The Whitefire Crossing - By Courtney Schafer Page 0,80
to feel like that again, Changed as I was. “Sethan and I kept climbing together, got to be friends, and the next year he took me on as apprentice.” After Jylla and I had killed Tavian; though Sethan had never known that part.
“He taught you outriding...and then later he died, in a rockfall?”
“Right.” I didn’t stop the word from coming out curt and cold. It’d be a bright day in Shaikar’s hells before I talked about that rockfall to anyone, let alone Kiran.
If he heard the warning in my tone, he didn’t heed it. “But if Sethan is dead...why do you need money for his sake?”
Gods all damn it, I’d forgotten he’d overheard my fight with Cara. I stopped dead and fixed him with my fiercest glare. “That’s none of your fucking business.” Hell if I’d spill my secrets to a liar like him, especially when I wasn’t certain whose ears they might end up in if Gerran sold him out.
“Isn’t it?” His expression wavered between defiant and pleading. “My life depends on your need for that money. But without knowing why you need it, how can I trust it’s truly so important to you that you’ll not betray me?”
“Use your gods-damned eyes! You think I would’ve abandoned the convoy, given up outriding, and risked death at a blood mage’s hands if that money wasn’t fucking vital to me?”
He winced. “I truly am sorry it’s cost you so much to help me. My offer stands—if there’s anything I can do for you, after reaching Kost—please, just tell me.”
My gaze lit on his bandaged arm, and my anger faded. Regardless of his motives, he’d spared me injury or worse today. “If I think of something, I’ll let you know,” I said, and walked on.
He took a breath, but before he could raise another unpleasant topic, I blurted out the first question that came to mind.
“You said Ruslan raised you—how young were you apprenticed?” I had no idea how that worked for mages, and I had to admit I was curious.
“Five, perhaps six years of age? I’m not exactly sure.” Kiran sighed. “I don’t remember anything before Ruslan. He always said it was because my life only truly started when I came to him.”
“Huh.” What a crock of manipulative horseshit. Red Dal trotted out similar crap with his Tainters, and we hadn’t seen through it either. I quashed an unwilling pang of sympathy. “Was it hard, learning to do magic?” Using the Taint had been easy as breathing, but street stories said spellcasting was different, even for powerful mages.
Kiran started to answer, then fell silent as we negotiated a stretch of talus and he had to concentrate to keep from jostling his arm. His voice was breathless when he next spoke. “Sometimes. There’s a lot to learn, both to design spells and cast them. Even a tiny mistake in a channel pattern can result in enough spillover to destroy both of you in an instant.”
“Sounds lovely,” I muttered, then paused. “Both of you? Is that like what you said before, that it takes two mages to do a difficult spell?”
“Yes. One to control and direct the power within the channels, and the other to focus it through the lens of his will and cast the spell.”
“What’s it like?” The question slipped out before I could stop it. Gods, the Taint had been pure joy. Savage longing tore my heart at the very thought.
Kiran was silent for a moment. “Glorious,” he finally said. I recognized the echo of my description of Kinslayer, and the pain in his voice, twin to my own.
Damn it, when he talked of magic, he didn’t mean anything so innocent as either climbing or the Taint. “How many channeled spells does a blood mage cast?” I figured that was a nicer way to put it than how many people do you kill?
He didn’t answer right away. “I only cast practice spells, where we didn’t use full power. But I think...I think Ruslan casts channeled spells often.”
I wondered what “often” really meant. How many people disappeared in a city the size of Ninavel? I thought of the streetside slums, all the beggars and whores and gangs. All the immigrants that flooded into the city, hoping to strike it rich and failing more often than not. Ninavel must be a perfect haunt for a blood mage.
The sun had set while we talked, the haze on the horizon glowing a dusky, burning orange. Through the twilight, I spied a clump of twisted