Characters belong to Trudi Canavan, I also borrowed some ideas from s cinnamon, Naamah Beherit, Kasloumor and CrushedShattered wonderful stories. I was always frustrated with how the hearing went, story begins after Akkarin had had his say.
Sonea looked up at him in surprise. She felt a sudden mad urge to grin, but managed to control it. Then she went cold as she suddenly understood what he was doing. Cold and angry.
'Stop that!' she snapped, making a few of the warriors around them jump in alarm. 'Stop this foolishness!'
Akkarin's eyes widened surprised by her tone, but he recovered quickly and glowered at her.
'You chose very inoportune moment to show your rebelious streak, Sonea,' he hissed through gritted teeth.
'I don't care!' she shouted, and then she looked at the flabbergasted magicians. And the king who watched her in disbelieving anticipation. Sonea felt her face grow hot. Probably not many people existed who would dare shouting at the High Lord, but she couldn't think about the consequences right now. Her anger egged her on.
'Your Majesty, Administrator,' she said loudly, her eyes flashing. 'High Lord Akkarin doesn't trust you to make judgement based on logic. He takes you for blind fools, that's why he's playing a role of a monster, as you all expect him to be,' she turned to him, her fists clenching at her sides. 'And I'm to be a gullible victim, but I will not!'
The Higher Magicians were baffled by her outburst. They knew Sonea to be a sensible young woman, yet here she was; making a spectacle of herself. Evidently, the stress of the moment affected her deeply. Akkarin closed his eyes as if praying for patience.
'Calm yourself, now,' his voice was soft and full of warning. 'Before I make you a victim for real!'
It sounded uncannily like a threat of a guardian needled by adolescent antics of his charge. Lorlen frowned, it seemed so surreal but also proper. Sonea stomped her foot in annoyance, ignoring her guardian and his veiled threat.
'Administrator,' she almost shrieked. 'I wish to present further evidence!'
Lorlen jumped a little. Somehow, the Guildhall had turned into a battlefield, with the two combatants being the two accused. Strangely, the incentive seemed to be Akkarin's praise of Sonea. She wouldn't be a victim? Wasn't she exactly that: his victim? He recalled the way she had obeyed his every command until this moment. It seemed her obedience had reached its limit at last. Lorlen glanced at Akkarin who was visibly seething with outrage. It could become very dangerous if Akkarin turned into a rabid limek he knew him to be, but Lorlen owed it to Sonea to provide a way out of a trap he helped put her in.
'To proof or disproof the High Lord's claims?' he asked hesitantly.
'Proof them, obviously!' she snapped beside herself. Lorlen's mouth went dry, that was contrary to what he expected to hear. Why would she defend Akkarin?
Akkarin had a sudden sick intuition and his face drained of colour, but before he could react in any way, prepare at all for the coming ordeal, Lorlen acquiesced and she launched at him, enveloping them in a thick shield as strikes fell all around them.
'No,' he moaned. 'Please, don't-,' But she couldn't hear in the clamour of raised voices and clashing magic. She snatched his sleeve and pulled hard, meeting his gaze. There was such compassion in her eyes that Akkarin was left breathless. He didn't stop her, he doubted he could have moved even if Ichani attacked at that moment. He felt powerless, transfixed by her expression.
She tore the sleeve off with a huff and stepped back, glaring at the sheepish warriors who now ceased their fire.
Lord Balkan was on his feet in an instant, his hand raised to order an all guild assault, but before he could utter the command the insane girl stepped back. She was clutching a strap of black silk in her fist, and glaring a challenge at her spooked escort. Akkarin, on the other hand, was visibly unnerved by her behaviour, fearful even. He was cradling his bare hand, and watching Sonea like a cornered animal facing down a predator. Akkarin cornered? Balkan smiled in satisfaction, and resumed his seat.
'May I lower my shield now?' Sonea demanded irritably. 'Lady Vinara, could you please approach and examine the High Lord's hand?'
Sonea waited until the shaken Higher Magicians nodded before lowering her shield, then she looked at Akkarin. His face was ashen and he looked more vulnerable than she had ever expected to see him. She realised that by removing his sleeve she stripped him of the armour he donned every day to keep bad memories at bay. His hands shook as Lady Vinara left her seat in the top tier. As Sonea met his eyes she understood that scars on his hands were nothing compared to the still bleeding wounds on his soul. Thoughtlessly acting to protect him, she was causing Akkarin pain. It hurt to contemplate the thought.
'We must trust them, High Lord,' she tried to soothe him.
He hugged himself tightly, defensively.
'It will make no difference,' his tone was tinged with despair. He looked away.
Lady Vinara approached them then. She looked at each of them in turn, anxious. Sonea, whose momentary flair of temper burnt out completely, looked at her boots. Akkarin swallowed hard, and then, with a practised motion, presented his hand to Vinara.
'Traditionally,' he said bitterly. 'I should kneel and bow my head. I'll skip that part if you allow.'
Lady Vinara caught his hand reflexively and stared at him, appalled by the tremor in his tone even more than by his words. He looked over her head at the magicians, his expression grim and unhappy. Disconcerted, Vinara looked down at the hand she was still holding, and bile rose in her throat.
All was silent and tense as hundreds of magicians watched the trio at the bottom. The High Lord, aloof and confident, was gone. The man who now stood in his black robes was struggling to hold on to some vestiges of control, but it was slipping badly.
'He didn't expect her to do it,' Lord Balkan commented, frowning. 'What is it on his hand? Some writing?'
'No,' Lorlen choked, his eyes growing wide in horror. 'They are scars.'
'Scars?' Sarin asked doubtfully. 'But why wouldn't he have Healed-' he stopped, his mouth hanging wide open in shock.
'Lady Vinara,' the king called after a prolonged pause. 'Your comments?'
Vinara seemed to blink for the first time in ages. She dropped Akkarin's hand and he immediately folded it across his chest, hiding it from view as if it was repulsive to him. She looked at the king, nauseated.
'Your Majesty,' she said breathlessly. She glanced at Akkarin, but the High Lord didn't meet her gaze. He seemed resigned. 'I examined the High Lord's hand,' she began, her tone growing more professional. 'It seemed obvious that Sonea chose me to do the examination because of my discipline. At first I examined the multitude of superficial little scars criscrossing the High Lord's right forearm. I can only surmise that they were caused by cutting the skin shallowly, just enough to draw blood. The incisions are precise and uniform, suggesting they were made with a single tool - a sharp knife or dagger. There are hundreds of those scars, but none of them shows any signs of attempted Healing,' Vinara took a deep breath before continuing. 'The scar tissue is unnaturally thick. It suggested to me that scars on the surface were built on top of even older scars. To confirm my suspicions I delved the High Lord-,'
Akkarin sucked in a shocked breath, his face was twisted in horror. The expression was so unnerving that Vinara glanced at him in alarm. Was he going to faint?
'She just said the hand! Hand only, Vinara!'
Lady Vinara stepped back at his tone, but then she shrugged her shoulders resolutely.
'I decided to be thorough,' she hissed. 'And well I did! Why haven't you come to be Healed, Akkarin? The pain must be intense...'
He closed his eyes, horrors replaying for his inner eye as soon as his real surroundings disappeared.
'You know as well as I do that damage to the nerves is irrevocable,' he muttered tiredly.
'It can be soothed!' she snapped, but Akkarin disregarded her.
The watching magicians, for the most part, were confused. Only Lorlen seemed to understand, and it sickened him.
'Lady Vinara,' he asked reluctantly. 'What have you found?'
Vinara went on.
'I discovered that indeed there are many layers of scar tissue in the skin of his forearm, but only on the right forearm,' she continued. 'Moreover, I discovered many other old injuries throughout his body. The left hand's fingers carry signs of multiple breaks, as do nine of the ribs. It appears that shoulder joints were dislocated and set aright so frequently that tendons are permanently damaged. His back carries signs of deep and extensive lacerations that caused the exposure of sensory nerve endings. This injury is still bringing a great deal of pain-,'
Every injury she named was like a slap in Akkarin's face as scene after scene replayed itself in his mind's eye. An old chant began in his head, DoNotLookBackDoNotLookBackDoNotLookBack, but he had never been able to heed that warning. Despite his best efforts he was drifting back. And still Vinara droned on mercilessly...
Dakova's magic surrounded him in a vice grip and threw his body against a boulder, hard. Three days of freedom and now the race was over. He was spent, too exhausted to feel despair at his failure. One day more and he would be too far gone for Dakova's rudimentary Healing to be able to deny him this final escape. A boot kicking his stomach brought him back to the brink of unwelcome consciousness, he moaned in an involuntary reaction and received a hard slap across his face. He tasted blood.
- Pathetic, - Dakova mused at the edges of Akkarin's hearing. There was a cut and the sensation of paralysis as the remnants of his power was drained away, there was barely a trickle. A brief pressure against his temples and his inner most secret thoughts were stolen from him. - You are so incompetent that you cannot even commit suicide. I begin to doubt your sincerity, guild slave.
The crunch of sand announced Dakova retreating, Akkarin had a minor twinge of unease at the lack of immediate punishment, but his body and soul were too exhausted and despondent to feel anything much. What more could Dakova do to him? He had already taken everything, everyone that mattered to him. He shut his eyes tight, hoping to die.
A while later Dakova's sneering voice penetrated his numb mind.
- Water and feed him well, - he ordered. - I want him strong enough to appreciate the experience, - there was an ominous note to that statement, but Akkarin couldn't make himself care, not when She was gone forever. Someone pressed a clay bowl to his cracked lips, and a trickle of warm dense liquid poured slowly down his parched throat. He didn't want to eat, but his body was betraying him as it so often did. He swallowed.
- Good, - it was Takan's quiet voice. He felt the smaller man pull him into a sitting position. In a daze, he let himself be fed, like a baby or an invalid. Then he slept, his head swaying to the rhythm of a trotting gait of a pack horse.
Invigorating power of Healing magic brought him round, he opened his eyes unwillingly. Dakova was leaning over him, his glittering dagger outstretched. Akkarin looked at the darkening sky, unresponsive. A cut, draining...
- That pet of yours is more trouble than he's worth, - a voice drawled from behind Dakova. Kariko's, Akkarin knew.
- Did you bring it? - Dakova demanded.
- Aye, I have, - Kariko spat, but Akkarin didn't even flinch as spittle hit his face. - It's a waste, this one isn't long for this world, anyway.
Dakova chuckled.
- I can wait.
Days passed. Akkarin was left mostly alone. Despite his best efforts he was growing strong, and the cloud of depression was lifting its grip on his thoughts. Finally, the day of reckoning arrived.
Takan roused him before dawn, as usual. He went for his morning dose of tasteless porridge, noticing as he ate that the new slaves were shooting him nervous glances.
- What's the excitement? - he asked of Takan, the other man avoided his eyes. Akkarin was getting worried. - Takan?
- The Day of Reckoning, - came a barely audible whisper.
- Ah, - Akkarin went pale. She spoke of this in hushed tones, the name itself awakening her dread and her longing. It was supposed to be the only day in a year the slaves could petition their masters for a different work detail, and one of the pleas had to be answered possitively, chosen by lot. Except for one slave whose misconduct in the previous year deserved no respite. That man would be 'reckoned with', whatever that meant. Akkarin could imagine who the one would be this year. He grimaced. He would finally find out what his punishment for escaping was going to be. Dakova never cared about this holy day before. Apparently, Akkarin's misconduct was grave enough to make Dakova stop ignoring this tradition.
- Isn't that some holiday only observed by Ashakis? - he asked to break the silence. - Whose plea is getting answered then?
The slaves didn't respond.
Half an hour later Akkarin was kneeling before Dakova again, being drained of his power.
- Did Takan tell you what a happy day it is? - he sneered. Akkarin narrowed his eyes, but remained silent. Dakova's hands moved to his temples, searching his mind. - He did, but I can see you do not understand.
He moved away, leaving Akkarin kneeling in the scorching sunlight. All was unnaturally quiet, as if the wind itself was holding its breath. The sound of whip whistling in the air cut the silence like a knife, the sound was wrong somehow. Akkarin looked up, his unease growing. Dakova had a new whip. It was an ornamented thing.
- You see, slave, - Dakova continued. - When the king names someone Ichani, he snaps his Master Whip to splinters. Casting him out from among his Ashakis. Very serious ceremony, I assure you, - he snapped the whip through the air again. - Ashakis uphold the law, and we are outlaws so the tool of reckoning is denied us, and our slaves never taste the lick of its fiery tongue, - he came closer to give Akkarin a better look. The whip consisted of seven tails of leather thongs plaited throughout its lenght. Akkarin caught glints of sunlight dancing among the thongs, and his blood chilled to ice. Metal. Never before had Dakova sought to cripple his prisoner. Something changed.
- You begin to appreciate the beauty, now, - Dakova mused. - A unique toy to honour my special pet. Let us start then, shall we? Remove your shirt, slave!
Akkarin's fingers fumbled on the collar of his rough-woven shirt as he pulled it over his head. He was afraid of the smug way Dakova talked of this new whip. He thought pain of flogging had no more mysteries for him, but now he suspected he might have been wrong. He folded his shirt into a neat pile, and put it on the ground next to him. He locked gazes with Dakova, putting as much defiance into the look as he dared.
Dakova smiled malevolently indicating for Akkarin to approach the whipping post. Akkarin went, trying to prepare himself mentally for the punishment. Takan was waiting for him by the post.
- I must tie your hands, - he said apologetically.
Akkarin thought it unnecessary, but nothing could be gained by argueing, certainly not with another slave who was merely following orders. His hands were tied to the metal ring over his head. It was very uncomfortable. In front of him, Akkarin could see all the other slaves gathered in a semi-circle to watch, their eyes fixed on the sand at his feet. Takan finished tying the last knot and stepped back. For a fraction of a second, their eyes met, and Akkarin understood that the Day of Reckoning was in fact a day of executions. He shivered, that was the difference then, Dakova was bored, and was getting rid of him. He shivered, it would be hard, but at least he would find his freedom at the end...
The whip cracked through the air and fell. Akkarin screamed as seven hot knives slashed open his back. For unknowable time all he was aware of was fire licking his back, and screaming, screaming, his throat raw...
Then it stopped. A crunch of boots on the sand, Dakova jerked his head up by the hair. Akkarin was sobbing, unable to control himself. The pain was excruciating, worse even than bone shattering, and with every lash it was mounting. Dakova nodded in satisfaction, exulting in Akkarin's agony.
- You are enjoying the game, I see, - he said, his smile vicious. - Else, you wouldn't scream so loudly for more. Let me see, - a trickle of Healing magic filled Akkarin and he felt scabs forming along the wounds at his back. - You wouldn't like to pass out prematurely, would you?
He wouldn't be allowed to die, Akkarin realised with horror. It was a mockery of Sachakan tradition. He would be roused every time he was close to losing consciousness, invigorated by magic so that he could experience the full measure of his pain.
A ladle of water was pressed to his lips. He drank.
- You mustn't scream, Akkarin, - Takan's whisper was urgent.
Akkarin knew this game well. Five lashes more for every scream he uttered. Only this time his will couldn't withstand the searing agony that reaped open his back, it crumbled to pieces every time. The whip whistled through the air and he clumped his mouth shut desperately, it fell and a cry burst out of his tight throat. The flogging continued relentlessly, but he couldn't make himself stay silent.
Finally, Dakova stopped and approached to evaluate his handiwork. Blood ran in rivulets down Akkarin's back.
- I don't have time for you anymore, pet, - he said with malice. - But be warned, every infraction, untoward action, or, - he knocked his fist on Akkarin's clammy forehead. - Every treasonous thought from you, and we will play again. Do you understand, slave?
Akkarin's mouth was full of blood, he bit his tongue and the inside of his cheeks raw in an effort to keep quiet. He swallowed it to avoid offending Dakova.
- Yes, Master, - he said hoarsely.
Dakova raised his eyebrows.
- Surely, you won't forget to thank me for the honour I bestowed upon you, - he sneered. - It would be very ungrateful, my pet. Very ungrateful, indeed.
Akkarin thought it the most perverse thing imaginable to demand of someone to be thankful for the torture he had just endured.
- Thank you, Master, - he complied, his voice was heavy with sarcasm.
Dakova's whip came spinning again, and Akkarin flinched. It didn't connect, just a warning then.
- I'll let it slide today, but don't try me again, slave.
Dakova cut his hands free and Akkarin crumpled, his legs giving way beneath him.
- Someone sew him up, - he ordered. - The rest of you, return to your tasks. Spectacle's over.
Akkarin understood perfectly. For him, every day would be a day of reckoning, and Sachakan laws or traditions be damned. As tugging began at his flaming back, Akkarin started to weep. He had been broken before, but this new punishment was capable of shattering him into a million tiny pieces. And Dakova wouldn't rest before acomplishing it.
Akkarin was shaking, lost in a maze of memories. A small hand curled around his fingers and squeezed, pulling him back to the present. He shook his head to dispel the images swimming before his eyes and looked down, Sonea's face was blurry, and he realised he couldn't see right. He wiped his face with the back of his free hand, it came away wet with perspiration. He was drenched in it, a physical reaction to the remembered terror. He was struggling to put on the serene mask he knew so well, but it wouldn't come. It was much worse than any nightmare, this relentless listing of his injuries. Sonea watched him anxiously, and he understood that she would stand by his side no matter what happened to him. She was wonderful and loyal and... and he didn't know how to protect her anymore.
'I can only conclude that those injuries are remains of a prolonged torture effort,' Vinara finished with a heavy sigh. 'The only Healing I detected seems to have been applied sparingly to prevent blood loss, not suffering. Is that correct, High Lord?'
She looked at him, but Akkarin wasn't listening. He was watching Sonea and his tender expression was mirrored on her face. It was disconcerting, as if they were alone in the middle of a crowd.
'They need to know what they are fighting to prevent,' Sonea said softly, her eyes wide and pleading.
Akkarin hesitated, drew a deep breath, and nodded. It was just another secrifice in his effort to protect Kyralia. His face grew calmer, but his mask had huge cracks which couldn't be missed by anyone. He clenched his jaw and looked at Vinara.
'Some injuries were Healed marginally. Why is that?' she asked nervously.
Akkarin swallowed hard.
'I was Healed by my Master so that I would remain attentive,' he said tonelessly. 'I didn't Heal myself except at the very beginning. I was forbidden to use magic,' he shrugged as if it wasn't worth mentioning.
'How can you make a magician obey such orders?!' Balkan was incredulous, his eyes bulging.
Akkarin glared at him.
'By taking away his magic, and by punishing him severely every time he disobeys, Balkan,' Akkarin said aggressively. 'Or did you think slavery was a minor inconvenience to me? Fighting and effective escape were impossible. Even suicide wasn't an option. I could suffer more abuse or less. I chose less pain rather than pointless defiance, I apologise if it lowers your opinion of myself!'
Lord Balkan was speechless.
'I didn't-,'
'Of course you did! It is so abstract to you, isn't it,' Akkarin interrupted, and there was hot fury in his gaze. 'Sitting in your comfortable seats, the concept of suffering is alien to you all! I shouldn't be surprised, knowing how your eyes slide unseeing over poverty and misery in this city! You know nothing of pain! My initial defiance lasted three days, Balkan, very fast breaking in, I was told. It usually takes a week, you see. Of course, I told myself I was being smart, biding my time, but after two years and three failed escape attempts I became a slave at last. I cringed in fear when my Master as much as looked my way, praying there was nothing questionable in my behaviour or the quality of my work or my very thoughts else I would be punished. And when my Master had guests to entertain we would play games he frequently invented. Knucklebones and screaming game being his favourive by far. Yes, I was a perfect slave, and after eight years back I still live in dread of my punishment for escaping. You think I am a disgrace to the Magicians' Guild of Kyralia, but I survived it all! I wish you luck proving how superior you are when your time comes!'
Akkarin was breathing hard, his fury mounting. He had never shared so much, not even with Sonea, but something tore loose inside of him at Balkan's incredulity. The floodgates were open and the pain and the sense of betrayal were overwhelming. He had never wanted to display his scars, but now that he had the thought of his colleages still disbelieving him was reprehensible.
'Control yourself, Akkarin,' the king said sternly, his jade eyes flashing dangerously.
Akkarin looked at Merin, and it was as if a hailstorm cloud passed in an instant. His fury drained away. He dropped to one knee, holding the king's gaze with his own.
'Forgive me, Your Majesty,' he said hoarsely, his voice was quivering with suppressed emotion. 'I forgot myself.'
'You certainly did,' the monarch aquiesced. 'You may resume the proceedings, Administrator,'
Lorlen cringed. The king hadn't given Akkarin leave to rise, and the situation was growing awkward. Akkarin's face smoothed out, as if kneeling to authority was something he did every day. Sonea, on the other hand, was growing red-faced, her eyes shooting sparks.
'Sonea,' Lorlen said, forstallinng any explossion. 'Will you answer our questions truthfully?'
Her eyes went wide, nostrils flaring at the assumption implicit in the question. She dropped to one knee beside Akkarin and made the vow, all the while glaring at the king with open dislike. She jumped to her feet and looked at Lorlen expectantly.
'Did the High Lord kill Lord Jolen?' It seemed silly to ask that now. Lorlen doubted that anyone present thought that of Akkarin anymore. He didn't, but Lorlen couldn't concentrate. What horror was the screaming game? And Knucklebones, that's innocent, isn't it? Or knuckle bones game?!
'Of course not,' she said angrily. 'Haven't you been listening?! He didn't kill anyone that night!'
Lord Balkan cleared his throat, Lorlen looked at him.
'The witness, Sonea,' he said. 'Do you know who killed her?'
The girl shrugged guiltily.
'I haven't seen this witness,' she said hastily. Akkarin's head swivelled around to meet her eyes, his enforced kneeling position making it difficult. His eyes shouted caution. Sonea furrowed her brow. 'Was she a golden-skinned, amber-eyed tall woman?'
'That is her description,' Balkan admitted, a sudden chill running down his spine. 'Do you know her?'
Sonea looked at her boots, her shoulders slumping.
'This is the part the High Lord lied about,' she said in a small voice. Akkarin groaned in dismay, the girl had no self-preservation in her.
'And what is the whole truth, Sonea?' Balkan prompted, his senses straining to pick up the magical aura around the petite girl. With trapidation, he recalled the impenetrable shield she had thrown around herself and her Guardian earlier. A shield that withstood forty warriors attacking it simultaneously. 'Damn us for blind fools!'
'The High Lord has been hunting the female Ichani for several weeks. He battled her once before, and was injured. After that I convinced the High Lord to teach me Black Magic,' there were gasps from the shocked magicians, but Sonea plowed on regardless. 'That night I was only to observe and learn, I hid. The Ichani woman ignored the High Lord who tried to engage her. She approached my hiding place. I struck before she could discover me. I killed your witness, Lord Balkan,' she looked at Akkarin then. He gave her a sad smile, his finger tracing his jugular in a familiar gesture. Sonea went pale, but determination in her face didn't waver. She shrugged.
'You have a few options available. All of them unpleasant,' Sonea glanced at the king. 'You have two magicians who practiced and killed with Black Magic. You could execute us, as the law says you must.'
There was a groan from among the magicians. Rothen's, she recognised but couldn't acknowledge him now. She needed to keep up a strong front, in absense of Akkarin's confidence she had to put on his mask.
'They could exile us as well,' Akkarin muttered darkly.
She paused, glancing at him.
'Exile? What would be the point...' Sonea gasped suddenly. 'To Sachaka!? High Lord, they can't do that, can they?!' she sounded hysterical now. Akkarin looked at her in concern, Sonea could read confirmation in his gaze. She closed her eyes.
'Your Majesty, I hope you are man enough to wield the axe yourself instead of sending us to those... those people,' she opened her eyes. The king was frowning at her, but Akkarin snorted softly, unamused.
'You're doing a good job of convincing them, Sonea,' he said.
She rounded on him.
'You know as well as I do that we wouldn't fight our own people,' she snapped. 'Not even the mean-spiritted ones!'
Akkarin smiled faintly despite himself, knowing exactly of whom she spoke.
'No,' he sighed. 'Not even those unpleasant types...'
'Your Majesty!' she said irritably. 'Could he get up now? There is something very wrong with me looking down on him instead of the other way around,' she gritted her teeth when the king declined.
'I'm just stating their options, Akkarin,' she continued tiredly. Akkarin raised his eyebrows at her casual use of his name. This hearing had turned into a farce already so he supposed the propriety didn't matter at this point. Still, it was oddly... exhilarating...
'Death and exile, then. The outcome would be identical for us and for Kyralia. Another option is for you to keep us-,'
'They won't,' Akkarin cut in, his tone contemplative.
'Why ever not?' she demanded.
'They cannot trust us. We have, after all, betrayed our oaths.'
Sonea glanced at him, thoughtful.
'Oh. Thieves' and nobility's honour codes have a lot in common, it appears. They'll kill us because we're oath-breakers, I can accept that,' she shrugged. 'Option four is that you chose the most trustworthy from amongst yourself to be your Black Magician. We'll teach them.'
'No!' Akkarin glared up at her. 'I'll not have this knowledge spread further!'
'Why not! Is there an alternative method of fighting they can use?' she challenged. He didn't say anything.
'It's too dangerous, Sonea,' he finally replied.
'When we die, the Allied Lands will be defenseless. And our enemies will no longer be ignorant of that fact. And we will die, wether today or in a few decades, and what then!' the High Lord stared at her steadily.
The king, the Higher Magicians and the High Lord as one pursed their lips in thought.
'When did you become so smart, Sonea?'
She grinned, appeased. She sat on the floor next to her kneeling Guardian.
'Somewhere between terror and more terror,' a smile slipped from her face, and she hugged her knees self-consciously, waiting for her betters to decide her fate.
'There are the books,' Akkarin ventured hesitantly. 'Could you teach yourselves, if you needed to? Lord Sarin!'
The alchemist jumped nervously. Despite his awkward kneeling position the High Lord of the Guild was back in command, of himself and the magicians.
'Sarin,' Akkarin snapped. 'Could you teach yourself?'
Sarin went pale.
'I... I do not know, High Lord,' he whispered, slipping easily into the respectful address.
Akkarin rubbed his forehead in thought. He looked at Merin, frowning.
'May I have your leave to retire, Your Majesty?'
The king nodded, still lost in thought, but then he froze.
'Retire...?'
He watched in astonishment as Akkarin plopped down next to Sonea and began vigorously massaging his aching knee. The magicians stared, speechless. Finally, Lorlen spoke in a carefully controlled voice.
'Do you require Healing, High Lord?'
'What?' Akkarin looked up absently, catching everyone staring. He narrowed his eyes in disapproval. Then he noticed his own hand still making massaging motions, soothing away his pain. 'Ah, of course,' he Healed it away giving no indication of embarassment at his tiny slip.
'I'll agree to teach your champions on one condition,' he said finally. 'I shall read their mind first to confirm their trustworthiness for myself. And you, novice, will obey me in this. I will not have this secret passed to another Tegin.'
Sonea's eyes grew wide.
'I swear it, High Lord,' she said.
Akkarin nodded.
'I and my novice will leave you now to decide our fate. You have all the facts and options, such as they are. I wish you wisdom in your choice.'
Without further ado he surrounded them with a sound-proof barrier and turned to his novice.
'You stabbed me in the back there,' he said conversationally. 'Takan's scars gave you the idea, didn't they?'
Sonea ducked her head..
'I didn't realise there would be... more,' she met his gaze. 'Takan didn't have them. I'm sorry.'
Akkarin faced forward, watching the milling magicians.
'Takan was a slave, useful property which while not treated very well wouldn't be squandered for no good reason. I, on the other hand, was merely a toy,' he said, pensive. 'At least you made them consider some method of protecting themselves, even if it was unpleasant for me.'
'What will they decide to do?' Sonea asked, for the first time she sounded scared.
Akkarin looked at her in concern. He was a roaring fool to have involved her in his crimes. He should never have hidden the truth from the guild. He should have confessed and let the chips fall where they may. Only he had wanted nothing more than to forget, escape, to never look back...
And now he was pulling Sonea in his destructive wake into that pool of despair that was Sachaka. Because he was certain that the verdict would send them there. With a thrill of horror, Akkarin recalled her earnest eyes as she held his hand. She needed to remain here... He couldn't bear for them to touch her... as they did the other. It was the most frightening realisation of his life - he was in love with Sonea, and he would bring about her destruction and suffering... Again, and again he hurt those he loved, simply by existing. He was a plague!
Out of character in places and I'm sorry for that, but you'll admit Sonea was way to cowed a girl for a slum-dweller hanging out with criminal gangs, right?