Trudi Canavan - The High Lord

“Akkarin!”

He dropped to his side, then rolled onto his back. She leaned over him, her hands fluttering over the knife as she tried to decide what to do. I must Heal him, she thought. But where do I start?

She tried to prise his fingers from around the knife’s handle. He let go and grabbed her wrists.

“Not yet,” he gasped.

His eyes were full of pain. She tried to pull out of his grasp, but his grip was strong.

Then laughter, cruel and humorless, cut through the silence.

“So that’s where I left my knife,” Kariko crowed. “How good of you to find it for me.”

Sonea suddenly understood how it had happened. Kariko had dropped the blade into the disturbed earth. As their shield passed over it, he had sent the knife upward. A trap. A trick. Not unlike what she had done to get into the shield of the murderess.

It had worked.

“Sonea,” Akkarin gasped. His eyes shifted beyond her, and she saw the University reflected in them.

From somewhere above, she heard shouts. Flashes of magic lit Akkarin’s face, but she could not bring herself to look away.

“I’ll Heal you,” she told him, struggling to twist out of his hands.

“No.” Akkarin’s grip tightened. “If you do, we may lose. Fight them first. Then Heal me. I can hold on like this for now.”

She went cold. “But what if—”

“We will die anyway.” Akkarin’s voice was firm. “I will send you my power. You must fight. Look up, Sonea.”

She glanced up and felt her heart stop. Kariko stood less than ten paces away. He was staring up at the University, from which strikes were raining down. Looking up, she saw two familiar faces next to Balkan’s.

“You’re not even shielding, Sonea,” Akkarin whispered.

She felt a chill run down her spine. If Rothen and Dorrien hadn’t attacked, she and Akkarin would both be—

— Take my power. Strike while he’s distracted. Don’t let everything we have done and suffered for come to nothing.

She nodded. As the strikes from the University lessened, she drew in a deep breath. There was no time for fancy tactics. Something direct, then. She closed her eyes and drew on all her power and all her anger at Kariko for what he had done to Akkarin and Imardin. She felt Akkarin send his strength to join hers.

Then, opening her eyes, she focused everything at Kariko and his allies.

The Ichani leader staggered backward. For a moment his shield held, then his mouth opened in a silent scream as heatstrike burned through his body. The next man backed away, but managed only a few steps before her magic shattered his shield and burned through him. She felt a surge of triumph. The last Ichani stood his ground. She felt her strength slipping away. He began to advance and she felt a rush of fear. A last trickle of power came to her, and she sent it forth. The Ichani’s eyes widened as his shield wavered. Then, as the last of her magic flowed out, it fell. Heatstrike tore through him, and he crumpled to the ground.

All was silent. Sonea stared at the three bodies lying before the University. A wave of exhaustion washed over her. She felt no triumph. No pleasure. Just emptiness. She turned to Akkarin.

A smile curled the edge of his lips. His eyes were open, but fixed somewhere beyond her. As she moved, the hands about her wrists loosened and fell away.

“No,” she whispered. “Akkarin.” Grabbing his hands, she sent her mind inward. Nothing. Not even the slightest spark of life.

He had given her too much power.

He had given her everything.

With shaking hands, Sonea ran her fingers over his face, then bent forward and kissed his lifeless mouth.

Then she curled herself around him and began to cry.

Rothen reached the end of the corridor and looked up. After the devastation of the city, the undamaged majesty of the Great Hall was both heartening and somehow shameful. The Ichani Invasion, as the five days of death and destruction were now referred to, had been a battle between magicians. It seemed wrong that nothing within the Guild grounds had been damaged when much of the Inner Circle was in ruins.

It could have been far worse for ordinary Imardians, Rothen reminded himself. There had been few non-magician deaths. The Guild, however, was nearly half its former size. There had been rumors that the Higher Magicians were considering recruiting from wealthy merchant families outside the Houses.

He crossed to the Guildhall, and slipped between the doors. During the week since the Invasion, the meetings of the Higher Magicians had taken place in one of the small preparation rooms at the front of the hall. Until a new Administrator was elected, it was considered inappropriate to use Lorlen’s office.

Reaching the preparation room door, Rothen knocked. It swung open. As he stepped inside, he noted the magicians present, knowing that he was glimpsing the faces of the Guild’s future hierarchy of power.

Lord Balkan paced the room. It was obvious from the way the others had automatically turned to him for leadership that he was a strong candidate for High Lord. Lord Osen watched Balkan calmly. Though clearly still deeply upset by Lorlen’s death, he had gained a quiet purposefulness since being given the task of organizing the city’s recovery. Lorlen had been grooming Osen as his replacement for the last few years, so it would surprise no one if the young man was elected Administrator.

So many Warriors had died that only a few candidates remained for Head of Warriors. Lord Garrel had been present in the last few meetings, which Rothen felt didn’t bode well for the future. Balkan had also been managing the lesser Head of Warrior Studies role, but Rothen had heard the man suggest that the position would be filled by another at a future date, so perhaps Garrel’s sly, narrow-minded ways would be counter-balanced by a Warrior of more sensible character.

Lady Vinara would remain Head of Healers. Director Jerrik had made no indication he wanted to change his position, and no one had suggested it. Lord Telano would probably remain Head of Healing Studies. No mention had been made of choosing someone for the role of Expatriate Administrator so far.

Lord Peakin would probably replace Lord Sarrin. One of the older teachers would be given the Head of Alchemic Studies position, Rothen guessed. He could not help wondering, now and then, who his direct superior would be, but most of the time he was concerned with more important matters. Like Sonea.

And she was clearly the reason the Higher Magicians had summoned him today. As Balkan noticed Rothen’s entrance, he stopped pacing.

“How is she?”

Rothen sighed and shook his head. “No better. It will take time.”

“We don’t have time,” Balkan muttered.

“I know.” Rothen looked away. “But I fear what will happen if we push her.”

Vinara frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I’m not sure she wants to recover.”

The room’s occupants exchanged worried glances. Vinara did not look surprised.

“Then you must convince her otherwise,” Balkan said. “We need her. If eight outcasts can do this much damage, what might an army do? Even if the Sachakan King doesn’t take advantage of our weakness, it would only take one more of these Ichani to ruin us. We need a black magician. We need her—or for her to teach one of us.”

It was true, but unfair on Sonea. It had only been a week since Akkarin’s death. Her grief was natural. Understandable. She had been through too much. Why couldn’t they leave her alone for a while?

“What about Akkarin’s books?” he asked.

Balkan shook his head. “Sarrin was unable to learn from them. I have fared no better—”