The Whitefire Crossing - By Courtney Schafer Page 0,110

led trusting as a calf to slaughter.”

Kiran gritted his teeth. “You’ll gain only death.”

“So you say.” Pello moved for the door.

“Simon will prove me right,” Kiran said urgently. “He’ll use the binding against you, the moment you disobey or even irritate him. When he does, think on what I’ve said.”

Pello shot him one last narrow-eyed glance and slipped out. Kiran thumped a fist into the bedquilt. Curse it, if only he’d found more convincing words! Certain as the sunrise, Simon would use that binding one day—but perhaps not soon enough to help Kiran.

***

Time dragged on in endless, silent hours, and Kiran’s frustration climbed ever higher. He paced the room, tracing ward lines over and over, seeking even the tiniest of flaws in the invisible bars of his cage. He found none. Simon’s wards were seamless, and his charms proved impervious to all Kiran’s attempts to damage or remove them. Kiran braved the shattering pain countless times, trying to read their pattern. The charms’ protective wardings knocked him unconscious before he could get so much as a glimpse.

He could only guess at how long he’d been Simon’s captive. His only means of measuring time was to count meals and the number of times he’d slept. That was no good guide, since he suspected Simon of sending meals at irregular intervals, and his body’s natural rhythms had been disrupted by the drugs. He thought it had only been a few days, though it felt like more. Simon hadn’t returned, and neither had Pello. His meals were brought by a dour-faced old woman who refused to even raise her eyes from the floor, let alone speak, no matter what Kiran said to her.

Despite all the time he’d had to think, he’d come no closer to understanding how Simon planned to strike at Ruslan. Physical harm would not suffice to kill an akheli, and if Simon truly lacked the ability to cast channeled magic, he’d never breach Ruslan’s defenses.

Ruslan had once told Kiran the only danger a master akheli need fear was his own capacity for error when working with forces as immensely powerful as those of Ninavel’s confluence. A mistake in channel design might easily send energies too great for any mage to contain surging through both channeler and focus, overwhelming all protections and burning both to ash in an instant. Perhaps Simon intended to trick Ruslan into an error of that nature—but Kiran couldn’t imagine how.

The door opened. The ward lines glowed livid green, extinguishing Kiran’s hope his visitor might be Pello.

Simon stepped over the threshold with the delicacy of a cat. He was dressed much as before, in somber but well tailored Alathian clothing, without any sigils or markings. Slender and of medium height, he had none of Ruslan’s commanding physical presence. Only his eyes gave the lie to his mundane appearance. They swept over Kiran, coolly appraising.

“It appears you have made a full physical recovery. Good.”

Kiran watched him warily. Plentiful sleep and food had erased the last traces of his exhaustion from the trip across the mountains, as well as the lingering weakness from the drugs. He felt healthy and strong, but it would do him little good against Simon’s magic.

“Sit down.” Simon put a hand on a chair. Kiran shook his head, backing up a few paces for good measure.

Simon sighed. “Why waste time with vain attempts at defiance?”

Because it irritates you, Kiran didn’t say. Small hope that Simon’s irritation would lead to a mistake in casting, but Kiran had to seize any hope, no matter how small. He shrugged.

“Suit yourself,” Simon said, with a shrug of his own and a flick of his hand. Kiran fell sprawling onto the floor. Simon called, “Morvain!”

A gray-haired man with a scar bisecting his jawline poked his head around the open door. Simon pointed at Kiran, then the chair. Morvain entered and hoisted Kiran with broad, callused hands, depositing him in the chair with no apparent effort. Kiran recognized the stubbornly blank look on the man’s scarred face. Ruslan’s servants had worn much the same expression. This man had been with Simon far longer than Pello, and would know well the crushing grip of Simon’s binding. A tiny spark of hope rekindled. If Pello had the sense to talk to Morvain, he might yet realize the truth of Kiran’s words.

As Morvain hurried out, Simon drew up the second chair to face Kiran’s. He sat, his silver dagger gleaming in one hand.

Kiran marshaled his concentration. If Simon meant to touch his memories again,