First and Last Sorcerer Page 8

  A struggle would then occur.

  So long as the emperor clung to life, Ounyal’am was regent only in title. A’Yamin controlled the empire, and he was not a man who easily relinquished ultimate power. The differences in how they would each rule were stark; there was no room for both philosophies.

  Ounyal’am was deeply troubled that religion should even be an issue, as he believed it had no place in government. A’Yamin—and his father—looked to the ancient ways of the “old gods.” In a forgotten time, one of those was said to have sought dominion over the world. The emperor and his counselor believed that time would come again.

  They pined and planned for it and would seek favor and power through it.

  Ounyal’am did not believe in any deities, though he kept this also to himself.

  He barely tolerated the priests who the counselor allowed at court in favor of even the ones who served the newer gods. A theocracy in serving any gods, new or long forgotten and dead, was abhorrent. He had felt so since youth and the day of blood on his shoes, but before that time, the old religion had seemed little more than a dark fantasy.

  Then Ounyal’am had met Domin Ghassan il’Sänke.

  Somehow the dark-robed domin had entered this very garden to wait for him. Somehow, it happened on one of the rare days he wanted desperately to be alone and had forced Nazhif and the bodyguards to give him some peace in privacy. At first, he had not known all that this sudden appearance had meant or what—rather than who—the domin truly was.

  Other secrets—other confidants among a sect of metaologers—had come much later. Perhaps the domin had taken those years to be certain that a young prince was worthy of such trust.

  Ghassan il’Sänke expressed concern about “old and potent ones” who had brought about the downfall of the nations before a unifying empire had risen from such ruin. That lost era, for the few who knew of it by scattered legends, was often called the “burning time.” The domin and his sect feared that such a time was coming once more, but a young prince had been able to do little so long as his father lived. In his youth, he had quietly attempted to hamper efforts by any faction to turn back the empire to an ill-fated past. Thankfully, even in his naïveté, he had somehow not bungled into affairs he did not understand.

  Later, under the domin’s tutelage, he came to understand a great deal.

  Counselor a’Yamin was no fool.

  Over the years, a not so young prince of the empire had fewer and fewer allies. There were always reasons for such people to disappear: other duties, a mission . . . a fateful mishap. And now all that was left to him were a small contingent of private guards and an outcast domin of an exposed and eradicated sect.

  “Are you . . . unwell, Highness?”

  In a sudden flinch, he glanced down and found A’ish’ah watching him. At that, she too flinched, which caused him to feel more guilt. Perhaps his nervousness and hers shook words from her before he could speak.

  “I am . . . sorry . . . about my father.” She swallowed. “I know what this looks to you, Highness, but he . . . he forced me to come . . . again.”

  Ounyal’am came to a stop and stared at her.

  “And I know . . .” she whispered, even more quietly while staring down at the path, “I am . . . not the one you want.”

  All those at court “talked” but so rarely said anything, let alone the truth as they saw it. Truth was vulnerability or a weapon to keep hidden for a fatal strike. He was now stunned by how wrong—and right—she was in her openness.

  “You have no wish to be empress, first or otherwise?” he asked, thinking she might shrink away even more at his own honesty. Her black hair shimmered like polished obsidian in sunlight sneaking through the branches above. She was so small and delicate standing there that he almost wished she would never answer . . . never put him in a position to hurt her in the slightest way.

  “I have no wish to insult you, Highness,” she whispered. “Not with false reasons for being here. Not ever . . . my prince.”

  He was struck mute amid a growing but complicated need to protect her. That had started in her first visit with her father. She had not spoken to him even once at that time, but he had watched her too much. Over all subsequent visits, she became the only one he wanted . . .

  Because of this, he would never marry her.

  His father and a’Yamin had turned the court into a deep pit of vipers preying upon one another, and this would worsen for years to come after the emperor’s death. When Ounyal’am could no longer forestall taking a wife—and only one, if he could avoid others—it would be someone cold, ambitious, heartless . . . and worthy of this court. One more viper cast into the pit—and it must be someone who deserved it.

  He could never do this to A’ish’ah. Even if she were willing, he would not let her follow him into that pit.

  A strange and sudden warmth grew upon his sternum beneath his shirt. He held back a sigh of frustration and turned down the path. In only a few steps, he spotted the aging but talented master gardener ahead, and with a pause he glanced back toward Nazhif.

  “Remain here,” he instructed his guard. And then to A’ish’ah, more gently, “I will return in a moment.”

  He hurried away before either could answer, as Nazhif never liked for his prince to step too far out of reach. With his back to them, and only halfway to the old gardener still shearing an herbal bed, Ounyal’am reached inside his shirt and gripped the copper medallion he always wore. As he had been taught, he formed a message clearly in his mind.

  Not now, Ghassan. After sunset, I will find a way to be alone.

  He released the medallion before any answer entered his thoughts, though he knew the domin would not contact him at midday unless it was important.

  Ounyal’am needed at least one moment of peace with the woman who would remain his dream and nothing more.

  * * *

  After the domin left the hideaway for his errand, Osha stood in a patch of sunlight coming through the strange window. And that window was exactly like the false one he had seen in the outer corridor. To see the same view through this window made him question whether it was as false as the other one had been . . . just before il’Sänke had opened the “door” into this hidden sanctuary.

  But suddenly, he became sharply aware that—with the exception of Shade—he was finally alone with Wynn again.

  The undead Chane lay still as death in the back sleeping chamber.

  This was nothing new. That thing always fell dormant the instant the sun rose.

  Osha had become accustomed to that, though not comfortable with it. On the voyage to this strange hot and dry land, it had bothered—no, disturbed—him that Wynn treated their upside-down routine as normal. For the entire journey down the coast, she had inverted her days and nights to be up while Chane was awake and then to sleep much of the days. If and when she was awake in daylight, she had remained on the busy deck while that thing was still dormant.

  As Osha turned, he could not remember the last time the two of them had been alone together.

  Wynn was crouched in the cushioned sitting area nearby, trying to unfasten her pack’s flap. Her wispy light brown hair was unbound, and she kept pushing it back. This morning, she had not yet donned her midnight blue short-robe and wore a loose, spare shirt over the top of her pants.

  Shade pressed in against Wynn with a grumble, which usually meant the majay-hì wished to communicate something. Wynn lost her balance and, with an exasperated sigh, turned toward the dog.

  “Yes, I know!” she said, and then stroked Shade’s head. “Just give me a moment.”

  By way of answer, Shade tried to shove her nose under the pack’s buckled flap.

  “Stop that!” Wynn pushed Shade’s head away. “We’ll find something to eat soon. You’re getting as bad as your father.”

  Shade rumbled quietly at that last comment, exposing her teeth.

  Daughters and fathers, sons and mothers—in Osha’s life, he had too often
seen them at odds with one another. Apparently, this was also so among the majay-hì, the sacred guardians of his abandoned homeland. But still, none of them had eaten since leaving the ship last dusk.

  “We passed two small markets last night,” he said in his own tongue. “Perhaps something more than travel rations can be found in one of them.”

  Wynn hesitated and looked up at him. “The domin told us to stay here, out of sight. Unfortunately, he didn’t mention how little was left in the cupboards of this place.”

  She tried to sound conversational, but her manner and words were strained. It pained him, for there was a time when she had been more at ease with him than with anyone else in the world.

  Roughly two years before, Osha had accompanied Wynn and her companions, as well as his jeóin and teacher Sgäilsheilleache, into the eastern continent’s ever frozen heights of the Pock Peaks. He had helped the best that he could in their search for what he now knew as the orb or “anchor” of Water. At that time, he had been an anmaglâhk in training, and his mentor, Sgäilsheilleache, had sworn guardianship over Magiere, Leesil, Chap, and Wynn.

  Osha had stood true to that oath as well, perhaps most especially for Wynn, and this had slowly grown into something more.

  Near the beginning of that journey, she had startled him by asking about his life and dreams. No one else had ever done so. Once they began the climb into the snowy peaks, conditions became so grueling that customs broke down for the sake of survival. In the freezing nights within a thin tent for shelter, Wynn had slept against his chest beneath both of their blankets and wrapped inside his cloak to keep warm.

  She had been—was—nothing like the humans that he and his people had been taught to hate and fear.

  He had scavenged food for her, melted snow and ice for them to drink, and when she felt threatened, she had run to him for protection. It meant something, though he could not find words for it. Later, she tried to teach him to dance at Magiere and Leesil’s wedding, and no one had ever paid him so much notice. When he had been forced to finally leave to catch one of his people’s living ships waiting in hiding near the city of Bela, she came after him to those crowded docks. When they said a final farewell, and he reluctantly turned away . . .

  Wynn ran after him, threw herself at him, and kissed him.

  She then ran off through the crowd.

  Osha had no choice but to leave for the ship with a journal Wynn had given him to deliver to Brot’ân’duivé. He and Wynn had gone their separate ways. And even now, so long afterward in this foreign land, he could not forget the press of her small mouth.

  Too much had happened since that kiss—too much blood spilled, too much forced upon him, and too much taken from him. Through a mix of forced choices, he was no longer an anmaglâhk. The Chein’âs—the Burning Ones—were a race who lived in the heated depths of the world. They created all weapons of the Anmaglâhk. They had called him to them, and then, for reasons unknown, they had stripped his stilettos and bone knife from him and forced new weapons upon him. First, a sword that he never used, would not touch, but always kept bundled in cloth and out of sight. Second, a set of five white metal arrowheads and a matching handle for a longbow, and these he had later reluctantly learned to use.

  Osha’s peace and sense of place had been shattered not long after that kiss upon the docks. He no longer knew who or what he was; though later, after he, Brot’ân’duivé, and Leanâlhâm found themselves on this new continent, a new thought had come to him when they had reconnected with Wynn.

  If he could only get her to recognize what they had once been to each other, then he might find purpose again at her side.

  When he was expected to leave Calm Seatt and go with Magiere’s group in search of the orb of Air, he had made a secret choice to let their ship sail without him. This weighed on him heavily, as he still regretted having abandoned Leanâlhâm.

  But a chance to once more be with Wynn had overridden all else.

  Nothing had turned out as he had envisioned. During their separation, many events had also occurred in her life, including the reappearance and intrusion of Chane. Worse, she had come to accept Chane’s help and protection.

  The very thought made Osha ill, but there was nothing to be done about it. He had tried to get her to speak of their past and what they had been to each other in the Pock Peaks.

  She had changed—and so had he.

  She accepted his help, even welcomed it, and was always kind to him, but he longed for something deeper again. The more he wanted this, the more she withdrew, and he did not know why. So he continued to throw himself into her purpose to find the final orb and to protect the orb of Spirit they had found in the hope that she might reach out to him again.

  Here, right now, in this invisible hideaway, at least he had her to himself—except for Shade.

  “Should we go?” he asked.

  Wynn glanced up at him in mild discomfort.

  “All right, but we need to be quick,” she answered. “There’s no telling when Ghassan will return.”

  He noticed that she had begun referring to the domin by his first name. Perhaps in their current situation, this was more appropriate and he should follow her example? Human customs sometimes escaped him.

  As Wynn rose, Osha slipped off his cloak and held it out. “Leave your sage’s robe behind and wear this instead of your own cloak.”

  She hesitated, frowning in puzzlement. He waited to be questioned and challenged, but instead she took the cloak from his hand and put it on. He did not bother donning a cloak at all, but again, she did not ask him what he had in mind.

  “Come, Shade,” she said, turning away from him.

  * * *

  Emerging from the stairwell into the filthy tenement’s bottom floor, Wynn headed straight for the front door. She hadn’t looked back to see the hideaway’s entrance close and apparently vanish. She didn’t really want to see the passage’s end suddenly become a wall with the same window as in the chamber. There was something wrong about that . . . something more than a mere illusion to hide the door.

  Even that was half as unnerving as being alone with Osha and wearing his cloak—which was too long and nearly dragged along the ground. She had also left her staff behind at his insistent claim that it would attract attention.

  Well, she wasn’t completely alone with him, and at least she had Shade along.

  For some time now, Wynn had managed to avoid being isolated with Osha and thereby not given him a chance to dredge up their shared past. Yes, she cared deeply for him, but that was complicated. She had to remain focused on freeing her friends and then finding the orb of Air. And yet, she realized there was some freedom to express concerns now that Ghassan was elsewhere.

  As she slipped out the front door behind Shade, she finally glanced back. “Osha? Did you notice that when Ghassan spoke of Magiere, Leesil, Chap, and Leanâlhâm being arrested, he mentioned nothing about Brot’an?”

  Osha, in his long stride, closed the distance from behind her, carrying a burlap bag for whatever they found at the market.

  “Yes, I noticed,” he answered, though she spotted the slight wrinkle of his brow.

  “Why is that? Where do you suppose he is?”

  Osha remained quiet at first. Wynn had to look ahead twice to avoid stumbling into Shade.

  “It has been several moons since we have seen any of them,” he finally answered, and Wynn looked up at him again. “From what your domin told us, it is possible that the remainder of the anmaglâhk loyalists followed Magiere.” He paused. “Perhaps along the way, Brot’ân’duivé was . . .”

  When he wouldn’t finish that thought, she did. “Killed?”

  Wynn was surprised by how much that notion unsettled her. Brot’an joining their cause had been a mixed blessing. Certainly neither Chap nor Leesil would mourn his loss, but still, the aging greimasg’äh—“shadow-gripper”—had more than once fought his own caste to defend Magiere. His very presence in the past had often giv
en Wynn a greater sense of security, plus . . .

  Well, she liked him. She couldn’t help it.

  “Perhaps he was not with them when they were taken,” Osha added.

  “Then why hasn’t he rescued them by now?” she countered.

  She couldn’t think of a good reason, and Osha didn’t offer one. If anyone could break Magiere and the others out of prison by stealth or force, it was Brot’an. And if he hadn’t—couldn’t—then . . .

  Oh, she didn’t want to think what that could mean.

  “Wait,” Osha whispered.

  Wynn froze, looking about.

  “The smallest market we passed last night is around the corner, ahead to the left.”

  Wynn exhaled in sudden tension and turned to him.

  “Move quickly through the market,” Osha instructed, “and do not linger to be noticed.”

  Perhaps she was a little overly annoyed at his unnecessary caution. “Between the two of us, you’re the one who’s going to get noticed! There are not many overly tall, white-blond elves wandering around here.”

  “That is why I will not be with you.”

  Wynn paused in confusion, and he went on before she could.

  “Shade should go with me as well,” he added.

  “What?”

  “The two of us, together, will draw all eyes. This is also why I asked you to leave your robe and staff behind. You will pass unnoticed, or at least unremembered. Anyone in a midnight blue sage’s robe would be sought for questioning . . . after whatever the domin has done.”

  For an instant, Wynn was again at a loss for words. Osha almost sounded like Brot’an, and that made her uncomfortable, no matter how much she might like the elder shadow-gripper. And perhaps Osha knew it, for he lowered his eyes, not looking at her anymore.

  “What good is it for me to pass unnoticed if you are?” she countered. “We’re all going to have to go out in the open eventually. You will stick out no matter what or when.”