Book 2: Interlude

Four years earlier…

Winter came early to the Storm Heights, especially this high up. Sarette buckled her coat tightly, the cold winds at the summit whipping around her. When she reached the sheer cliff, she stopped and looked down at the clouds below—storm clouds, with the telltale flashes of lightning strikes. She stopped to take in the scent, then she sighed. She could feel the storm, but she couldn’t call it. Not yet.

A voice came from behind her. “I hope you’re not thinking of jumping.”

She turned to face the older man. “Isn’t that how you did it, Vartus?”

“I had full command of my powers before I jumped off this cliff for the first time.” He waited expectantly. He knew why she’d come—and why she’d come alone. It was the first time she’d climbed Runner’s Summit without her parents, but she couldn’t expect them to hold her hand any longer.

“By right of blood, I submit myself to the stormrunners,” she said. It was difficult to keep her voice from wavering.

“The training is difficult, Sarette.”

“You’ve told me about it before, Uncle.”

“You haven’t shown much skill.”

“You refused to teach me until I was older, and Mother never learned.”

“Still, you should have shown something by now.”

“I can sense it! Always. Even when I’m not trying to. You allowed Sascha to complete the training, and he can only fly someone else’s storm.”

Vartus sighed. “You realize you may fail.”

“I know.” She didn’t truly believe that, but she had to tell him what he wanted to hear. “You know you need me. There are only four stormrunners left.”

“If it is the will of Borrisur for the line to end, then so be it. Perhaps you or your cousin will bear a child with a stronger gift. There would be honor in that.”

Sarette wrinkled her nose in distaste. Being married off to a boy from another stormrunner family and pushing out child after child in the hopes of reigniting the line wasn’t her idea of a real life. She’d wanted to fly the storms ever since she was six years old and her parents had taken her to see an aerial display put on by the order. It was one of the last public displays ever given—in the ten years since, two stormrunners had died and another had grown too old for acrobatics—but Sarette still remembered it vividly. She’d felt the storm for the first time that day as she watched Vartus and the others swoop through the clouds.

“I don’t believe Borrisur wants the line to end,” she replied. “I wish to undertake the training.”

“Then let’s begin.”

#

Rusol woke with a start, trying to process what had just happened. It hadn’t quite been a dream, but instead image after image of people and places he didn’t know. None of it meant anything to him, but it felt like the images had been trying to tell him something.

He sat up in bed and swung his legs over the side, but as he got to his feet, the visions returned, flashing through his mind faster than he could process them. He fell to his knees and closed his eyes but it didn’t help—it was all in his head.

The images gradually slowed, leaving him gasping for breath, and with new knowledge in his head. What just happened? he asked himself. What’s a warden? Chief among the things he’d seen was a spell, one more subtle than any elder spell he’d ever learned. It was more along the lines of certain demonic powers that could be used to influence people, but instead it was meant to bind two mages together, enhancing their gifts.

Magic was dangerous in Larso, especially in Telfort, the seat of power for the Church of Pallisur. Even as princes of the realm, Rusol and his brother had grown up knowing they could never let anyone know they were mages. Rikard had grown frustrated early and given up on it, joining the knights instead, as their father had done.

Rusol, though, embraced magic whole-heartedly. He’d never done well at weapons training, tiring too quickly and too easily. Whether it was due to a demonborn stigma or an accident of birth, he simply wasn’t capable of extended physical exertion. Magic only required his mind, and finding something he was actually good at had been exhilarating. His father had snuck an elder witch into the palace to train him, but Rusol had quickly outgrown the old woman’s skills. Marten himself had undertaken Rusol’s education on his demonborn powers, though demonic magic was more instinctive than learned.

Rusol felt confident in his abilities, but he’d always chafed at having to hide them in public. If this vision about wardens was true, it could completely change the future he’d imagined for himself. Experimentation would have to wait, though—his manservant had come into the room to help him get ready for the day.

An hour later, bathed and dressed, Rusol joined his family in the smallest of the three formal dining rooms—the one they used when they had no guests. He took his seat just as his brother entered the room.

“Good morning, everyone!” Rikard said with a wide grin, pausing to mess up Rusol’s hair.

“Stop that,” Rusol said, pushing the hand away. He was twenty-two years old, but his brother still treated him like a child.

Rikard was everything that Rusol wasn’t. Not just heir to the throne, but also strong, smart, charming, and good at talking to women. Rusol could never decide whether he hated his brother or loved him. Sometimes he thought it might be both.

“Rikard,” King Marten said, “we’ve got the meeting with Lord Samuel in an hour. Rus, I think he’s bringing his son with him, and maybe that daughter of his, too. Why don’t you keep the two of them occupied? It would be good for you to get to know the girl.”

“If you wish,” Rusol said, hiding a smile.

Lord Samuel, recently named Baron of Estwich after his father had passed away, had been Larso’s ambassador to Sanvar when he was younger, even going so far as to marry a Sanvarite woman. After his return to Larso fifteen years earlier, Samuel had realized his son was the same age as the king’s youngest. Even at seven years old, Rusol had been suspicious that their fathers had pushed the two boys together because he wasn’t good at making friends on his own, but Samir had been sincere and genuine, and it made a nice change from having Rikard as his only playmate.

Samir’s sister was younger, and had only recently been introduced at court, but she was beautiful, with the bronze skin and black hair she’d inherited from her mother. Rusol wouldn’t object to spending more time with her, even if she didn’t talk much. With two unmarried princes, there was only one reason for noble families with eligible daughters to parade them through the palace, but usually it was Rikard they were trying to impress. Rusol didn’t mind being the target for a change.

“Good,” Marten said. “And Rikard, we’ve got three cases to sit in judgement of this afternoon. We can discuss the details at the midday meal.”

“Yes, Father.”

The family was silent as they ate, until Rusol spoke up. “Father, have you heard of an order of mages called wardens?”

Marten and Rikard glanced around quickly, worried, but the only servants in the family’s quarters at this time of day were their longtime trusted employees, all of whom had been gradually manipulated to not notice the occasional discussion of—or presence of—magic.

“No,” Marten said. “Why?”

“I had a…dream about them, but I think they’re a real group. I was hoping there’d be something on them in the library.”

“A dream, huh?” Rikard said with a smirk.

“Shut up,” Rusol replied. “It wasn’t a normal dream. It was more like someone was telling me about them.” That didn’t really describe the sensation, but he didn’t want to open himself up to more teasing. “They’ve got a way to bond other mages and make their magic stronger. I think I figured out how to do the same thing.”

“What are you saying?” Marten asked.

Rusol wasn’t prepared to come right out and tell them he was a warden, not until he figured out whether the dream had been real.

Instead, he said, “If I can find some mages, I know how to improve their gifts.”

“What good would that do?” Marten said.

“The spell would work on me, too. And if I did it for someone, I could ask them for favors in return. Different types of mages, who can do things we can’t. We’ve always been limited by the Church, but if there were mages we could trust…”

“I don’t like the idea of taking advice from a dream. Who sent it, and how do you know they were telling the truth? I’ve never heard of these wardens before.”

“I don’t think there are very many of them, but I can make sure it’s real by finding a mage and casting the binding spell.”

Rikard snickered. “Good luck finding anyone in Telfort. Unless you’re talking about a priest of Pallisur.”

“You’re a mage,” Marten reminded his older son. He turned to Rusol. “If this works, could you make it so your brother actually has some control over his powers, rather than just ignoring them like he does now?”

The two younger men looked at each other, both grimacing at the thought.

“I’d rather not, Father,” Rikard said. “I’m happy enough as a knight. If I don’t know how to use magic, then I don’t have to hide that I can use it.”

“If you insist. Rusol, I wonder if this has something to do with you being able to use two different types of magic. I’ve never heard of anyone doing that before. I’ve always thought there was something special about you.”

This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author's work.

Rusol blinked in surprise. True praise from his father was rare.

“You really shouldn’t be talking about magic here,” Queen Merice said suddenly. As usual, she was a few beats behind everyone else. Shara, Rusol’s mother, rolled her eyes and shook her head, but only after making sure Marten wasn’t looking her way.

“You’re right, of course, dear,” Marten said to his wife. “We’ll take this conversation up again another time. For now, I’m going to go prepare for my talk with Samuel. Rikard, join me when you’re done here.”

After Marten had gone, Rikard stood up and mussed Rusol’s hair again. “Ooh, you’re special.”

“Rikard!” Shara said sharply. “Be nice to your brother!”

“Oh, Shara,” Queen Merice said, “the boys are are just teasing each other.”

Merice didn’t see the flash of hatred in Shara’s eyes, but Rusol did. The relationship between Marten’s wife and his concubine, never great to begin with, had been worsening, though the two of them hid that fact whenever the king was around. Their sons had learned not to take sides, either with their own mothers or each other’s.

#

“Your Highness, you remember my sister, Yassi?”

“Of course.” Rusol stretched his memory to recall things his brother had said to various lady friends. “Welcome back to the palace, Yassi. You should visit us more often.”

She smiled and ducked her head shyly, but didn’t reply.

Samir said, “I told her we could visit the trophy room if that’s all right with you.”

“Sure. There shouldn’t be anybody there at this time of day. How was your trip to Sanvar?”

“Long, and once we were there, Grandmother spent the whole time complaining that we don’t follow Sanvarite customs. I think she meant clothing—as if she thinks I’m going to wear a shirt that goes down to my knees.”

While they walked, Rusol sensed something strange from his two companions. It took him a moment to connect the feeling with the visions he’d had during the strange dream.

They reached the trophy room, which was filled with mounted animal heads, banners taken from the kingdom’s enemies during past wars, and old weapons and armor. Once inside, Rusol closed the door behind them so nobody could hear their conversation.

“You’re both mages,” he said, keeping his voice flat and even.

Yassi’s eyes widened fearfully, but Samir hid his shock well. “What?” he said. “What are you talking about?”

“You don’t have to lie to me, Sam. I won’t tell the priests.”

Samir was silent for a long moment, his jaw moving from side to side in an old nervous habit. Finally, he said, “How did you know?”

Now it was Rusol’s turn to hesitate. Samir was the only person he considered a friend, but in truth, they weren’t particularly close. Could he trust him? He’d have to, if he wanted to put his plan into action.

“Because I’m one too.”

“Bloody hell, Rus! Are you serious?”

Rusol held his palm out in front of him and summoned a tiny ball of fire. He kept it there for a moment before banishing it. “There. See? Now tell me about you.”

Samir took a deep breath. “I’m not a mage. Not really. Our mother’s part Zidari, which is one of the old clans in Sanvar. Some Zidari have certain gifts. Mother didn’t, though, and we didn’t know about ours until after we’d moved to Larso. What could we do then? Father was busy here. He considered asking the king to name him ambassador again and send us back, but then Grandfather grew ill and needed his help. So…we just hid it, and hoped no one would find out. I never trained my gift. I can’t really do much with it.”

“And Yassi?” Rusol asked, looking straight at the girl.

Sam winced, apparently realizing he’d deflected attention away from himself to his sister.

“I’m a Seer,” she said softly.

“I’ve heard of the Zidari, and of Seers. We have books here that the Church probably wouldn’t approve of.”

“What about you?” Samir asked.

Rusol had come this far, but there were some secrets he wasn’t prepared to share. “I’m an elder witch. There must have been some witch blood in my mother’s line.” The blood had actually been in his father’s line for hundreds of years, but he couldn’t risk that information getting out. He didn’t mention the demonic magic.

“Witches? Like the ones the Church used to…” Samir didn’t finish the sentence.

“The word means something more specific than how the Church uses it, but yes.”

“I never knew. What do we do now?”

Rusol could sense the magic in both of them, but something told him Sam would be a bad choice. Yassi, on the other hand, held promise, but he had to move slowly. He had to be sure he could trust her first.

“Tell me,” he said, “what all can a Seer see?”

#

A month later, Rusol found himself in another strange dream, but this one was different. Instead of visions, he was surrounded by endless mists. He knew he was dreaming, but it felt real at the same time.

A man stepped out of the mists to stand before him. He was young, with black hair, and a scar on his right cheek. His arms were bare, and there were four runes lining each of them—some glowing, some not.

“Who are you?” Rusol asked. “Where are we?”

“We’re in the place between dreams,” the man said, his eyes cold.

The runes seemed familiar. “You’re a warden.”

“And so are you, apparently. You shouldn’t be.”

Rusol bristled. “What do you mean?”

“Too soon. It’s too soon. You cheated.”

“Cheated? I didn’t do anything! If your people didn’t want me, maybe they shouldn’t have chosen me!”

“We don’t choose the chosen; the chosen are chosen by the choosing. But it’s too soon—you shouldn’t be here.”

“I have as much right as anyone! Who are you to say otherwise?”

“I was the Second, and now I’m the First. I should have been the Third but the first First died.” The last bit was said in an almost sing-song voice.

“Stop talking in riddles, you blathering idiot!” Rusol snarled, unable to keep the demonborn rage in check any longer. He reached for the magic, but couldn’t feel it. His elder senses saw nothing but emptiness.

“You think I’m the idiot?” The man thrust his arms out to his sides and a burst of white light flashed over everything, knocking Rusol to the ground. “I’ve been fighting demons for four thousand years! I know how to deal with your kind.”

“I’m no demon!” Rusol yelled, struggling back to his feet. The light reminded him of divine magic, and some priests could recognize demonborn even when they were passing as humans. Rusol was able to hide his nature, but he’d never thought to do so while asleep.

The man spoke again. “You’re lucky I’m so far away. You’re safe from me, for the moment, but the others have a longer reach. If they find out you’ve got demon blood, they may simply kill you out of hand. Perhaps if you’re a good boy, they’ll leave you alone. Can you be good? Or are you twisted inside like your ancestors?”

“You can’t threaten me!”

“Oh? Can’t I? No demonborn has ever been a warden before. You’ll have to prove yourself. Or would you prefer that I whisper in their dreams and tell them how to find you? Who knows which one I’ll tell? Who knows what you’ll wake up to?”

The man cackled and faded from sight, leaving Rusol alone among the mists, which grew thicker, obscuring his vision. Now what do I do?

He walked for what seemed like hours, but couldn’t find any way out of the featureless existence. He didn’t wake until someone shook his shoulder.

“Father?” he asked, blinking the sleep out of his eyes.

“Rus, there’s…been an accident,” Marten said, a hollow look on his face. “Rikard, he…he went for a ride early this morning. He fell. He was already…when we found him, it was too late.”

#

“You can see, Your Majesty, Your Highness—the straps have been cut,” Captain Tark said in a tone that suggested he believed he was about to lose his job. As head of the Royal Guard, he was responsible for the family’s safety.

“Then this was an assassination,” Marten said, slamming his fists on his desk, his eyes glowing red. He was far better at hiding his nature than Rusol was, but even for him, there were limits.

Tark ignored it, of course. He’d been conditioned to not notice things like that…and maybe that was part of the problem.

“Yes, Your Majesty. You know how hard His Highness rides. According to the stablemaster, this is the tack the prince uses for jumping. It would have only taken a few jumps to make it snap apart.”

“But why would…”

Rusol’s father struggled to get his voice under control. Rikard had been the family’s hope for the future, and everyone had taken the news hard. Queen Merice had collapsed. Shara was with her, having dosed her with something to calm her nerves.

When Marten could speak again, he said, “Why waste time with a method that could have just as easily failed?”

Rusol wasn’t sure whether his father expected an answer, but Tark said, “Perhaps because other methods would have been more obvious? This could have easily been dismissed as an accident if the stablemaster hadn’t noticed how clean the breaks were.”

Marten growled low in his throat. “Yes. Yes, that makes sense. An enemy who doesn’t wish to announce himself. But an enemy of Larso? Or an enemy who wants to rule Larso? My cousin—Lenard. Bring him here so I can question him. In chains if you have to. He’s next in line if Rusol and I are killed. But do it quietly. We’ll announce Rikard’s…” Marten had to pause again, struggling to regain his composure. “We’ll announce this as an accident. We won’t show any weakness.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“And Captain Tark…” Marten’s voice was cold.

“Yes, Your Majesty?”

“I expect you to discover how the assassin infiltrated the palace. If you fail to stop another attack, I’ll have your head.”

Tark bowed low and backed out of the room, his face pale.

Rusol knew who had done it, of course, but he’d have to admit to the threats the crazy warden had made against him. It was unlikely Marten would ever look at him kindly after realizing Rusol’s part in it all, but what choice did he have? If he was going to figure out ways to fight back, he’d need his father’s support.

Marten stood silently for a long time, staring off into nothing. Finally, he spoke. “Rusol, you’re the heir now. I know you weren’t expecting this, but can I trust you to uphold the honor of our family and kingdom?”

Rusol hadn’t made that connection until his father mentioned it. “I…yes, I understand. You can trust me, but I don’t think Captain Tark will find anything.”

“Why is that?”

“I think the attacker came here by magic.”

Marten stared at him, an intense look in his eyes. “Tell me what you know.”

#

“…so, if you allow me to bond you, we can make sure that what happened to Rikard doesn’t happen to anyone else,” Rusol said. “And we can find other mages, so I can protect them, too. We can’t go against the Church yet, but my father’s working on a plan—it’ll just take more time.”

“But, Your Highness, why do you need to cast a binding spell for that?” Yassi asked. The two of them were alone in Rusol’s private study. Or, rather, the heir’s study—it was still decorated to Rikard’s taste. “I’ll help you without it.”

“Because the bond will make your gift stronger. You weren’t able to find the wardens for me yesterday, but with this, maybe you can.”

“I don’t know…”

“Please, Yassi. We’re friends, aren’t we? You know I need you for this. Who else can do what you do?” It took all of Rusol’s effort to keep up the pleasant facade. He regretted never asking his brother for advice on how to speak to women. Or to other people in general.

Yassi thought for a moment, then nodded. “All right. I’ll do it.”

“Thank you.”

Rusol reached for her hand. As he prepared the spell in his mind for the first time, he realized something. Binding spells were usually arcane magic, according to the palace’s secret stash of outlawed books, but the warden bond was different. It wasn’t only used by wizards—it could be cast by any type of mage, as long as that mage was also a warden.

For some wardens, the spell would be channeled through divine magic, while for others, it would be elder magic. For Rusol, the spell aligned itself with his demonic side.

With that realization came the knowledge that he could change how the bond worked. He wasn’t as good as his father at controlling people, but the binding spell gave him a direct pathway to the target’s mind. As he cast it, he laid a compulsion over it. He’d never have to worry about whether he could trust his bondmates.

Yassi screeched and fell to her knees, tears streaming down her face as a yellow rune appeared on her forehead, in the shape of a stylized cat Rusol had sketched out earlier that morning. He pulled up his sleeve, confirming that the rune’s twin had appeared on his upper arm.

“It hurts!” Yassi said, sobbing. “What did you do to me?”

“The pain will fade in a few minutes. I simply made sure that you’ll always do as you’re told.”

“You didn’t tell me about that!”

“You didn’t ask. Don’t mention that part to Samir. In fact, don’t mention any of it. I’ll figure out how to explain the rest. We’ll need a story for your parents, too—I didn’t realize the rune would appear on your face.”

“What?”

He helped her stand up and face a mirror mounted on the wall. Her eyes grew wide. She rubbed at the rune with her fingers but nothing happened.

“Stop that,” he said. Her arm dropped to her side immediately as the compulsion forced her obedience. He continued, “I thought it would be on your arm, like mine, so your clothing would hide it. I think you can learn to conceal it, but for now, you’ll have to stay in the palace. Perhaps we can say you’re training to be a lady-in-waiting. We’ll keep you in the inner quarters until you can control it—the family’s personal servants won’t talk.”

“Why didn’t you tell me it would hurt?” She wouldn’t look at him directly, only meeting his eyes through the mirror.

“I changed the spell at the last minute. Now, I know I can always trust you. You’ll never be able to betray me. Neither will the others, once we find them. As soon as you’ve recovered, I need you to start looking for any other mages that are hiding here in Telfort, so I can decide if they’re worth bonding. No priests of Pallisur, of course—only the mages that are here against the law.”

“I’m not a Seeker,” she said.

“You’ll still find them eventually. We need more time to prepare, anyway—I have to hope that what happened to Rikard was just a warning. If the other wardens attack in force, I won’t be ready for them. But once I am, I’ll take the fight to them. They never should have killed my brother.”