Crown & Creed E-Book

Laura VanArendonk Baugh

• Herausgeber: Æclipse Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: The Shard of Elan
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 634

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

The prince-heir's life hangs by a thread, and the last person to see him conscious was the king's bastard, Shianan Becknam. As rumor grows of Commander Becknam's possible fratricide, Shianan pushes away Black Mage Ariana Hazelrig, lest her rise be destroyed by connection to him.

Ariana has returned from her abduction to the Ryuven world, bringing an herb which could fight the plague reported through the countryside. Her efforts have resulted in unprecedented negotiations toward peace. But if the prince-heir dies, the tentative truce will fall into blood feud, and Ariana's new renown cannot help her to save Shianan.

Luca, enslaved once more, is summoned before the queen to answer for Shianan's crimes. Abandoned by his family, his hope of salvation dims with each passing day. 

Tamaryl, again styled a traitor, is bound in a magic-sapping prison. He has given everything toward ending this war—and he will soon learn what price he must pay for it.

The epic fantasy continues in the beloved Shard of Elan series!

Leseprobe

The Shard of Elan, Book 3

Laura VanArendonk Baugh

Copyright 2020 Laura VanArendonk Baugh

Cover design by Damonza

ISBN 978-1-63165-026-0

www.Aeclipse.com

Æclipse Press

Indianapolis, IN

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner without the express written permission of the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations as in a book review.

Want free stories?

Table of Contents

Title Page

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

To Be Continued | Get a Free Story and More

For my creative online chat group, who kept me sane in this insane year.

Chapter 1

ARIANA DASHED ACROSS the wintry courtyard, dodging soldiers and slaves, her breath tight in her chest in a way which had nothing to do with her frantic pace. Someone called after her, alarmed by the sight of a Mage of the Circle in a hurry, but she did not look back. She ran to Shianan Becknam’s office and quarters.

She beat on the door with the heel of her fist, unreasonably afraid that what she had heard had been wrong, afraid the confused rumors that always circulated after battles until clearer reports arrived had led her to false hope and renewed despair.

The door opened, and a black-haired man looked at her, and her heart sank. Not Shianan. Someone else had his office now, of course, because Shianan had been struck down by magic in the cellar of the Wheel. The disjointed story she had heard about the injured prince-heir had been incorrect at least in part, and—

“My lady,” the black-haired man said. He was a slave, she saw now, and she thought he looked faintly familiar. She must have seen him around the Naziar before he came to Shianan’s old rooms.

“I’m sorry,” she said breathlessly. “I have made a mistake. I’m sorry.” She turned to go, choking on fresh grief.

“Luca,” came a voice behind her, from within, and she froze. It sounded so like—

“Master,” the slave said, stepping back from the door as Ariana looked back despite herself.

“What is it? What’s happened?” And then Shianan was in the office, visible through the door, looking toward her.

He was bare-chested, braies and leggings tied about his waist, anxiety in his expression. He’d rushed from his room. He saw her, and he froze.

Ariana stared through the open door. “You’re alive.”

He looked back. “I am.”

“I saw you die. I was there when he killed you. I—I didn’t know you had survived, not until—not until I heard about the prince.” She swallowed, her throat closing about her words. Not dead—!

Shianan cleared his throat. “Luca,” he said without turning, “I’m sure there is something to occupy your attention.”

Luca nodded and went toward the living quarters, and Ariana heard the door close behind him.

She didn’t move. She should go into the office, step out of the courtyard, speak to him properly, and she could only struggle for air and words.

“Are you all right?” His eyes searched over her face. “I mean, you were taken there...”

“I’m fine. I’m fine. I was a guest there.” She could feel the tears coming, long-suppressed grief finally working free in its negation. “I’m so glad you’re alive.”

His throat worked. “Ariana...”

They couldn’t stand apart like this. She moved forward, gaining speed as she went, and embraced him. He reeled slightly, and an instant later his arms closed about her, sliding beneath her cloak.

“Shianan,” she whispered, her voice failing. “I watched you die.” His bare shoulder was warm beneath her cheek, and her first tears slid damp over it. “And I couldn’t even mourn you.”

He held her without speaking.

She turned so her face rested against his neck, the faint prickle of growth biting at her. “And the last thing I’d said to you—I’m so sorry.”

His fingers convulsed on her back. “Ariana,” he began softly. “I spent the whole of that day trying to find words to apologize. After the king—I ran away. I was a coward, and I ran. I couldn’t face you, not when...”

She squeezed him. “It’s all right.”

“It’s not all right.” He gulped. “I cannot court you. And now that he knows, I won’t even be able to—to do this. Even to speak to you.”

He’d asked to court her. Surprise and delight and disbelief warred for supremacy even as the finality of his words cut at her. “Surely...”

“He’s taking my title. It should have been done already, the battle put it off, but now it’s only a matter of time. The prince-heir came to see me, while I was hiding and brooding. He—you won’t know, I haven’t had a chance to tell you, but His Highness—he’s a good man. And he is...” He chuckled faintly. “He’s like a brother to me.”

She smiled despite herself. “Imagine that.”

“And he came for me. But even the prince could find no hope for this. I can’t risk this, Ariana. I can’t risk you. Can you imagine if we were known? If the council and the court and the Circle and everyone knew you’d been admired by the bastard? Can you imagine what your position would be after that?” He released her and placed his hands on her arms. “I won’t see them hurt you, Ariana.” He pushed her gently backward.

She stared at him, her chest tightening. “But...”

“I’m sorry, Ariana. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have run, I should have told you directly. I shouldn’t have let it come to this at all. I knew better. I’d hoped... But I’m sorry.”

She shook her head, her vision blurring with hot, angry tears. “No! Not like this. Not after I thought you were—not after everything else.” Her pent grief burst free at last, and she began to weep despite herself. “I don’t care what anyone says—I’m not ashamed of you...”

“Oh, Ariana, don’t cry. Please, please, don’t cry. Of all the cheating, twisting, hamstringing... Please, don’t.” He stared at her helplessly, still holding her arms, and then he crumpled and pulled her close, cradling her head against his. “Oh, Ariana, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He was crying, too.

“Shianan—”

“I’ll go. It will be easier that way. You’re part of the Circle, you have to be here, but I’m a soldier, I can go anywhere, once the prince... It will be easier.”

“No! I want you here.”

“It can’t be.”

“But you saved the prince! Didn’t you? They’re saying you carried him to help. Surely if you saved the prince...”

“Did I?” He shuddered. “They won’t even speak of his condition. I saw how he was wounded; I may not have saved him at all.”

His words broke over her like icy water. “But—oh, Shianan, your friend. Your brother.” She tried to lift her head.

He pulled her tighter, blocking her eyes. “It’s—it will be all right.” He swallowed hard against her. “I lived well enough before I had either of you.”

She began to cry anew. “Don’t—”

“We can’t, Ariana. We can’t.” He detached himself and stepped back, pulling her black hood up over her hair. “Go now. It won’t ever be simpler. Just go.” He kissed her forehead, brief but longing. “By all that’s holy, I love you, Ariana. Please believe that. But you have to go.”

She stared at him, the floor unsteady beneath her feet. “We could—”

“We can’t. You can’t.” He rubbed an arm savagely over his eyes and turned, leading her by the wrist. “You have done me a great honor, and your father has been most kind—but I’m the bastard. And I’m sorry for that, I truly am.” He tugged once more at her hood, hiding her tears. “Go. I love you. Go.”

She shook her head. “There has to—”

He opened the outer door and, almost gently, pushed her outside.

SHIANAN HOOKED THE door with his foot and kicked it after Ariana’s widening eyes. He slapped the bolt into place and leaned against the door, hearing his pulse wild in his ears and unable to breathe.

It was foolish to bolt the door against a Mage of the Circle. She would be inside in a moment, and he dreaded and longed for that entrance.

But his heart pounded on, and at last his chest loosened so that he could draw breath, and there was still no quivering explosion against his back. She did not return.

His throat spasmed and he slid to the floor, the door rough against his bare flesh, trembling with the bitterness of it. Ariana had been a real friend, not merely a fellow soldier or a slave who needed help, but someone who had liked him for himself even when he was a liability.

He could not stay here. He forced himself to his feet and went into his quarters to dress.

Opposite the door, Luca sat against the wall, knees to his chest and the heels of his palms deep in his eyes, silent.

“Why?” Shianan demanded, knowing anguish made him irrational but unable to check himself. “What’s all this to you?”

Luca shot him an unexpectedly piercing glare. “Do you think you are the only one to lose someone?”

Shianan stared at him, startled and stung, and then hot anger shielded his hurt. “Get out.” He was in no condition to speak now; some part of him still knew that. He wrenched his gaze from the slave and tried to soften his tone. “Get out.”

Luca got to his feet and left, moving wide around him.

He clenched his fists, pushing away Luca’s challenge and the awful, hideous void Ariana had left in his arms. He swallowed and ordered his mind as a soldier. There were tasks to be done, urgent tasks and many, and they would mercifully require the whole of his thought. He tore a shirt from the chest and jerked it over his head. He dressed quickly and sloppily, yanking his boots into place.

When he went into the office again, Luca had gone. Shianan felt a fresh pang; he should not have spilled his emotion onto Luca. One more person he’d made to suffer.

Shianan passed his hand over his eyes one last time and went out into the courtyard, starting for the warehouses of dead soldiers.

Chapter 2

“NO, NO, IT WAS ALL the doing of Ariana Hazelrig.” Mage Taev Callahan shook his head in overt regret at his own limited contributions. “She had asked me about dall sweetbud—I suspect now that’s when she first realized the Ryuven had it—but I had nothing to do with its coming. I didn’t even know of its existence until she brought the bushel to us; I suppose she thought I would know how best to prepare it for use. But no, all the praise should go to the Black Mage.”

“My lord mage, will this herb truly counter the plague? How much is needed to heal a sick man so that he will not carry the plague to a healthy town?”

Mage Callahan smiled indulgently. “First, let me say that while this has been called a plague for some weeks, it is in fact merely a flux; most recover with treatment. And it seems that a single dose of dall sweetbud is enough to heal this particular flux, so those in line to buy should be patient, and those at the fore of the line should not be greedy.”

“They say it cures all!”

“Well, in all my research I have not found any universal panacea. But dall sweetbud is certainly an excellent treatment for many things, and it cannot hurt to stock every physic kit with a packet or two.” He paused, considered. “Yes, I would consider it vital for every goodwife and mother to purchase a small supply.”

“So we do need the dall sweetbud?”

“Oh, yes.” Callahan nodded, rubbing his thumb along his scar. “In my opinion, this bringing of dall sweetbud is one of the most urgently important accomplishments of this age.”

“SO COULD HAVE BECKNAM!”

His name drew Shianan’s attention to the soldiers across the yard. They were bunched close, facing inward. A bad sign.

“You rotting whoreson—take back your lies!”

“My word’s my own—I don’t take it back for bastards!”

The first punch struck squarely, and as half the cluster of soldiers leapt to separate the combatants, the other half leapt to join them. Sergeant Parr and Captain Torg rushed to join Shianan and they shouldered in, bellowing orders. Torg was not much use with his crushed arm, but Parr and Shianan pulled soldiers from the edge and threw them aside, shouting at them to stay clear, and waded to the center. The fight ended quickly as the soldiers recognized the officers.

“What’s this about?” Shianan glared about the group, noting the differing yellow and green collars. “Oh, king’s oats. Alham troops, across the yard. Reshire troops, back to your own warehouse. And all of you find something useful to occupy your time, or the slaves digging graves will have a rest.”

Sullen silence indicated comprehension. A few men made as if to protest but thought better of it. Belligerent glares were exchanged, and shifting weight promised retribution at a later time.

“Did you not understand me?” Shianan demanded. “Move!”

Part of him wanted to punch a few more brawlers, just for the superficial satisfaction of it. But the soldiers obediently separated and moved apart, jaws jutted in defiance.

“Commander, you want—”

“Solve it yourself, Parr,” Shianan snapped. “I have enough to do today.”

Parr hesitated. “But, sir, it’s only—”

“Sergeant!” Shianan checked himself. Alanz had not returned from Arakadamia, and Parr was struggling to adapt. He took a steadying breath. “’Soats, Parr, what is it?”

The sergeant hesitated. “I’ll take care of it, sir.”

“Good man.” Shianan looked at Torg, who was adjusting his sling. “And do you need me for anything, or can I take care of other business for an hour or so?”

Torg’s face was unnaturally expressionless. “Go on, sir. We’ll hold it.”

Shianan nodded and turned away, hating how everyone reacted to him. Hating that he was acting to bring such reactions.

His head pounded with every step. After Ariana’s visit, he had overseen the claiming of the dead. That had grated his remaining presence of mind to ragged shreds. Every still body on the warehouse floor was another life lost under his command. Soldiers could not but die in such a battle—but some of them might have lived, had they trained differently, or longer, or for other scenarios...

He took too much upon himself in that regard; his first commanding officers had told him so from the beginning. But his sense of responsibility had never faded. “That’s good,” Rictman had commented seriously. “It makes you a thoughtful and fair officer.”

Rictman had been a commander, amazingly unreachable when Shianan had first been made a sergeant. After a pack of leucrocutas had savaged his first little command, Rictman had come to him one evening. “It’s good to consider your men as people, as valuable lives. They are not toys to be used and broken and discarded without consideration.” He looked hard at Shianan, who flushed with hot shame. “But they are soldiers, and they will fight, and some of them will die. And if we hesitate to let them fight for fear of danger, we lose all they are and shame all they represent.”

Still, Shianan could not conscience knowing so many of his own were dead. It had not been as devastating as Luenda, in the end, but it had been bloody enough.

He went to the kitchens. He had fallen asleep before Luca returned with his supper the night before, and the morning’s business with Ariana had kept him from breakfast. One of the kitchen slaves gave him a thick slice of mutton pie, and he devoured it.

He brushed a couple of stray crumbs from his clothing, making sure he looked presentable after the scuffle, and entered the Naziar palace.

He had visited Soren’s office, but never the royal quarters, though he knew where to find the wing. It did not surprise him to see two guards flanking the closed doors. They stiffened as he approached.

“Good afternoon,” he began. His voice sounded steady enough, but he thought the unnecessary greeting betrayed his uncertainty. “I’ve come to visit His Highness.”

“No one’s permitted, your lordship,” replied a guard promptly.

He had expected as much. That was their duty, and as an army commander he had no authority over the royal guard. “I understand. Could I at least have some word of him? I know there aren’t any general announcements, but if I could just speak to someone...” He sounded too eager, too anxious. “I won’t be long, I—”

“Not permitted, my lord,” the guard repeated tightly. His fingers whitened on his polearm.

Something was wrong; while Shianan hadn’t expected immediate admission, there was no reason for the guards to be this touchy. Was Soren already dead, the truth a secret for political reasons? His pulse quickened. “Look, I want to see someone about him. I’m the one who carried him for help, after all. There will be a healer in this wing, or a secretary, or your own captain, and I—”

“No, my lord.” The guard exchanged a quick glance with his companion, and each of them shifted in place. “You’re not permitted.”

“Your lordship?” came a third voice. Shianan glanced over his shoulder and saw Ethan, Soren’s personal servant, a few paces behind him. “Your lordship, there’s a man who wants a word with you, if you please.”

Ethan would be unlikely to have a message from the army or court—but he might have a message from Soren. Shianan nodded and turned back to the guards. “I’ll return later, with permission,” he said evenly. “Thank you for your attention to duty.”

Ethan looked ill at ease. “This way, your lordship.” He led Shianan down the corridor, around a corner, and into a storeroom of covered furniture. He closed the door behind them. “My lord, I’m sorry. But you can’t be here.”

“How is he?” Shianan asked quickly.

“He’s—he’s alive. He’s not well, but he’s alive. Thanks to your lordship, some say.” Ethan looked unhappy. “But others... You aren’t to be here, my lord. You’ve been banned.”

Something chill formed within Shianan’s chest. “What do you mean?”

Ethan looked miserable. “There’s talk that you might—please, my lord, I didn’t say this. I never said this.”

“Of course you didn’t. Now what wasn’t said?”

“There’s talk that you did this, that you were the one to wound him. That you weren’t trying to save him when they found you.”

Shianan could not comprehend. “What?! I—but I broke off the shaft, I carried him for miles! ’Soats, I faced Ryuven over his—”

“Yes, my lord, yes! But there’s also that he was wounded with a spear, which isn’t typically used by the Ryuven, and—it isn’t thought you have much love for His Highness.”

“I haven’t—what?”

“Jealousy, my lord. They say you’ve always resented the princes, and—and that if you could kill first one, and then the other, you might hope to be raised to legitimacy yourself for a chance at the throne.” Ethan seemed to shrink as he spoke; he did not like being the bearer of such news.

“That’s ridiculous! I don’t want the throne—’soats, no. And kill the prince? I’ve sworn myself to him, I wouldn’t—”

“Have you, my lord?” Ethan actually wrung his hands. “Who witnessed it? Who can swear you’re loyal to the prince?”

“Soren himself! And I—”

“My master cannot speak for you.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s not awake often, and when he is—he isn’t himself.” Ethan swallowed. “He’s barely holding to life, my lord, and some think you killed him.”

Shianan stared at the slave for a long moment, wishing his mind would in mercy go blank. But it did not, and he considered that, in fact, he had carried the prince away from the camp in his search for escape. In fact, he had indeed long resented the princes. In fact, almost no one knew of his and Soren’s recent friendship. He had been compelled under duress to swear reluctant allegiance to Alasdair; no one would believe he had also willingly sworn to Soren.

The soldiers’ fight that morning took on new meaning. Such a rumor would spread like fire through oil.

He rubbed a hand over his forehead and uttered the foulest language he knew.

“He’s not dead yet, my lord. If he—when he wakes to himself, he’ll tell them. But until then, there are orders to keep you well out.”

“Do they think I’ll kill him right here in the palace?” demanded Shianan. “Do they believe I could have meant to kill a soft-muscled blueblood and somehow failed?” He stopped and blew out his breath. “I mean no disrespect to your master, but—”

“I know, your lordship.”

Shianan clenched his fists, put one to his mouth, turned away from the slave. “How is he—really?”

Ethan’s voice was brittle. “You were the last to see him truly alive.”

The words went through Shianan like icy steel, shredding him. He stared at nothing, without words. At last he turned back, a long habit of iron control settling over his body. “Thank you for telling me.”

Ethan licked his lips. “My lord, I must go. If I were... I’m sorry, my lord.”

Shianan nodded. “It’s not your doing.” He shoved his hand through his hair, curling his fingers fiercely into his scalp. “Go. I’ll wait a few moments and leave separately.”

Ethan slipped through the door, and Shianan sank down upon a sheeted chair. It was impossible. He would not, could not have harmed Soren. And if they thought him capable of murdering the prince—!

There was no real evidence against him, but he’d learned how easily false witnesses could be found. At least he had expected to take the consequences of stealing the Shard; he had never intended harm to Soren.

At last he stood and went out into the corridor, moving numbly. He wanted to be someplace else, someplace far away, perhaps Fhure—but out of the palace would do for a start.

Chapter 3

LUCA HESITATED OUTSIDE the painted door, unsure if he wanted to enter and more afraid of being seen lingering outside. Slaves did not loiter, and not outside of temples. He should feign an air of purpose, or he should return home to Shianan’s office and quarters. He needed nothing here.

But guilt, or obligation, or a faint and stupid hope pricked at him, and after a quick suck of breath, he ducked his head and went into the dimmer building. He avoided the open central space, where guests talked or gathered for small ceremonies of worship or waited for priests, and slipped to one of the alcoves for private prayer and supplication. He chose a small one, with less decoration, one where no one would complain of a slave’s use.

Safely arrived, he drew a breath and tried to decide why he’d come. He had pleaded for Shianan’s safe return, and his gift had been refused. One cannot bribe the One who created all things. But once his prayer had been answered, he could bring an offering and speak gratitude.

Luca licked his lips. Desperation had helped him to pray before. Now he felt awkward speaking toward a wall, and to a god who had let him suffer so much.

“Good morning.”

Luca jumped at the voice and turned toward the priest. As always, the not-quite-familiar robes made his stomach clench. The Gehrn had modeled their clothing after the priests of the Wakari Coast, not those of Chrenada, but there was enough similarity to make his heart quicken. “I beg your pardon, my lord.”

“For what? You are welcome to pray here.” The priest gestured. “I’m sorry, it seems I gave you a start.”

Luca’s face should have been more schooled at hiding his emotions. “No, my lord, I was—I was startled, yes.”

“You thought I was someone else.”

Luca could understand why some people trusted priests as messengers of the Holy One, if they regularly spoke with such uncanny insight. “Yes, my lord. I’m sorry.”

The priest smiled away the second apology and then sobered. “How can I help you?”

Where were you when I needed help? Luca wanted to ask, but he shook his head. “Not now.”

The priest nodded once. “You prayed before, for your master.”

Luca hadn’t recognized him, thinking more of the robes, but this was indeed the same priest who had spoken with him before. “My master’s come back. He’s safe.” He lifted the small bag of coins he had brought, a wordless gesture of embarrassed gratitude.

Shianan, at least, had returned to him. Marla and Cole and the others... He prayed for them, too. He had written to Thir and Jarrick, and he had asked them to watch for them. It was a slim chance, but it was all he could do.

“How good to hear it!” The priest seemed to study Luca in the candlelight as he tipped the coins into a collection box. “You bring an offering in gratitude, but you don’t seem pleased.”

Luca shook his head tightly. “He’s returned, and he’s whole, but not everything is well.”

“I am sorry.” He folded his hands with a swish of sleeves. “And you are here because you wish to help him? How can I help you to do that?”

There was nothing Luca could do, nor this priest. “I am a slave, my lord,” he said, tasting acid. “I can do nothing but pray.”

“That is not nothing.”

Words into air felt like nothing, but a slave could not argue with a priest.

The priest smiled at his silence, but it was a wry smile, not belittling. “All our platitudes can smell like so much tripe, when one feels helpless.”

Luca doubted this man had ever truly known helplessness.

“But every mill grinds with all its parts; a machine is not built with disused pieces. The smallest cog in a mechanism may be vital to the whole.”

These were platitudes, and they did smell of tripe.

“And you can do more than you think,” the priest said gently, almost whispering. “You prayed for your master because you wished to do so, not because he ordered it. Each of us serves more than a human master.”

Master Shianan had not been there to order it. This priest talked nonsense. Luca looked down, avoiding the priest’s kind eyes and childish words.

“Luca.” That was Shianan’s voice.

Almost relieved at the interruption, Luca turned and saw Shianan coming from the rear entrance. But something was wrong, Luca could see it in his gait and in the set of his shoulders. New trouble, or this morning’s? He glanced at the priest—“my master”—and then moved to meet Shianan.

“Someone saw you come here,” Shianan muttered distractedly. He glanced over Luca’s shoulder at the priest who had followed. “Yes?”

“I’m pleased for your safe return,” the priest offered, “and I thank you for your efforts in protecting our kingdom.”

Shianan nodded curtly. “Glad for my part,” he answered briskly. “Thank you. If you will excuse me, I need—”

“What shall I ask for you, my lord?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I will pray for you, my lord, as I have since this young man came to petition for your safety in battle. If there—”

“Not me.” Shianan wrapped his fingers around the sheath of his dagger without looking and ripped open the buckle with a sharp movement. He held the weapon out horizontally to the priest. “Pray for the prince. Pray for his recovery.”

“I will.” The priest nodded, making no move to take it. “You need not purchase my prayers.”

A moment passed, and then Shianan let the hand with the dagger fall to his side. “Let’s go, Luca.”

They left the temple, Luca following an appropriate short distance behind. “What’s wrong?” he asked quietly.

Shianan shook his head. He wouldn’t speak until they had reached privacy.

They passed a square of soldiers marking where an herbal trade would open shortly. A Ryuven vendor would sell his wares within the fortress walls, allowing for easy regulation. The merchant would arrive with his stock in the defined, guarded space, sell for three hours or until his supply was depleted, and then his assistants would return home while he, escorted by soldiers and a captain to keep order, made his own purchases of human goods. Already there was a line of people forming to wait for the Ryuven and the dall sweetbud, gathered in little groups to gossip and speculate.

“My cousin lives west of the river, and he said the plague’s not as bad there.”

“Maybe it’s abating all over.”

“No, it’s still strong in Far Point, I hear.”

“It was rife in Harrowford until they got the dall sweetbud.”

“So it does work?”

Luca wanted to walk more slowly, to listen and overhear, but Shianan did not hesitate.

“And it’s Mage Callahan!”

“No, no, he said himself it was Hazelrig’s daughter who found it. She identified it, she went for it and brought it back—he admitted she only gave it to him to confirm, as he’s supposed to be some sort of fancy herbalist. She did it all.”

“She did? She’s just a girl, isn’t she?”

“She’s a Mage of the Circle, mind.”

“She’s still girl enough.” A soldier laughed. “You should have seen her coming out of the sky, hair whipping around her and her robes flapping up her legs—and us down below! Heh.”

Luca hurried after Shianan.

Shianan slipped his cloak off and tossed it as he entered, so that Luca leapt to catch it. Shianan strode across the office without pausing and began to pace, eyes on the floor. “Close the door.”

Luca did.

“They think I tried to kill him.” Shianan reversed direction. “They think I tried to kill the prince—or might have succeeded. I can’t see him, I can’t have word of him, and they may blame me if he dies.” He clenched his fists. “I tried to save him, Luca! I carried him on my back for miles, trying to get him to healers, and they say I meant to kill him?”

Luca stared in horror. If the king truly thought Shianan guilty of trying to murder the prince...

“King’s sweet oats.” Shianan ran a hand through his hair.

Luca took a breath. “You can’t stay here. Don’t you remember the Court of the High Star?”

“Yes, Luca, I remember it well.” Shianan’s voice had gone flat. “Quite well. But if I run, then—”

“Then we would have a head start!”

Shianan sighed. “Thank you, but I’ll be no safer at Fhure than here, should the king choose to seize me. But if you would rather go...”

Luca bristled. “You won’t send me away again.”

Shianan blinked. “I won’t?”

Luca caught himself. “I—that is—well, no, Master Shianan.” He straightened and looked evenly at his master. “You won’t.”

Shianan raised an eyebrow. “Dare I allow you to dictate to me?” He smiled slowly, almost tentatively. “I own you.”

Luca felt the tension drain from the air. “You owe me.”

Shianan’s shoulders dropped. “Fair enough.” He sighed and sank onto the edge of the desk. “All right, then, you stay. But I wish I knew how he was.” He bit at his thumb, his eyes going distant again. “If he hasn’t woken—but that’s likely fever, then.” He spat a piece of nail. “And I want to see him, regardless. If he’s—I want to see him.” He looked suddenly at Luca. “If you aren’t willing to go to Fhure, are you willing to risk yourself with me?”

“Master Shianan?”

“Tonight. ’Soats, if they’re going to arrest me anyway, they might as well have a reason.”

Chapter 4

ARIANA CLOSED HER EYES, willing the knocking at the door to end. She should have known it would be impossible to hide; even without her black robes, someone must have known her as she crossed the courtyard. She had only wanted to see Shianan. She had not believed the street news at first, of Prince Soren and the bastard. She could not help but go to him, even before going to her own home.

But she wished now she had never gone. It was almost better to think him dead, unable to see her, than to know she had lost a friend.

No, that was not so, of course; she was desperately glad to know he was safe. But she wished just as desperately that he was not bound and punished for the sin of his father. And he had sought to court her...

The knocking continued. “My lady mage! Are you there?”

Ariana pushed her face into her knees and pulled her arms more tightly about her, as if to hide from the voices. She had been through the worst days she could imagine—abducted, thinking Shianan dead and her father likely so, helpless before Oniwe’aru’s implacable resolution, thrust abruptly into horrific battle, forced away by the man who had only just confessed his love——could they not leave her in peace?

Someone tried the latch, and hot anger flashed through her. But she had overlaid her magical lock on the physical one, and it resisted their rattling efforts.

She did not want to answer questions. She did not want to hear praise or criticism or anything at all.

Someone shouted outside, muted by the stone walls. All of the Wheel’s walls were of stone, a sensible if expensive precaution in a place designed for magical experimentation. Ariana raised her head; was that her father’s voice?

The latch rattled again. There was a snapping sound and a flash of yellow light, and the black door swung open. Her father looked across the room at her and closed the door behind him, magically resealing it without looking. “Ariana.”

She leapt off her seat and ran to throw her arms about him. “You’re safe,” she breathed. “I heard you were—they said you had shielded—but to see you...”

He held her tightly, letting the words spill out of her without interruption.

“I’m sorry, but I couldn’t—I couldn’t stay there, not with the battle, I—I was just so... I didn’t want to talk about it, I just wanted the fighting to stop...”

“I know, darling.” He released her slowly. “You were obviously upset. And I wasn’t near enough to reach you.”

“I went home. You weren’t there.”

“I haven’t been home yet. I’ve been in the Naziar or the Wheel since the battle. I slept in my workroom.” He looked down and met her eyes. “Shianan Becknam is alive.”

She nodded, her throat clenching. “I know.” She swallowed. “I spoke to him this morning.”

Her father knew her tone. “And?”

“And—and he has been ordered... the king... He can’t even speak to me, he says. He won’t be near me, because he’s afraid of embarrassing me. As if I’d be ashamed of him!” She looked up. “He said—but he loves me! And what if it were known that he courted me?”

Her father pursed his lips. “How’s your history?”

“What do you mean?”

“The Laguna line traditionally gelded their bastards.”

Ariana blinked.

He pulled her close again. “Give it time. I know that’s not what you want to hear—but we can’t make any decisions now. We’re all exhausted, and distracted with the Ryuven and the fighting and the herbs.”

“Did he speak to you? Did you know?”

Her father chuckled wearily. “I’ve known for a long time, darling. I only wasn’t sure if or when he would act.” He squeezed her. “There will be time to think through this and find an answer. Wait for it.”

She nodded against his shoulder. “But what about Shianan?”

“He’ll wait. He isn’t going to take up with another girl in the meantime. And then we’ll find a way—if that’s what you want.” He looked at her. “Do you love him?”

“I—I’m not sure.” Ariana swallowed. “That’s a terrible thing to say, isn’t it? But I can’t even think anymore.”

“No, darling, that’s fine. You have more than a few concerns bidding for your attention, and it’s not a decision to be made in haste.” He took a breath. “You were safe with the Ryuven?”

She nodded. “I declared myself a diplomat and treated with Oniwe’aru as an ambassador. But...” She gave a small, wan smile. “Don’t tell anyone, but it didn’t go well.”

“I suspected as much when we went to war.” He chuckled gently and then sobered. “We gathered the truce was as much a surprise to the Ryuven as to us. Tamaryl was even fighting for them for a time.” He paused. “He fought well; we avoided one another.”

“I knew he was fighting.” She withdrew and began to walk the room. “Oniwe’aru would not discuss peace until his warriors had raided fresh supplies. He told me we could talk further after the battle. I was furious, but there was nothing I could do. And then Tamaryl came from the battle, and you know the rest.”

“What made him leave the fighting and help you bring about truce?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. We didn’t take the time to discuss it.”

“Have you spoken with him since then?”

“No. I wanted to be alone. After the Ryuven palace, I needed time... I haven’t heard from him. I think maybe he wanted to be alone, too. The fighting and then the truce, and that he didn’t want to be fighting at all, really...”

Her father didn’t answer.

She stopped and leaned against the table. “I thought you were dead, too. Oniwe’aru said you’d raised a shield—but I worried.” She crossed her arms defensively. “You and Shianan both, and I couldn’t even think about it, because I didn’t dare to miss my only chance at speaking with Oniwe’aru.”

Her father held out his hand to her. “You are the most popular member of the Circle at the moment,” he said. “You are the only mage to have survived abduction by the Ryuven—twice. You used the Ryuven’s own magic, and in our own world. You brought the dall sweetbud we needed to stave off the plague and you bought our peace. You are the heroine of our day. I think we can justify slipping out and hiding you at the Kalen Baths for a time.”

She nodded, thinking of deliciously hot water and locked doors. “I wish I had the energy even to anticipate that.”

Chapter 5

THE RATTLING BOLT WOKE Tamaryl from his half sleep, and his shoulders twinged painfully as he lifted his head. His crossed hands, numb behind his neck, pulled the binding cord against his throat. Everywhere the fup-forged chains touched they burned faintly, destroying what power he might restore.

The che entered, his forked rod raised like a badge of office, and Tamaryl’s heart sank. But Oniwe’aru came next, freezing his sinking heart in his chest. Behind Oniwe’aru followed a half dozen sho. This was a formal court event, then, and no private word between half brothers.

He should have expected as much. He could not hope for mercy twice.

It was difficult to move with his arms and wings fixed tightly, but he rolled his weight forward and onto his knees. Briefly he considered raising one knee so that he knelt in the courtier’s position, but he was a bound prisoner and it was not wise to presume.

The sho fanned into a semicircle on either side of Oniwe’aru, staring down at Tamaryl. He felt their eyes burning into him, and his blood ran hot. Deliberately he drew one knee upward.

“Hm.” Oniwe’aru made a faintly amused, disdainful sound. “Arrogant as ever.”

Tamaryl stared at the floor before his feet. “I am still your loyal sho, Oniwe’aru. That is all.”

“Loyal?” Oniwe’aru began to pace across the cell, making the others shift out of his path. “You left the field of battle, which would ordinarily make you a coward. But then you carried our prisoner to her own world again, which would make you a criminal. And you gave your authority to a truce that we had not discussed, that we did not want, in direct contradiction to your orders, and that makes you a traitor. Again.”

Tamaryl swallowed against the biting cord, unsure of how to answer the charges. “She was no prisoner, Oniwe’aru, even in your eyes, for you met with her and treated with her as a diplomat.” He could feel the aru’s eyes, and he kept his head respectfully low. His shoulders and arms burned. “She was trying to return to her world when I found her; I only helped her to do it safely.”

There was a stir among the sho until Oniwe’aru silenced them with a glare. “No human mage has ever crossed the between-worlds,” he said firmly.

“No human mage has ever survived coming here, either.” Tamaryl took a slow breath. This was not the crux of his accusation, and he could not afford to argue over this point. He should concede. “I was thinking only of our warriors. I did not consider that transporting—”

“By the Essence,” one of the sho murmured. “If their mages have advanced to—”

“Athre’sho,” interrupted Oniwe’aru sharply.

Tamaryl swallowed against the cord again. Oniwe’aru would hear no excuses, no protests today.

“So, Tamaryl,” Oniwe’aru continued, and the omission of the honorific was loud in the crowded cell. “You protest that you are not a criminal who released and carried away a prisoner. But you have not denied that you are a coward and a traitor.”

Heat boiled through Tamaryl, and chains pulled at his raw flesh as his wings flexed. “I am no coward, Oniwe’aru.” Didn’t Oniwe’aru realize the courage it took to defy orders? “And I am no traitor, despite appearances. I have acted by my conscience in service to you and our clan.”

“Your conscience was under orders to crush the human army and sweep the countryside.”

“My conscience was to spare as many Ryuven lives as I could. If I had to sacrifice our warriors to preserve the rest of our clan, that was my duty. But if I could spare our warriors and preserve our clan together, I could not but follow that action.”

“You could follow your orders!”

“You could hear the alternative!” Tamaryl snapped, looking up. “If you had let us trade before opening fresh war, we might—”

The fork of the rod caught his exposed throat and shoved him backward. Without arms or wings to catch himself he fell, crushing one wing painfully. He tried to roll but the rod pinned him by the neck, holding him arched and choking over his crossed wrists.

“You will not rise before Oniwe’aru,” sneered Vermi’che, smug in his exalted company.

Tamaryl twisted, but his wing remained trapped. He stopped himself and lay still, trying to control his breathing through the tight cord. He spoke past the che. “I meant no discourtesy, Oniwe’aru.”

“Let him up, Vermi’che. He is no danger,” Oniwe’aru said heavily. “He has less power than you at the moment.”

The rod moved away from his throat, leaving only the biting pressure of the cord binding neck and wrists. Tamaryl rolled onto his side, swallowing against the squeeze of the cord, and sat awkwardly upright. Chain tore at his skin. He paused for a moment, trying to collect himself.

“You will not sit so before Oniwe’aru!” Vermi’che stepped into Tamaryl’s shoulder, pushing him so that he fell again.

Tamaryl’s elbow struck the stone floor with a shock of pain and he landed heavily on his side. He gritted his teeth and carefully closed his eyes, refusing to see the sho staring down at him. “Stop.”

“What was that?” Oniwe’aru sounded remote.

“Stop this.” Tamaryl rolled slowly onto his stomach, his head toward Oniwe’aru, his face against the stone. He could not spread his hands, bound behind his neck, in the appropriate position, nor could he flatten his wings against the floor, but his abasement was apparent enough. “Oniwe’aru, I have done no harm to the clan.”

Please, Oniwe’aru. This is a matter of your pride. It is a matter between you and me alone. Send them away and let us talk. You’ll never hear me while they listen.

He did not move, despising how he lay shamed before their eyes. But he was trapped here, and he knew nothing of the battle and the truce, and his pride had won him nothing.

Oniwe’aru sighed at last. “Leave us,” he said. “I will speak with him privately.”

The sho moved obediently from the cell. Vermi’che hesitated and then set his jaw, leaving with an air of injured betrayal.

Oniwe’aru waited a moment and then crouched on the floor. “Tamaryl,” he said softly, “do you know that it is possible to believe passionately in a cause, and to be wrong?”

Tamaryl turned his face to one side. “Of course. But I am not wrong in this. Not for so many lives.”

“Human lives, some of them.”

“Yes, human lives. And Ryuven lives.” Tamaryl licked his lips. “You would not listen. You did not even try to trade for what we needed.”

“We could not afford failure.”

“We could not afford not to try.” Tamaryl drew his legs slowly beneath him, but he could not raise himself from the floor, with his arms and wings bound and weighting his torso. He slid onto his side again and regarded Oniwe’aru. “Will you help me?”

“Don’t think that because we have no audience you are any less in disfavor.”

“I know that.” Tamaryl shifted his aching arms. “But I can hardly explain myself on my face.”

“I think you have done enough explaining,” Oniwe’aru said dryly, standing again. “But still you’ve never addressed the flouting of my authority.”

Tamaryl rolled and pulled himself upright, and then he shuffled on his knees a respectful distance from Oniwe’aru. It was humiliating to look up at him with his arms bound painfully to his neck; it was difficult to speak forthrightly from chains. “Your authority? This is more than the appearance of obedience—this is the welfare of our people!”

“And what kind of welfare will that be if my authority is not respected? I have set guards on our warehouses and along our fields to protect our harvest workers. If my word meant nothing, how long do you think our stores would last?” Oniwe’aru shook his head. “You did not recognize the importance of this. Even if I thought trade feasible, I could not allow you to offer truce without my approval.”

“You didn’t support the truce?” Tamaryl wriggled against the wall and stared upward. “Essence and flames, Oniwe’aru, tell me you let them try—tell me it wasn’t all for nothing!”

Oniwe’aru regarded him coolly. “That’s what would upset you? That you had lost your status and rank for nothing?”

“Yes,” Tamaryl answered. “That I had lost my position, lost your trust in me, lost my dear friends, and all without benefit for the Ai.” He clenched his fists behind his head. “Did they even offer to trade for the herb?”

Oniwe’aru frowned. “They did.” He shifted his weight. “They are eager to gain the herb, and their fighting men are guarding our merchants in their marketplaces. They will trade their grain for our samur.” He scratched at his chin and looked at Tamaryl. “That is why you are still alive.”

A chill ran through Tamaryl’s gut. “Oniwe’aru...”

“You have defied me more than once, Tamaryl. No matter what blood runs in us both, I cannot allow that to pass without note. I have order to maintain.” He crossed the cell and turned back. “But your willful disobedience has potentially benefited us, so you are here, awaiting the results of our venture with everyone else.”

Tamaryl caught his breath. “Then we’re trading?”

“Some. For a time. And then we will meet to discuss it.” Oniwe’aru eyed Tamaryl. “You should pray it is as successful as you hoped.”

“Where—where’s Maru? He acted under my instruction, obeying his lord of obligation, so he—”

“What do you take me for? Maru is working for an herbal trader. There’s a demand for unattached nim to carry samur, and he needed a place.”

Tamaryl felt simultaneous relief and fresh worry. Why was Maru unattached—what had happened to Tamaryl’s house?

He bowed his head again. “Let me help, Oniwe’aru,” he pleaded quietly. “I will carry the samur and the risk.”

“No, no. You will not leave this cell until I know whether your scheme was disobediently useful or merely anarchistic.” He sighed. “By the Essence, Tamaryl, you could have been great. You were so... Why couldn’t you do as you were told?”

Tamaryl didn’t answer. He had already offered all the explanation he had. If Oniwe’aru could not understand, there was nothing else he could say.

Oniwe’aru turned toward the door. “In the next turn of the moon, I’ll meet with their King Jerome. We will see then what your future holds.”

“Oniwe’aru!” Tamaryl said quickly. “For that time—here—leave me unbound, at least! You took my power yourself, you know I am no threat—don’t leave me like this.” The intensity in his voice surprised him.

Oniwe’aru hesitated, looking back, and then he turned to the door again. “Any other twice-traitor would be dead already,” he said shortly. He went out the door and the bolt slid home with a sound of grating metal.

Chapter 6

SHIANAN UNBUCKLED HIS weapons and left them lying across the table. He did not want to harm a guard performing his duty, and he would not carry a blade into the presence of royalty—even were he not already suspected of seeking to murder a prince.

He glanced at Luca. “Are you ready?”

Luca nodded and held out Shianan’s cloak.

They crossed the empty courtyard, two obscured figures in the dark. They entered via a servants’ door and passed a few sleepy slaves kneading dough, who ignored them. Shianan let Luca lead, as the slave had been able to explore the servants’ passages that afternoon. They climbed three narrow spiraling flights of stairs and passed through long, darkened corridors. They passed no one; there was no activity at this late hour, and it was early yet for the pre-dawn chores.

“Here.” Luca paused near a single tall window at the end of a corridor. “This is the one.”

Shianan looked out the window at the private garden below. Few eyes to see. A strip of linen fluttered at the latch. “You marked it?”

“So I could confirm it from outside, yes. You want the next one left.” He hesitated. “If you want it at all.”

“I do.” Shianan unlatched the casement window and leaned out. There was a narrow ledge of stone directly below, just the span of his hand, and then smooth masonry across an arms-length of wall until the next window and its ledge. “King’s oats.”

“There’s no other so near. And these are the largest windows.”

“I know.” Shianan considered. “But I see what you mean... Luca, I don’t want to drag you into this.”

“I’m already here.”

“Then go and find a tray, with a pitcher and cup. Several of them.”

As Luca returned to the kitchen, Shianan began casting about the area. There was no entry to the royal wing here, which was good; any guards would be a fair distance away. But he didn’t know the layout of the wing beyond what he could guess from the windows. He was relying a good deal more than he would have liked on fortune.

He found what he sought around a corner, where old weapons supported a thick layer of dust in an antique display. He took down a short, heavy mace, wondering briefly whose it had been.

Luca returned with the dishes as Shianan knotted the mace into a corner of his cloak. “I have them,” Luca explained unnecessarily, his voice muted. “What are you doing?”

“If anyone hears the window break,” Shianan instructed, “tell them it was you dropping the tray. Glass doesn’t sound anything like that, of course, but distance will be on our side. I’ll try to be quiet.”

“How will you return?”

“Out a window on the lower floor.” He pushed the hinged window all the way back and sat on the little lip. He then fed his cloak though the open window until it hung below him, the mace swinging slowly. “Once you’ve locked this behind me, go home. Stay well out of trouble.”

Luca nodded seriously. “You, too.”

Shianan tested the heft of the weighted cloak and swung it experimentally. Then he shortened his grip, leaned out with one hand steadying himself against the wall, and swung the cloak so that the weighted end crashed through the window, snapping the thin strips of lead and glass.

Shianan released the cloak, leaving it hanging out the far window, and got to his feet in the open casement. ’Soats, but this was insane. It was only an arm’s reach to the next window, but it seemed a league at least... He pressed his body to the glass and stone, edging as far as he could. Then he stretched out his arm, hugging the masonry to his face, and lunged.

His foot caught the far ledge and he grasped frantically for the broken window, shoving his hand inside and hooking his forearm about the horizontal saddle bar. It held his weight as he pulled himself securely onto the ledge, balancing at one end while he fumbled through the broken window for the latch. He had to stand on one foot for the casement to open, but it cleared him and he was able to slip inside the palace.

He stood inside the window, heart pounding, and looked around. He was in a disused chamber, and no one was shouting for guards to check on the sound of breaking glass.

He leaned out the window and saw that Luca had already closed the window he’d left; good man. He closed his own window—the break would be harder to notice from outside—and shook broken glass from his cloak, which he tied loosely out of his way. A pocketful of feathers mingled with the shards would provide an explanation for the broken window. He left the mace beneath an old chest as he crept from the room.

Somewhere beyond this empty stillness lay the royal family’s bedchambers. He had to identify which was the one he wanted.

He came to a more commonly used section, evident from the cleaner hangings, the small lights left burning in the hall for late servants, the faint warmth of bodies and braziers. He had to be more cautious, now. Which room was Soren’s?

He paused outside a door, listening. He was debating whether he dared to open it and peer within when he heard a faint sound. He flattened himself against the wall, wishing for more shadow from the dim betraying hall light, and saw someone with an armload of bedding nudging another door softly closed.

Servants didn’t change linen in the middle of the night, unless for a sickbed. And, Shianan noted as the servant turned toward him, that was Ethan. Soren was alive, and he was behind that door.

Shianan exhaled and made his muscles loosen. Ethan, tired and unwary, was an easy target; he turned into a narrow servants’ passage and Shianan slipped behind him. One hand clamped over the servant’s mouth as the other jerked him backward by the throat.

Ethan dropped the bedding and struggled, trying to cry out, but Shianan leaned close to his ear. “Quiet, Ethan,” he whispered. “It’s Becknam.”

Ethan ceased struggling, but Shianan did not release him.

“That was His Highness’s room you left?”

Ethan nodded mutely.

“I’m going to see him.” Ethan’s eyes widened and he began to struggle again. Shianan tightened his hold, muffling the protesting noise. “Quiet!” But Ethan didn’t stop, and Shianan changed his grip on the servant’s throat, squeezing the two great arteries until Ethan went heavy in his arms.

Shianan hefted the unconscious man—’soats, why hadn’t he done that for the injured prince back in the ravine?—and dragged him through a narrow door in the servants’ corridor. It was a small storeroom, as he’d hoped, with spare blankets and ink and such as royal masters might request but didn’t want cluttering their chambers. He tied Ethan, not uncomfortably, and gagged him with clean bedding. The dirty pile he kicked into the storeroom where it wouldn’t draw notice. Ethan would be awake again in a moment, but he might have enough sympathy and trust in Shianan not to kick over too much furniture in an effort to be freed. Shianan hoped the servant would work to free himself, rather than waiting to be found or trying to attract attention. It would be to the advantage of both if Shianan’s visit was unknown.

He checked for anyone else in the corridor and then moved silently to Soren’s door. He eased it open—there might be a healer at the bedside—and entered.

The large bed was opposite the door, curtains tied back, and the room stretched darkly away to the right. Shianan closed the door behind him and stared at the bed. The single candle on the narrow table cast eerie shadows over the still form, but it was easy to see that Soren was not well.

He was very thin, Shianan saw as he moved closer. His body was consuming itself in an attempt to fight the sickness. His skin was brightly pale, even in the candlelight. Shianan reached to touch his shoulder, knowing what he would find, and the heat was palpable.

There was nothing Shianan could have done to prevent this contagion. Only prompt washing of the wound could have slowed the infection, and he could not have dared to draw out the spearhead in the ravine, even had he wine or antiseptic herbs to clean it. Still, if he’d been able to bring the prince out more quickly...

There were healers and mages working for Soren, certainly. He was receiving the best of care. Shianan could do nothing now. But he could not leave his prince, his lord, lying so quiet and still.

He moved his hand to Soren’s arm, a low ridge beneath the blankets, and wrapped his fingers about the forearm as he crouched beside the bed. “My lord,” he said softly. “If you can hear me, somehow—I’m sorry I couldn’t do more. I tried, ’soats, I tried, but it wasn’t enough... Stay here. You have work here, important work. And you wanted to come visit Fhure again.”

It was not right, not fair, that he had finally been given those he could trust, lean upon, hold close—and that they were taken from him. Luca he had again, at least for a time, but Ariana and then Soren... Holy One, I cannot do this on my own!