Hana in particular? She's the heir—I know that—but wouldn't it have made more sense to go after General Dunedain?”

“Not if the goal is to break your mother's heart,” his father said. “Captain Byrne and Shilo Trailblazer have been over the killing field dozens of times. From the looks of things, it wasn't just a platoon—it was an entire company. Hana was smart, and a strong fighter, but it's unlikely she would take down a half dozen Ardenines before they killed her—unless they were holding back, trying to take her alive.” He paused, glancing around for eavesdroppers. “There's more,” he said. “It appears that her death wound was self-inflicted. We believe that when she realized that she was about to be captured, she shoved her own dagger through her heart.”

Adrian felt like he'd been daggered himself. “She killed herself?”

“What would you have done, in her place?” his father asked.

Adrian shuddered. On this one point, they all agreed—it had been a blessing that Hana hadn't been taken alive to
Ardenscourt, to the dungeons of the monstrous king of Arden, Gerard Montaigne. It was one thing to break their hearts; it would have been worse if he'd held their hearts in his hands.

His father pushed bits of ham around his bowl with his spoon. “Montaigne is under considerable pressure from his thanes to finish this thing. They've been spending men and treasure for a quarter century with little to no results. Perhaps the king of Arden has hit on a new tactic—targeting the royal line, the queen's family. This is a grudge match, remember. Your mother rejected him in a very public way.”

Adrian knew that story. The queen had refused to sign over her queendom in exchange for the king of Arden's hand in marriage. “But that was twenty-five years ago,” he protested, not wanting it to be true. “He got married eventually, didn't he, to somebody else?”

“Don't expect it to make sense, Ash. Montaigne is a proud, nasty brute who's used to getting his own way. My biggest regret is that I didn't shiv the bastard when I had the chance.”

Looking into his father's face, Adrian saw a rare glimpse of the ruthless streetlord he'd once been. Until his father ran a hand over his face, as if to wipe that person away.

Adrian's skin prickled. It was like he felt the hand of the Maker touch the delicate thread that connected life and death. “So what can we do?”

“If we can identify who betrayed Hana, that would be a start,” his father said. “One of our eyes and ears has an informant who claims to know something. I'm supposed to meet with them in Southbridge in a little while.”

The temple church in the market sounded the quarter hour, reminding them both that time was passing. “Now,” his father said, placing his hands flat on the table. “What was it you wanted to talk to me about?”

Adrian took a gulp of cider for courage. “You know I've been working as a healer with the clans the past two summers. And I've been helping with the Highlander cavalry string when I can.”

“So I've heard. If Willo had her way, she'd like you to apprentice with her year-round. She's not as young as she used to be, and there's never enough healers available during the marching season. General Dunedain wouldn't hold still for it, though. She'd like to put you in charge of the military stables full-time. Everywhere I go, all I hear about is how you can work magic with horses. It's too bad there's only one of you.”

Right, Adrian thought. It's too bad. So he hurried on. “I've also spent time in the healing halls in the city.”

“Ah,” his father said, his face hardening. “Lord Vega's domain. I keep hoping he'll retire.” Harriman Vega was the wizard who oversaw the healing halls in the capital, the ones wizards and most Valefolk patronized.

“That's the problem,” Adrian said. “Willo can't help
me with high magic, and Lord Vega has no interest in clan treatments and green magic. He still thinks it's witchery for the gullible masses. And until I graduate from Mystwerk, he won't let me do more than make beds and do the washing up.” Mystwerk was the school for wizards at Oden's Ford.

“And you can't go to Mystwerk until after your sixteenth name day.”

“Right.” Adrian took a deep breath and plunged on. “I can't get into Mystwerk at thirteen, but Spiritas accepts novices at eleven, just like Wien House.”

“Spiritas?”

“That's the healers' academy at Oden's Ford. You wouldn't remember it—it's just three years old. They're combining green magic, music and art therapies, clan remedies, and, eventually, wizardry.”

“Eventually?” His father raised an eyebrow.

“That's the goal, but from what I hear, the deans at Mystwerk haven't been eager to join in so far.”

His father snorted. “Why am I not surprised?”

“My thought was, I could go to Spiritas now, then move over to Mystwerk when I'm eligible. That way I won't waste time watching people die who might have lived if I only had the skills.” Despite his best efforts, his voice shook.

“That's the thing about guilt,” his father said. “It always seems like there's enough to go around. The only ones who
don't take a share are the ones who are actually guilty.” He paused, lines of pain etched deeply into his face. “I lost my mother and sister when I wasn't much older than you. I did my best, but my best wasn't good enough.” He ran his fingers over his serpent amulet. “I never angled to be High Wizard. All I've ever wanted is to protect the people I care about. And now I've lost Hana, too.”

“It's not your fault, what happened to Hana,” Adrian said. It was odd to be in the position of consoling his father. “Hana was a good fighter, and Mama is, too, and Lyss—I guess Lyss will be, when she gets older.” His younger sister, Alyssa, was only eleven.

“It's not your fault, either,” his father said, reaching across the table and gripping Adrian's hand. “We don't protect them because they're weak. We protect them because they are strong, and strong people make enemies. We just need to do our best—whatever it takes—to protect your mother and sister—the Gray Wolf line. And pray that it's enough.”

“My best can be better,” Adrian said, looking his father in the eyes.

His father got the point. He tilted his head. “How do you know they would take you on at Spiritas?”

“The dean of Spiritas is a Voyageur healer named Taliesin Beaugarde.” The Voyageurs were a nomadic tribe of sheepherders from the Heartfang Mountains who traveled the flatlands in colorful caravans. Flatlanders claimed they were witches. Like that was a bad thing.

“Taliesin spent some time at Marisa Pines while I was there, and we got along. I've been in touch with her, and she's hot to make this happen. I would be the first wizard to attend. They're hoping that if the deans at Mystwerk see what's possible, then maybe they'll come around.”

His father laughed. “You're too much like your mother—always two steps ahead of me.” After a beat, he went on, “Speaking of the queen, what does she say?”

Adrian cleared his throat. “I haven't talked to her about it.”

“Ah,” his father said, rubbing his chin. “Trying to slide in the back gate, are you? You know she won't be eager to let you out of her sight after what happened to Hana.”

“I was hoping you might help me persuade her.”

His father fiddled with the flowers, knocking a few petals loose. “As you know, she's not happy with me right now. I might not be your best advocate. Maybe if we waited a bit . . .”

“Taliesin's here now. She came to visit family for Solstice. If I can get permission, I can go back with her.”

“So you're in a hurry for an answer.” His father looked down at his hands and picked at a scab on his knuckles. “It sounds like a sensible plan,” he said finally. “A good use of your talents, and close to your heart. I think you should go. I'll do whatever I can to make it happen. See if you can arrange time with your mother tonight, and I'll be there, ready to deploy my meager weapons in your defense.”

“Thank you,” Adrian said simply. He knew his da would understand. He somehow always did.

The bells bonged out the hour.

“I'd better go,” his father said. “It's already ten, and I don't want to be late. I'll see you tonight.” He swept his cloak around his shoulders, strapped on his baldric, and slid his sword into place. Every eye in the room followed him as he went out the door.

Adrian gazed after him, his gut in turmoil. His father's theory about Hana had unsettled him. What if it were true? He'd thought of her death as tragic bad luck, a matter of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, part of the senseless carnage of the war. But now . . .

There was something he was missing, some pattern that he wasn't seeing. Hana had died at midsummer, an event the wolves foretold. Now it was midwinter, and the wolves were back, and his father was heading to a meeting with an unknown informant.

His father's words came back to him. Perhaps the king of Arden has hit on a new tactic.

No. Oh, no.

“Da!” Lurching to his feet, Adrian careened out the door of the tavern. Breathlessly, he scanned the market square, but he didn't see his father. Which street would he take to Southbridge? Since he was late, he'd probably take the most direct path, down the Way of the Queens to the river.

Fighting through the market day crowds, Adrian turned
onto the Way and ran, dodging carriages and families out for a stroll. The cobbled pavement was perilous, and layered with snow and ice. It was like one of those dreams, when you try to run and your feet seem to be glued to the ground. Several times he nearly fell, and once he was nearly run down by a teamster, who swore at him as he streaked past.

Now he was almost to the river, and he still didn't see his father. If he'd turned off into one of the side streets or alleys, Adrian would never find him in time.

When Adrian finally spotted him, far ahead, he was nearly to the bridge, the bouquet of flowers still in his hand. Adrian put on speed, already working on what he would say.
I know you're street-savvy and all, but I think you're walking into a trap.

He was so focused on his father that he scarcely resisted when somebody grabbed him from behind and clapped a hand over his mouth. His attacker pulled a hood over his head, and began dragging him backward. Adrian could feel magic buzzing into him, no doubt an immobilization charm. But Adrian was wearing a clan talisman alongside his amulet—a pendant that absorbed attack magic.

He pretended to go limp, and when his captor adjusted his grip, Adrian came up off the balls of his feet, hearing a crunch and a screech of pain as his head smashed into cartilage.

When the grip on him loosened, Adrian twisted free
and tried to dodge into the alley, but plowed straight into someone who held him tightly against his body, so Adrian couldn't reach his amulet or yank away the hood.

Learn to use all your senses, his father always said. That way, if you're blind, you can use your ears and your nose and your hands instead.

From the feel of the man's body and the angle at which he held him, Adrian could tell that he was tall, spare, and gifted. He could also feel something metallic and jingling that hung at his waist under his robes. Not an amulet. But what?

“Don't let him touch the jinxpiece,” one of them growled.

“I'm not an idiot,” Alley Man snarled. “Take the boy. Our agreement was that I wouldn't be personally involved in this.” The voice seemed familiar, and there was a scent about him—a familiar scent—that Adrian couldn't place.