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.”

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.