The Whitefire Crossing - By Courtney Schafer Page 0,107
imagine. A dizzying vista expanded. He might seek out a different, more innocent form of magic. Travel to distant lands, the way explorers did in the tales both he and Alisa had loved.
The memory of Alisa’s bright eyes and wistful smile closed Kiran’s throat and brought him tumbling back to reality. Even if by some miracle he achieved freedom from both Ruslan and Simon, Kiran would remain one of the akheli. The akhelashva ritual had changed him in more ways than the mark-bond, and from everything he’d read, there was no way back. He’d always be a pawn to more powerful mages, and a dangerous but profitable commodity to men like Dev.
Dev. Kiran’s hands clawed into the bedquilt. His other memories of Kost were hazy from the drugs, but his last moments with Dev stood out with painful clarity. Not a hint of surprise had shown on Dev’s face when Gerran’s man had grabbed Kiran. Dev had known it would happen—and he’d neither warned Kiran, nor lifted a finger to help him.
A black wave of anger crested. Kiran forced it down to a roiling undercurrent. Foolish, to feel so bitter. He’d known the chances of betrayal were high. But he’d been so relieved, when Dev had returned to the cabin—he’d let down his guard, started to trust.
Ruslan had always insisted the nathahlen could never be trusted. They’ll turn on you like jackals the instant they see an opportunity, jealous of your power. Kiran hadn’t wanted to believe him, preferring Alisa’s far rosier view. But all his attempts to embrace her ideals had only led to disaster.
He shook off the thought. The only thing that mattered now was finding a means of escape. Otherwise if Simon did kill Ruslan, Kiran would only exchange one monstrous master for another. Why he didn’t burn out your will the moment he took you as an apprentice, I’ll never know, Simon had said. Kiran shivered, his gorge rising.
***
(Dev)
Early morning in Kost brought thick veils of river mist drifting through the narrow, cobbled streets. Soon as the sun rose over the rim of the gorge, the fog would burn off, but for now it turned Kost into a dreamscape of half-seen shapes and odd echoes. I hurried up the terraced lanes of the city’s southwest quarter, the silver band of my find-me charm pulsing warm on my bicep beneath the rough brown wool of an Alathian-style tradesman’s jacket. Alathians did business at disgustingly early hours, and enough tradesmen making deliveries traveled the fog-choked streets to make my presence unremarkable.
The find-me charm was a simple one, too minor in nature to offend the Council’s sensibilities. It operated on the same principle as the old kids’ game of fire-and-ice. The closer I moved to the charm’s target, the warmer the band grew. So far, my idea about targeting the dye on Kiran’s shirt appeared to be working. The charm had led me from my room at a nondescript riverside inn up to this far more genteel district perched high on the side of the Parsian Valley, full of Kost’s version of highsiders, exactly the kind of place I’d expect a mage to frequent.
Only problem was, the charm didn’t hold enough power to work longer than a half-day at most, and the gods-damned streets twisted back on themselves like a tangle of sand adders as they climbed the hillside. Moving in the right direction was slow, frustrating work, requiring an eye-crossing level of concentration on subtle changes in the charm’s warmth. My gut fizzed with a mixture of impatience and worry. If I didn’t track down Kiran before the charm gave out, I’d never find him in this terraced maze of highsiders.
Instead of the cultivated courtyards and graceful archways that separated highsider dwellings in Ninavel, Kost’s richer denizens stacked their houses in rows, side by side with no space in between. Looking down at lower terraces, I’d seen the houses had tiny courtyards in back, barely large enough for a few flowerpots. Down riverside, all the buildings were boxy, ugly things of plain wood, but up here, wood mixed with gray and brown stone, and some houses had slate roofs. Occasional steeply slanted parks lined with trees and lush flowerbeds crossed the gap between terraces.
The fog began to burn off, and wan sunlight seeped through the haze overhead. My head pounded with the effort of concentration. The charm’s power was fading. Gods all damn it, surely I was close, now. I’d nearly climbed to the valley rim.