Instead of throwing himself against his physical bonds, he strained at the bonds on his magic. Simon’s charms might weaken, this close to so much channeled power.
But the wall still stood about his mind, smooth and unbroken. The sparse tracery of Simon’s snare-binding lay underneath. Deeper yet lurked Lizaveta’s heart-binding, the result of his blood promise to her, a complex lacework so skillfully interwoven with his own ikilhia it was nearly undetectable. Regret flooded him. Why had he ever agreed to her terms? Death would be preferable by far to a twilight existence as Simon’s mind-burned slave. And if Simon succeeded against Ruslan, Mikail and scores of innocent nathahlen would die in Kiran’s place.
Pain stung his bare chest. Kiran swallowed a cry, breathing through clenched teeth as Simon sliced sigils into his skin. All the channel lines glowed red now, power ready and waiting. Fear set his heart hammering. Yet how could Simon cast, without both focus and channeler?
The sigils burning his skin—not just Simon’s personal sigil to anchor a new mark-binding, but a twisted spiral of dobravyi that would enhance the connection Ruslan had created between Kiran’s body and magic. Kiran’s panic surged.
Simon didn’t need a focus, not if he were to gut Kiran with the knife and simultaneously release the binding on Kiran’s power. A mortal wound combined with the dobravyi would mean a power draw completely out of Kiran’s control, his magic reaching blindly for what his body needed to survive. In response, Simon would channel a veritable cataract of power straight into him, immeasurably greater than needed to repair Kiran’s injury, all of it tuned and harmonized to Kiran’s link to Ruslan. And the moment Ruslan’s death shattered the mark-binding, Simon would burn out Kiran’s will and force a new bond.
As Simon’s wholly dependent, docile slave, Kiran would slaughter countless innocents and never even know the evil he did.
“Simon.” Kiran spoke softly. “Don’t do this. Please.” His voice was shaking. “Don’t do it, not this way. I’ll...I’ll help you cast against Ruslan. I’ll take your mark-bond, willingly.” The words were ashes on his tongue.
Simon’s knife hand stilled. His dark eyes locked with Kiran’s.
Please, Kiran begged, with every spark of ikilhia within him. If Simon would only leave his mind intact, then even subject to the soul-crushing constraint of a mark-binding, he might find a way to subvert Simon’s plans in Ninavel.
“Oh, you tempt me, Kiran.” Simon cupped Kiran’s face, his thumb stroking away a drop of blood trickling down Kiran’s cheekbone. “But I see you with clearer eyes than Ruslan. I’ll have you by my side, but not as you are now. Lesser, it’s true, but safer.”
He finished cutting the sigil and stood. Hot tears burned Kiran’s eyes, matching the sting of Simon’s sigils on his skin. He jerked against the manacles, his breath tearing in his chest. There must be a way to stop Simon, to strike back—
Lizaveta’s heart-binding, so tightly woven into his ikilhia—he couldn’t alter her prohibition against self-harm, but if he could warp the shape of her spell just slightly, enhance it there, and there...the resulting pattern would also deflect harmful energies, enough that it might disrupt the flow of power Simon funneled into him.
Disrupted, the channeled magic would backlash in a cataclysm sure to destroy both him and Simon. He gasped as the heart-binding lanced warning fire through him. Curse Lizaveta! Death wasn’t his desire in this, only Simon’s defeat.
Lizaveta’s binding didn’t relent. Kiran twisted, panting. New dismay pierced him as he glimpsed Dev, silent and still on his crate. Success in his plan would mean Dev’s death, when uncontrolled power roared through Simon’s bone-binding. I’m sorry, he thought at Dev. Iannis was right. Death is the only freedom for us. Grimly, he fought the burning pressure in his head, struggling to weave a pattern in his own ikilhia strong enough to tug Lizaveta’s into the proper alignment.
Simon cut sigils into his own palms. He set the knife down and spread his hands, blood dripping into the nearest channels. One by one the channels snapped into life, the sullen red glow brightening into blazing fire.
Hurry, Kiran had to hurry, yet the threads kept slipping from his grasp, fire devouring his focus...
Simon knelt, his eyes shut and sweat standing out on his face. He reached one bloody hand to touch the binding charm on Kiran’s left wrist, and raised the knife over Kiran’s bare stomach.
Not yet, he wasn’t ready, oh please...“Simon, no—!”
The knife came down, and everything turned white.
***
(Dev)
Horror choked me as