Chapter One
Fire streamed toward Aelys of Brionne’s face, crisping the ends of her hair.
“Shield!”
In her mind, she envisioned a powerful, impenetrable barrier in front of her. The Sanvar’s flames impacted the wall of air, flowed around, and created an uncomfortably warm sphere with her at the center of it. It shouldn’t, strictly speaking, have been necessary for her to articulate the thought, but as she didn’t say the word loudly, Sanvar Gilbain probably wouldn’t hear it and dock her points. He could never hear her questions in class, after all, and her hastily erected energetic shield did work.
Breathe, she reminded herself as sweat beaded on her forehead. Her hands shook, so she curled them into fists and pulled harder on her pathetically thin flow of energy. Slowly, inexorably, the sphere of fire tightened around her. Dark spots swam before her eyes. She swallowed hard and pulled on her energy once more as the room began to tilt and spin.
Aelys’s legs buckled, collapsing beneath her weight and she hit the floor hard on her hands and knees. The encircling flames winked out of existence. She sucked in a breath of cooler air and blinked rapidly, trying to dispel the darkness that crowded in around the edge of her vision.
“I know you typically spend your time on hands and knees scrubbing floors throughout this Lyceum, Student Aelys,” Sanvar Gilbain said in the cultured, smooth voice Aelys had always found beautiful—despite the cruelty his words so often carried. “But perhaps you would like to show some dignity? This is your final graduation exam, after all. Get up.”
“Yes, Sanvar,” Aelys said, hating the tremor she couldn’t keep out of her voice. She forced her leaden arms and legs to obey, and slowly pushed herself up to regain her feet. With a deep breath, she clasped her hands in front of her waist and dipped her head to signal that she was ready once more.
“Oh, isn’t that cute,” Sanvar Gilbain said with a chuckle. “No, little Brionne. We’ve seen enough. I doubt you have the power to survive another attack. You are dismissed. Run along back to your chamber, or to the training yard to gawk at the Ageon candidates, or wherever it is that you go.”
“Yes, Sanvar,” Aelys said. Her head pounded, and nausea rose up inside her throat, so she was grateful to be dismissed, even in such a backhanded, insulting manner.
She turned on shaking legs and walked to the exit at the back of the large classroom, doing her best to ignore the whispers that followed in her wake. Final exams were always performed in front of an audience of more junior students. Aelys had seen several herself . . . and listened to the commentary that resulted.
“She’ll be back next term. Didn’t you hear how the Sanvar spoke to her? He wouldn’t speak so to a mage ready to graduate.”
“Well, just look at her! She’s sweating worse than a first-year Ageon candidate learning advanced sword forms.”
“Poor thing, everyone says she’s nearly powerless. It seems cruel to let her continue here, but I suppose the Brionne heiress must be trained—”
Aelys hit the heavy oaken door with both hands and forced her shaking arms and legs to push through before she heard anything else.
I don’t know which is worse, she thought as the door swung mercifully shut behind her, leaving her in the cool silence of the stone corridor. The scathing disdain or the ostentatious pity. Mother of Magic, please let my scores be good enough to graduate. I don’t know how I’ll face them if I must remain here for another year!
“Student Aelys, is there a reason you’re loitering outside the examination room?”
Aelys jumped, sucking in a quick breath of surprise. She lifted her gaze to meet that of her herbalism teacher before ducking her head in the appropriate show of respect.
“Apologies, Sanva Erisa. I just finished and I—”
“Needed to catch your breath?” The Sanva’s words and tone sounded kind, but Aelys knew that Erisa had no patience with the lazy, or the weak, or those who gave less than their best effort, or . . .
“No, Sanva,” Aelys said, attempting to marshal her resources and focus. “I-I mean yes, Sanva. I—”
“Well, which is it, child?” Sanva Erisa asked, irritation flashing into her eyes as her aristocratically arched eyebrows rose in impatient inquiry.
“I was just . . . deciding where to go now, Sanva. That was my last examination.”
“I see. Well, whatever you decide, I can think of nothing less useful than standing here blocking the hallway. Aren’t you enamored of that one Ageon candidate? Go cheer him on or something. They’re doing their evaluation exercises in the training yard. But do get out of my way.”
“Yes, Sanva,” Aelys said, stepping quickly to the side to let Sanva Erisa by. With a roll of her eyes, the Sanva swept past and into Sanvar Gilbain’s classroom.
Once more, Aelys let out a shaky breath.
Sanva Erisa is right, she told herself. I should go see Halik and encourage him. He has been so patient while I’ve been caught up in my studies. How selfish of me not to consider that he is facing his graduation examinations too! Stupid Aelys, to abuse the love of such a man in that way!
With these self-recriminations ringing in her ears, Aelys finally started moving. She told herself that what was done was done, and tried to put the question of her exam performance behind her as she made her way through the Lyceum’s twisting corridors and myriad courtyards to the rear of the complex.
The Ageon training yard was a vast bailey surrounded by the outermost wall of the school. Aelys could see the multicolored energetic wards lining the battlements shimmer in the afternoon sunlight as she descended the narrow stone staircase to the first gallery above the training yard.
When it was first founded, the Lyceum Belli existed to train mages to serve alongside the imperial legions. That was the origin of the “Bellator” title used by Lyceum-trained mages. Bellator—or the feminine Bellatrix—literally meant “warrior” in Bellene, an ancient, magical language. In modern times, the Lyceum was, first and foremost, a place of learning and study, but like many ancient imperial institutions, its history hadn’t always been peaceful. And to this day, the Lyceum maintained close ties with the Imperial Battlemage Corps, a fact upon which Aelys had pinned most of her hopes for the future.
“Well, look who it is: Aelys of Brionne!”
Aelys looked up from watching her steps—a habit learned from a painful and embarrassing tumble her first year—and caught sight of one of her fellow senior students.
“Tasri.” Aelys kept her voice even despite the dread that soaked through her system. Like Aelys, Tasri was the daughter of a powerful noble family, the Courlyns. Unlike Aelys, Tasri appeared to have no problem drawing upon copious magical energies. From their first year together, Tasri had always excelled where Aelys had faltered. This, along with the fact that their families were often trade and political rivals, fostered a mutual antipathy that only grew as the years passed. The fact that Aelys’s best friend and roommate, Myara, was one of the few who consistently outperformed Tasri only made matters worse. Aelys couldn’t imagine a person she was less inclined to speak to than Tasri Courlyn.
Except maybe her own mother. But that had nothing to do with anything.
“I heard you flubbed your final exam and let Sanvar Gilbain burn your eyebrows off.”
“You heard incorrectly,” Aelys said coolly. “As you can plainly see, my eyebrows are quite intact. How did you fare?”
Tasri tossed her glossy waves of black hair back over her shoulder. “Sanvar Gilbain has never given me any problems,” she said, smirking. “I find his attacks to be rather pedestrian. I look forward to learning to defend against more sophisticated measures once I am inducted into the Imperial Battlemage Corps.”
“I’m certain you do.” Aelys tamped down hard on the instinctive longing that whipped through her. During her first year, she’d gone through a period of trying to win Tasri over and make her into a friend. One night, she’d confessed to the other girl that her dearest wish was not to take her mother’s seat as Head of Brionne House, but rather to follow in her famous aunt’s footsteps and serve the empire in the Imperial Battlemage Corps. Tasri had laughed at her and called her a fool. For even at that tender age, it had been readily apparent that Aelys had nowhere near the same access to power as her Aunt Aerivinne, nor even Tasri herself.
But from that day forward, Tasri had used this knowledge to ruthlessly bully Aelys, and to persuade their other classmates to do the same. Only Myara stood strong against Tasri’s badgering and remained Aelys’s stalwart friend.
“I suppose you’re looking for your paramour.” Tasri’s sneering tone insinuated that there was something wrong with having a relationship with an Ageon candidate, despite the fact that the Lyceum eagerly encouraged such liaisons as the basis for the bond between mage and Ageon.
“I am,” Aelys said. “Have you seen him?”
“Oh, assuredly,” Tasri said, her smile widening. “You’ve just missed him, I’m afraid. He was here, and looking around for you, but since you took so long with your examination, he ended up leaving with that little friend of yours. I’m sure you can catch them if you run along.”
Aelys snorted softly. “Oh, that’s lovely. Myara is such a good friend to us both. I will catch up with them later. Thank you, Tasri. You’ve been so helpful.”
With that jab, Aelys turned her back on her rival and started back up the stairs. Behind her, she heard Tasri’s annoyed huff that her barbs about Halik and Myara hadn’t seemed to land.
That made Aelys smile, despite her ongoing anxiety about her exams.
* * *
Several hours later, Aelys took a deep breath and pushed her continuing fears away once more. Worrying about the exams won’t change the outcome. They’re done. For good or ill, they’re done. Your future is decided, one way or another. Best focus on what you can do now.
With that self-admonishment foremost in her thoughts, Aelys turned to cast one more look over the bare stone walls and wooden shelves of her room. For the last ten years, this tiny, semicircular chamber had been her home. The narrow bed, now stripped of linens and with her warm quilt packed away, had soaked up gallons of her tears. The shelves had once held the books and scrolls she obsessively pored over, hoping to make up for her lack of power by gaining a deep understanding of magical lore. Every obstacle, every failure of her power and nerve, every disingenuous comment by her peers had sent her here, to the sanctuary of this tower room, where she could weep over the unfairness of being a Brionne heiress with barely enough power to call magelight.
“Aelys! Dear heart, are you in here?”
Aelys schooled her face into a smile and looked up as her best friend burst through the door to their shared chamber. Myara was always lovely, with her soulful brown eyes and wild cascade of auburn curls, but today a flush of excitement stained her cheeks and lit her up from the inside. She always looked so vivid compared to Aelys with her white-blonde hair and blue eyes.
Despite the nervous nausea writhing in her stomach, Aelys felt her smile deepen as Myara caught her up in a spontaneous, laughing hug.
“There you are!” Myara said as she kissed Aelys’s cheek and let go. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you! They’ve posted the final examination scores, Aelys! You graduated! You’re a Bellatrix!”
Aelys’s knees buckled, and she sank down to sit upon the bare mattress that had been her bed. She clasped her hands tightly together and let her eyes unfocus as she tried to take in this information.
“I graduated?”
Myara laughed again. “Well, of course you did, silly! I told you not to worry! The Sanvari weren’t going to let a daughter of Brionne fail!”
Aelys’s eyes locked onto Myara’s face. “You think they fixed the exams?” she asked, icy dread joining the roil of nerves in her stomach.
Myara blinked in confusion, before realization dawned, and her eyes went wide.
“Oh, Mother of Magic, no! That’s not what I meant at all! Oh, my stupid mouth! No, darling, the practicals were just as demanding as always. I’m going to have nightmares about trying to shield against Sanvar Gilbain’s attacks! And you withstood him longer than two-thirds of our class. Plus, your herbalism and antidote scores have always been top notch, and you know your presentation on the theory and history of magic was well received. Your extra tutoring and additional work are paying off, my love, that’s all!”
Once more, Aelys found herself caught up in Myara’s embrace, inhaling the light floral scent of her friend’s soap.
“I never could have done it without you,” Aelys whispered, as tears prickled the backs of her eyes. “Your love and support—and Halik’s—those have been the only things that have kept me going some days.”
“Oh, dear heart!” Myara’s arms tightened around her once more, and then she sniffled. Aelys echoed the sound, and then both girls laughed as they separated and moved to their individual bunks.
“So, what will you do now that you’re a graduated Bellatrix?” Myara asked. “Go home and finally tell your mother what a worthless human being she is and force her to cede the leadership of Brionne to you?”
Aelys let out a shaky laugh. “Well, perhaps during our first period of leave from the Battlemage Corps,” she said. “Although, I can hardly take over leadership of the house if I’m serving the interests of the empire.”
Myara turned from her bed where she’d been removing quilts and blankets prior to packing her own bags. “You . . . you mean you still intend to stand for selection?”
“I—well. Yes, I thought that if I graduated, I would. Of course I would! It’s been my dream since I was a little girl to bond with an Ageon and serve the empire. I can’t do that without wearing an Ageon’s bracelet.”
“I know, it’s just . . . some of the things you’ve said lately, I thought maybe you’d changed your mind.”
Aelys laughed again and bent to fasten the ties on the knapsack that held the last of her belongings. “Oh, that was just my insecurity talking, you know how I get! Besides, it’s Halik’s dream, too! How could he ever forgive me if I cost him his one chance to move past his illegitimate birth and show his worth to his mother’s family and the whole world?”
“Halik . . . yes, I guess you’re right,” Myara said slowly. “He does have ambitions. But do you think you could protect him properly? I don’t mean to be cruel, Aelys, but you’ve said yourself that you have such a hard time pulling any real quantity of power. And because of that, you lack serious practical experience. How are you going to control the kinds of energies that Battlemages wield? You know as well as I do that if your concentration slips even the tiniest bit, it can trigger enough backlash to kill you, and anyone connected to you . . . and you can barely summon magelight! Besides, what if he’s wounded? How will you heal him? How are you going to add to his strength if you have no power to give?”
“I—” Aelys bit her lip, her hands going still. She pressed her lips together and blinked rapidly as more tears threatened to fill her eyes. “But I love him,” she whispered. “And I know he loves me. Once we’re bonded, I know I’ll be able to get stronger—”
“Dear heart, not this again! Bellators pulling power through their Ageons is just a legend!”
“It’s not! It’s well documented in the histories—”
“Right. Ancient histories, from hundreds of years ago. And even then, only the most powerful mages could do it. Your aunt, Sanva Aerivinne, says there’s no conclusive data on the topic, and she’s the most powerful mage anyone’s seen in generations!”
Aelys’s face crumpled, and her shoulders hunched inward in the familiar posture of defeat and self-loathing. She lost the battle against her tears, and her vision blurred away under the flood.
“Oh, Mother of Magic,” Myara said, her voice instantly contrite. Once again, Aelys felt her beautiful friend’s arms come hard around her shoulders. “Aelys, my love, I’m so sorry. Forgive me, I didn’t mean to hurt you! Today is a day for joy! You’re a graduated Bellatrix! I’m so sorry.”
“No,” Aelys said, sniffling loudly once again. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t dissolve into tears at the littlest thing. What you’ve said are only facts, after all.”
Myara let go and sat beside Aelys on the bed, keeping one hand rubbing gentle, soothing circles between Aelys’s shoulder blades. “I wasn’t trying to be cruel,” Myara murmured softly.
“I know. It’s just . . . I can’t not try.”
“Well,” Myara said, standing slowly and turning back to her packing. “Things will work out as they’re meant to work out. And today is a day for joy, so let’s focus on that! I got word from my family. They’re arriving in the morning, before the selection ceremony. They send their congratulations and hope that they’ll get a chance to see you tomorrow.”
“Oh, that’s lovely!” Aelys said, sniffling loudly again and using the hem of her sleeve to wipe her eyes. “I should get a chance after the selections. My family isn’t coming, of course, so I should have plenty of time tomorrow evening.”
“They’re not coming?” Myara’s brows pinched together in a frown. “To your graduation? That seems low . . . even for your mother.”
Aelys shrugged and ignored the sharp pang of loneliness with the ease of long practice. “Aunt Aerivinne sent me a message. Apparently, House Monterle is proving troublesome again. There have been attacks on some of our trade caravans. They’re denying any involvement, of course, but they’ve been staunchly arrayed against House Brionne since I was a little girl.”
“Since your father died,” Myara filled in. “Wasn’t he a son of Monterle?”
Aelys nodded. “Yes, my grandmother chose him for her heiress, my mother. But then he died, and his death caused a rift between our families . . . but you know all that already.” She smiled at her friend, who shrugged and gave her a half smile back.
“I’m sorry,” Myara said. “I can’t help it. High house politics are so fascinating. It’s like something you read about in the histories . . . which makes sense, I suppose, since that’s exactly what it is.”
“Well, the histories will all say the same thing we’ve always said. My father’s death was a tragic accident, and the Monterle reaction only compounded the tragedy. But to this day, they maintain enmity with my house, for all the good it’s done them. Their fortunes have never recovered from losing us as a trading partner. My mother has seen to that.”
Myara snorted indelicately. “You mean your aunt has seen to it. We both know that Lady Lysaera of Brionne is too self-absorbed to act for the welfare of her house. So long as she’s got the luxuries and the men she wants, why should she care about anything else?”
“Careful, Myara!” Aelys said, letting out a nervous giggle and glancing toward the chamber’s heavy oak door. “You shouldn’t say things like that out loud. Someone might hear you! My mother is still a powerful and prideful woman, and she wouldn’t stand for being insulted.”
“Eh, I’m nothing but a baby Bellatrix from a minor house, she’d never even notice me.”
“No, but my aunt might, and she wouldn’t stand for it either.”
“Sanva Aerivinne is just as contemptuous of your mother as I am, but you’re probably right. I just hate Lady Lysaera for how she treats you. You deserve so much better. Is Sanva Aerivinne coming? I wish she had been your mother.”
So do I, Aelys thought. Rather than voicing it out loud, however, she focused on Myara’s question.
“No, she sent her regrets.” Aelys shrugged, though she could feel her smile going sad. “She’s at the imperial court and can’t get away. Delicate negotiations, she said. She would be here if she could.”
“Oh, too bad. I know you’ve always been close to her . . . and to Corsin, you lucky girl.” Myara winked at her and grinned conspiratorially. “I swear, I’d give quite a lot to have that man in my bed for just a single night!”
“Myara!” Aelys gasped, her face flushing red. “He’s my aunt’s Ageon! You can’t . . . besides, he would never. He’s absolutely devoted to my aunt, and an Ageon bond is as binding as a marriage, which you well know!”
“Hmmph. I know that if I were your aunt, I’d take care to give my Ageon the attention and affection he’s due! She wasn’t even here last season when he won the master class in the Midsummer Tournament!”
“That’s because she was advising the Empress Regent! She’s on the regency council, Myara, she can’t just up and leave because her Ageon is competing in a tournament!”
“Not even when that tournament is one of the most prestigious and long-standing traditions of the very Lyceum where your aunt is a leading instructor?”
“Myara—”
Myara tilted her head back and laughed. “I’m teasing you, Aelys! Goodness, you should see your face! Everyone knows what an honor it is to have one of our own Sanvari on the regency council, and we all look up to your aunt. Her healing prowess, her knowledge of magical theory . . . I’m just sorry her duties keep her away from your special day.”
“It’s all right,” Aelys said. She took a deep breath and willed her shoulders to drop down and away from her ears. “She sent her love. I’ll see her soon enough, I expect. Besides, you said your family is coming tomorrow, and I’m very excited to see them again. It seems an age since we were all together for Midwinter at your mother’s estate!”
* * *
The graduation ceremony was everything Aelys had dreamed it would be. The entire Lyceum had gathered outdoors in the amphitheater, early enough that the spring dew still slicked the stone seats, and the morning fog hadn’t quite burned all the way off. One by one, Bellator Toris had called each of the graduates down to the central stage, where he’d presented them with the dark blue sapphire in the Lyceum’s distinctive steel setting.
“Bellatrix Aelys,” he’d said when it was her turn. The assembled crowd had applauded.
Afterward, in the echoingly empty space of her room, Aelys relived the moment and let her fingers drift upward to trace the facets of the stone that now sat at the hollow of her throat.
“Graduation day,” she whispered. “I made it! We made it!” She added this last as her gaze fell upon a folded note lying atop the knapsack she’d left next to her stripped bed.
The note was new, though. It bore her name, in Myara’s graceful script. Myara herself had gone to wait for her family, but she must have placed the note after Aelys left in the morning.
How very thoughtful, and just like her to leave a quiet note of congratulations so I would know she hadn’t forgotten me, Aelys thought. Gratitude and love soaked through Aelys as she picked up the note and brought it to her lips.
Because, of course, she could never have made it to graduation alone. She and Myara had spent countless night crying on each other’s shoulders about the difficult tasks they had been set, about the seeming unfairness and caprice of the instructional staff, and about the strain of being away from everyone and everything they’d ever loved. Together, they’d watched as the Ageon candidates enrolled beside them fought through their own trials and lessons of combat and warfare. They’d talked for hours about the various candidates, and about the varying levels of prowess that they’d each shown . . . but especially about Halik, and the prowess he’d always shown.
Myara had been there when Halik first noticed Aelys. She’d been there as friendship and banter had bloomed into more. She’d been a sister to them both, an integral part of their relationship. Her calm, clear counsel had helped Aelys to get over her too-sensitive nature and see Halik’s jocular teasing for the playful flirting it was. She’d encouraged Aelys to use her research skills to help Halik in the academic lessons he hated. In a very real way, Myara’s loving advice had laid the foundation for the love that had grown between Aelys and Halik.
Now, all that remained was the binding ceremony. Once she and Halik were bound, they could officially be inducted into the Battlemage Corps: she as Bellatrix, he as her Ageon and protector. Her sword and shield. The warrior who would guard her life amidst the chaos and fog of battle.
Aelys’s lips curved in a more genuine, heartfelt smile as she pictured Halik’s dark, long-lashed eyes and his wide, full-lipped grin. She imagined him kneeling before her, looking up at her with a smile gone soft as he said her name and publicly declared his choice to dedicate his life to protecting hers. Never again would she have to wonder if she was good enough, powerful enough to deserve his love. Never again would she have to fear that his casual conversations with her friends and peers meant anything more sinister. He would be fully hers.
As she was his, body and heart. She laughed a little and shook her head as she turned to pull her new cloak off the hook behind her door. She wrapped herself up in its blue-embroidered black folds as she remembered the awestruck, awkward teenager she’d been when she’d first met Halik.
He was a few years older than she, and had been at the Lyceum as a candidate for longer as a result. Although, when they’d first met, he’d struggled to retain the information in some of his history and social-dynamics classes, he’d always cut quite a figure on the practice grounds. He’d been so dashing, with his well-developed musculature and deadly fighting skill. And he’d dazzled her with his biting wit and hearty laugh.
Without him and Myara, I would have been fully alone here, Aelys reflected. None of the other Ageon candidates ever looked at me twice, and none of the mage students had time for me.
Speaking of Myara . . . Aelys jumped a little as she realized she still held her friend’s note, unread, in her hand. Trust me to get distracted dreaming about Halik! Stupid girl, best focus on today of all days!
She turned the note over and broke the wax seal.
A chime sounded overhead, and Aelys jumped at the reminder of the time. She let out a small “eep” and tucked the note into her pocket. I’ll read it after, I’m sure she’s just telling me how proud she is of me. I should send her something as well, she thought as her fingers flew over the ornate, stylized cloak fastenings that bore the insignia of a graduated Bellatrix. Aelys glanced over her shoulder one last time at her old room before opening the heavy oaken door.
Another chime.
With anticipation and joy bubbling in her veins, Aelys pulled her hood up to shield her face and stepped out into the hallway toward the rest of her life.
* * *
The booming of the defenders’ counter siege engines reverberated in Romik’s chest, bringing deep memories roaring up behind his eyes.
Blinding sunlight streaming in through the grate above, casting burning bars on the sand-covered lift. The stench of fear, sweat, and urine. The creaking rattle as the lift began to rise and the grate retracted. The light growing brighter and brighter until it engulfed everything. The roaring of thousands of voices howling for blood.
“Blood on the sand,” Romik whispered, blinking away the memory and focusing on the here and now. “His or yours. You decide.”
“What’s that, Lieutenant?”
Romik looked over at his sergeant and shook his head, careful to keep below the level of the berm currently shielding them from the defenders’ arrows.
“Nothing, Sergeant,” he said. “Just an old saying.”
“From the arena?”
Romik’s eyes snapped back to the sergeant’s face. But he couldn’t see any sign of scorn or disdain there. Just curiosity and something like . . . respect?
He shook his head again. “Never mind. Pass the word. As soon as the sun is halfway below the horizon, the sappers will blow a breach in the wall. When they do, we go. Just as we briefed.”
“The men are ready, Lieutenant. They’ll follow you into hell itself.”
“They’re about to.” Romik listened for the telltale rattling of the arrows to slacken and turned to squint at the setting sun behind him. They’d have the advantage of the sun at their backs, which would hopefully blind some of those bastard archers lining the walls of the outpost ahead. Between that and the explosion that the company’s sappers had rigged, he hoped it would be enough that at least a few of his men would make it out alive.
Although I’m sure the commander would prefer if I didn’t, Romik thought dryly as he peeked up over the berm again, judging the slope he was about to have to charge. He pushed it aside in favor of another, older voice that lived forever in his memory: There’s always going to be blood on the sand, boy. Will it be his, or will it be yours? You decide.
Romik glanced over his shoulder at the sunset again, and the world detonated.
The concussive shockwave rolled over him, bringing heat and sound like a hammer. It stole his breath. A high, insistent ringing roared to life in his ears, loud enough that he couldn’t hear the pattering of the rock and wood bits that pelted his sheltering arms and back as he buried his face in the berm. He sucked in a deep breath, waited until the stinging rain of debris slackened, and then pushed himself up to his feet with his own roar:
“On your feet, Raiders! CHARGE!”
He gripped the haft of his long-bladed spear and lurched forward and up the slope. His foot caught on the sharp corner of a skull-sized rock that had been flung to the top of his sheltering berm. Beside him, the sergeant kept up a steady stream of bellowed encouragement that just barely managed to penetrate the ringing throbbing through his skull. All around and behind him, Romik’s men leapt to their feet, gripping their own knives and spears. They followed his awkward, shambling run into the smoke and debris that had once been a fortified wall.
A skinny figure loomed up ahead of him in the smoke. Romik veered to the side and lunged, driving his spear into the figure’s center mass. The figure stumbled toward him, and Romik felt the blade catch on something hard as he pulled to withdraw it. Another figure appeared through the smoke, bellowing as he swung a spear. Romik ducked, and his sergeant drove the wide, flat blade of his spear into the second man’s face.
Romik grunted and twisted his wrist, trying to disengage the writhing body of the wounded man from his spear blade. He was only partially successful, but the man’s own weight helped, and he slumped to the ground, yanking the spear’s haft out of Romik’s hands as blood welled from his gaping mouth. A sharp snap echoed through the cacophony of combat as Romik’s spear haft hit exactly wrong on a protruding stone and broke in half.
Romik sucked in a deep breath, drew his short sword and his long dagger, and started forward again, following his still-charging men toward the smoking gap in the fort’s wall. A few steps ahead of him, his sergeant ran beside two other spearmen, driving forward into the ragged line of defenders scrambling to cover the sudden breach. The ringing in Romik’s ears eased enough to allow him to hear the defenders’ frantic shouts and the sounds of metal clashing on metal. Screams rose through the smoke, and the stench of blood and shit joined the taint of scorched wood and stone on the air.
As always, time moved weirdly in combat. Romik had no idea how long he spent fighting. The world narrowed down to his immediate vicinity: the desperate, emaciated enemies in front of him, the treacherous mud churned up by the boots of his own soldiers, the feeling of his sergeant’s presence close against his left side, covering his flank. Romik followed his men as they pressed hard forward, fighting their way to the breach and through it, until Romik found himself scrambling up over a pile of tumbled stones and jumping down the other side. A defender crouched there, eyes wide and panicked. Romik leveled his sword at the man’s exposed throat.
“Yield?” he asked. Or thought he asked. He tried, anyway, but rage suddenly darkened the defender’s hollow face and he lunged, stabbing his spear up toward Romik’s eyes. Romik parried with his sword, stepping up close and under the defender’s guard to bury his knife in the back of the man’s armpit. The defender yelped, and turned, but Romik struck again, withdrawing his knife and stabbing up quickly under the man’s chin.
Hot, salty blood fountained into Romik’s eyes and open mouth. He grimaced, spat, and swiped the back of his arm across his face as he turned, leaving the corpse to bleed out behind him as he continued this mad thrust into the heart of the enemy’s fortified position.
The screaming around him had changed, he realized. The crazed bellows of his charging men had given way to the cries of the wounded and the shouted surrender of isolated men.
“Lieutenant.”
Romik spun to the side, his blades at the ready, only to come face to face with his sergeant. The man’s face was nearly as bloody as his own must be, but his lips stretched wide in a fierce, savage grin.
“We’ve done it, sir. We’ve taken the fort.”
“We have? Already?”
“Aye, sir, your charge inspired the men and the enemy had even fewer defenders than we thought. Seems this was all they had left. Most of their company fled a few days ago, leaving a green sergeant in charge. He’s over here, ready to offer his surrender.”
“I’ll take it,” Romik said, scrubbing his face with the back of his hand again. “Have the men gather up the prisoners and get their parole. Send a runner back to camp with the news.”
“Yes, sir,” the sergeant said. “Follow me.”
Romik nodded, and then looked around to try and get his bearings. The smoke had begun to clear, and he stood just inside the broken wing of the fort’s outer wall. Behind him and to the right, the crumpled form of his last opponent slumped against the rubble pile they’d fought over. Romik blew out a breath, bent to wipe his blades clean on a corner of the dead man’s tunic, and then sheathed them.
“Sir?”
“Coming, Sergeant.”
The garrison’s commander was, as the sergeant had described, very green. He couldn’t have been more than a pair of decades old, and his sunken, glassy eyes, hollow cheeks, and shaking hands betrayed his complete unreadiness for the command that had fallen to him. He lurched to his feet as Romik approached.
“Sir, I s-surrender—” he stammered, holding out a dented, battered sheath that encased a plain-hilted short sword.
“I accept,” Romik said, taking the sword from the youth’s shaking hands. “We’ll have a verbal parole from each of your men who can speak. Our company’s healers will be along shortly to have a look at your wounded. It would be helpful if you could assist with organizing your men and having the most dire cases ready to be seen first.”
“Y-yes, sir.”
“First time being captured?” Romik asked, raising his eyebrows.
“First time for anything, sir.”
Your company officers should be hanged for leaving you in this situation. Romik didn’t voice the thought. Instead, he untied the thong on his waterskin and held it out to the young man.
“You’re doing fine, kid,” Romik said softly. “You did the right thing. Our company commander is a fair man. He’ll contact your employer and get your ransom, and you’ll all be back in your garrison by the next new moon.”
“R-really, sir?”
Romik nodded. “So have courage and go take care of your men. They need your leadership now to reassure them that it’s going to be all right.”
The kid nodded, then lifted the waterskin to his lips and drank greedily.
“Sir, the commander has arrived.”
Romik nodded acknowledgment to his sergeant and turned back to his young prisoner. He opened his mouth to try and say something else encouraging. At that moment, though, one of the nearby wounded defenders let out a loud, moaning sob. As Romik watched, his prisoner’s eyes firmed, and his trembling stilled. He handed the waterskin back to Romik with a nod and turned to go to his man, his steps steady and assured.
Romik allowed himself a tiny smile and nodded in return. Then he turned to follow his sergeant back over the scattered rubble of the battlefield.
“Lieutenant!”
Romik squinted into the last rays of sun, and then brought his closed fist to the center of his breastplate as a tall, muscular figure stepped forward out of the sunset’s silhouetting blaze.
“Sir,” Romik said.
“Well done, Lieutenant!” His commander’s voice, bluff and hearty, seemed out of place on the devastation of the battlefield. “We’ve been trying to break this siege for weeks! How many enemy officers have surrendered?”
“None, sir.”
“What?”
“They ran. Left a green sergeant in charge. He’s over there with the wounded. They don’t have many—they don’t have many men at all, but I promised him our healer would—”
“Yes, yes. Of course,” the commander said. “Did they take the gold with them when they ran?”
“I don’t know, sir. We’ve only just accepted the surrender—”
“Red Lady’s tits, man! That was the whole point! Where is that sergeant?” The commander stepped forward, as if he’d brush Romik aside and charge up to the young prisoner. Before he could really even realize what he was doing, Romik stopped him with a hand on his chest.
“No, sir,” he said. “He’s busy seeing to his men.”
“Lieutenant, you’ve got some kinda balls on you to—”
“You’re not the first to say that.” Romik didn’t raise his voice, but he met the commander’s eyes with his own battle-worn gaze and held them. Eventually, the commander looked away.
“I’ll have one of my men make a search, but I think it’s likely that the enemy’s officers took whatever they could steal, sir. Look at the men they left behind. They’re skin and bones. I don’t think they had much left in the way of supplies.”
“Can’t eat gold,” the commander said, his voice edged and ugly.
“Fair point, sir.” Romik said. “I’ll have my men make a search. Would you like to accompany them?”
“I’ll be back at the camp, Lieutenant. Find my gold, and then you and I are going to have a chat.” With a sneer, the commander turned his back without acknowledging Romik’s fist-to-chest salute and stomped away.
“That was a risky move, sir,” his sergeant said lowly, just behind his shoulder.
“Not really,” Romik said. “He’s a fair commander, but he’s hated me for years. It’s hard to make that worse. We joined the company together. He advanced. I didn’t. That’s why I’m leading charges against prepared positions and he’s strolling around looking for gold to loot.”
“You think he’s trying to get you killed, sir?”
“I’m sure of it. That’s why this is my last contract with the Raiders.” Romik turned and met the sergeant’s eyes. This was the first he’d mentioned to anyone of his plans. This was the first he’d admitted the plans to himself.
The sergeant, unflappable as ever, nodded. “Well, sir. The boys will miss you. You’re a fine officer, and something of a good luck charm to most of ’em. ‘Our Demon,’ they call you.”
Romik snorted. “That was a long time ago.”
“Not so long they don’t remember, sir. You were famous.”
“And now I’m not. C’mon, Sergeant. Let’s go search for the gold we’re not going to find.”
True to his predictions, over the next four hours, they found nothing in the storerooms and magazines of the fort but weaverwebs and dust. Even the rat droppings were partially fossilized, making Romik wonder how long the defenders had been without food. Long enough to put a dent in the rat population, at least.
Not that it was his problem anymore. He made sure his horse and gear were packed and ready to go, and then reported to the commander’s tent to give his report and his resignation simultaneously. The commander, already drunk on the sweet wines he preferred and always carried on campaign, didn’t seem to understand, but that, too, was not Romik’s problem. The man continued to shout confused insults as Romik walked out of the tent, letting the flap fall behind him.
He pulled himself up into his saddle with a sigh and reached into his saddlebag for the folded note he’d received just before they left for this campaign. Once more, his eyes roamed over the text. Once more, he wondered what it meant. Once more, he squashed the treacherous demon of hope that threatened to rise in his chest.
Romik. I have a proposition for you. Something that could be good for all three of us. Meet me and Daen at the inn just north of Cievers on the forest road on the eve of the summer solstice. I’ll make it worth your while. Vil.
Romik folded the note and stuffed it back into his saddlebag, and then kicked his horse into motion. The note could have been a fake, of course, but he didn’t think so. It had showed up wrapped around the hilt of his short sword one morning. Anyone from the company could have put it there, but no one knew the names of his two boyhood best friends, nor that “I’ll make it worth your while” was something of an in-joke between them. As boys, Vil had often used that phrase to talk Romik and their other friend, Daen, into all kinds of adventures . . . including the one that had ultimately saved their lives and led to their separation.
For just a moment, Romik let his mind drift back to that terrible night. He and Daen and Vil had slipped away in the afternoon to go exploring in the woods they way they often did. Vil had found a cave with a long-abandoned animal’s nest, and they’d spent hours playing bandits and Foresters until the sun sank below the horizon. Finally, they slunk home, aware that they were late and therefore most likely in trouble . . .
They had no idea.
For while they’d been pretending, real bandits had attacked their small village, slaughtering their families and neighbors, setting their homes alight. They smelled the smoke as they drew near and hid while they watched the last of the attackers leave.
Finally, when the Mother had risen halfway to her zenith, the three of them had crept out of their hiding spot, tears wet on their twelve-year-old faces. They went first to their homes, and then to the village sanctuary . . . but all they found were corpses and destruction.
Romik remembered feeling numb as he comforted Daen and directed Vil to go see if any of the food stores had been left unspoilt. Vil came back with a few withered root vegetables and a single egg, and so that was what they took with them back to the cave for the night.
The next morning, they argued.
They were just boys, scared out of their minds. He could hardly blame his younger self, but as a result, they separated in anger.
For many long years—after being found by more bandits and sold to an arena trainer—Romik thought he’d never see his best friends again. Until he’d found the note wrapped around the hilt of his favorite short sword one morning during his last garrison contract—
The rising Daughter chose that moment to break through the canopy of trees ahead, and the path ahead of him shone silver in the growing night. Romik shook himself out of his memory, clicked his tongue at his horse and touched his heels to her flanks to urge more speed while the light was good.
I hope you do make it worth my while, old friend. I hope you can.
* * *
Daen looked up as someone opened his door without knocking and barged on in.
“The Lord Leader wants to talk to you.”
Daen curved his lips in a smile that came nowhere near his green eyes. The intruder, a toad-faced, squat little man by the name of Shevik, came to an abrupt halt, folded his arms, and began tapping his toe impatiently. Daen stayed put and swiped his oil rag along the smooth grain of his longbow.
“Did the Lord Leader say what he wants?” Daen kept his tone mild, mostly because he knew it would irritate Shevik and turn his face red. It was also the professional thing to do, but that really didn’t matter. He knew it, and Shevik knew it. There was only one way this was going to go.
“On your feet, lowborn slug!” Shevik growled. “When the Lord Leader summons you, it’s not your place to question him! Get up.”
Daen let his smile fall away from his face. He stood slowly, unfolding his body to its full height: a head and a half taller than Shevik. He took a quick step forward, and the red-faced toady let out a little “eep” and scuttled backward against the doorframe.
Daen stopped and smiled again.
“I’d watch my mouth if I were you, brother,” he said, emphasizing the honorific. Because, in one sense, it was true. Or should have been. Shevik’s green-and-brown leather jerkin was a twin to Daen’s own—except for being cut a bit more generously through the middle and less so on the shoulders. They’d both been through the years of training in tracking, hunting, foraging, and survival necessary to live completely alone on the land. They’d both taken oaths to serve the empire and protect its natural resources.
They should have been like brothers, but they weren’t. And much as he hated to admit it, Daen knew that they never had been. Shevik, like all of the Foresters he’d met, had been born a younger son of a noble, or at least wealthy, family.
He, Daen, had been born a nobody. And they hated him for it.
Shevik opened his mouth as if he would say something else, but he must have thought better of it, because he settled for smirking at Daen instead. He waved a hand at the door, gesturing for Daen to precede him out.
“Bring it,” Shevik said, when Daen made to set his longbow down in its rack near the door. “The Lord Leader said to bring it with you.”
Daen’s grip tightened on the bow. So this is it then, is it? Well, so be it. I knew it was coming, I just . . .
Shevik’s eyes darted to Daen’s white knuckles, and his smirk deepened. Daen took a deep breath, exhaled through his nose, and forced his hand to relax. Then he turned his back on Shevik and headed out into the narrow stone hallway that bisected the living quarters of the Outpost.
Apparently, Shevik had no intention of being left out of any fun, because he fell into step behind Daen, walking loudly enough that he should have been ashamed of himself. Of course, a heavy tread was but one of Shevik’s failings as a Forester, and Daen had yet to see him bothered by any of them, so he had to conclude that Shevik didn’t know the meaning of shame.
Which, honestly, made sense. Very few of Daen’s so-called “brother” Foresters did.
Once upon a time, the Imperial Foresters had been an elite force of hunters, trackers, and gamesmen dedicated to preserving the empire’s natural resources and protecting imperial citizens from the dangers that lurked deep in the untamed shadows. Daen had grown up listening to stories in which the gallant Forester saved the lost little girl from a nest of hungry goblants, or where the cunning Forester tracked the greedy bandit king to his hideout in the mountains and trapped him in a cave. All his life, all Daen had ever wanted was to be one of those brave, hardy men doing epic deeds under the spreading canopy of the Green Lady’s trees.
As a boy, he’d dreamed, but everyone told him it was impossible.
Then, through soul-rending tragedy, the opportunity dropped in his lap. Bandits destroyed his village. He and his best friends argued and lost each other in the forest . . . but he’d been found by a true hero, the man who finished raising him, sponsored him into the Foresters.
And it turned out, being a Forester in this day and age was nothing like he’d dreamed.
Instead of a dedicated company of stalwart men, Daen found himself the lone commoner surrounded by spoilt, arrogant, noble children. Rather than husbanding the forest’s resources, the senior Foresters exploited them, selling wood and game rights that weren’t theirs to sell. Rather than hunting down the bandits that plagued imperial roads, the Foresters made deals with them, bribing them to keep their own interests safe while allowing them free rein to prey upon the less-fortunate merchants and travelers who couldn’t pay the unsanctioned “tolls.” Worst of all, the bandits would often kick some of their “toll” takings back to the local Foresters, making the organization nothing more than just another enclave of brigands.
Daen knew all these things. Had known them for a while. Once upon a time, he’d tried to change things, but years of being dismissed, denied, and degraded had taken its toll and shattered any illusions he had left.
There’s nothing left to save, he reminded himself as he started down the circular stairs at the end of the hallway. Nothing but yourself, Daen. You knew this was coming. Now see it through and get out as fast as you can. Before one of your ex-“brothers” figures out which end of an arrow to point at you.
The Lord Leader’s office wasn’t far from the bottom of the stairs. Daen approached the heavy oaken door and banged on it twice with his fist.
“Enter!”
He squared his shoulders and pushed the door open, stepping inside with his head held high.
“You wanted to see me, Lord Leader?”
“You needn’t pretend you don’t know why, boy.” The Lord Leader sat behind a massive, intricately carved desk. His smooth white hair and beard did nothing to soften the simmering hatred and censure in his dark eyes.
That hatred and censure crawled up the inside of Daen’s skin, bringing an angry flush to his cheeks. Once upon a time, the Lord Leader’s approval had been the thing he craved most in the world.
He’d never gotten it.
You don’t care, Daen. Remember that. You don’t care about what this old predator and his corrupt cronies think or do. They’re not worth the energy.
It almost helped.
“The raid two weeks ago?” Daen guessed. And truth be told, it was a guess. There were, honestly, half a dozen reasons that the Lord Leader could have called him in here. Some of them might even be legitimate.
“There wasn’t supposed to be a raid,” the Lord Leader growled. He lifted a closed fist and hammered it down onto his desk with a thump. “You were ordered to stand by and await reinforcements!”
“There were only four bandits in the camp, Lord Leader—”
“Orders are orders, boy! That camp was supposed to be a leadership exercise for one of our new brothers—”
“You mean, an easy takedown for some noble whelp who needs to polish his reputation to hide his latest scandal?”
“YOU WILL BE SILENT!” The Lord Leader shot to his feet, knocking into the desk hard enough to make the inkwell on the edge topple and fall. Daen suppressed a smile at the sound of shattering glass and imagined the blue-black stain spreading across the expensive carpet beneath their feet.
The Lord Leader appeared not to notice. He kicked the desk one more time and stalked around it, his face twisted in rage and hatred.
“You will not speak to me! You should never have been allowed into our ranks! If not for the pleading of my dear brother Bormer, you would have been left to the wolves and goblants like the filth that you are!”
Daen suppressed a snarl at the mention of his late foster father. Bormer had saved his life, sponsored him into the Foresters. He’d been a good man, and it rankled to have the Lord Leader claim brotherhood with him . . . even though it was, technically, true.
But still. Bormer would have been the first to tell him to cool his hot head and keep his mouth shut. So Daen pressed his lips together and said nothing.
The Lord Leader strode up to him, coming close enough that Daen couldn’t look away from his vitriol-filled eyes.
“You are a disgrace,” the Lord Leader said, dropping his volume to a low snarl. “You have never belonged here. Your low blood and insubordinate ways have befouled this organization for long enough. Believe me when I tell you, boy, that I am going to take such great pleasure in what I’m going to say next. You. Are. Cast. Out.”
Daen had expected the words. He had not expected the piercing stab of pain at hearing them. Still, he had his pride. So, even though a thousand angry retorts hovered behind his lips, he said nothing. Instead, he gave a single nod and took one stiff, formal step backward before spinning on his heel.
“Wait,” the Lord Leader said, his voice poisonously smooth. Daen froze.
“That is a Forester’s longbow. You are no Forester. Leave it for a more worthy man.”
Daen slowly turned back to face the Lord Leader. The man actually smiled at him, looking as satisfied as a mountain cat in a sun puddle. He held out one thick hand and flexed his fingers in a “give it to me” motion.
Daen hesitated for less than a heartbeat before moving. He lifted the bow, but he didn’t extend it to the Lord Leader. Instead, he braced one end of it on the carpeted floor. In one smooth move, he bent it as if he were about to string it and brought his booted foot down on the center of the curve, just below the where his hand would normally go.
Crack!
The sound reverberated through the stone room, and the victorious smile on the Lord Leader’s face vanished in shock. That bow had been Bormer’s, and it was a masterwork. But Daen would rather the Green Lady’s creatures tore him apart than let one of these corrupt Foresters ever touch it.
“Oh no,” he said, meeting the Lord Leader’s eyes and throwing the now-useless fragments of wood to the floor. “Looks like it’s broken.” Then Daen smiled and ducked as the Lord Leader swung his clenched fist at his head.
He quickly straightened and responded with two fists of his own to the older man’s gut. When the Lord Leader doubled over, coughing, Daen grabbed the back of his head and spun him, slamming his face into the heavy oaken desk. By that time, Shevik had come rushing into the office, his short sword extended.
Daen had been expecting him. He sidestepped Shevik’s rush and swept a foot out to trip his ex-brother into the Lord Leader as he stumbled back from the desk. Blood poured down the Lord Leader’s face, and droplets flew in all directions as he shook his head.
Daen bent and picked up one of the bow fragments, and then bolted for the door. He took a half second to slam it closed behind him and then rammed the jagged remnant of Bormer’s bow into the keyhole, jamming it shut. It wouldn’t hold forever, but it should buy him a little time.
He took off down the hallway and careened through the doors at the far end, ending up in the Outpost’s bustling inner courtyard. Just as he’d planned when he realized this day would come, he made his way to the stables. At this time of day, it should be relatively empty . . .
Thank you, Green Lady, he thought as the warm silence of sleepy horses and an empty stable wrapped around him. Within a few minutes, he’d saddled his favorite roan mare and led her out into the courtyard. From there, he mounted up and headed for the little side gate near the kitchen. He often used that gate when sent on the menial errands that he was usually assigned.
Less than an hour later, the setting sun glinted through the trees at him, and Daen smiled. He’d done it. He’d made it out. It was a day’s ride to the small cave where he’d stashed his second-best bow and his pack with supplies . . . and the letter.
Daen. I’m surprised you haven’t burnt the Outpost to the ground yet, if I’m honest. Ready to leave that creche of mewling children behind and have some real fun? You know the inn on the forest road just north of Cievers? Meet me and Romik there the night before the solstice. We’ll talk plans. I’ll make it worth your while. Vil.
Daen let his smile grow as he nudged his horse off the road to follow a game trail that wound deeper beneath the spreading canopy of trees. He had no question that the letter he’d memorized was genuine. For one thing, he really had been contemplating burning down the Outpost, or something equally drastic, when he’d found the paper stuffed inside his quiver one morning about a month ago. Of all the people in this world, Vil was one of two who knew him well enough to see that. Romik was the other, but the note’s style and tone were all Vil. And then there was the promise to “make it worth his while.” Vil had always used that phrase when they were kids. And once again, he, Romik, and Vil were the only ones who knew that.
So instead of doing something drastic, Daen had gone against his usual method of operation and began to work with subtlety. He visited the old cache spot that Bormer had shown him years ago and cleaned it out. He started stashing trail food in there, a little at a time. He bought sturdy traveling clothes that bore no resemblance to Forester uniforms and regalia, and locked them in a heavy trunk, along with weapons and a small pouch of gold. Then he took the whole thing to the cave and hid it in a corner of the wall under and behind some loose rocks and dirt.
Then he waited, and caused as much trouble as he could.
He’d thought about just leaving, but if he did, he’d have been labeled a deserter, hunted down, and executed. Getting thrown out of the Foresters took longer than he was expecting, but it was worth it to not have his face plastered on wanted posters all over the empire. He’d started to worry that his plan wasn’t going to work, but then he’d been ordered not to attack that bandit camp, and he’d seized the opportunity.
And the Green Lady smiled, he thought as he ducked under a low-hanging branch. Thank You, Lady, for loving fools and foresters. True foresters, not those . . . what did Vil call them? “Mewling children.” I wish I had burnt down the Outpost. Maybe that’s what they need. Kill them all and start again . . . ah. But there I go being a hothead again. I can’t wait to see what Vil has in mind . . .
Up ahead, the rising moon shone through the trees, lighting his way like a benediction. Daen leaned forward and patted the roan mare’s shoulder. Excitement and joy tangled through him, bubbling out through his lips as laughter. Years of simmering anger and disillusionment fell away, and excitement ran like lightning under his skin as he nudged the mare with his heels, urging her to move faster toward this new adventure.
* * *
Vil squinted through the noonday sun as the wagon in which he rode topped a rise in the path and the tavern he’d chosen came into view.
It wasn’t much to look at, truth be told, and the harsh glare of the daylight didn’t do it any favors. It was a long, low-slung building with a sagging roof and cluttered yard, set a few lengths back from the road. Behind it, up the slope of a hill, another long building crouched under the tree line. Judging by the pattern of wheel tracks, that second building functioned as the inn’s stable. Or had functioned at one time, anyway. It stood in serious need of some repair.
Not that any of that was Vil’s problem. He wasn’t buying the inn; he was merely using it as a meeting place. A quiet, discreet meeting place outside of the city of Cievers and those who held influence there.
He’d been waiting a long time to have this meeting. Years, in fact. Ever since he’d first caught a glimpse of his boyhood friend Daen wearing Forester colors and sullenly watching an archery tournament on the outskirts of Cievers. Ever since he’d first heard whispers about an arena champion they called the Demon.
“This your stop, hey?” The wagon driver’s gruff voice held the burr of the northern mountain regions, but his steady hand showed that he knew this more southerly stretch of the imperial highway very well.
“Yes,” Vil answered. The driver grunted in return. He was a man of few words; a trait Vil heartily approved. On this particular trip, Vil actually had nothing to hide, but the habits of a lifetime died hard . . . for good reason.
When one is used to being the premier second-story man in Cievers, one tends to like one’s privacy. Especially because a lack thereof can be deadly.
The ghost of a smile played about Vil’s lips as his mind turned these ridiculous thoughts over in his brain. The truth was those days were behind him. Too many bridges burned.
Don’t look back, Vil reminded himself, fixing his gaze on the dilapidated building as the wagon driver drew the vehicle smoothly to a stop. He hopped down from the seat, grabbed his knapsack from the bed of the wagon, and tossed the driver a silver coin. The driver snatched the coin out of the air, making Vil wonder if he’d ever been trained as a pickpocket.
Not my place to ask. Not anymore.
The driver picked up his reins, shaking them out as Vil slipped his arms into the straps of the knapsack. Vil raised a hand, and the driver grunted something that could have been either thanks or goodbye . . . and was probably both. With a sharp snap, he urged the team back into motion, wheels creaking on the rutted, uneven road.
Vil watched him go, and then turned his attention back to the inn. He checked to be sure his hood was up and shading his face, and then strode quickly up the unkempt grass slope toward the front door.
At this time of day, he wasn’t surprised when the inn’s common room proved mostly empty. A sleepy-eyed, buxom woman idly dragged a semiclean cloth across a table in the far corner. The bright morning sunlight filtered through cracked and sagging shutters and didn’t do much to dispel the gloom inside. A fire smoldered rather sullenly in the hearth.
“Good day,” Vil said as he crossed the floor toward the woman. She blinked, then straightened up, tugging at her strained bodice and smoothing her honey-colored hair.
“Help you, sir?”
“I hope so. I am meeting some friends here today, but I don’t know what time they’ll arrive. I’ll take this back corner table, and food and drink as it’s ready.” He palmed another silver coin and laid it down on the table with a click. The tavern maid’s eyes widened slightly.
“That’s for the use of the table,” Vil said. He laid another coin next to it. “And that’s for you, for ensuring our needs are met and we’re otherwise given privacy to talk.”
“Yes, sir,” the woman breathed, her eyes wide awake now and fixated on the coins. She glanced up at him with an edge of anxiety. Vil gave her a tiny smile and a nod, and she grabbed the coins nearly as quickly as the wagon driver had done.
“Bring a pint of ale and some bread when you can,” Vil said then, hoping she would hear the dismissal in his tone. He slipped his arms out of the straps of his knapsack and concealed it on the floor between the table and the wall. Then he folded his thin frame down to sit in the chair that backed up against the corner and afforded him the best view of the common room—and all its entrances and exits.
* * *
Nerves and anticipation ran along the underside of Aelys’s skin and tangled together in pulsating knots deep in her stomach. She blinked, breathing deeply through her nose as she willed her body to relax.
Chin high, expression pleasant, Aelys! This is a happy occasion . . . a public occasion! Don’t dishonor House Brionne by letting anyone see your weakness today.
She stole a quick glance around at the other six graduates. Ten years ago, they’d entered the Lyceum together as children. Tomorrow, they would depart as Bellators. Tonight, they stood in a half circle on the speaker’s dais at the north end of the Lyceum’s grand hall, looking out on the junior students and Sanvari who lined the central aisle. The students all wore the undyed wool cloak traditional for those enrolled at the Lyceum. It made them easier to see than the Sanvari in their Bellator’s black. Candlelight flickered in sconces along the walls, providing the only light in the cavernous space. It made the hall look like it stretched for leagues, but Aelys knew that was an illusion. She’d scrubbed every finger width of the hall’s stone floors on her knees. Several times.
Soft strains of music floated down from the gallery above and behind her, a dreamy, mystical melody that signaled the beginning of the ceremony. Aelys obediently bowed her head, letting the hood of her brand-new black cloak fall forward to cast her face in shadow. A soft scuff echoed down the length of the hall, signaling the approach of the candidates.
They’ve been here for ten years, too. Some of them longer, Aelys reflected, trying to distract herself from the renewed burst of nerves in her gut. What must it be like, waiting to be called, to feel that pull toward a mage that forms the basis for an Ageon bond?
“Candidates. To your Bellators.”
Aelys recognized Agea Giara’s voice. She’d been one of the weapons masters at the Lyceum for the last seven years. Though she was old enough to have grandchildren, she still carried herself with a warrior’s grace and power . . . and her reputation garnered respect from all who knew her. At her command, the rhythmic thump of booted feet on stone heralded the approach of some number of candidates.
Officially, no one but the senior Ageon—or Agea, in Giara’s case—was supposed to know exactly how many of the graduating Ageon candidates there were. Like the mage students, Ageon candidates had to pass a grueling battery of examinations before they could graduate. But unlike the mage students, Ageons theoretically had one more requirement to fulfill: they had to feel a pull toward a graduating mage.
The bond between Ageon and Bellator is a deep and nuanced one, Aelys recited silently as she recalled one of the texts she’d read often enough to have parts of it memorized. It is both incredibly simple and deeply profound, and cannot be fully described, as each individual pairing experiences it in slightly different ways. Suffice it to say that it begins with the Ageon feeling drawn to a graduating mage in one way or another. Many conflate that drawing with romantic or sexual attraction, but there is more to it than that. It is a mystical, almost compulsive pull toward the mage in question. In every case, Ageons universally report that when the time came to choose, there was never a question or hesitation in their mind as to whom they would choose. Many reported it as being “obvious.”
Aelys risked a glance upward at the short column of warriors marching down the length of the hall toward the half circle of waiting mages.
Practically speaking, the bond provides benefits to both parties in the relationship. Many Ageons report an increase in their strength, martial prowess, and physical constitution which they attribute to the relative power capacity of their mage. And, of course, there are the social advantages to the warrior that come with allying themselves with a scion of one of the noble houses. For while many Ageons themselves come from noble stock, it is not a requirement, and any warrior of suitable prowess may apply as a candidate.
For the mage, the Ageon provides protection and companionship, as well as a cool head unmuddled by some of the more intoxicating effects of certain spells. No one will ever care for a mage as well as his or her bonded Ageon. This protective instinct appears to be a universal feature of the bond and has resulted in tragic mishaps in the past. For example, if a mage is killed and their Ageon survives, they typically do not survive for long.
This is the reason why a bond is always the Ageon’s choice. Anything else is monstrous and immoral in the extreme. The Ageon must always feel the draw and choose their mage.
In the past, it had happened that a mage was left standing, unchosen by any of the graduating candidates. Officially, it carried no shame. The Lyceum and the empire both recognized that an effective Ageon bond required a pull on both sides. An unbonded mage couldn’t serve in battle, but a Lyceum education lent a certain cachet when it came time for one to negotiate a noble marriage alliance . . . as Aelys’s mother had often told her.
But that’s not a problem, because Halik is here. In fact . . . is that . . . ?
Excitement stabbed through Aelys’s chest, sending her heart into a pounding race as she recognized the loose-hipped strut of the warrior approaching down the long, candlelit hall. His bootheels rang off the floor’s pristine stones in half time with her hammering pulse. Her mouth went dry as her mind frantically tried to remember the words of the oath.
He will say he is called to be my sword and shield. He will say he answers and call me by my name and title. In return, I must say—
Halik came to a stop in front of the circle of mages, heels clicking together in perfect military precision. Per the protocol, he drew his sword and placed it, tip down, against the stone floor in front of him before lowering himself to one knee. Aelys risked a glance up, hoping to meet his gaze for just a moment. But as was proper, he showed no expression, none of the wry, sometimes spiky humor she loved. Instead, he kept his eyes locked, staring straight ahead.
“I am called to be your sword and shield—” His voice, deep with just a hint of gravel, rolled through her, just as it had done time and again when they lay together in the small hours of the night. Something low and warm clenched deep in her body at the sound.
“—your defender against all harm. I am called, and I gladly answer.”
Aelys lifted her head a fraction more, desperate to let him see the love and hope and gratitude shining in her eyes.
“Bellatrix Myara. I am yours.”
Myara?
Though it was against protocol, Aelys turned her head enough to see her friend’s bright smile for just an instant before she walked forward, her sleeve brushing Aelys’s as she stepped past. Nausea roiled into being in Aelys’s stomach, and a high, buzzing sound echoed in her ears as she watched her best—and only—friend for the last ten years place her hands atop the crossed hands of the only man Aelys had ever touched.
The only man who ever looked at me twice.
“Ageon Halik, I accept your protection and your call. I am yours.”
The only man who ever noticed me. Pathetic, powerless me.
The great bells overhead rang out, three peals of joy in a new union. Halik’s stoic expression finally broke open into a wide, joy-infused grin that twisted through Aelys’s entire being, leaving acid-soaked wounds behind. He rose smoothly to his feet, moving with that warrior’s liquid grace, and bent to press his lips to Myara’s. Agea Giara placed the silver bonding bracelets around their wrists as their fingers intertwined. A glint of light showed that the bracelets had magically locked into place, never to be removed. Not even in death.
The rest of the ceremony passed in a blur. Aelys had no idea how long she stood there, rigid, shadowed in her hood as one by one, the Ageon candidates stepped forward and called out a name that wasn’t hers. Her feet felt rooted to the stone as she watched her classmates step forward, faces shining with excitement as they accepted the warrior that had chosen them.
Until, finally, no other warrior appeared.
No one else walked down the long hallway.
No one called her name.
Go.
Aelys didn’t know where the thought originated, but that didn’t matter. Despite the protocol, despite the very public setting, she knew one thing to be true. She could not stay there another second. She had to go.
As the bells fell silent and one of the senior instructors stepped forward to address the assembled crowd, Aelys of Brionne turned her back on the entire Lyceum and fled into the safety of the shadows at the back of the hall.
One benefit of scrubbing this floor over and over again. At least I know where the servants’ entrances and hidden exits are!
Aelys recognized the edge of hysteria to her thoughts as she ducked behind a large hanging tapestry and let herself through the narrow door waiting there. She took a deep breath and pulled her hood up higher on her head, shielding her face from any of the Lyceum’s serving staff who might be using this warren of corridors to complete their duties.
What am I doing?
Aelys shoved that thought away and forced herself to move forward with steady, purposeful strides. She’d get back to her room, grab her knapsack, and then make her way down to the stables. There was a Brionne-owned horse there she could use. She’d ride out and go—somewhere. Home, probably.
Mother will be so smug, but I don’t care. She’s easy enough to distract with wine or her latest pretty man. I’m used to her. I just hope— She stifled a sob and turned the corner into a crossing hallway with stairs at the far end.
Aelys snuck a quick glance left and right, and then lifted her skirts and bolted toward the stairs. Her boots slipped on the slick stone of the floor, but she managed to catch herself on the smooth, wooden handrail. She hauled herself upright, unable to stop the next sob from coming, and flung herself headlong up the winding circular staircase.
My room. Let me just get to my room, where no one can see my shame . . .
It seemed an eternity before she hauled the wooden door open far enough to slip past, and then let it fall shut behind her with a soft boom. Another whimpering sob slipped past her lips. She took a step toward her bed, but her knees buckled, sending her crashing to the floor. Agony came pouring out of her, wracking her entire frame as her deep, wrenching cries echoed off the bare stone walls of the room. She curled into herself, hands like claws clutching at her knees, tearing at her new cloak as the rage and betrayal and grief and self-hatred tore at the fabric of her soul. Tremors ripped through her body as her dreams and hopes shattered into worthless crystal shards that threatened to shred her sanity.
Aelys didn’t know how long she lay there sobbing. Long enough that her shoulder and hip felt raw and sore from the unyielding stone of the floor. Eventually, however, the sobs quieted, the shaking stilled, and she found herself with no more tears to cry.
Slowly—for every muscle felt as if she’d been run over by a full baggage wain—Aelys pushed herself up to a seated position. She took one slow, deep breath, and then another. She swiped her fingertips under her eyes, then sniffed and reached down to dig into the pocket of her new cloak for a handkerchief.
Her fingers crinkled against the folded parchment of the note she’d hastily pocketed earlier.
The note from Myara.
Aelys pulled it from her pocket, moving slowly, as if she were underwater. It was almost like she was watching someone else turn the note over in her pale fingers and unfold the nested pages. It was almost as if someone else’s voice read the words of the note into the echoing silence of her mind.
Dearest Aelys,
Before anything else, I want you to know that I am so very proud of you. From our very first day together here at the Lyceum, you have always worked harder than anyone I know. Your dedication is truly an inspiration, and I am so fortunate to have had you as my friend. Without you spurring me on, I do not think I would have accomplished half so much as I have here, and for that I thank you.
What I am about to say will no doubt come as quite a shock, but I know you better than perhaps anyone else and you have always been the kindest and most generous of friends. How often have we said that we love each other as sisters? I know that the love and loyalty you bear me will lead you to rejoice in my joy, even if at first it hurts a little.
For you see, my dear friend, I am in love! The deepest, most passionate love you can imagine. I know this will come as a surprise to you, as I have said nothing up until now. I know you have worried for me, that I would not make a connection with any of our Ageon candidates, but rest assured, my dear friend, there is nothing to worry about on that score.
For I have fallen in love with Halik, and he has fallen in love with me. He is the Ageon who will be my sword and shield, my sworn protector as we go out into the world to serve the empire together, as we have always dreamed.
I know . . . I know you have feelings for him. And believe me, he cares very much for you. We have agonized over how and when to tell you. The last thing we wanted to do was to jeopardize your chances of graduating by distracting you prior to the final evaluations, and so we decided to wait until today. I know you may have thought that perhaps he might choose you, but darling, you know your power limitations better than anyone. And though you did so well to graduate here, I know that you must see that you would never be effective as a part of the Battlemage Corps. Halik saw this too, and neither of us want to see you get hurt.
So today, during the bonding ceremony, he will choose me, and I him. We wanted you to know first. And we want you to know that we both love you so much. We know this must be very difficult for you, but we also know that in time, you will come to understand the difficult choice we’ve both had to make.
Congratulations, my dear friend. You deserve the title you’ve earned. I pray to all the Divines that They may guide you toward a good marriage and a wonderful, fulfilling life of safety and comfort.
With all my love, I remain your dearest friend,
Myara
Aelys watched from a distance behind her own eyes as she let the note fall to the floor. A tiny, dispassionate corner of her mind congratulated her on the steadiness of her hand as she reached back into her pocket for the handkerchief and methodically wiped her eyes and nose with it. She refolded it neatly before laying it beside the discarded note.
Then she pushed herself up to her feet and refused to let the trembling start again as she reached for her packed knapsack. With quick, staccato movements, she slung the bag over her shoulder and settled it under her cloak. Then, for the last time, she reached for the door to her room and let herself out.
Nothing remained in that tiny, cold sanctuary but her folded handkerchief, and the note warning her of an impending broken heart.