her simple clothes. “There’s no such thing as dragons,” Kiran said.
“How do you know?” She gave him an arch look. “Plenty of mages live around here, you know. One of them could have made one. A magic dragon.” Mischief sparkled in her eyes. “I heard when Sechaveh’s great-granddaughter got married, he had his mages conjure her a team of unicorns to draw her carriage.”
Kiran opened his mouth to tell her that it was likely mere illusion, that the amount of power needed to create some fantastical animal was impossibly huge, but that thought reminded him he shouldn’t even be talking to her in the first place.
“I should go,” he mumbled, and reached for a karva vine. If he didn’t return home soon, Ruslan would want to know why a simple purchase of spell-grade silver had taken him so long. And if Ruslan decided he’d been too friendly with this nathahlen girl...his hands cramped around the vine.
“What’s your name?” the girl asked. He shook his head, avoiding her eyes. She smiled at him, winningly. “Come on, don’t be shy. I’m Alisa. My uncle warned me Ninavel boys aren’t so well mannered as those back east, but surely you can see now you’ve got to tell me your name, or else it’s terribly impolite.”
He’d never seen someone smile like that, like she was lit from within. A queer pang squeezed his heart. Before he could stop himself, he answered, “Kiran.”
Alisa rewarded him with another radiant smile. “Well then, Kiran, I’ll see you next week.” She winked at him and slithered down the wall to pick up her basket once more. Her head was high as she sauntered out through the archway that led to the main street. Kiran stared after her, rooted to the spot. Next week; suddenly, the time until Ruslan sent him out for more spell material seemed far too long.
This time when the spell released him, Kiran struck Simon’s hand away and vaulted from the chair in one convulsive motion. “Stop it!” Alisa, vivid and beautiful and alive...pain seared him, worse than any magefire strike.
On Simon’s face, surprise changed to dawning comprehension. “I see...your redirection didn’t completely succeed. The two memories must not be unrelated. How interesting.” He eyed the chunk of amber in his hand, thoughtfully.
“You seek my memory of the akhelashva ritual? Why? The mark-binding cannot be dissolved while Ruslan yet lives, and you must already know the ritual’s forms!” The very thought of reliving it choked the breath from Kiran’s lungs. Did Simon imagine Ruslan had exposed some vital weakness that day? Kiran swallowed a half-hysterical laugh. The weakness had all been his, not Ruslan’s.
“I have my reasons.” Simon’s gaze lingered on Kiran’s clenched hands. “The distress it causes you is only a side benefit, I assure you.” He smiled, slow and cruel.
Kiran drew a steadying breath. So far Simon had cast only simple contact bindings and spells so minor they barely required a source of power. Proof that Simon had to tiptoe around the Alathian detection magic, and dared not attempt spells of any real strength. Against minor spells, Kiran had every chance of weaving mental defenses with his own ikilhia to keep the memory safely hidden.
He lifted his chin and locked eyes with Simon. “You think I haven’t realized how weak you truly are? You’re alone. No way to cast channeled magic...compared to Ruslan, you may as well be nathahlen.”
“Ruslan certainly thought so, after he slaughtered my apprentices.” Simon’s smile sharpened. “Beautiful symmetry, isn’t it? He destroyed my property, and now I’ll use his to destroy him and regain all I lost.”
Property. Kiran’s hands clenched. “You’ll never get that memory. I’ll fight you with every spark of ikilhia I possess.”
“Such passion,” Simon said softly. “A shame to destroy it. But when I bind you as my own, I’ll not make Ruslan’s mistake of leaving your mind intact. Your capacity for independent thought is a small price to pay for your eager, unthinking obedience to my every desire.” His gaze traveled Kiran’s body. The dark anticipation in his eyes swept away all Kiran’s restraint.
“When Ruslan tears you apart, I’ll rejoice in your agony,” Kiran snarled.
Simon chuckled. “At last, the cub bares his fangs. I’d wondered if you were truly akheli, but I see Ruslan did not choose in error.”
Kiran clamped his teeth on a shout. Simon only sought to goad him further. Rage wouldn’t help him; he needed cold, clear calculation, to construct mental blocks and shifting veils of misdirection that Simon’s spells could never