Lisa Shearin - Raine Benares 02

“Once
again I’m glad I’m not welcome in polite society,” I mut
tered.

Phaelan
grunted in agreement. My cousin wasn’t welcome in polite society, either, but
for a different reason. He was a pirate. Excuse me, seafaring businessman. I
was a seeker. Among some magic users, seeking didn’t rate much higher than
pirating. I didn’t care what some magic users thought.

There
had to be a better way to spend our first day on the Isle of Mid than listening
to overeducated mage professors making long-winded speeches, but our guards
hadn’t asked us what we wanted.

Our
guards were a pair of Guardians from the Conclave of Sorcerers. We were in
their citadel’s tower, overlooking the town’s main square, where the boring
speeches were being made. We weren’t prisoners, but we weren’t exactly guests.

My
accommodations in the citadel were bright, airy, and more than comfortable, with
a sweeping view of Mid’s harbor. Being a member of the Benares family, I kind
of expected something along the lines of dark and damp, with a view of iron
bars. Sometimes it’s nice to be disappointed. Phaelan had opted to stay on his
ship anchored in Mid’s harbor. Good choice. At least he had one.

Phaelan
was here because he’d come with me. I was here because I had to be.

My
name is Raine Benares. I’m an elf and a seeker—a finder of things lost and
people missing. I can now add “finder of stones of cataclysmic power” to my
resume. I found one last week, and I can’t get rid of it, or the cataclysmic
power it gave me as some sort of sick and twisted finder’s fee.

The
stone with the warped sense of humor is called the Saghred. It’s a black rock
about the size of a man’s fist that fell from the sky a millennium ago, more or
less. I ancient times, armies that carried the Saghred before them were
indestructible—and their adversaries were annihilated. You’d think something as
small as the Saghred couldn’t cause all that much trouble, but you’d be wrong—
apparently size really doesn’t matter.

Every
magic user who’d been bonded to the Saghred had gone crazy. Not crazy like an
eccentric aunt, but take-over-the-world-and-kill-millions kind of crazy. The
Saghred and I were bonded, but I couldn’t sense it now. It was locked in a
containment room in the lowest level of the citadel, under heavy guard, and
spellbound under layers of the strongest bindings the Guardians could weave.
But it’d already done its damage to me. I no longer needed the Saghred’s help
to do the things I could do now. My magical skill level used to be marginal. I
didn’t know what my limits were now—or even if I had any limits. I didn’t know
if the Guardians were keeping me in the citadel for my own protection or for
everyone else’s. I didn’t think the Guardians were all that sure, either.

I
didn’t want a link with a legendary stone of power. That’s why I was here. One
of those fancy-robed speech-making mages trying to impress new students and
their parents with a lot of long words might be my only hope of getting rid of
it. That thought alone was almost as scary as the stone I was attached to.

The
Isle of Mid was home to the most prestigious college for sorcery, as well as
the Conclave, the governing body for all magic users in the seven kingdoms.
Classes for the fall semester were starting in a few days, hence the pompous
speeches. Parents with magically talented kids had to shell out a lot of gold
to send their darlings to the Conclave’s college. I guess the faculty wanted to
assure the parents they’d be getting their money’s worth.

A
tower room in a citadel was the last place I wanted to be. However, my guards
looked downright content. Vegard and Riston were both big and human, and Vegard
was endearingly homicidal. The Guardians’ sworn duty was to protect the members
of the Conclave and defend the Isle of Mid against any outside threat, but they
spent most of their time protecting the Conclave’s students and citizens from
each other. The Guardians were sorcerers and warriors, and keeping the peace in
a city of sorcerers gave them plenty of practice at being both.

Vegard
and Riston’s job today was to guard and protect me. And considering that I was
in a tower room in the Guardians’ citadel, it looked like a pretty plum
assignment. I mean, how much trouble could a girl get into under heavy guard in
a tower room? Notice I didn’t ask that question out loud. No need to rub Fate’s
nose in something when I’d been tempting her enough lately.

Phaelan
had generously offered his guard services as well, just in case something
happened to me that my Guardian bodyguards couldn’t handle. Phaelan’s
guard-on-duty stance resembled his pirate-on-shore-leave stance of leaning back
in a chair with his feet up, but instead of a tavern table, his boots were
doing a fine job of holding down the windowsill. I don’t know how I’d ever felt
safe without him.

My
cousin looked like the rest of my family—dark hair, dark eyes, dark good looks,
equally dark disposition. I stood out like a flaming match at night with my
long red gold hair, gray eyes, and pale skin. Considering my present
circumstances, I was surprised there weren’t a few white hairs among the red.

Phaelan
leaned forward, looking down into the square. “What’s he saying?”

“That’s
Loran Abas, professor emeritus of chanting,” Vegard told him.

My
cousin blinked. “There’s a class for that?”

“Afraid
so. Trust me—you don’t want to hear what he’s saying. Though if you’d like, I
can fix it so you can.”

Vegard
didn’t say if that fixing would involve magic, but I suspected it did. Phaelan
wasn’t a big fan of magic.

“No,
thanks.”

We
were about four stories up, and the window was just an opening in the fortress
wall, so I could hear snatches of what some of the professors were saying, but
that was about it, and that was fine with me.

The
blond Guardian shrugged. “Your choice, but you’re missing out on some of the
finest-quality droning bullshit you’ll ever hear.”

Phaelan’s
expression never changed. “My world will go on without it.”

“Sat
through more than your share of those?” I asked Vegard.

“Stood
through is more like it—at attention. Over the years, I’ve learned to block out
the voice of virtually anyone. It’s a gift I’m glad to say I have.”

“It
also makes it easier to hear the audience’s comments,” Riston added. “That’s
the entertaining part right there.”

I
looked back down at the sea of humanity, and elves, goblins, and dwarves. A
tall and leanly muscled elf in the steel gray uniform of the Guardians stood on
the raised stage just behind Archmagus Justinius Valerian’s chair at his right
hand. Mychael Eiliesor. I couldn’t make out his expression, but I was sure it
was a perfect, polite, professional mask.

Mychael
Eiliesor was the paladin and commander of the Guardians. He was also an enigma,
wrapped in a riddle, coated in yum. The yum was apparent to any female with
working eyes. What wasn’t apparent was what was going on behind Mychael’s
tropical sea blue eyes.

I
liked Mychael. I think Mychael liked me, but he wasn’t about to let liking me get
in the way of his duty. As paladin, protecting the Saghred was his
responsibility. And since the Saghred and I were psychic roommates, that
protection extended to me. He took that job very seriously. Regardless of how
Mychael felt about me, he wasn’t taking any chances. That caution took the form
of Vegard and Riston, tower rooms, and plush and all-too-secure accommodations.
The words “gilded cage” came to mind. I didn’t like cages; it didn’t matter
what they were made of.

Archmagus
Justinius Valerian rose and approached the podium as the final speaker. The
archmagus had absolute authority over the Isle of Mid and everyone on it. He
was also the mage Mychael had deemed most likely to help me sever my link with
the Saghred.

The
audience greeted their archmagus with cheers and whistles. I didn’t know if the
cheers were for Justinius, or because he was the final speaker, or both. Either
way, the wall of sound was almost deafening.

A
slow grin spread over Vegard’s face. “This is usually good. In our younger
days, if we weren’t on duty, we’d meet at the tavern across the street to
listen to the old man.”

I
must have looked unenlightened at his source of amusement.

“We
did shots at every sarcastic remark,” Riston clarified.

Vegard
grinned. “We got so drunk.”

The
archmagus stepped up to the podium. The other speakers had used notes;
Justinius Valerian used his brain. As to sarcasm, his speech had plenty to go
around. The old man spared no one. The loudest cheers from the student section
came after snarky comments aimed directly at them. The worse the abuse, the
louder the cheers. I smiled. They were probably doing shots down there, too.
The students loved him.

I
wasn’t the only one taking advantage of an upper-floor window as a vantage
point. Nearly every window of houses, shops, and businesses around the main
square were filled with spectators. The window directly across from ours had
been empty.

It
wasn’t anymore.

Oh
hell.

The
archmagus’s voice faded into the background as Banan Ryce gave me a casual salute.

Banan
Ryce was commander of the Nightshades. Nightshades were elves—they were also
assassins, kidnappers, blackmailers, or whatever they had been given enough
gold to do. I knew Banan; he’d met me. Let’s just leave it at that.

Thanks
to my Saghred-enhanced skills, I knew that Banan’s salute was more than a
greeting for me; it was a signal, and his people in the crowd below responded.
Some moved into position; others were already where they needed to be to do
whatever it was they were going to do. I knew exactly which ones were there at
Banan’s bidding as surely as if they had a bright red spot painted on top of
their heads.

I
stood. “We’ve got trouble.”

I
felt Vegard and Riston’s power flare behind me. It would be way too little, far
too late.

Vegard
tried to shield me, with both body and wards. “Where?”