The Whitefire Crossing - By Courtney Schafer Page 0,149
and ankles. The silver that had marked his forearms had disappeared as well. A faint dark tracery was all that remained of the marks Simon had cut into his flesh.
He was utterly still, and with that corpse-pale skin of his, he looked dead, but who knew what a mage could survive?
Kill a blood mage...might as well snuff out the sun. I spun in a slow circle, checking again for Simon. No question something had fucked up his spell, but much as I hoped he’d been blasted to vapor, I sure couldn’t afford to make assumptions.
A faint sound of footsteps, from the darkness of the meadow. Fuck! I dodged further into the cave. In all this wreckage, there had to be a hiding spot...there! A narrow crevice lurked beneath a boulder wedged over two half-destroyed crates. I threw myself onto my stomach and wriggled backward into the hole.
From the crevice, I could see most of the cave and part of the opening. The steady, measured footsteps grew louder, and I braced for the sight of an angry Simon. But the man who strode out of the darkness was a stranger.
He was tall, and wore a long coat of heavy leather, much longer than the sort outriders wear. He had golden skin and slanted eyes like a Korassian, but his hair was ruddy brown rather than black. The hair was long, Ninavel highsider-style, tied loosely back at the nape of his neck. He moved like a highsider, too, full of that easy arrogance.
Oh, shit. I knew one guy wandering around the Whitefires who’d match a Ninavel highsider’s description.
The stranger made straight for Kiran, walking over glowing lines as if they weren’t even there. I tensed. If this was Ruslan, Kiran was screwed, and I couldn’t do a thing about it.
The stranger knelt and laid a hand on Kiran’s forehead, the way a den minder might check one of her kids for fever. He gave a deep sigh, and tight lines around his mouth relaxed. He took his hand away and pulled a thumb-sized crystal from his coat.
The crystal glowed red, and I bit back a curse. Ruslan or no, he was definitely a mage.
He leaned over Kiran, one hand holding the crystal above the blood mage sigil on Kiran’s chest, and his other hand hovering over Kiran’s forehead. Red light stained Kiran’s skin as if he’d been dipped in blood, and the dark bruising on his outflung wrist disappeared.
Kiran twitched and inhaled. The mage withdrew his hands, the red glow of the crystal fading back to darkness. He hid the crystal away in his coat and pulled Kiran half up onto his lap, Kiran’s head supported against his chest.
“Open your eyes for me, Kiranushka. My brave son, child of my heart, ardeshka savoi, wake for me now...” He spoke softly, his deep voice marked by a far stronger version of the faint accent I’d heard in Kiran’s, and stroked Kiran’s hair with a gentle hand. Kiran whimpered and turned further into the circle of the man’s arms like a child seeking comfort. The man tightened his hold, his expression shifting into a deep and bitter tenderness.
Surely I’d been wrong—this couldn’t be Ruslan. But if not, who in Shaikar’s hells was he? Something about him was familiar.
Kiran’s eyes opened. He gasped and thrust himself away in a convulsive, frantic movement.
“Ruslan! Let me go, let me—” The words were panicky and breathless.
I stared. This was Ruslan? The way he’d healed Kiran, held him...it didn’t fit at all with my mental image of the master Kiran had tried so hard to escape.
Ruslan released his hold. The tenderness vanished, replaced by a cold amusement uncomfortably reminiscent of Simon.
Kiran scrabbled backward until his back fetched up against the cave wall, his eyes fixed on Ruslan the way a man watches a snake he expects to strike.
“Calm yourself, Kiran. You have nothing to fear from me.” Ruslan spoke soothingly, but an irony underlay his words that made me uneasy.
“You lie.” Kiran’s voice shook.
Ruslan smiled at him. Gooseflesh rose along my arms. The sharp cruelty in that smile outmatched Simon’s.
“How could I not be pleased? Simon Levanian, destroyed...I had long desired his death, but he hid behind the Alathian border wards like a child behind his mother’s skirt.” Ruslan’s rich voice dripped contempt. “So I forgive you your foolish rebellion, since it provided me such a wonderful opportunity.” His smile softened, gaining a faint echo of that disconcerting tenderness. “You played your part bravely and well.”