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  “Timak? Timak, I can open the clasps if we make a pact. I’ll get you out and you give me, oh I don’t know, your first kiss.”

  He sucked his lip as he thought about it, and shook his head. Ahkdul had taken him from his parents. The Myklaani palace people had taken the princess from him. Nowhere was safe. “No pact, Genie,” he murmured on a yawn. “I don’t want to make a pact. Not unless you call Dindarin’s sword.” He was too spent to do anything other than close his eyes.

  “Timak!”

  “Sing to me until I die. Then maybe we can be together always.”

  Her silence was unbearable.

  “Genie, please sing to me.”

  Her light seeped through the cracks in the chest but the only sound was his raspy breath. It heated his cramped coffin past bearing. There was nothing he could do except slide into sleep, and that was a nightmare of Ahkdul’s leering face.

  When he woke, lingering darkness told him Yazmine was gone. His chest was still rising and falling but it could not be long now. His body was screaming for water. He had wet the woollens more than once, but there was not a drop for him to lick. The stench made the burning in his throat worse, a scratchy linen irritated his arm and an angry shout shooting up from below hurt his ears. Timak took a deep breath. The yell could only be Dindarin, come to challenge his right to ascend Daesoa’s yellow beam. He spied the small moon’s light through a crack in the wood. His cramped muscles refused to stretch to meet her. If he was lucky, she would find him anyway.

  “Call out, stupid,” a voice said, not Daesoa.

  I want to go to Dindarin. He mouthed it because his throat too parched for even a slip of sound to escape. Up there, Ahkdul would never find him.

  Frantic feet rushed into the room.

  “Is this the one?” a deep male voice asked.

  I am the one. Timak squeezed his eyelids tighter against the throb in his head. Dindarin needed to use his sword for a fatal caress.

  “The window’s open,” a light male voice observed. More scuffles, then, “I don’t see her.”

  “Timak deq Rasheed, if you don’t call out this second I will never speak to you again.”

  He wished he hadn’t recognised the voice. It was hard to ignore a friend. But he wanted the hurt to stop, and that was impossible while his heart beat.

  “It is freezing in this chamber. She’s here, or she was.” He recognised the voice: it was Lady Jordayne. The shah’s niece was short and slender. She should have been easy to miss in a crowd, but everybody looked at her before they even noticed anyone else, even though she wasn’t beautiful. It wasn’t just because she never wore a veil and bared her arms and tummy, either. In Verdaan, the city guards stoned women like her.

  “I’ll stay for a while, try to see if I can’t work out what mischief she’s up to,” the first man, the one with the deep voice, said.

  “I think we have more important matters to attend, don’t you?” Lady Jordayne said. The bracelets she always wore clinked against each other.

  “I do not,” the deep voice answered.

  “Fine, then. You win.” Yazmine huffed. “But Dindarin can’t see you in there. You have to call out or he’ll leave and you’ll be stuck for eternity.”

  “Din-dar-in,” Timak croaked.

  “What was that?” the deep voice asked.

  “He’s leaving. You have to call louder,” Yazmine said.

  “Din-dar-in,” he moaned.

  Steps padded towards the chest. Through the crack, he saw a boot. The monks never mentioned the moons took human form. The clasps clicked up and the lid lifted. Dindarin wasn’t there, only the master magus, staring down at him. The huge man reached in. “Hold on,” the mage said, and something else Timak was too distraught to decipher besides.

  He had no right to rob Timak of his peace. Timak wriggled free and scrambled for the arched window. He had remembered to open it before he had hidden. The hard stone of the oak and bear fountain below was his final escape if Lord Ahkdul the Beast discovered him. He would never go back. He wouldn’t let them abandon him to Ahkdul’s torture the way they had surrendered the princess. He jumped for the sill, landed hard on chest and arms, and hauled himself up.

  “Timak, no!” Lady Jordayne said at the same time Yazmine shrieked.

  Strong hands latched onto him and tugged. Timak fought. Arms encircled him, pulling him, pinning him against a stomach and thighs. His body revolted at the shame. He retched. He retched and retched, unable to stop until exhaustion forced him to collapse into the arms that imprisoned him. He lay still, shivering hot and cold.

  “Fetch water, quick,” the mage said laying him on the floor.

  Light feet ran from the room. A page maybe, he didn’t see who.

  A face loomed above him and it was Ahkdul’s face.

  “No,” he moaned because his torturer had found a way to reclaim him. “No.”

  They hushed him until more feet pattered in.

  “Let me,” the lady said, kneeling. She pushed a damp cloth into his mouth. The trickle of water down his throat was bliss. Again the green-eyed lady soaked the cloth. He sucked until he was strong enough for the mage to help him to sit.

  “Careful, now. Just sip,” the mage said, holding a cup to his lips. “That’s enough for the minute.” He set the cup out of reach before Timak had slaked the worst of his thirst.

  Timak stared at the cup. His mouth felt like crumpled paper.

  “It is fortunate the genie decided to flit into this particular room. We might not have found you otherwise.”

  Timak reached for the cup but the mage stayed his hand.

  “Did you ask her to?”

  The question was too casual. The master magus was just like the rest of them, hoping to bind the genie. Timak’s eyes wandered over the room. Yazmine was gone but a fair man stood by the cabinets, watching them. His handsome face was set in displeased, determined lines. The emerald-studded sword he wore bore a cruel glint. It had to be Dindarin. The moon had come to offer him release. Timak tried to crawl to him. Too weak, he tumbled onto his stomach.

  “Din-dar-in,” he pleaded with outstretched arm.

  “This is the boy?” the moon said. The room was spinning and Dindarin was looking down from a great height. “I want to talk to you.”

  “Well you’ll have to wait, Matisse,” Lady Jordayne said. “Anyone can see he’s in no condition to do anything except rest.”

  Timak wriggled forward. “Din-dar-in.” The word cracked in his parched mouth.

  “Dindarin will not be claiming your breath tonight, boy,” the moon who was Lord Matisse said. He strode from the room, leaving Timak there, alive.

  The mage sighed. Timak flopped onto the floor.

  “You are safe, child,” the mage said, easing him up.

  He tensed at the touch. “No,” he said. The word was a breath.

  The mage brought the cup to his lips and allowed him another sip of cool water. “Lord Ahkdul has gone.”

  He feared to ask so much. “Princess?”

  The mage and lady exchanged a meaningful glance.

  “She has returned to Terlaan with her brother,” the lady said.

  “Shah Ordosteen promised her he would keep you safe,” the mage added. He rubbed a fleck of grey at one end of his black moustache.

  Timak’s heart sank into his stomach. They had given his princess to Ahkdul after all.

  Amid the tinkle of bracelets and waft of perfume, Lady Jordayne laid a hand on the mage’s arm. “I shall engage you as my personal page, Timak.”

  “Now that is an honour even I might enjoy,” the mage said.

  Lady Jordayne patted the man’s arm and flashed him a peculiar smile. His mother’s delicate version, the one she reserved for his father when he returned home from the Third Watchtower, had a whisper of the same expression about it. Dear Vae’oenka, he wanted to go home. Maybe if he prayed hard enough. But not here, where they dishonoured themselves by breaking their oaths and tried to make ligh
t of it all.

  Timak tried to stand but his legs wobbled. The mage reached out to steady him. He shied away.

  “Enough of that, lad. You need to rest.” The mage scooped him up and carried him down long tiled corridors and spiral stairs to the sleeping chamber he shared with the three other pages, mean boys who were always pinching him, and hitting him, and ridiculing him because he spoke to Yazmine. There was no escaping them either, when the room housed only a single row of beds, each with a plain chest sitting against the opposite wall.

  Lying on his pallet, Timak swallowed. The numbness was seeping through him, and it was not a bad thing. He retreated down past the murmur of voices to the place beyond despair. He stared at the birds and vines carved over the flat ceiling, barely aware a grey-haired physic was peering into his eyes, opening his mouth, pinching his skin, counting the blood throbs at his wrist and tilting the cup so more liquid dribbled down his throat. Almost, he had arrived at the deep oblivion that had protected him from Lord Ahkdul’s pitiless attentions.

  Then the mage came to stand by his pallet. As he sat, the crystal swung free of his shirt. Timak flinched. His princess had bartered that stone for sanctuary. These traitors had accepted her precious gift, and then betrayed her to the beast.

  “What is it, lad?”

  He emitted a strangled sound because the words were clear. Princess Kordahla had done that to him, she and Yazmine: wrenched him from the numbness with their undemanding concern. Now he wanted the relief of that nothingness back.

  “Have the other pages been unkind?”

  It was true but so far from the truth he turned his head away from them all.

  “Talk to me, lad.”

  “It’s hers,” he said into the pillow. He wanted to beat it flat.

  “I don’t understand.”

  The mage cupped his chin and turned his head. Timak could not pull his eyes from the crystal swinging on its thong.

  “That’s hers.”

  The mage shot the lady a quizzical look.

  “He is saying,” she said, brushing her ash blonde hair over one shoulder as she came to stand by the pallet, “that crystal is evidence of our dishonour.”

  “Ah. In that case, you best bond him to Matisse.”

  “It’s hers!” The crystal called to him, and he was reaching for it even before he realised.

  The mage leaned away, a stern frown on his kind face. “It’s too great a mystery, boy.”

  Timak lunged at the mage, hitting him, trying to work past his huge arms to grab the crystal. His face puckered with misery, his breath came fast and shallow. It wasn’t fair the mage needed no effort to seize his wrists, twist him around, and pinning Timak’s shoulder against his chest.

  “Easy, lad. You’re just a boy, but one day you might understand.” The mage wrapped an arm around him, pulling him close. The crystal dug into his shoulder blade. A peculiar warmth tingled through his skin, the same warmth he had felt when the mahktashaan with the bright blue crystal had eased his hurts. An intense light exploded from the crystal, blinding him. The mage let go, and Timak toppled forward, breathing hard. He felt sick with fear of the spell the mage had cast. He curled into a ball and pulled the pillow over his head, rocking, rocking, rocking.

  He was unsure how long the silence lasted.

  “Timak. Timak.”

  Or how long they called his name.

  The mage laid a hand on his shoulder. Timak flinched. He hoped they hadn’t noticed. He lay very still. They might think he was fine, or asleep, and forget about him that way.

  “You neglected to tell me you had unlocked the secret, Druce. That was very remiss of you,” Lady Jordayne said, as though the mage were a child to scold.

  “It might have been. Except that wasn’t me.” The mage pulled the pillow out of Timak’s hands. Timak kept real still, and stared straight ahead without a single blink. They might go if he played numb. He had almost fallen that deep again. Only the trickle of fear kept him aware.

  The mage drew a chair around and sat so Timak could not avoid seeing him unless he rolled. The magic stone swayed on its leather strap.

  “Have you touched this before?”

  He need only stare past the man and they might leave him alone.

  The magus looped the strap over his index finger, and lowered the crystal onto Timak’s curled hand. Its lure burned so strong he wrapped three fingers around it. It was a small movement, but at his touch white light burst from the crystal. Timak gasped as he jerked his hand away. The light died. Unable to help it, he turned beseeching eyes on the mage. His mouth opened but he didn’t have words. The mage looked at him, a thoughtful expression on his face. Timak began to shake. The hovering physic drew a cover over him and, frowning, urged the lady and mage away. They paused to watch him from by the next pallet.

  “Well,” Lady Jordayne said, one eyebrow arched. “This is a fascinating development.”

  “Bring him to me when he is well,” the mage said.

  “I’ll bring him myself,” the lady said.

  “You needn’t trouble yourself, Jordayne,” the mage replied, walking away.

  Timak wiped the hot tears running down his cheeks. The Vae were cruel, allowing him to escape one abusive master only to fall prey to another.

  Chapter 4

  WILSHEM ENTERED THE strategy room and surveyed his advisers. Senior officers and black-robed, unhooded mahktashaan of the Inner Circle, they stood behind their functional chairs in the rigid order he demanded of those in his service. Together they comprised a formidable font of knowledge and experience. He expected them to do more than win the war. He expected them to cleanse Myklaan of its hedonistic ways. At the foot of the polished ironwood table, Baiyeed deq Ikher, the Verdaani spy disguised as ambassador, rocked onto his toes and patted his full beard onto his chest, interpreting the position of his seat as a gesture of honour. It was measure of his inexperience. He was there so Wilshem could keep an eye on him, and so Wilshem did not gag on the buckets of citrus and geranium scent the tedious man splashed on. As it was, deq Ikher only had eyes for the snippets of calligraphy on the walls. Save for those few reminders of turning points during historic wars, the room was built of plain, unadorned stone. Its simplicity – posts and lintels bearing a flat unadorned ceiling – had been engineered to keep its occupants’ focus on the discussion around the table. Claiming the chair at the head, Wilshem nodded permission for the men to sit.

  “Is there news of the majoria?” he asked Mahktashaan Strauss of the plum crystal.

  Strauss nodded. He had always tended to stout, and his chubby face suited his open nature even if his plum irises did not. “Majoria Levi sends his respects, Majesty, and bids me reassure you Mahktos could do naught but favour this war. Were it not for an imminent induction he would already be on his way. As it is, he advises he will be in Tarana within a minor moon.”

  “An induction?” Wilshem had not intended the edge to his voice but by the Vae the majoria would not bind his younger son this way. Vinsant was unruly and spoiled, but he was yet a child.

  “Apprentice Tokver, Your Majesty,” came the hasty placation. “It is customary for the majoria to present the initiate –”

  Uninterested in the details, Wilshem waved his hand. “This speedy travel,” he said, refusing to be sidetracked by the irrelevant. Completing the journey from Crystalite Mines to Tarana in sixteen days was a phenomenal feat. “Are other mahktashaan capable of it?” Magic was magic, and as far as Wilshem was concerned a competent user should not be incapable of grasping a spell. After all, it could not be so different to swordplay. With correct training, a swordsman could execute any manoeuvre even though he might fail to master it.

  “On water, indeed, Your Majesty, most mahktashaan, though as you are no doubt aware, the speed will vary with the individual,” Strauss said.

  Wilshem gave a satisfied nod. If the arduous distance to the Crystalite Mines could be traversed in less than a quarter moon, Terlaan had a distinct tactica
l advantage. “Swordmaster Mazronan.”

  The greying Swordmaster accorded Wilshem a ponderous nod. He had always been much slower of speech than of arm. “The troops are assembling. We have dispatched the swiftest riders to the provinces to recruit your satraps’ men.”

  “Very well. You are reappointed to the position of Swordmaster General during this war. Majoria Levi will head the mahktashaan and Admiral Yorish the navy but I expect full and constant communication between all forces. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” Mazronan said, but Wilshem was looking at the mahktashaan.

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” Mahktashaan Strauss replied with good humour.

  The tension around Wilshem’s eyes eased as he relaxed into his chair. “What is the greatest magical threat our troops can expect to face from Myklaan?”

  Mahktashaan Strauss addressed the entire table as he spoke. “Their porrin-induced magic is weak, and at present they number just three mages and two apprentices. Any of our advanced initiates could best their mages one on one.”

  Wilshem caught himself leaning forward again. “What chance is there they learn to use the stolen crystals?”

  “Only an adept can channel the crystal,” bump-nosed Mahktashaan Cromwell of the sea green crystal said. The way he spat his words reminded Wilshem of a gelatinous puffer unravelling its tongue towards an unsuspecting gnat.

  “It is the quartz you should be more concerned about,” tall Mahktashaan Garzene said. His teal crystal swung away from his chest as he leaned forward. “If they find an apprentice –”

  “Training takes many years. Impossible for one to master the crystals in so short a time,” Cromwell interrupted, placing a hand flat on the table.

  Lip twitching in disapproval, Wilshem ignored the outburst and leaned further forward. “How likely is it?”

  “Our magic derives from Mahktos. If Mahktos sees fit to invest the Myklaani with the same gift. . .” Strauss trailed off.