The High Lord (67 page)

—
Take my power. Strike while he’s distracted. Don’t let everything we have done and suffered for come to nothing.

She nodded. As the strikes from the University lessened, she drew in a deep breath. There was no time for fancy tactics. Something direct, then. She closed her eyes and drew on all her power and all her anger at Kariko for what he had done to Akkarin and Imardin. She felt Akkarin send his strength to join hers.

Then, opening her eyes, she focused everything at Kariko and his allies.

The Ichani leader staggered backward. For a moment his shield held, then his mouth opened in a silent scream as heatstrike burned through his body. The next man backed away, but managed only a few steps before her magic shattered his shield and burned through him. She felt a surge of triumph. The last Ichani stood his ground. She felt her strength slipping away. He began to advance and she felt a rush of fear. A last trickle of power came to her, and she sent it forth. The Ichani’s eyes widened as his shield wavered. Then, as the last of her magic flowed out, it fell. Heatstrike tore through him, and he crumpled to the ground.

All was silent. Sonea stared at the three bodies lying before the University. A wave of exhaustion washed over her. She felt no triumph. No pleasure. Just emptiness. She turned to Akkarin.

A smile curled the edge of his lips. His eyes were open, but fixed somewhere beyond her. As she moved, the hands about her wrists loosened and fell away.

“No,” she whispered. “Akkarin.” Grabbing his hands, she sent her mind inward. Nothing. Not even the slightest spark of life.

He had given her too much power.

He had given her everything.

With shaking hands, Sonea ran her fingers over his face, then bent forward and kissed his lifeless mouth.

Then she curled herself around him and began to cry.

Rothen reached the end of the corridor and looked up. After the devastation of the city, the undamaged majesty of the Great Hall was both heartening and somehow shameful. The Ichani Invasion, as the five days of death and destruction were now referred to, had been a battle between magicians. It seemed wrong that nothing within the Guild grounds had been damaged when much of the Inner Circle was in ruins.

It could have been far worse for ordinary Imardians, Rothen reminded himself. There had been few non-magician deaths. The Guild, however, was nearly half its former size. There had been rumors that the Higher Magicians were considering recruiting from wealthy merchant families outside the Houses.

He crossed to the Guildhall, and slipped between the doors. During the week since the Invasion, the meetings of the Higher Magicians had taken place in one of the small preparation rooms at the front of the hall. Until a new Administrator was elected, it was considered inappropriate to use Lorlen’s office.

Reaching the preparation room door, Rothen knocked. It swung open. As he stepped inside, he noted the magicians present, knowing that he was glimpsing the faces of the Guild’s future hierarchy of power.

Lord Balkan paced the room. It was obvious from the way the others had automatically turned to him for leadership that he was a strong candidate for High Lord. Lord Osen watched Balkan calmly. Though clearly still deeply upset by Lorlen’s death, he had gained a quiet purposefulness since being given the task of organizing the city’s recovery. Lorlen had been grooming Osen as his replacement for the last few years, so it would surprise no one if the young man was elected Administrator.

So many Warriors had died that only a few candidates remained for Head of Warriors. Lord Garrel had been present in the last few meetings, which Rothen felt didn’t bode well for the future. Balkan had also been managing the lesser Head of Warrior Studies role, but Rothen had heard the man suggest that the position would be filled by another at a future date, so perhaps Garrel’s sly, narrow-minded ways would be counter-balanced by a Warrior of more sensible character.

Lady Vinara would remain Head of Healers. Director Jerrik had made no indication he wanted to change his position, and no one had suggested it. Lord Telano would probably remain Head of Healing Studies. No mention had been made of choosing someone for the role of Expatriate Administrator so far.

Lord Peakin would probably replace Lord Sarrin. One of the older teachers would be given the Head of Alchemic Studies position, Rothen guessed. He could not help wondering, now and then, who his direct superior would be, but most of the time he was concerned with more important matters. Like Sonea.

And she was clearly the reason the Higher Magicians had summoned him today. As Balkan noticed Rothen’s entrance, he stopped pacing.

“How is she?”

Rothen sighed and shook his head. “No better. It will take time.”

“We don’t have time,” Balkan muttered.

“I know.” Rothen looked away. “But I fear what will happen if we push her.”

Vinara frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I’m not sure she wants to recover.”

The room’s occupants exchanged worried glances. Vinara did not look surprised.

“Then you must convince her otherwise,” Balkan said. “We need her. If eight outcasts can do this much damage, what might an army do? Even if the Sachakan King doesn’t take advantage of our weakness, it would only take one more of these Ichani to ruin us. We need a black magician. We need her—or for her to teach one of us.”

It was true, but unfair on Sonea. It had only been a week since Akkarin’s death. Her grief was natural. Understandable. She had been through too much. Why couldn’t they leave her alone for a while?

“What about Akkarin’s books?” he asked.

Balkan shook his head. “Sarrin was unable to learn from them. I have fared no better—”

‘Then
you
must talk to her,” Vinara said to the Warrior, “and when you do, you must be able to tell her exactly where she stands with us. We can’t ask her to live for our sakes when her future is uncertain.”

Balkan nodded and let out a heavy sigh. “You’re right, of course.” He looked around at the other magicians. “Very well, we must hold a Meet to discuss the position and its restrictions.”

“We already have discussed it, when Sarrin was chosen,” Peakin pointed out.

“The restrictions ought to be refined,” Garrel said. “At the moment the only requirements are that she remain within the Guild grounds, cannot hold a position of authority, and cannot teach. It should be spelled out that she must not use her powers unless requested by us all.”

Rothen resisted a smile.
Us
all? Garrel was certainly confident of gaining Balkan’s position.

“Well, we’d have to change that rule against teaching, for a start,” Jerrik added.

Vinara looked at Rothen. “What do you suggest, Rothen?”

He paused, knowing they would not like what he had to say.

“I don’t think she’ll agree to any restriction that keeps her within the Guild grounds.”

Balkan frowned. “Why not?”

“She has always wanted to use her powers to help the poor. It was part of the reason she decided to join us and it has given her something to hold onto,” he glanced sideways at Garrel, “in difficult times. If you want her to live, don’t take that from her.”

Vinara smiled thinly. “And I suppose if we proposed she undertake some kind of charitable work in the city, it would give her reason to stay with us.”

Rothen nodded.

Balkan crossed his arms. His fingers drummed against his sleeve. “That would also help us regain the favor of the people. We didn’t prove to be particularly effective defenders. I’ve heard that some even blame us for the invasion.”

“Surely not!” Garrel exclaimed.

“It’s true,” Osen said quietly.

Garrel scowled. “Ungrateful dwells.”

“Actually, it was certain members of the Houses who expressed that opinion on their return to the city.” Osen added. “Including members of House Paren, if I recall correctly.”

Garrel blinked in surprise, then flushed.

“Should we extend the area of confinement to the city, then?” Telano suggested.

“The idea of confinement was to ensure our black magician didn’t have access to large numbers of victims, should he or she grow hungry for power,” Peakin said. “What is the point of having an area of confinement, when it includes the highest density of population in the country?”

Rothen chuckled. “And you’d have to persuade the King to redefine what is considered part of the city. I don’t think Sonea intended to restrict her help to those within the Outer Wall.”

“Confinement is clearly unworkable,” Vinara said. “I suggest an escort.”

All eyes turned to her. Balkan nodded approvingly.

“And if the help she wants to give is Healing, she still has many years of training to complete.” Vinara looked at Rothen.

He nodded. “I’m sure she’s aware of that. My son has expressed a wish to teach her. He thought it might revive her, but perhaps, if he is to assist her in this work, it could be a more official arrangement.”

She pursed her lips. “It would not be appropriate for her to return to classes. It is not wise for a Healer to have only one teacher, however. I will assist as well.”

Rothen nodded, suddenly too overwhelmed by gratitude to speak. He listened as the others continued the debate.

“So will we still call her the ‘Black Magician’ ?” Peakin asked.

“Yes,” Balkan replied.

“And what color robes will she wear?”

There was a short silence.

“Black,” Osen said quietly.

“But the High Lord’s are black,” Telano pointed out.

Osen nodded. “Perhaps it is time to change the High Lord’s robes. Black will always remind people of black magic, which, despite everything, we do not want to encourage people to think of as wholly good and desirable. We need something fresh and clean.”

“White,” Vinara said.

Osen nodded. “Yes.”

As the others voiced their agreement, Balkan made a strangled noise.

“White!” he exclaimed. “You can’t be serious. It’s impractical, and impossible to keep clean.”

Vinara smiled. “Now what would a High Lord be involved in that might stain his white robes?”

“A little excess wine consumption, maybe?” Jerrik murmured.

The others chuckled.

“White it is, then,” Osen said.

“Wait,” Balkan looked from face to face, then shook his head. “Why do I find myself thinking you’ve made your minds up, and I won’t win any argument about it?”

“It’s a good sign,” Vinara said. “One that suggests we have chosen a strong set of people to be our Higher Magicians.” She looked around the group, then smiled as her eyes met Rothen’s. “You still haven’t guessed, have you Lord Rothen?”

He stared at her, puzzled by her sudden question. “Guessed what?”

“Of course, it still has to be put to the vote, but I don’t expect anyone will protest.”

“About what?”

Her smile widened. “Congratulations, Rothen. You’re to be our new Head of Alchemic Studies.”

From the top of the two-story house, it was possible to see that the rubble formed a perfect circle. It was a sobering sight.

Yet another to add to my list,
Cery thought.
Along with the ruins of the city walls, the long lines of bodies that the Guild had laid out across the lawn in front of the University, and the look Sonea had in her eyes as Rothen finally persuaded her to leave Akkarin’s body.

He shivered and made himself look down again. Hundreds of workers were sorting through the rubble. A few people had been found alive, buried near the edges of the destruction. It was impossible to know how many had been hiding in the houses when they were blasted to ruins. Most were probably dead.

All because of him. He should have paid more attention to Savara’s warnings about what would happen when an Ichani died. But he had been too concerned with finding a way to kill a magician to think about how his people might survive the consequences.

“Back here again?”

Arms wound about his waist. A familiar spicy aroma filled his senses. His heart lightened for a moment, then began to hurt again.

“Must you go?” he whispered.

“Yes,” Savara replied. “We could use your help.”

“No. You don’t need me. Certainly not as a Sachakan magician. And you have plenty of volunteers to do non-magical work.”

“I need you.”

She sighed. “No, Cery. You need someone you can trust, completely and unconditionally. I will never be that person.”

He nodded. She was right.

But it didn’t make parting easier.

Her arms tightened. “I’ll miss you,” she added quietly. “If… if I’m welcome, I’ll drop in whenever my duties take me this way.”

He turned to face her, and lifted one eyebrow as if considering.

“I might have a few bottles of Anuren dark left.”

She smiled broadly and he could not help feeling better, even if it was just for a moment. Ever since the final battle, he had felt a terrible fear of loss, and he had tried to keep her from leaving. But Savara didn’t belong in Kyralia. Not now. And he was letting his heart’s demands overtake common-sense. That was something a Thief should never do.

Hooking a finger under her chin, he lifted her head and kissed her, slowly and firmly. Then he stepped back.

“Go on, then. Go home. I don’t like long goodbyes.”

She smiled, then turned away. He watched her saunter to the hatch in the roof, then descend through the ceiling below. When she was gone, he turned to regard the workers again.

Much had changed. He must be ready for the consequences. Snippets of information had come his way, and he was probably not the only one to realize what they might lead to. If the King did truly intend to end the yearly Purge, there would be one less reason for the Thieves to work together. And then there were the rumors of certain deals already being made between the other underworld leaders.

He smiled and straightened his shoulders. He had prepared for the day when Akkarin’s support ended. Deals had been made with useful and powerful people. Wealth had been stowed, and information gathered. His position was strong.

Soon he would find out if it was strong enough.