The Whitefire Crossing - By Courtney Schafer Page 0,159
dual crimes of blood magic and border violation.” The Alathian turned to Ruslan, his posture studiously formal. “Any claims on an Arkennlander criminal must be filed with the Alathian ambassador in Ninavel.”
“Return him to me, or I will tear down your country stone by stone,” Ruslan said, pure venom in his voice. Kiran’s heart quailed. Ruslan did not make idle threats.
The Alathian looked unmoved. “Ruslan Khaveirin, isn’t it? Oh yes, I’ve heard of you—best to study snakes before they strike, as the Sulanians like to say. Allow me to introduce myself—Captain Martennan of the Seventh Watch.”
His round face hardened to match his eyes. “Perhaps you didn’t hear me. I insist you take this matter back to Ninavel. Right now.” The casual tone had disappeared, leaving steel in its place. “And take that other with you.” He pointed to the silent Mikail.
Ruslan glanced at the air where the border lay, then at the half-circle of mages. His mouth thinned. “I gave you fair warning, Alathian. Remember that.” He stalked off eastward.
Kiran swallowed. Ruslan’s retreat was purely strategic. He wouldn’t engage in a fight when he lacked a major confluence to draw from, while the Alathians had all the immense power of their border wards. But once back in Ninavel, the colossal forces of the Well of the World would be his to use once more in spells subtle as they were powerful.
Mikail lingered, his eyes on Kiran. “You’re wrong about him,” he said quietly, as if he and Kiran were the only ones present. “He loves you, my brother. Remember that when your temper cools, and come home to us.” He strode after Ruslan.
Kiran could only shake his head. The Alathian shifted to face him, ringed hands spread. Kiran drew in a sharp breath, reminded of his hope for Dev. “I’ll not fight your arrest, if you’ll only get him a healer, please—” he pointed at Dev’s limp form.
“We’re not barbarians here,” Captain Martennan said. “Of course he’ll receive healing.” He motioned another mage forward, a bird-boned woman with tousled brown hair. “Alyashen, see to him.”
She nodded crisply and bent to lay a hand on Dev’s forehead. After a moment, she looked up, her eyes dark. “This is damage from blood magic, beyond my skill to heal. He’ll need to go to the Sanitorium.”
Martennan’s expression hardened again as he turned to Kiran. “What do you know of this?”
“It was a charm, not mine, Simon’s, Dev only wore it to stop Ruslan and save me...” Kiran stopped, realizing he was babbling. His hands still trembled with reaction, his control dangerously thin after the effort of using the border charm. Taking a deep breath, he continued. “The charm that hurt him is there—” he indicated Dev’s pack, half-hidden in the ferns on the far side of the border. “It might help your healers to examine it.”
Martennan nodded to another of the silent mages. The man stepped out of the circle and walked straight through the border as if it didn’t exist. Only a brief and barely visible flash marked his passage. Kiran stared in amazement.
“Surely you don’t imagine we’d design wards we couldn’t cross when and where we wanted to.” Martennan’s casually cheerful tone was back. “Did you think you blood mages were the only ones who can work powerful magic?”
Kiran flushed. He’d assumed exactly that after Ruslan’s dismissive attitude toward Alathian magic. Martennan chuckled.
“Very well, people, let’s go. Alyashen, you and Kallentor take the injured Arkennlander. Talmaddis and Lenarimanas, contact Captain Sorennas and tell him to double the mages on duty in the Aerie. I don’t trust that sly bastard Khaveirin one jot.” He looked down at Kiran. “I apologize in advance for this, but you are a blood mage and your magic is unbound.”
Kiran fought down an instinctive flare of power. He’d promised not to fight. He stood unresisting as Martennan’s hands clamped his shoulders, and a lash of magic burned the world away.
***
(Dev)
I woke in the slow, muddled way of a recovery from a bad fever, awareness drifting closer, then ebbing out of reach again. When I finally surfaced, the first thing I saw was Cara.
She sat in a wooden chair by an open, sunlit window, one leather-clad leg thrown over the chair’s arm. The sun turned her pale hair to molten gold, and lit fire from the metal outrider badge still pinned to her jacket. From the wistful look in her blue eyes, the window surely held a view of the Whitefires.