ChapterTwo
Iason had never expected to return to Mislia.
That much was clear, even in the fragmented memories that were all he had left: when he’d sailed to Staria in pursuit of light mages, he’d never been meant to return. Alistair, his partner, had spoken of it often enough, mourning the loss of the Mislian night markets and yearly demon summonings in the city square. But Iason had never yearned for the city streets or even the wide hills of his father’s people. He didn’t care for the songs Alistair hummed about sunsets over the valleys or miss the pillars where mage circle members carved their names when they were appointed.
Then Alistair died, hanged for his role in the queen of Staria’s death, and Mislia became an empty room behind a locked door.
Now, Iason sat under a spelled awning in the rain and watched teenagers run spell nets along the beach.
“I didn’t think there’d be so many kids in a rebellion,” Sophie said. She was clean and dry in a wool chiton and a bespelled coat, and she was holding a mug of tea in both hands. “Some of them are my age, I think.”
She was right. When Lazaros had taken them to what he’d so casually calledHQ,they had seen a veritable village of tents and hastily built shacks lining the beach. Most of the people in uniform looked quite young, but they were nevertheless organized—they’d led Iason and Sophie to the showers immediately, and food and clothes were waiting by the time they were done scrubbing the salt and sand off their skin. Almost all of the uniformed rebels had the black eyes of mages bound to a demon, and those who weren’t in uniform were standing around cookfires or retrieving supplies from sturdy crates. There was one proper house, farther down the beach, but the windows were dark and no one lingered on the porch.
Many of the rebels also had a tattoo on their chest in the shape of a dragon in a closed circle—the symbol of an enslaved mage in the Archmage’s secret army, which had been hidden away in a row of brothels until the Archmage fell.
According to the mages who led them into a centralized tent, Lazaros had been one of the first to rebel against the mage circle when the Archmage fell. He didn’t claim to be the leader of the rebellion, but it was clear that people looked to him for answers, and he seemed to have settled into the unofficial role with little fuss.
“You understand we may have questions,” he said, sitting down opposite Iason at a large wooden table in the center of the tent. He leaned forward slightly, a hint of his tattoo showing through a gap in his robes. If Iason wanted to, he could touch the circle with his bare hand and draw just enough magic to turn the tattoo against Lazaros—slave tattoos, when activated, could generate enough pain to incapacitate even the most resilient fighter. He forced his gaze away, but Lazaros glanced down and adjusted his robes. “Seems like you haven’t been back to Mislia in a while.”
“I was in Staria until the Archmage fell,” Iason said, which was true enough.
“What are you saying?” Sophie whispered. “You’re talking in Morrey, right? Are they asking about you? Do you want me to answer anything?”
“No,” Iason said. “I want you to drink your tea and try not to get into mortal danger for at least a day. Is that possible?”
“At this point?” Sophie gestured toward the rainswept ocean. “I can’t make any promises.”
“Is she your daughter?” Lazaros asked, passing a bowl of dates to Sophie, who stared at them dubiously.
“They’ve been pitted,” he whispered in her tongue, then spoke in Morrey to Lazaros. “No. She’s just… a godsdaughter. We were lost at sea, and we… I don’t know how, but we disturbed an Old One. I didn’t think there were any left.”
“Neither did I. But you aren’t a light mage, are you?” Lazaros gestured to Iason’s hair, which was pale silver with shades of violet, a remnant from an ancestor from the hill country. Iason shook his head, and Lazaros shrugged. “Had to be sure. You don’t think it’ll be back? How badly did you vex it?”
“It wasn’t very eloquent,” Iason said. “But it did try to eat me several times.”
Lazaros grimaced. “So pretty badly vexed, then. Well, we’ll keep you hidden as best we can. We have spell nets to protect the tents and supplies, and when there’s time, we can move you into a house farther from the beach. You’ve likely heard this from the others, but we’re the closest Mislia has to a governing body, at the moment. I know that might seem alarming, given who we are.” He glanced down at the spot on his chest where the tattoo was. “Most Mislians thought we would turn the country into a military state. Now that we haven’t, things are… complicated.”
“A military state would be simpler,” Iason said, before he could stop himself. Lazaros barked out a laugh.
“Maybe. But we saw how it was at the beginning, when the circle broke.” He looked at Sophie. “She can’t understand us? Good. When the Archmage fell and the brothels burned, we weren’t the ones who broke the mage circle. It was the people. You know, the ordinary ones, the shopkeepers and parents and teachers. They swarmed the circle building. Dragged people out by the hair, led them to—” He looked at Sophie again. “There’s still blood on the stones in the main marketplace. They’re calling it the Night of Blood. Maybe don’t take her there for a while, unless you’re ready to explain it.”
“You’re talking about me,” Sophie said, mouth full.
“Swallow first,” Iason told her in the Starian tongue, and tried to ignore Lazaros’s bemused look. “The entire circle is dead? Executed?” His stomach twisted uncomfortably. His mother had been on the circle, once. Was she still on it when he left?
A memory came to him, sudden and vivid—his mother speaking to a man whose face Iason couldn’t remember, each of their robes clasped with an identical brooch. The Archmage and the Oathkeeper, that was it. She’d been the Oathkeeper, the one responsible for punishing spies and traitors. She made Iason and Ophelia read guides of citizenship and loyalty when she revised them, and she would circle Iason like he was a recalcitrant traitor, eyeing him for any sign of boredom or disinterest. The house was always so much more peaceful when she was gone and it was just Iason and Ophelia, but they couldn’t say a word against her. Who would believe them? She was practically the Archmage’s right hand.
“Are you all right?” Lazaros reached across the table, and Iason jerked away. It was the most complete memory he’d had since before the curse took hold, but he thought it might have been better left forgotten.
“Yes,” he said. “I’m fine. I might have missed what you said, before.”
“Only the Lawmaker and the Archivist survived,” Lazaros said. “They were already planning a rebellion, apparently. The curse just forced their hand. The Archivist is in town, actually—do you remember Summer? You don’t have a demon, I see, but surely you met her as a child, when your name was registered. She should be back soon.”
“I can barely remember,” Iason said. It would be dangerous for any member of the circle to see him now, especially one tied to the rebellion. He was fortunate to have hidden his face, but illusion spells faded, and it was only a matter of time before his control slipped. “We should find a place to stay until I can return Sophie to Staria. It can’t be safe for her here.”
“Now Iknowyou’re talking about me,” Sophie said.
“Sophie.”
