Bound by Blood and Sand
Page 25
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Taesann couldn’t save any of the other Bloodlines mages from where he was, stranded in isolation at Grandmother’s estate, but he could protect the magic that commanded the Well. That was the most important thing—more important than any of their lives.
“Forgive me,” he murmured, and rallied his energy. He wasn’t as strong a mage as Grandmother had been, but he could touch all four elements, and he seized as much of their energy as he could. Then he reached out, found the Wellspring Bloodlines again, felt their magic all bound together, and yanked.
Somewhere across the desert, dozens of mages went weak, their power stolen through the binding of the Bloodlines. It left them defenseless, vulnerable to the mages who were attacking them. They would doubtlessly give their lives—but their families would carry on their blood, and the Well would be protected even if the mages themselves died. Taesann didn’t have the time to mourn them or the energy to regret what he’d done.
He formed the image in his mind of what he needed. Two generations ago, these mages had linked themselves together with blood; now he imagined their magic as if it was the blood seeping out of his arm. He poured that blood not just into the fountain’s water but into the fountain itself, hiding it as deep in the stone as he could.
Grandmother had wanted this fountain to last forever, to be her legacy. She’d bound it, so it would run as long as there was enough water to sustain it, and it would gleam and glisten whether there was water or not. It was that binding magic that glowed so brightly when he looked at the fountain with other-vision—brightly enough to hide the Bloodlines’ power buried underneath it.
When this cursed war was over and done, any of the Wellspring Bloodlines descendants would be able to reclaim their power. Even Aredann himself, if he could find it.
Taesann had no choice but to hope he wouldn’t.
But he needed to leave something, some clue, so someone would. Taesann was weak now, as if the gash up his arm had sapped his life along with his blood, but he had just enough left in him to add a single, faint shape on the fountain. A handprint. A blood drop.
He pulled his hand back and stared into the fountain, using the last of his energy to will away all traces of what he’d done. The stone and the water glistened, undisturbed, as if nothing had happened at all. The impression he’d left was subtle enough that no one was likely to see it unless they truly looked for something.
Dizzy and exhausted, Taesann staggered inside and refused to look back. Aredann would find him soon. Taesann no longer hoped his brother had mercy—no longer believed his brother even had sanity. Taesann had given a death sentence to the other mages of the Bloodlines, but he would join them as soon as Aredann found him. Preserving the Well was more important than any of their lives, so surely preserving their magic was better than letting it die with them.
It had to be.
The Curse throbbing in her head brought Jae back to herself. The vision had been too much, skirted too close to breaking Lord Elan’s order not to use magic. But it had been enough.
Jae didn’t understand all of it yet, but one piece was very clear. Taesann had died defending the Well from usurpers, including his own brother, Aredann. Aredann had allied himself with the group that had eventually won the War of the Well—the Highest. Which meant that the Highest were the usurpers who had started the War.
They hadn’t created the Well, as they’d claimed. They’d stolen it from the group Taesann had thought of as the Wellspring Bloodlines, who had lost the War. The Closest were the Wellspring Bloodlines, cursed for the crimes their ancestors had committed.
Except they hadn’t.
Taesann wasn’t a traitor. The Highest hadn’t created the Well. Everything Jae had ever known was a lie.
Duty called her back sooner than she’d have liked, before she had a chance to finish turning it all over in her mind. She went through the motions of work, barely thinking about what she was doing. Fetching water, mending, helping in the kitchen. None of it was enough to distract her.
How long had it taken for the Closest to forget the truth? Maybe they’d been forbidden to speak of it, silenced like they were so often. Maybe the Highest had forgotten, too; maybe Lord Elan didn’t even know the truth.
She seethed. Taesann’s sacrifice had kept the Well’s power out of the Highest’s hands, and any time they said otherwise, claimed to command the Well, they were lying. The Highest said it took a great work of magic to change how the Well’s water flowed between reservoirs—but that was a lie, because the Highest had no control over the Well’s magic at all.
No wonder the Highest families had decided to abandon some estates. It was all they could do, since they were as helpless to save the Well as everyone else. The population being too large—if Jae was right, that was nothing but an excuse.
As she served dinner, she wondered how long it would take before the Avowed figured out they’d been lied to for generations. When people started dying from thirst and the Highest didn’t stop it, there would be riots in the cities, shattering the Highest’s precious social order. Imagining it brought a grim smile to her lips. Once people got angry enough, the Highest would be torn down, dragged through the streets. The riots wouldn’t solve the problems, but tearing the Highest down would be a vicious kind of justice. The Highest families would pay for the crimes they’d committed and covered up, including the slaughter of so many Closest.
The future was chaos, war and blood and thirst, ending with everyone’s bones bleached white in the desert. The sand would bury their buildings and bodies, and eventually it would be impossible to tell that anyone had lived in the desert at all. Unless the Well was saved. Jae didn’t know what had happened to it, why its power was failing if it wasn’t about the population, but there had to be a way to save it.
But if the Well was saved, so were the Highest, and the Curse would continue. Jae’s people, the rightful owners of the Well, would still be enslaved.
As Jae watched Lady Shirrad drink her fill, she decided that she would never help the Highest maintain their lies. She would help Lord Elan save Aredann and the Closest who lived on it, but then…then she’d find a way. The Curse had been cast by mages, and a mage could end it. Jae would figure out how, and she would free the Closest and reclaim the Well that was rightfully theirs.
She didn’t know yet how she’d resist Lord Elan’s orders. But after so many generations of lies and sorrow, she would either end the Curse or she’d end everything.
“Forgive me,” he murmured, and rallied his energy. He wasn’t as strong a mage as Grandmother had been, but he could touch all four elements, and he seized as much of their energy as he could. Then he reached out, found the Wellspring Bloodlines again, felt their magic all bound together, and yanked.
Somewhere across the desert, dozens of mages went weak, their power stolen through the binding of the Bloodlines. It left them defenseless, vulnerable to the mages who were attacking them. They would doubtlessly give their lives—but their families would carry on their blood, and the Well would be protected even if the mages themselves died. Taesann didn’t have the time to mourn them or the energy to regret what he’d done.
He formed the image in his mind of what he needed. Two generations ago, these mages had linked themselves together with blood; now he imagined their magic as if it was the blood seeping out of his arm. He poured that blood not just into the fountain’s water but into the fountain itself, hiding it as deep in the stone as he could.
Grandmother had wanted this fountain to last forever, to be her legacy. She’d bound it, so it would run as long as there was enough water to sustain it, and it would gleam and glisten whether there was water or not. It was that binding magic that glowed so brightly when he looked at the fountain with other-vision—brightly enough to hide the Bloodlines’ power buried underneath it.
When this cursed war was over and done, any of the Wellspring Bloodlines descendants would be able to reclaim their power. Even Aredann himself, if he could find it.
Taesann had no choice but to hope he wouldn’t.
But he needed to leave something, some clue, so someone would. Taesann was weak now, as if the gash up his arm had sapped his life along with his blood, but he had just enough left in him to add a single, faint shape on the fountain. A handprint. A blood drop.
He pulled his hand back and stared into the fountain, using the last of his energy to will away all traces of what he’d done. The stone and the water glistened, undisturbed, as if nothing had happened at all. The impression he’d left was subtle enough that no one was likely to see it unless they truly looked for something.
Dizzy and exhausted, Taesann staggered inside and refused to look back. Aredann would find him soon. Taesann no longer hoped his brother had mercy—no longer believed his brother even had sanity. Taesann had given a death sentence to the other mages of the Bloodlines, but he would join them as soon as Aredann found him. Preserving the Well was more important than any of their lives, so surely preserving their magic was better than letting it die with them.
It had to be.
The Curse throbbing in her head brought Jae back to herself. The vision had been too much, skirted too close to breaking Lord Elan’s order not to use magic. But it had been enough.
Jae didn’t understand all of it yet, but one piece was very clear. Taesann had died defending the Well from usurpers, including his own brother, Aredann. Aredann had allied himself with the group that had eventually won the War of the Well—the Highest. Which meant that the Highest were the usurpers who had started the War.
They hadn’t created the Well, as they’d claimed. They’d stolen it from the group Taesann had thought of as the Wellspring Bloodlines, who had lost the War. The Closest were the Wellspring Bloodlines, cursed for the crimes their ancestors had committed.
Except they hadn’t.
Taesann wasn’t a traitor. The Highest hadn’t created the Well. Everything Jae had ever known was a lie.
Duty called her back sooner than she’d have liked, before she had a chance to finish turning it all over in her mind. She went through the motions of work, barely thinking about what she was doing. Fetching water, mending, helping in the kitchen. None of it was enough to distract her.
How long had it taken for the Closest to forget the truth? Maybe they’d been forbidden to speak of it, silenced like they were so often. Maybe the Highest had forgotten, too; maybe Lord Elan didn’t even know the truth.
She seethed. Taesann’s sacrifice had kept the Well’s power out of the Highest’s hands, and any time they said otherwise, claimed to command the Well, they were lying. The Highest said it took a great work of magic to change how the Well’s water flowed between reservoirs—but that was a lie, because the Highest had no control over the Well’s magic at all.
No wonder the Highest families had decided to abandon some estates. It was all they could do, since they were as helpless to save the Well as everyone else. The population being too large—if Jae was right, that was nothing but an excuse.
As she served dinner, she wondered how long it would take before the Avowed figured out they’d been lied to for generations. When people started dying from thirst and the Highest didn’t stop it, there would be riots in the cities, shattering the Highest’s precious social order. Imagining it brought a grim smile to her lips. Once people got angry enough, the Highest would be torn down, dragged through the streets. The riots wouldn’t solve the problems, but tearing the Highest down would be a vicious kind of justice. The Highest families would pay for the crimes they’d committed and covered up, including the slaughter of so many Closest.
The future was chaos, war and blood and thirst, ending with everyone’s bones bleached white in the desert. The sand would bury their buildings and bodies, and eventually it would be impossible to tell that anyone had lived in the desert at all. Unless the Well was saved. Jae didn’t know what had happened to it, why its power was failing if it wasn’t about the population, but there had to be a way to save it.
But if the Well was saved, so were the Highest, and the Curse would continue. Jae’s people, the rightful owners of the Well, would still be enslaved.
As Jae watched Lady Shirrad drink her fill, she decided that she would never help the Highest maintain their lies. She would help Lord Elan save Aredann and the Closest who lived on it, but then…then she’d find a way. The Curse had been cast by mages, and a mage could end it. Jae would figure out how, and she would free the Closest and reclaim the Well that was rightfully theirs.
She didn’t know yet how she’d resist Lord Elan’s orders. But after so many generations of lies and sorrow, she would either end the Curse or she’d end everything.
