Perhaps if Dev had been the one hurt, Kiran could have shared in Ruslan’s triumph. But savaging a child who’d done nothing to harm him…his gut insisted it was wrong. Why couldn’t Ruslan see that revenge should only be visited upon those who deserved it? Perhaps if Kiran could find the right words to explain, he might convince Ruslan of what seemed so obvious.
Kiran sighed. First he’d need to convince Ruslan that
nathahlen
lives held worth, and that would be no easy battle. He’d given Dev the best chance he could to save the girl. He hoped Dev had been clever enough to use it.
Early morning sun painted the workroom’s flagstones a rich, buttery gold. Black clouds crouched in a sullen phalanx over the Whitefires, but the storms wouldn’t spread eastward for some hours yet. Ruslan had said the confluence wouldn’t reach their enemy’s desired alignment again until evening, though he’d also warned that the confluence’s instability was increasing faster than anticipated. Two, perhaps three more upheavals, and the containing forces would skew too far to hold the magic in check.
They had to find the source. Kiran squinted at the map again. “What about this one?” He tapped a small valley on the western slope of the Whitefires, not far from the deep gorge that marked the Alathian border. “The valley might be too low to feel cold in midsummer like the spy said, but the confluence of currents is strong enough for decent casting.”
Mikail leaned past opened scholars’ texts and scribbled notepapers to eye the map. “No. The rock’s wrong; that valley’s got white granite.”
“How do you know?” Kiran asked, surprised. Mikail had spoken without consulting any of his own maps, shaded in a rainbow of chalked colors to indicate rock types and elevations.
Mikail looked down at the chalk in his hands. “I’ve been there. So have you. That valley is where Simon Levanian died. And where Dev betrayed you.”
Kiran stared at the innocuous lines on the map. His memory of the valley was gone with all the others. He couldn’t picture a single moment of the time he’d spent in the Whitefires. His regret and anger over the loss still had the power to steal his breath; though now, guilt for the price his mage-brother would pay over his own ill-considered search for answers swamped him.
“Mikail…I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I’d spoken to Dev. If you think of any way I can stop Ruslan punishing you along with me—I’ll do anything, to spare you.”
“I heard you the first hundred times you said it.” Mikail slapped his chalk down on the table. “Little brother, I’m not sorry you told Ruslan. That was the right choice on your part, finally. But I would believe in your passionate desire to spare me if you had thought of me
before
you disobeyed, not after.”
Kiran winced. “I did think of you beforehand! I only sought to know my past because I was so terrified I’d fail Ruslan, and he’d hurt you.”
“So instead of asking my help, you lied to me and ran straight to an enemy.”
That wasn’t at all fair. “I
asked
you for answers. You wouldn’t give them. I didn’t know when I sought out Dev about his…history with us! If you and Ruslan had told me of it—if you hadn’t lied to me in the first place, I’d never have needed to speak to him!”
“Yet when I gave you truth, still, you lied.” The chill anger in Mikail’s eyes made Kiran feel small, and ashamed—and desperately afraid that the rift he’d opened between himself and his mage-brother might not heal.
“I’m sorry,” he told Mikail. “I just…you were so upset already. I didn’t want to hurt you more.” How ridiculous that sounded, given the agony Mikail would now endure for Kiran’s sake. A choked, despairing laugh escaped Kiran. “I’m an idiot, I know.”
“An idiot for a mage-brother, I can tolerate. But a liar…how can we cast together without trust between us?” The pain in Mikail’s voice was worse than his anger.
“I won’t lie to you again! I—”
The workroom door opened. Kiran hastily shut his mouth as Ruslan and Lizaveta entered. Ruslan’s head was high, his stride brimming with buoyant energy. Weariness shadowed Lizaveta’s smooth features, but the smile she bestowed on Kiran and Mikail was as bright as the rising sun.
“A good day,
akhelyshen
,” Ruslan said. “We have our quarry’s scent at last… and, ah! How wonderful it is, to see an enemy’s pain.”
Memory welled through the mark-bond: Talmaddis screaming and straining against his bonds as violet fire devoured his
ikilhia
; and Martennan watching, his own
ikilhia
bruised and guttering, pain leaking from it in waves. Ruslan’s savage joy and satisfaction overlaid the images, deeply enough to leave Kiran breathless.
Even so, Talmaddis’s agony was hard to watch at first. Kiran couldn’t help but imagine the horror he’d feel in the man’s place as his soul burned away. But Talmaddis had tried to ensure the deaths not only of Kiran’s mage-family, but all Ninavel’s mages. Martennan, too, deserved this revenge. According to Mikail, he’d been instrumental in the Alathian Council’s attempt to cripple and chain Kiran.
Kiran’s initial empathy faded, replaced by swelling triumph. Ruslan was right; it felt
good
to see the Alathians suffer, knowing the harm they’d caused. Mikail too wore a fierce grin, the anger gone from his eyes.
“Thank you,” Kiran said to Ruslan, and meant it. “Though…what of Dev? Did you take revenge on him, also?” He tried to ask it with cool dispassion, and not betray how he hoped for the child’s survival.
Ruslan’s smile dimmed a fraction. “Sechaveh decided he had use for the guide, and wanted the child so he might ensure loyalty. I gave them over as a favor. I know this
nathahlen
; greed will tempt him from Sechaveh’s service in the end, and I will take my revenge then.”
Now Kiran could truly rejoice in the outcome. He smiled at Ruslan, a brighter, easier smile than any he’d managed since awakening with his memories lost.
Ruslan’s eyes warmed. Looking more pleased than ever, he ushered Lizaveta to a cushioned stool at the table’s head. “Sit, Lizenka…I know how tired you are, after casting with such skill for so long.”
Lizaveta sank onto the stool. She sighed in pleasure as Ruslan gently kneaded her shoulders. “Talmaddis provided more challenge than I expected. Alathians are usually so weak when they cast alone…but he fought without care for his
ikilhia
, hoping to burn its fire out and escape into death before I could master him. Luckily, I am not so easily defeated.”
Thinking of Lizaveta’s subtlety and strength, Kiran could well believe it. Almost, he pitied Talmaddis, who must have known he didn’t stand a chance against her.
“None can match you,” Ruslan agreed, and chuckled. “So many fools in this city flinch from me, when it is you they should truly fear.”
Lizaveta reached a slim hand up to tug Ruslan’s long tail of hair. “Enough, flatterer. I’m eager to hear the fruits of my labor.” She looked at Kiran and Mikail. “What news of Vidai’s source?”
“We have three possibilities so far.” Kiran held up his map. “Two confluences in valleys in the far north of the Whitefires, and one amid these peaks in the southwest.”
Ruslan worked his thumbs into Lizaveta’s neck muscles, earning more pleased, heavy sighs from her. “Lizaveta learned from Talmaddis that our enemy is indeed
nathahlen
—a Kaithan tribesman, Vidai zha-Dakhar by name—but he hired a bone mage to create wards for him, wards which Talmaddis believed were meant to conceal and protect some charm or artifact that provides Vidai’s power. Vidai was clever; he killed the bone mage afterward, and Talmaddis knew no details of the wards. Without any knowledge of their construction, we cannot be certain of casting a spell here in Ninavel capable of breaking them. But if we can determine which of these confluence points holds Vidai’s source, we can translocate there, observe the wards directly, and cast a channeled spell using that same confluence point to break the wards and take whatever they protect.”
Mikail said, “We would have to be very certain of our choice. No confluence in the Whitefires is powerful enough to fuel a return translocation. Not for the spells we know, anyway…?” He glanced at Ruslan, brows raised in question; Ruslan nodded.
Kiran grimaced, imagining the consequences of an incorrect guess. The confluence points he and Mikail had identified were so widely scattered that travel between them by ordinary means would take weeks. They’d never make it to another confluence point or back to Ninavel before Vidai managed to destroy Ninavel’s confluence and kill them all.
Lizaveta leaned back against Ruslan’s chest, even as he wrapped his arms around her. Watching their ease with each other, the depth of their respect and affection, Kiran yearned all the more to repair his bond with Mikail.
“Careful, Rushenka,” Lizaveta said. “Talmaddis was certain that any casting in the vicinity of Vidai’s source would draw his attention—and translocation requires so much power we cannot hope to shield all the ripples. If Vidai senses our arrival and attacks, he might easily savage our bodies enough that we will be too weak from healing them to cast channeled magic.”
“I will think on a solution to that,” Ruslan said. “But first, we must find Vidai’s source. If we cast scry-visions of each potential confluence, perhaps we can discover some sign of his presence. Kiran, Mikail: I wish you to cast one such scry-spell, even as Lizaveta and I scry a second location.”
Kiran’s heart jolted. To cast a spell capable of scrying such a distant location in detail, he and Mikail would need a fully channeled spell. One powered by the freshly taken life of a
nathahlen
, not the dimmed energies stored in
zhivnoi
crystals.
Reluctance welled up, but he stamped it down. This death would be for good purpose, unlike those caused by Ruslan’s failed strike.
“Do you wish me to cast as channeler or as focus?” Kiran wasn’t certain which answer he wanted to hear. If he channeled, then he would not have to kill. But if he cast as the focus…a sudden memory of the intoxicating, soul-wrenching joy he’d felt with Ruslan in casting the
altavish
spell swept him.
Ruslan smiled at him knowingly over Lizaveta’s shoulder
.
“You wish to focus,
akhelysh.
Do you not?” The memory of joy strengthened, reinforced by Ruslan through the mark-bond until the craving to taste it again left Kiran shaking. Distantly, he heard Ruslan’s voice. “I will help you throw off the last of your chains, Kiran. Shall I find you a criminal to kill? A
nathahlen
so brutish you need not feel the least shred of empathy?”
“Yes.” The word burst from Kiran, propelled by the siren call in his blood. He could take a life if it belonged to a criminal and not a child like Melly. He didn’t need to torture the
nathahlen
to stoke his
ikilhia
higher; a scry-spell did not require so much power. A swift thrust of the knife, and the deed would be done. He would cast, and prove once and for all that he was
akheli
, whole and uncrippled.
Ruslan left Lizaveta’s side to embrace Kiran. “Good,” he murmured. “Cast for me without hesitation as we fight our enemy, and I will consider sparing Mikail from punishment.”
New relief dizzied Kiran. “I will cast for you.”
Ruslan wound a hand in Kiran’s hair, his breath hot on Kiran’s neck. Blood afire, Kiran sought Ruslan’s mouth, felt Ruslan’s hands lock hard on his arms. Lizaveta was watching them, her eyes bright and her lips parted.
Mikail coughed and shifted on his stool. “Ruslan…I, too, want Kiran to cast. But…you didn’t see how disordered his
ikilhia
was after your strike. Are you sure he’s recovered enough to handle casting channeled magic?”
Ruslan drew back, frowning. Lizaveta said, “Truly, his
ikilhia
showed signs of disruption? I would have thought his healing accomplished by now.”
Kiran couldn’t help wondering if Mikail had a deeper reason for his reluctance. Did he believe their bond so frayed it would endanger them in casting? But Lizaveta’s words brought his own concern over the slowness of his healing flooding back.
He said to Ruslan, “I felt no pain when you struck, but afterward—it’s as Mikail says. My
ikilhia
remained disturbed despite his help, and I felt…off, somehow, for hours after. Perhaps damping charms would’ve prevented it, but how long must I rely on such crutches?”
Ruslan’s head tilted, his frown growing deeper. “Liza is right, you should not need such assistance any longer.” He laid a hand on Kiran’s forehead. Gentle fire slid through Kiran’s mind.
After a moment, Ruslan said slowly, “Your
ikilhia
feels a touch unbalanced, but not so much it should prevent you from casting. Perhaps the strain of holding your barriers against the confluence’s upheavals has slowed your recovery. Still…we can be cautious. Kiran, I’ll give you
voshanoi
charms to wear while you cast. Mikail—if you wish, I will redesign the scry-spell pattern to allow you as the channeler to safely divert power if you sense Kiran’s focus failing.”
Mikail looked relieved. “That would be good.”
At least Mikail was willing to cast with him. Yet new worry plucked at Kiran. If his focus failed while casting with forces as powerful as those of the confluence, Ruslan’s redesign might save his and Mikail’s lives, but serious injury would be inescapable. What if he left Mikail’s mind damaged as badly as his own—or worse? A horrifying prospect at the best of times, but doubly so now, when so many lives depended on their casting.
Ruslan patted his shoulder. “Do not look so dismayed,
akhelysh.
I will check you more deeply once you and Mikail have prepared the spell. If I am not certain of your health, I will not allow you to cast.”
Kiran nodded—and jerked to his feet, as harsh whispers filled his inner ear. “Ruslan! Our enemy returns.”
“What?” Ruslan’s voice was sharp with surprise. “The confluence is not in alignment yet!”
“Vidai must have another purpose,” Lizaveta said, tight and worried.
“Quickly, then—up to my workroom. We’ll look for him in the confluence; perhaps we can determine his intent.” Ruslan hurried for the door.