Kyralia 01 - [Black Magician 03] - The High Lord

  —When will this invasion be? Akkarin asked suddenly.

  Doubts entered the man’s mind.

  —Don’t know. Others are afraid of the Guild. No slaves return. Neither will I…I don’t want to die!

  Abruptly a small white house appeared, accompanied by a terrible guilt. A plump woman—Tavaka’s mother. A wiry father with leathery skin. A pretty girl with large eyes—his sister. His sister’s body after Harikava came and—

  It took all Sonea’s control to resist fleeing the man’s mind. She had heard and seen the aftermath of some cruel attacks by thugs while she had lived in the slums. Tavaka’s family had died because of him. His parents might produce more gifted offspring. The sister might develop powers, too. The Ichani master did not want to cart the entire group around with him just in case, and he would not leave any potential sources of power around for his enemies to find and use.

  Pity and fear warred within her. Tavaka had lived a dreadful life. Yet she also sensed his ambition. Given the opportunity, he would return to his homeland to become one of these monstrous Ichani.

  —What have you done since entering Imardin? Akkarin asked.

  Memories of a shabby bedroom in a bolhouse followed, then the crowded drinking room. Sitting in a place where he might briefly touch others, and search for magical potential. No sense in wasting time stalking a victim, unless he or she had strong latent magic. If he was careful, he would grow strong enough to defeat Akkarin. Then he would return to Sachaka, help Kariko gather the Ichani, and they would invade Kyralia.

  A man was chosen and followed. A knife, a gift from Harikava, drawn and—

  —Time to leave, Sonea.

  She felt Akkarin’s hand tighten over hers. As he pulled it away from Tavaka’s forehead, the man’s mind slipped immediately from her own. She frowned at Akkarin as suspicions rose.

  “Why did I do that?” He smiled grimly. “You were about to learn what you don’t wish to learn.” He rose and looked down at Tavaka. The man was breathing quickly.

  “Leave us, Sonea.”

  She stared at Akkarin. It was not hard to guess what he intended to do. She wanted to protest, and yet she knew that she would not stop him even if she could. To release Tavaka would be to set loose a killer. He would continue preying on Kyralians. With black magic.

  She forced herself to turn away, open the door and step out of the room. The door swung shut behind her. Morren looked up, and his expression softened. He held out a mug.

  Recognizing the sweet smell of bol, she accepted the mug and took several gulps. A warmth began to spread through her. When she had finished the drink, she handed the mug back to Morren.

  “Better?”

  She nodded.

  The door clicked open behind her. She turned to face Akkarin. They regarded each other in silence. She thought of what he had revealed to her. The Ichani. Their plans to invade Kyralia. That he had been a slave…too elaborate to be a deception. Akkarin could not have arranged this.

  “You have much to think about,” he said softly. “Come. We will return to the Guild.” He stepped past her. “Thank you, Morren. Dispose of him in the usual way.”

  “Yes, my lord. Did you find out anything useful?”

  “Perhaps.” Akkarin glanced back at Sonea. “We shall see.”

  “They’re coming more often now, aren’t they?” Morren asked.

  Sonea caught the slightest hesitation in Akkarin’s reply.

  “Yes, but your employer is also locating them faster. Pass on my thanks, will you?”

  The man nodded and handed Akkarin his lantern. “I will.”

  Akkarin opened the door and stepped through. As he started down the passage, Sonea followed, her mind still reeling from all that she had learned.

  7

  Akkarin’s Story

  The sound of metal striking metal echoed down the passage, followed by a gasp of pain. Cery stopped and looked at Gol in alarm. The big man frowned.

  Cery jerked his head at the doorway ahead. Taking a long, wicked-looking knife from his belt, Gol hurried forward. He reached the door and peered into the room. His frown disappeared.

  He glanced at Cery and grinned. Relieved, and now more curious than concerned, Cery strode forward and looked inside.

  Two figures were frozen in position, one crouched awkwardly with a knife held at his throat. Cery recognized the loser as Krinn, the assassin and skilled fighter he usually hired for more important assignments. Krinn’s eyes flickered toward Cery. His expression changed from surprise to embarrassment.

  “Yield?” Savara asked.

  “Yes,” Krinn replied in a strained voice.

  Savara withdrew the knife and stepped away in one fluid movement. Krinn rose and looked down at her warily. He was at least a head taller than her, Cery noted with amusement.

  “Practicing on my men again, Savara?”

  She smiled slyly. “Only on invitation, Ceryni.”

  He considered her carefully. What if he…? There would be some risk, but there always was. He glanced at Krinn, who was edging toward the door.

  “Go on, Krinn. Close the door behind you.” The assassin hurried away. When the door had shut, Cery stepped toward Savara. “I invite you to try me out.”

  He heard Gol’s indrawn breath.

  Her smile broadened. “I accept.”

  Cery drew a pair of daggers out of his coat. Leather loops had been attached to the handles to prevent them slipping out of his grasp, and to allow him to grab and pull. Her eyebrows rose as he slipped his palms through the loops.

  “Two are hardly ever better than one,” she commented.

  “I know,” Cery replied as he approached her.

  “But you do look like you know what you are doing,” she mused. “I expect that would intimidate the average lout.”

  “Yes, it does.”

  She took a few steps to the left, drawing a little closer. “I’m not the average lout, Ceryni.”

  “No. I can see that.”

  He smiled. If her reason for offering to help him was to gain his trust long enough to get a chance to kill him, he was probably handing her the perfect opportunity. She would die for it, however. Gol would ensure that.

  She darted toward him. He dodged out of reach, then stepped in and aimed for her shoulder. She spun away.

  They continued like this for a few minutes, each testing the reflexes and reach of the other. Then she came closer and he blocked and returned several quick attacks. Neither quite managed to get past the other’s guard. They stepped away from each other, both breathing heavily.

  “What have you done about the slave?” she asked.

  “He’s dead.”

  He watched her face closely. She did not look surprised, only a little annoyed. “He did it?”

  “Of course.”

  “I could have done it for you.”

  He frowned. She sounded so confident. Too confident.

  She darted forward, blade flashing in the lamplight. Cery slapped her arm away with his forearm. A fast and frantic struggle followed, and he grinned with triumph as he managed to lock her right arm out of the way, and slip his knife into her left armpit.

  She froze, also grinning.

  “Yield?” she asked.

  A sharp point pressed into his stomach. Looking down, he saw a different knife in her left hand. The other still held her original knife. He smiled, then pressed his knife a little harder into her armpit.

  “There’s a vein here that goes straight to the heart. If cut, it would bleed so fast you wouldn’t live long enough to decide how to curse me.”

  He was gratified to see her eyes widen in surprise and her grin disappear. “Stalemate, then?”

  They were very close. She smelt wonderful, a mixture of fresh sweat and something spicy. Her eyes sparkled with amusement, but her mouth was a tightly held thin line.

  “Stalemate,” he agreed. He stepped back and to one side so that her blade left his stomach before he removed his from
her armpit. His heart was beating quickly. It was not an unpleasant sensation.

  “You know these slaves are magicians?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “How do you plan to kill them?”

  “I have my own ways.”

  Cery smiled grimly. “If I tell my customer that I don’t need him to do in the murderers, he’s going to ask some rough questions. Like, who’s doing it instead?”

  “If he did not know you found a slave, he would not need to know who did the killing.”

  “But he knows when they’re about. He’s got the guard telling him about the victims. If they stop finding victims, without him killing the murderer, he’s got to wonder why.”

  She shrugged. “That will not matter. They are not sending slaves one by one now. I can kill some of them, and he will not notice.”

  This was news. Bad news. “Who are ‘they’?”

  Her eyebrows rose. “He has not told you?”

  Cery smiled, while silently cursing himself for revealing his ignorance. “Perhaps he has, perhaps he hasn’t,” he replied. “I want to hear what you say.”

  Her expression darkened. “They are the Ichani. Outcasts. The Sachakan King sends those who have earned his disfavor out into the wastes.”

  “Why are they sending their slaves here?”

  “They seek to regain power and status by defeating Sachaka’s old enemy, the Guild.”

  This was also news. He slipped the loops of his knives from his palms. Probably nothing to worry about, he thought. We’re killing off these “slaves” easily enough.

  “Will you let me kill some of these slaves?” she asked.

  “Why do you need to ask? If you can find and kill them, you don’t need to work with me.”

  “Ah, but if I did not, you might mistake me for one of them.”

  He chuckled. “That could be unfort—”

  A knock interrupted him. He looked at Gol expectantly. The big man moved to the door. An even larger man entered, his eyes flitting nervously from Gol to Cery to Savara.

  “Morren.” Cery frowned. The man had sent the usual one-word message late last night to confirm that he had disposed of the murderer’s body. He was not supposed to visit Cery personally unless he had something important to report.

  “Ceryni,” Morren replied. He glanced at Savara again, his expression wary.

  Cery turned to the Sachakan woman. “Thanks for the practice,” he said.

  She nodded. “Thank you, Ceryni. I will let you know when I find the next one. It should not be long.”

  Cery watched her walk out of the room. When the door closed behind her, he turned to Morren.

  “What is it?”

  The big man grimaced. “It may be nothing, but I thought you might want to know. He didn’t kill the murderer straightaway. He tied him up, then left. When he came back, he brought someone with him.”

  “Who?”

  “The girl from the slums who joined the Guild.”

  Cery stared at the man. “Sonea?”

  “Yeah.”

  An unexpected feeling of guilt stole over Cery. He thought of the way Savara had sent his heart racing. How could he let himself admire some strange woman, and one who probably couldn’t be trusted, when he still loved Sonea? But Sonea was beyond his reach. And she had never loved him anyway. Not in the way he had loved her. Why shouldn’t he consider another?

  Then the implications of what Morren was saying sank in, and he began pacing the room. Sonea had been taken to see the murderer. She had been brought into the presence of a dangerous man. Though he knew she had probably been safe enough with Akkarin, he still felt a protective anger. He did not want her involved in this.

  But had she been aware, all along, of the secret battle taking place in the darkest parts of Imardin? Was she being readied to join the fight?

  He had to know. Turning on his heel, he strode toward the door.

  “Gol. Send the High Lord a message. We need to talk.”

  Lorlen stepped into the Entrance Hall of the University and stopped as he saw Akkarin pass between the enormous doors.

  “Lorlen,” Akkarin said, “are you busy?”

  “I’m always busy,” Lorlen replied.

  Akkarin’s mouth curled into a wry smile. “This should take only a few minutes.”

  “Very well.”

  Akkarin gestured toward Lorlen’s office. Something private, then, Lorlen mused. He moved out of the Hall back into the corridor, but was only a few steps away from his office when a voice called out.

  “High Lord.”

  An Alchemist stood just outside the door of a classroom farther down the corridor.

  Akkarin stopped. “Yes, Lord Halvin?”

  The teacher hurried forward. “Sonea has not appeared for class this morning. Is she unwell?”

  Lorlen saw a look of concern cross Akkarin’s face, but he could not tell if it was for Sonea’s wellbeing, or that she was not where she was supposed to be.

  “Her servant has not informed me of any sickness,” Akkarin replied.

  “I’m sure there is a good reason. I just thought it unusual. She is normally so punctual.” Halvin glanced back at the classroom he had left. “I’d best get back, before they turn into wild animals.”

  “Thank you for informing me,” Akkarin said. Halvin nodded again, then hurried away. Akkarin turned to regard Lorlen. “This other issue will have to wait. I had best find out what my novice is up to.”

  Watching him stalk away, Lorlen struggled to hold back a growing feeling of foreboding. Surely if she was sick her servant would have informed Akkarin. Why would she deliberately neglect to attend classes? His blood turned cold. Had she and Rothen decided to move against Akkarin? Surely, if they had, they would have told him first.

  Wouldn’t they?

  Returning to the Entrance Hall, he looked up the stairs. If they had planned something together, they would both be missing. He had only to check Rothen’s classroom.

  Moving to the stairs, he hurried upward.

  The noon sun streaked through the forest, touching the bright green of new leaves. Its warmth still radiated from the large rock shelf Sonea was sitting on, and lingered in the boulder she had set her back against.

  In the distance a gong sounded. Novices would be hurrying out to enjoy the early autumn weather. She should go back, and pretend her absence was due to a sudden headache or other minor illness.

  But she couldn’t get herself to move.

  She had climbed up to the spring in the early morning, hoping that the walk would clear her head. It hadn’t, though. All that she had learned kept turning through her mind in a jumbled mess. Perhaps this was because she hadn’t slept at all. She was too weary to make sense of everything—and too tired to face returning to classes and behaving as if nothing had changed.

  But everything has changed. I have to take time to think about what I have learned, she told herself. I have to sort out what it means before I face Akkarin again.

  She closed her eyes and drew on a little Healing power to chase away the weariness.

  What have I learned?

  The Guild, and all of Kyralia, were in danger of being invaded by Sachakan black magicians.

  Why hadn’t Akkarin told anyone? If the Guild knew it faced a possible invasion, it could prepare for it. It couldn’t defend itself if it didn’t know of the threat.

  Yet, if Akkarin told them, he would have to admit to learning black magic. Was the reason for his silence as simple and selfish as that? Maybe there was another reason.

  She still didn’t know how he had learned to use black magic. Tavaka had believed that only Ichani possessed that knowledge. He had only been taught it so that he could kill Akkarin.

  And Akkarin had been a slave.

  It was impossible to imagine the aloof, dignified, powerful High Lord living as, of all things, a slave.

  But he had been one, of that she was sure. He had escaped somehow and returned to Kyralia. He had bec
ome High Lord. Now he was secretly and single-handedly keeping these Ichani at bay by killing off their spies.

  He was not the person she had thought he was.

  He might even be a good person.

  She frowned. Let’s not go that far. He learned black magic somehow, and I’m still a hostage.

  Without black magic, however, how could he defeat these spies? And if there was a good reason for keeping all this a secret, he’d had no choice but to ensure she, Rothen and Lorlen remained silent.

  “Sonea.”

  She jumped, then turned toward the voice. Akkarin stood in the shadow of a large tree, his arms crossed. She rose hastily and bowed.

  “High Lord.”

  He stood regarding her for a moment, then he uncrossed his arms and started toward her. As he stepped up onto the rock shelf, his gaze shifted to the boulder she had been resting against. He dropped into a crouch and examined its surface carefully. She heard the scrape of stone against stone and blinked in surprise as a section slid outward, revealing an irregularly shaped hole.

  “Ah, it’s still here,” he said quietly. Putting down the slab of rock that he had removed, he reached inside the hole and drew out a small, battered wooden box. Several holes had been drilled into the lid in grid pattern. The lid sprang open. He tilted the box so Sonea could see the contents clearly.

  Inside lay a set of game pieces, each with a small peg to fit into the holes in the lid.

  “Lorlen and I used to come here to escape Lord Margen’s lessons.” He plucked out one of the pieces and examined it.

  Sonea blinked in surprise. “Lord Margen? Rothen’s mentor?”

  “Yes. He was a strict teacher. We called him ‘the monster.’ Rothen took over his classes the year after I graduated.”

  It was as hard to picture Akkarin as a young novice as it was to imagine him as a slave. She knew he was only a few years older than Dannyl, yet Dannyl seemed much younger. It was not that Akkarin looked older, she mused, it was simply his manner and position that added an impression of greater maturity.

  Replacing the game pieces, Akkarin closed the box and returned it to its hiding place. He sat down, bracing his back against the boulder. Sonea felt a strange discomfort. Gone was the dignified, threatening High Lord who had taken her guardianship from Rothen to ensure his crimes remained undiscovered. She wasn’t sure how to react to this casualness. Sitting down a few steps away, she watched him looking around the spring as if checking that it was still the same as he remembered.