The Whitefire Crossing - By Courtney Schafer Page 0,158

falter. Worse was the look on his face, like a man who fights knowing he’s already lost.

“Go through,” he said to me, his voice harsh. “Quickly.” He took a dragging step backward toward Ruslan. The gap in the wards wavered and began to shrink.

“Fuck this,” I said, and shoved myself to my feet. Pain savaged me, my vision darkening. I threw myself at Kiran and crashed my shoulder into his back. He went flying through the gap, and I toppled through right after him.

Ruslan rushed forward, but he was too late. The hole collapsed inward with a violent, sparking flash, missing my feet by inches. Sparks showered off of Kiran’s arm, and he cried out in pain.

I had eyes only for Ruslan, who stood just beyond the shimmering veil, incredulous fury twisting his face. I laughed, blood bubbling up in my mouth. “I win, you asshole,” I said, and happily surrendered to darkness.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

(Kiran)

Kiran tore off Simon’s charm, working frantically to dampen magical energies before they spiraled out of control to catastrophic effect. Forces roiled, crested; submitted to his control, and subsided. He released his focus, his heart still pounding with reaction, and looked up.

Ruslan’s hot-eyed gaze stabbed into him. Kiran froze. Ruslan stood scant feet away, so close to the border he was almost touching it.

The mark-binding link remained blessedly still and silent. Ruslan’s voice no longer echoed in his mind; his will no longer crushed Kiran’s with the pitiless, implacable force of an avalanche. Kiran let out a shaky breath. He stood, slowly.

“This isn’t over,” Ruslan said coldly. “Don’t assume this—” he waved a dismissive hand at the fading veil of color in the air—“will stop me.”

“It worked for Simon.” Kiran lifted his chin.

Ruslan smiled, dark and terrible. Kiran took an involuntary step backward.

“Simon was nothing to me, compared to you.” Ruslan’s hazel eyes burned. “You are mine, body and soul, linked, bound, and marked.” He sketched the ancient ritual gesture in the air with one long-fingered hand. “Mine. Nothing will change that as long as you live, and I promise I will find you, no matter where you hide or how long the search takes me.”

Kiran turned his back. Ice choked his stomach and the border wards’ protection felt far too thin, but he couldn’t let Ruslan see the depth of his fear.

Dev lay huddled on his side, an unhealthy yellow tinge to his skin and blood trickling from his nose and mouth. His ikilhia had shrunk to a feeble flicker. Kiran hastily knelt and pressed a hand to Dev’s shoulder. He couldn’t heal Dev, not without careful study and a channeled spell, but perhaps if he fed in an infusion of ikilhia as would help a mage, Dev’s condition might stabilize. Kiran sent a trickle of his own ikilhia through the contact.

Instead of binding with Dev’s, the trickle dissipated.

“I fear the nathahlen will escape my vengeance.” Ruslan sighed in a mockery of regret. “A pity they die so easily.”

Kiran refused to look up. Wild power born of fear and frustration seethed within, perilously close to escaping his control. Dev badly needed a healer’s care, but Kiran had no idea of the distance to Kost, or how he might safely convey Dev there.

“Well, hasn’t this been interesting,” a new voice said brightly, making Kiran jump.

A dark-haired man in the blue and gray uniform of an Alathian mage sauntered out of the forest. His round, open face and snubbed nose gave him a cheerful look at odds with his height and his confident walk. Behind him, other uniformed mages appeared, ghosting through the trees to form a loose half circle behind the speaker.

Kiran tensed, rising. Alathians...he quelled the urge to run. He’d never win against so many. Besides, if he offered a peaceful surrender, perhaps they’d agree to help Dev.

“I heard a rumor a blood mage was using a charm to cross our border, but it seemed a little much to swallow...and yet here you are, caught in the act.” The Alathian glanced at Simon’s charm, then at the telltale akhelsya sigil on Kiran’s chest, exposed by the shredded remains of his shirt. Despite the man’s casual tone, his eyes were sharp.

“This one is mine,” Ruslan snarled, pointing at Kiran. “Return him to me, and I promise you, your precious border is safe.”

Panic surged through Kiran. He took one stumbling step away, but the Alathian raised a hand, his sigil-marked rings flaring silver in warning.

“Not so fast. You’re under arrest by decree of the Alathian Council, for the