The Whitefire Crossing - By Courtney Schafer Page 0,106

a finger on the chair arm, his dark brows drawn together in dissatisfaction. “Perhaps some adjustments to the arcana,” he muttered.

Ah. So subtle a spell was difficult to target properly. Simon hadn’t wanted that memory, but another—which one, Kiran couldn’t tell. Perhaps Simon imagined Kiran possessed knowledge of the complex, layered defensive spells that guarded Ruslan’s mind and ikilhia. The idea startled Kiran into a bitter chuckle. If Simon thought Ruslan confided in his apprentices, he didn’t know Ruslan at all.

Simon glanced at Kiran. “If you mock your master’s indulgence of your disobedience, I share the sentiment.” He shook his head. “What a fool Ruslan is. Why he didn’t burn out your will the moment he took you as his apprentice, I’ll never know. That ridiculous obsession of his with creating a family, I suppose.” He gave a scornful laugh. “Not that I’m complaining. His weakness will mean his death.”

Kiran’s eyes widened. Simon’s hatred for Ruslan had been evident from the start. But to kill Ruslan...not even in Kiran’s darkest, wildest dreams had he imagined such a thing was possible. Ruslan was far too clever and strong, his defenses so thickly layered not even a channeled spell could penetrate them.

Yet Simon’s sharp derision when he’d spoken of Ruslan and family...Kiran’s mouth went dry. Akheli were exquisitely skilled in the art of torture. Did Simon think to gain advantage over Ruslan by threatening—or worse, enacting—some savage torment upon Kiran?

Torment is what you deserve, after the horrors I endured, Alisa’s voice whispered within. Kiran fought to project only confidence. “You must know Ruslan would never bow to an enemy’s demands, no matter what you do to me.”

“True; not even Ruslan is so foolish as that.” Dark amusement lit Simon’s eyes as he stood. “Though you are wise to fear my casting. Ruslan’s corrections will seem as love-taps compared to the agonies my wards will visit upon you, if you brave them.” He tapped the black ward lines etched into the doorframe, meaningfully. The lines flashed a quick, vivid green as the door shut behind him.

Kiran concentrated. Even with his magic blocked by Simon’s charms, he could sense a low, snarling mutter of power within walls, ceiling and floor. Not strong enough to kill, but enough to savage his nerves and blast him unconscious.

He studied the silver banding on his forearms. He’d never succeed in reading a spell pattern through pain so intense as Simon’s charms could inflict, but if he could damage the filigree badly enough, he might shatter the bonds on his power.

Kiran scooted over to the nearest bedpost, a chunky wooden column broader than his hand. Bracing himself as best he could with one arm, he slammed the other against the post.

The charm flashed a violent blue, and agony blurred his vision. Kiran doubled over, gasping. Gradually, the pain ebbed. He peered at the silver, seeing it unmarked as he’d suspected. The flash meant the charms contained protective wardings to prevent damage.

The few room furnishings were heavy, carved wooden things. Kiran reached for the oil lamp overhead, hope rising, but Simon had anticipated him. The lamp was warded as strongly as the walls. Kiran growled in frustration and glared at the floor, covered in a thick, soft rug marked by subtle colors and patterns. Simon was wealthy despite his exile.

An exile he clearly believed would end, now he had Kiran. He must think Kiran’s memory held some key to Ruslan’s defenses, unlikely as that seemed.

New unease cramped Kiran’s stomach, as he recalled Simon’s amused condescension when he’d agreed about the mark-binding, and the covetous heat of his gaze when they’d first met.

The only release from a mark-bond was in death; but Ruslan’s death or Kiran’s, either would suffice to dissolve the link. If Simon killed Ruslan, afterward he could mark-bind Kiran for his own, if he chose. But why bind Kiran rather than simply kill him along with Ruslan?

In all Simon’s talk of his exile and his plans, he’d said I, never we. Kiran straightened, in a blaze of certainty. Simon was alone. Without a partner mage, he couldn’t cast channeled spells—of course he’d be eager to bind a trained apprentice.

But Ruslan’s magic outweighed Simon’s by a thousandfold, with Mikail and Lizaveta to channel for his casting while Simon cast alone. How could Simon possibly think to defeat Ruslan with such a handicap?

Yet if Simon destroyed Ruslan, and Kiran somehow escaped before Simon could mark-bind him... for an instant, Kiran pictured it: true freedom, the sort he’d barely dared to