Chapter 2

Three Months Later

L aying his palm flat against the damp earth, Ezzyn Sor’vahl slowly exhaled against the smolder stick in his other hand. The burning tip flared a bright, white-hot orange in response. A crackle of energy ran through his fingers as he called on his magic, converting a line of power within the smolder stick into a lick of flame. Collecting the heat into his palm, he then pushed the fire into the sodden dirt.

The stench of rot burned in his nose. He ignored it, feeding more power into the spellwork already laid across the section of ground. One of so many poisoned acres. The once-verdant lands of Rhell now bore a ragged line of scarred ground spreading from the northern border down toward the heart of the kingdom. An eerie trail of blight tracing the ley line to Rhell’s wellspring, unerring. Undying, despite so much effort and lives spent fighting the poison. Every delay Rhellian cleansing efforts bought came at a cost. If they managed to halt the forward progress, the blight grew outward instead. The scar, once only so wide as Ezzyn’s arms outstretched, now spread several paces across. Dozens, in some areas, until Rhell’s mages were forced to compromise. The poison could be slowed, but never stopped.

Five years had passed since the war—and Ezzyn would call it that even if the Alliance of the Empyrean Territories claimed that the conflict had never been made official—between Rhell and the Eyllic Empire to the east was declared over. Ended on paper if less so in practice, for Rhell continued to suffer. Ezzyn feared that the deadened line marking his homeland’s destruction would spread until entire swathes of green were lost, the damage irrevocable. The poison would reach the wellspring, and magic in Rhell would die.

And who else would care? For now, Eylle’s poison sought only Rhell’s wellspring, whatever foul magic fueled it going inert if it was taken too far from the ley line. At least, that was the theory. Only the head mages at Sylveren University had tested it, the keepers of the Valley being the only leaders brave enough to allow the poison to be brought across their borders. A vial of contaminated soil exposed to the Valley had turned into sterile but harmless dirt. Some of the strongest mages in the world had tried their hand at cleansing it, but the poison defied all efforts. For the rest of the Alliance, it became an intriguing intellectual problem, an exercise in humanitarian aid.

Eylle had chosen Rhell both for their shared border and its diminutive size. The perfect testing ground for this magicked poison and the emperor’s quest to eliminate the rest of the world’s wellsprings save his own. The width of the Great Sea protected the Valley of Sylveren, and so long as the Valley was safe, Graelynd wouldn’t overly burden itself expending resources to solve another’s problem. Serving as a basin for the Valley’s strong wellspring had its perks. The Radiant Isles were as close to the Eyllic capital as Rhell was, only from the south, but they had the Everflow’s Eye as guardian. Eylle wasn’t about to risk its navy to the maelstrom between it and the Radiant Isles.

That left only Rhell. The warring was over, but the poison remained.

In his darker moments, Ezzyn feared the loss of his homeland was inevitable. Eylle refused all entreaties for help. To the emperor, closing his borders and weathering trade sanctions in silence was peace. As the years dragged on and the poison showed no signs of deteriorating, foreign interests in Rhell’s predicament waned. The Rhellian people were dogged in their pursuit of a solution, but the most anyone had been able to accomplish was a slowing of the spread. Not true containment, nothing close to a cure.

That knowledge, steeped in so much fear, drove Ezzyn. Had him digging his fingers into the corrupted soil, sweat beading on his brow as he reached for more fire. If he could just find the right amount, the right touch, the right blend of spells, then it must work. The Eternal Flame cleansed all in the end. No reason that shouldn’t hold true here, too, so long as he had the strength.

“Ez.”

His focus was such that the outer world faded away. He ignored the fatigue in his limbs; the strain in his chest where his magic gathered; the sting creeping up his hand, across his wrist, spreading up his forearm. All went unheeded.

Until the world pressed back. A hand took him by the shoulder, gave him a shake. A voice, deep and familiar, called his name, growing sharper with insistence.

“Ezzyn! You stubborn bastard, listen to me.”

His concentration broken, Ezzyn whipped around, a snarl on his lips. “Get the fuck off—”

Jeron Sor’vahl, his eldest brother, glared at him.

Ezzyn forced himself to relax. “What are you doing here? I thought you were meeting with the Assembly.”

Jeron— King Jeron—excelled at giving the impression of a disappointed parental figure. “I’ve been back since yesterday. When were you last at the house?”

“Recently.”

The house, because Jeron abhorred staying in the palace unless necessary and hadn’t been able to give up the Sor’vahl manse. He was a king in name more than practice, limited in power as he worked to extricate Rhell from a monarchy—a venture Ezzyn supported, as it didn’t interfere with his mission to save the wellspring. If the Assembly wanted to view it as his way of working for the kingdom, then far be it from him to complain. It was a duty every citizen of Rhell shared, as far as Ezzyn was concerned.

“You can’t do this, Ezzyn. Out here by yourself, pushing too hard?” Jeron gave an aggrieved sigh. “Would you at least pretend to be responsible?”

“There’s a team out here.” Somewhere . “Why aren’t you at the capital?” Ezzyn stood up, brushing dirt from his hands. He hissed as pain flared out from his left arm.

“Stubborn bastard.” Jeron sandwiched Ezzyn’s hand between his own, golden light glimmering in his fingertips. The touch was gentler than his voice, though that didn’t stop the flash of healing from having its own sting.

“Language,” Ezzyn said without feeling. “You didn’t answer my question.”

Jeron kept his gaze on Ezzyn’s arm. “Gaz had a relapse. He wants to see you.”

Ezzyn swore, earning a mocking, “Language,” from his brother. Garethe, the middle Sor’vahl, was the only mundane one of the lot of them, and perhaps ironically the one most absorbed in magical study. Gaz was supposed to be down in the Valley at Sylveren University, teaching a specialty course on environmental restoration. He had been on about it for months, so for him to have to cancel…

“How bad?”

Jeron led the way back to where his horse and a trio of guards waited alongside Ezzyn’s mount. Ezzyn noted that his brother, who was still a king even if he insisted on it being ceremonial and therefore would cause a political headache if assassinated, had come in person to deliver a simple message. Granted, it had been decades since the last assassination attempt in Rhell, and Eylle was much more content to let their poison do their dirty work, but the danger was theoretically still there. But it was Gaz, and Rhell was hardly a prize in its current, withering state. Ezzyn kept his mouth shut.

“He’s resting now,” Jeron said. “It’s trying to get in his lungs. The chief mender got it out, but Gaz can’t … he has to stay home for a bit.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“I know that,” Jeron snapped back, with a quickness that suggested knowing and feeling weren’t the same.

Ezzyn let him be as they started the hour’s ride back toward Talihn, Rhell’s capital city. Those with an affinity for light magic hadn’t proven very effective against the blight in the land, but they could use their skills to heal those affected by the poison. Jeron chose political duty over healing studies, for Rhell was still his homeland, and he its ancestral keeper, even if the changes he’d championed meant that the governmental burden was well-shared. It meant entrusting the care of his family to others. Ezzyn didn’t think he could’ve done it if his specialty had been in the school of light magic rather than fire. Couldn’t sit on the sidelines, helpless, and wonder if he’d have been strong enough to defeat the poison. It was an irrational thought when one considered the gifts of Rhell’s chief healer, but Ezzyn knew himself well enough to admit that rationality wouldn’t change how he felt. Jeron’s sharp replies suggested the same.

Yet even healing had its limits. Garethe’s illness from no more exposure to the poison than either of his brothers was aggressive. Unfair. The two siblings knew it. No point in wasting more breath.

Once back at the Sor’vahl mansion, Jeron was called away by an attendant, leaving Ezzyn to make his way to Garethe’s room. His brother rested in bed, the lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth stark. His Rhellian pale blond hair was free of the bun he so tragically favored, robbed of its innate luster such that it looked dead white, and he’d aged much more than his thirty-six years.

But he smiled when Ezzyn knocked on the open door, his usual cheer doing much to animate his face.

“Ez!” he said, his boomy voice tempered by a hoarse finish. “Good, Jer found you.”

“How are you feeling? Jeron said you had—”

“Theatrics. You know how he fusses.”

Ezzyn took a bedside seat. “You wanted to see me?”

“I’ve got a favor to ask.” Garethe pushed himself up in bed until he could lean against the headboard, a pillow at his back. He flapped his wrist when Ezzyn protested. “Syvrine’s blessed tits, I’m sick, not dying. Makes me feel like I’m on my deathbed with you hovering over me.”

Ezzyn bit back a retort. It wouldn’t come to that. Jeron would assert every morsel of his royal power and beggar the kingdom pleading for aid. Ezzyn would pour his godscursed life into the ground before Eylle’s poison could claim his brother. It wasn’t fair, but that was hardly news. Simply another addition to the story of Rhell, who had lost so many of her children.

Since Ezzyn couldn’t protest, he helped Garethe with another pillow instead. His brother, ever sharp beneath the jolly exterior, noticed how he favored his left hand.

“Do you need a lecture?” Garethe said.

“Our dear king already beat you to it.” Ezzyn settled back in his chair, tugging his sleeve down to cover the medicated bandage upon which Jeron had insisted. “What did you want to talk about?”

“That eager to go back out, eh?”

Always. It was his duty. Jeron had the crown, and his mending would always be needed even if his wasn’t the strongest. Garethe was ill, and when his health wasn’t completely gone to shit, he had his studies and his teaching and the diplomatic relationships that had grown from them. That left Ezzyn. What was a third-born prince of a small kingdom with ever-increasingly limited monarchal powers but expendable? Jeron’s hereditary line was secure with four children. Ezzyn had health and magic, and since he wasn’t allowed to cross the border and incinerate every Eyllic in sight, why not be out doing everything he could? At thirty-four, he wasn’t old, but no one was jumping to secure alliances with a sickened kingdom by sending marriage proposals, and Jeron hadn’t tasked him with trawling for an influential wife. Out in Rhell was where he belonged.

“You mentioned a favor?” Ezzyn said.

“The program I was supposed to joint-teach down at Sylveren. It needs to happen.”

“I agree. I remember your syllabus— Wait. You can’t be serious.”

“Who else?”

“Anyone!”

Garethe scoffed, ticking names off on his fingers as he spoke. “Jeron’s the king, so he’s out. I’m not allowed to undergo ‘strenuous travel’ for months. But you…” He wiggled a third finger.

“I don’t know a damned thing about—”

“You helped me structure the course!”

“About teaching,” Ezzyn said, gesturing violently with his hands. He winced as the still-tender skin on his forearm pulled at the bandage. “I don’t teach!”

“It’s a seminar, and you won’t be teaching it. You’ll be there to advise, maybe guest lecture about burning things,” Garethe replied, weariness stealing over his tone. “You’ve spent every waking moment for the last … I don’t know how many years, working on restoration spells.”

“With very little success. I’m needed here, Gaz.”

“No one knows the work better than you. I can’t hand this over to just anyone. I need your eyes, your experience. You’ll know what has the most merit to come here.”

“Am I expected to lead field trips?” Ezzyn said, appalled.

Garethe gave him a pointed look. “You’re expected to suss out if any of the projects would be particularly useful to our containment efforts and shepherd them along. We need the help. You suggested that there be a field opportunity here.”

Ezzyn rubbed a hand over his eyes. He agreed that there were benefits to having a focus track at the vaunted, self-governing school of magic in the Valley. Environmental restoration wasn’t a new track, but it had certainly gotten a flood of relevancy due to the war. Research conducted in that field could prove vastly beneficial to Rhell, and they couldn’t afford to let anything of use slip away. But his favorable stance had been founded on the idea of Garethe being part of the program. He loved teaching; Ezzyn had barely managed as a tutor. His method of pedagogy was to explain how he did a thing, and if the student failed to understand then they were all fucked, because Ezzyn only knew how to say it one way. He presumed teaching was like healing or legal services—essential skills that, happily, others could be compensated to provide.

“I wouldn’t be asking if I had another choice,” Garethe said quietly. “You know I wanted to be down there.”

“Sorry.” Ezzyn winced. He wasn’t entirely sure of the nature of his brother’s relationship with one of his colleagues at Sylveren, but he knew their distance from one another had been a sticking factor. “Does Rai know that you’re … delayed?”

“He does.” Garethe sighed. “Listen, Ez. You know how I called it a favor?”

Ezzyn groaned. “He didn’t.”

A third voice entered the conversation. “Royal decree.” Jeron, so tall his head nearly brushed the frame, stood in the doorway. “I hereby order you to go to Sylveren and fulfill Gaz’s role.”

Ezzyn made a face. “I notice that you left that part out on our ride back.” He glared at his brothers and their irritating grins. “Can I expect to be relieved at midwinter?”

“I very much hope that I can,” Garethe said in a sober tone, before his serious expression was broken by another grin.

Ezzyn buried his head in his hands.

“Oh, cheer up, you mopey ass.” Jeron clapped him on the shoulder. “You could use a rest. Use the time to do more research for your Magister Three if you’re worried about filling your time.”

“Term starts this month. It’s too late to submit—”

“Already taken care of,” Garethe said, sounding far too chipper for an unwell man.

Ezzyn’s growl was muffled by his palms. The Valley of Sylveren. He hadn’t been back in years. Couldn’t think of the place without thinking of her. Of what could’ve been. Should have, if not for … gods all break. As if the memory of his mediocre stint as a magic tutor wasn’t enough to haunt him, now he was bringing it to Sylveren. Ana. The waste of her—of her talent and her affections.

Useless, old memories. Ezzyn pushed them away. Just as he’d pushed her away so many years ago. He was going to spend the next few months cold and bored to shit.