The Tainted City (6 page)

K
iran shoved aside the leather-bound book, tempted to cast it straight into the slate fireplace on the study’s far side. The text contained yet another overly dramatic, maddeningly vague account of Alathia’s founding. Pages upon pages of praise for Denarell of Parthus’s vision in convincing a few hundred families of Harsian descent to leave the decadent cities of eastern Arkennland, cross thousands of miles of wilderness, and carve out a new country; and not a word about what supplies they’d brought or artifacts they’d discovered. So much for his hope of finding clues to what materials Alathia’s mages had used when they first cast the spells powering their border wards.

In her chair beside the fireplace, Lena lifted her gaze from a slim volume. The title proclaimed it a naturalist’s discussion of the deserts of Sulania.

“It’s lovely outside today.” She indicated the arched window behind her. Late morning sunlight streamed through the patterned glass, turning the polished wood of the study’s bookshelves to cinnamon and amber. “Have you considered a walk in the back garden? You’ve been huddled in here for days.”

“If I’m forbidden from useful work, I’d prefer to read.” Kiran struggled to keep his tone civil. Since the day he’d felt the tremor in Stevannes’s workroom, he hadn’t been permitted to return to the Arcanum. He’d been kept cloistered in the lavishly appointed guest house that had been his quarters since his trial. For all its expansive library and beautifully manicured garden, the wards lurking within the property’s walls were powerful enough to make it a perfect prison.

“Have you any news of Dev?” he asked Lena. Ten days ago, Captain Martennan—or Marten, as he’d asked Kiran to call him—had told Kiran of the disaster at Cheltman. He’d assured Kiran of Dev’s survival and claimed the Council would bring Dev back from the mines for safety’s sake. Yet since that visit, Marten had been conspicuous in his absence. Kiran feared it meant the Council had changed their minds about Dev’s recall—or worse.

Lena shook her head. “If Talmaddis left the mine with Dev right after the order was relayed, they should arrive any day now.”

Kiran sighed, hoping she was right and his fears unfounded. He moved to the shelf and pulled free a compilation of tales from early Alathian trading expeditions.

“I didn’t realize you had such an interest in history.”

Though Lena’s words were mild, Kiran’s nerves tightened. “Ruslan didn’t teach us much of Alathia. I’d like to remedy that, to learn more of your culture and history. I thought it best to start with the earliest texts I could find and read onward.”

It wasn’t a lie. Yet his true urgency ran far deeper. He had to find something he could offer the Alathians to prove his value to them. After hearing about the loss of life at Cheltman, a completed design for Simon’s charm no longer felt nearly enough to ensure both his and Dev’s safety. Far better if he could offer the Council methods to counter attacks on their wards from blood magic. But to predict spell interactions and develop countering patterns, he needed to know the materials used to bind and direct the spells in question.

He’d asked if he might help shore up their wards, and been flatly refused. But he couldn’t simply sit around hoping the Council held to their promises. If he could just develop some definitive spellwork to offer…

Lena regarded him steadily. “Us…I assume you’re speaking of Ruslan’s other apprentice. Did you and Mikail always have lessons together?”

She sounded honestly curious. Kiran looked away. “Yes.” Longing pierced him, swift and poisonous as a viper’s tooth. All those hours he’d spent learning with Mikail, magic unfolding before them like a neverending chamber of wonders, their only concern to earn Ruslan’s approval…and even when they suffered Ruslan’s darker moods, it was together, their bond as mage-brothers as solid and unchanging as Ninavel’s stone…

Nausea twisted Kiran’s stomach. Mikail was as much a monster as Ruslan. He’d betrayed Kiran’s trust, given Kiran’s beloved Alisa into Ruslan’s hands—had been
glad
of her death, afterward. How could he be so traitorous to Alisa’s memory as to miss Mikail?

“My apologies,” Lena said softly. “I didn’t mean to cause you pain.”

“No, it’s just…” Kiran stared at the sun-dappled tree branches outside the window. “Have you ever wished you were
nathahlen—
born without mage talent, I mean?” He regretted the foolishness of the question the moment he asked it. Calm, reasonable Lena, with her place assured in Alathia’s hierarchy…what cause could she ever have had to regret her magic?

Yet when he stole a sidelong glance at her, he found Lena’s eyes had gone distant, her straight brows drawn together. She said slowly, “Most mageborn children in Alathia are identified and brought to the Arcanum quite young, two or three years old, but my family lived deep in the Kilshasa Hills, two days’ ride from the nearest town. I was six before a Council magefinder came through the area. I’d shown no sign of talent, so when she proclaimed me mageborn it was a shock to everyone. My parents asked if she could burn out my magic rather than take me away to Tamanath. I begged for that as well, but the magefinder said such a thing isn’t possible without damaging the mind beyond repair.”

Lena smoothed a hand over the cover of her book. “The first months at the Arcanum were hard. I missed my parents and sisters terribly. I thought I hated magic, because it had taken me from them. Yet the first time I cast a spell…” She held out her hand. A whisper of magic brushed Kiran’s senses. A shining ball of palest rose appeared, floating in her cupped fingers. “The joy of it, the
rightness
that I felt, was—”

“Incredible,” Kiran finished softly, remembering his own first spell, a simple illusion of the little copper wagon that had been his favorite toy. His own excitement, Ruslan’s pride, Mikail’s delight, all of it secondary to the soul-deep satisfaction the trickle of power had left behind.

“Yes.” Lena snapped her fingers shut and the ball of light vanished. “Do you truly wish you’d never experienced magic?”

“If I’d been born
nathahlen
, I wouldn’t know what I was missing.” Unlike now, when his soul cried out for it like a desert traveler deprived of water. “Did you ever see your parents again?” Kiran couldn’t keep the wistfulness from his voice. He’d never known his parents, hadn’t even a single memory of a time before Ruslan.

“Yes, though not until I was inducted into the Watch. The journey to Tamanath is long, and they couldn’t afford to leave their steading. We wrote letters through the years, but by the time I went back to visit…” She shrugged. “My sisters had married, had children of their own, and I was no longer the little girl my parents remembered. We had little left in common.”

“I’m sorry,” Kiran said awkwardly.

“Don’t be.” Lena raised her eyes to meet his. “I don’t regret my talent now. You may feel differently about your own in years to come.”

Kiran released a bitter chuckle. “Oh, certainly. The day Ruslan miraculously relinquishes his claim and the Council decides I’m not a demon in disguise, I’ll delight in magic once more. Yet to hope for that feels as foolish as wishing for snow in Ninavel.”

“Even Ninavel has…” Lena stood, her head tilting, as a muffled sound of feet and voices filtered through the study door. Kiran straightened, torn between curiosity and worry. If Marten had returned at last, his visit would be welcome if he brought news of Dev. Yet Kiran couldn’t shake the fear the tidings might be darker.

A smile lit Lena’s face. “Ah, Kiran, this should help your troubles fade. Look: you have a visitor.”

The study door swung open. Marten strode in, beaming. Behind him trailed a wiry young man wearing dirt-streaked leathers, a thin gold torc gleaming around his neck.

“Dev!” Kiran hurried forward, delight banishing fear. “You’re here, and safe—I’m so glad, I wasn’t sure—” He stopped, not wanting to admit he’d doubted Marten’s promises, and abruptly struck by worry that Dev’s friendship might have faded into resentment during his time in the mines.

Dev grinned. He looked thinner than Kiran remembered. His bones were sharp under skin the rich brown of seasoned mahogany, his vivid green eyes as startling as ever in contrast. “Good to see you, too.” He caught Kiran up in a quick, rough hug.

A knot loosened in Kiran’s chest. He ducked his head, embarrassed at the force of his relief.

“I’ll leave you two to catch up,” Marten said. “I have a few matters that need discussing with Lena, and then I’m afraid I must dash back to the Arcanum for a meeting. I’ll return afterward—at which time, Kiran, I hope I can be more forthcoming in response to your questions about these recent tremors.”

Dev cast Marten a sharp glance. Kiran nodded, an uneasy mix of nerves and hope churning in his gut.

“One last thing…” Marten laid a finger on Dev’s torc. The faint mutter of quiescent magic in the study’s walls abruptly heightened, then resettled.

“Dev, I’ve keyed your collaring charm to the wards here,” Marten said. “You’ll have the freedom of the house and back garden, but one step past the walls, and—”

“Your gods-damned charm strangles me into submission, yeah, I know.” Dev rubbed a hand over his throat.

The darker shading of skin there—not dirt, but old bruises. Guilt stabbed Kiran.

With a bow and a last genial wave, Marten exited, Lena following. The moment the door shut, Kiran spoke.

“Dev, I’m sorry. For the mines, and for—for everything…” He couldn’t take his gaze from the black shadows ringing Dev’s throat. “I worked every waking moment on Simon’s spell. I was so close to finishing before all this. If only I’d deciphered the pattern faster—”

“Hey.” Dev cuffed his shoulder. “Don’t tie yourself in knots. Who’s to say the Council would’ve kept their end of the deal, even if you’d finished? Never mind me…” His green eyes searched Kiran’s face. “I’d ask how you’re holding up in the face of these quakes, but the answer’s written all over you. When was the last time you slept, huh?”

“Sleep has…been a little difficult.” He hadn’t managed more than scant moments of rest in between the nightmares that woke him, shuddering and sweating, the remembered taste of blood gagging his throat.

“I’ll bet.” Dev studied him, frowning. “Look, the quakes…you’re certain they’re, uh, unnatural?”

From his hesitant phrasing, he must think Kiran would dissolve into a whimpering heap if he mentioned Ruslan’s name. Kiran said dryly, “You mean, are they caused by overspill from Ruslan attacking Alathia’s wards?”

Dev spread his hands in silent, self-mocking apology. “Yeah.”

Kiran sighed. “With my power bound, I can barely sense spells cast in the same room, let alone what might be happening a hundred miles distant at the border. But I’m certain it’s Ruslan. Who else would have the strength and desire to damage the wards?” He told Dev of the diseased-looking holes he’d seen in Stevannes’s spell, and his banishment thereafter from the Arcanum. Dev’s expression turned grim as he listened.

Kiran finished off with, “The Alathians won’t tell me a thing, or listen to my offers of help. Marten says to be patient, but—”

“
Marten
, is it now?” Dev cast a dark glance at the door.

“I know you’re wary of him,” Kiran said. “But he and Lena have been kind to me. The others, well…” He trailed off, embarrassed. Even Stevannes at his most acerbic couldn’t compare to what Dev must have endured at the mine.

“The others, what?” Dev demanded.

Kiran shrugged. “They never forget I’m a blood mage.” Stevannes was the most vocal about it, but Kiran had seen the wary revulsion in the other Alathians’ eyes.

“You’re not a blood mage,” Dev said flatly. “Not anymore. Fuck the Alathians, if they can’t get that through their heads. But…I know what you’re afraid of, because I am too. Question is, how do we stop the Council from tossing us back to Ruslan?”

Kiran’s chest tightened at the thought. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I thought if I could devise some defensive spellwork to offer…but it’s difficult, without access to proper materials and information.”

“Access.” Dev’s fingers rose to tap on his torc, and his gaze drifted to the wards bracketing the study window.

Kiran sucked in a breath of sudden surmise. Dev had spent his childhood as a thief. As an adult he no longer had the Taint to help him slip past wards, but he’d proved on their trip through the Whitefires that his cleverness could make up for the lack. Perhaps Dev thought he could sneak into the Arcanum and find the information Kiran needed? Between Dev’s collaring charm and the mages guarding them, it seemed an impossible task. But then, Dev’s specialty seemed to be succeeding at impossible tasks.

Dev raked a hand through his coarse dark hair. He darted another glance at the door and slid a folded letter from his shirt.

“I’ve news from Cara. Thought you might like to read it, know she’s okay.” He brushed a finger over his lips, a warning clear in the intensity of his gaze.

The wards in the study walls were fully quiescent to Kiran’s inner senses, with no hint of scry-magic tinging the aether. But if Dev was so concerned over eavesdroppers from the Watch, Kiran would be cautious. He gave Dev a slight nod and took the letter, curiosity rising.

As he scanned the scrawled text, Kiran’s breath caught, his fingers whitening on the paper. Before Marten had escorted Cara to the border, she’d pulled Kiran aside and told him in a sharp, hurried whisper of her intent to sell information to the spy Pello in exchange for his help freeing Melly. Kiran had been so relieved; Cara seemed so competent, so assured, he’d thought she’d surely succeed in fulfilling the promise Dev had forsaken to help Kiran. But if this letter referred to Pello, and she couldn’t find him, or some other way to rescue Melly in time…“Your drover friend…the one from the convoy, with the patchwork cap?”

Dev nodded, his mouth a tight line.

“Dev…” Kiran felt sick. He leaned close and whispered, “I know it’s my fault you’re trapped here. Truly, I’d almost finished the spell. Perhaps I can bargain with Marten—”

“
Don’t
bargain with Martennan,” Dev whispered harshly. “Not yet. If you can help me get this Shaikar-cursed snapthroat charm off and cross the wards, I’ve an idea—”