Betrayed (Magi Rising Book 1) Page 2

  I pushed the waves and braids back over my shoulder and paused for one last glance in the cracked mirror at my reflection. Zîyanâ was right; the pale green contrasted nicely against my golden skin. The intricate braids pulled the locks away from my face, and while I wasn’t pretty, the awkward, knobby in-between of my thirteenth and fourteenth annum had finally passed.

  My hair was darker than Zîyanâ’s, at least at the roots; the sun had bleached my waves blending rich gold and deep auburn. Still, it was probably my best feature. My eyes were too wide, my nose too sloped, and my lips too uneven. I sighed and dropped my gaze. At least I had breasts and hips now. Sort of.

  Zîyanâ said the barely there curves would be more noticeable if I ate more and didn’t spend so much time running around the jungle. As if that would be enough motivation to make me stop.

  What she didn’t understand—couldn’t understand—and I would never tell her now was I’d started seeing magî souls. Fewer of them appeared in the jungle than the crowded marketplace, so I’d taken to haunting the woods, usually by the Cewi waterfall.

  “Come on, Dîsa,” Zîyanâ called before poking her head back into our home. “Wouldn’t you rather see Zîvrünê instead of trying to track one of your precious panthera? Or are you going to sit and gape at yourself in the mirror?”

  Taking a deep breath, I forced my lips upward, but I couldn’t stop the irritation with how she used her knowledge of me against me. As if the things that made me who I was were laughable. “Maybe I’ll ask him to come with me.”

  “You and the Zîv roaming the jungle?” She laughed as she waved my words away. “Stop being ridiculous and hurry up.”

  I stopped to slip on my boots, the one gift I’d accepted because the foot protection made my wanderings in the jungle possible. Zîvrünê had his guard, Bîcav, deliver the gift, saying I could repay when my magîk was mature. I wondered what, if anything, Bîcav told his master about my magîk. Maybe that was why he’d stopped coming by.

  The thought made my chest tight. Doesn’t matter. All of Yândarî knew Zîvrünê and Zîyanâ would bond and that it was just a matter of time before the official announcements went out through Qralî. I lied to myself and said if he was happy, I’d be happy for him. And I’ll still get to see him, like today.

  Zîyanâ and I wound through the tangle of foliage surrounding our hovel and out toward the Rê, the main road surrounding Yândarî, Qralî’s capital. The wall of growth on either side of the path was about twelve feet high, a mixture of plants that stayed relatively close to the ground in the rainforest.

  Above the lower canopy was another layer, the upper canopy, trees extending from twenty to a hundred feet up. At this elevation, the sun’s, moon’s, and star’s rays dappled our world with their light through the foliage. I’d spent my entire life in Yândarî, but there were other outposts where the mountains climbed past the trees or others where the clouds blocked the celestial lights. But without the upper canopy, those areas grew cold and dry depending on the season. I loved the warmth and life here. And the magî. Especially the magî.

  I ran my hand over the plants, tugging on the tip of the large aleph-ear leaf—bigger than a supper plate—and then let it slap back into place with a spray of dew. Overhead, the rumble of thunder promised rain, more moisture that would trickle through the leaves above, keeping everything alive. And a bit of rain never stopped us from hiking.

  “Where are we going today?” I asked, smiling with the thought of a good walk. The clean smell of verdant growth was layered with the pungent orchids and hints of decomposing mulch from beneath our feet. “To Cewi falls?”

  Zîyanâ snorted. “You’re the only one who likes that place. It’s tucked so far back, away from everything, it’s almost like nothing else exists when you’re there.”

  “You don’t like that?” The seclusion was one of my favorite things about that particular area. “It’s peaceful, relaxing. And there aren’t any caiman.”

  “Only you would still be afraid of an animal from the outposts. Next, you’re going to say you want to go to the fort in the trees. Those places are for children, Dîsa. They’re suffocating and small. I’d much rather climb mountains or even trees and see everything below. Plus, when you’re elevated, you can be seen.”

  “Unless the clouds hide you,” I retorted, offended by the slights. The fort in the large banyan tree had been Zîvrünê’s favorite haunt when we were younger; the falls were still mine. “Clouds are suffocating.”

  She held in her response, her pinched expression reminding me of our mother’s frustration when she believed us to be silly children unable to listen to reason. As we stepped onto the Rê, Zîyanâ stopped and pulled off her sash. She wiped the moisture and spatters of mud from her legs, taking several seconds to inspect the result before straightening. “Here,” she said, thrusting the muddy fabric at me. “You should wipe off, too.”

  “I don’t care,” I replied, waving away the proffered rag. “No one is going to be looking at me.”

  “Just do it so you don’t embarrass me.”

  I shrugged and acquiesced. When I was done, she threw the muddy cloth onto the trail.

  “We can pick it up on our way back,” she said and waved her hand. Immediately, a vibrant shoot erupted from the dark soil, climbing until it was chest high. The soiled rag hung wedged between a leaf and the stalk. “There.” She grinned at me. “Now you won’t forget.”

  With a deep breath, I bit my tongue, exhausted with the tug-of-war. I should be proud of her and happy for her. Zîyanâ’s power was really strong. Her magîk over the land had kept us fed when there was nothing else. And more than just a strong green thumb, our sovereign believed she could fix the land and rid the realm of the bûyî.

  When she went through her assessment last year, her power was so strong she earned coveted zeta markings, and her name changed from Anâ to Zîyanâ. All that power was how she’d caught the attention and approval of the kümdâr—and his sons’ public notice—once again.

  2

  Today

  I ran my hand down the rippled glass window, frowning at the empty path leading out of Heza, the only way in or out of the distant outpost at the base of the Hîsk mountain range. Two years had passed since I’d left Yândarî, but trepidation crawled through me now—reminiscent of then. Blinking hard, I turned my back on the window and the Little Rê, frustrated with my growing sense of ignorance and impotence. Even if something had gone wrong with the group of magî while they were in the capital, there was nothing I could do… not from Heza, a two-week journey on foot.

  Which is probably why I was sent away.

  Only I wasn’t naïve anymore.

  I trudged down the stairs of the hewn stone inn and then plunked into a chair at the long table, my stomach churning. The heat from the fire billowed out of the hearth, gobbling up the residual morning chill of the dry season and leaving the smell of cinders behind. There was no reason for me to care, not this much, but the innkeeper and her family felt like… family? I pursed my lips, searching for a better word. Friends? Both made me grimace, and I shoved the memories bubbling up—now soured and bitter—back. I’d feel bad if something happened to them.

  “Dostane?” I called out to the owner. “Are you busy?”

  After six months, I knew better than to go into her kitchen unless expressly invited—which never happened.

  “Be there in a minute,” she said, leaning out the arched doorway and disappearing just as fast, nothing more than a streak of brown hair.

  I waited, my gaze drawn back toward the window like a magnet, and forced my attention to the knotted grain of the table instead. Worrying was a waste of time and energy. Too bad my mind didn’t know it.

  Eventually, I should go back to Yândarî, but the longing to return had evaporated months, maybe even a year ago, much like the residual moisture on the leaves after a mid-morning rainstorm. My immature, naïve, infatuation with Zîvrünê had eroded with separation and time, and even my conviction of needing to fix whatever was wrong had waned into indifference—at least on most days. I no longer tried to convince magî that Zîvrünê was going to do anything about his brother, and I’d stopped warning them about the kümdâr’s guards or explaining all the reason to hide our magîk. To convince anyone of something I no longer believed in was impossible.

  The problem was I didn’t know what had happened in the capital or why Zîvrünê hadn’t sent for me. I didn’t know why he’d sent me away. I didn’t know anything.

  And for the last two days, I couldn’t even pretend to not hear the whispered rumors about magî disappearing at the market. What if the reports were true? Knowing Zerôn, they could be true, but in two years I’d seen no evidence. Yes, there had been a kirinî after the new kümdâr began his rule, but the magîk tournament was a part of every new kümdâr’s rising to power. The idea that he was still taking magî, and worse, killing the best and strongest magî—was preposterous. And while I used to believe Zerôn was why Zîvrünê and my sister had sent me away in such a panic, the fact that neither had ever bothered to contact me made me doubt a lot of what I thought I knew. Loyalty, like friends and family were supposed to have for one another, meant one wouldn’t forget. After two years, I knew they’d forgotten or deliberately gotten rid of me.

  Shame still burned through me when I recalled how I’d zealously warned magî in the outposts to hide for the entire first year I’d been gone. I’d been such a fool.

  A twinge of guilt nagged with the introspection, and I traced the grain of the table while waiting for Dostane to appear. Taking a deep breath, I pushed against the morose thoughts. If the magî of the outpost believed me then, at sixteen, surely they would know better now. As for Zîvrünê and Zîyanâ… I didn’
t need them. The fact made all the more clear after two years without them in my life.

  I’d been in Heza, an outpost tucked away on a plateau in the Navendi mountain range, for eight months. And in all the time I’d been here, the kümdâr’s Serîk hadn’t come to take magî for the kirinî. Not once. And the bûyî, the deadly bog that had taken my parents and the previous kümdâr and his bondmate, had yet to make its terrible presence known here. Maybe Zîyanâ really did heal the land of the death-trap. Good-o on her.

  At least I didn’t have to live in her shadow now. My home was the solitary inn of Heza, not the whole inn, but the middle of three adjoining rooms that Dostane rented to travelers passing through, although the other two had remained empty the entire time I’d lived here. All of Qralî could have fallen or forgotten about this outpost and we’d be contentedly ignorant—which was how it had always been.

  Heza was one of the few outposts where a natural resource was more valuable than most of the resident magî’s abilities. The realm of Qralî traded in magîk, but Heza exported beautiful stones to the capital—small trinkets to be admired—and the gems served as an equalizer for those with lesser magîk, worthless magîk, because they had to be mined by hand. I’d never heard of a magî with the ability to mine, and I’d traveled all over Qralî after the new kümdâr and my sister bound their magîk. Family support and all that.

  Memories continued washing over me, and I shuddered, letting my attention return to the window—and today. The rippled glass distorted the view, but the early afternoon sun streamed through the distant top layer of the jungle canopy. At this elevation, light bathed the orange brick buildings and reflected off the windows, leaving prisms dancing on the walls. The canopy’s growth, prolific in the lower basins of the jungle, was much sparser here. What survived the relative cold dry season was stout and hearty—much like the magî of Heza.

  “Fried pîderîne?” Dostane asked, stepping out of the kitchen. She approached, her soft tread and the rustle of fabric growing louder, and added, “Or are you wanting something different? I’ve got flatbread ready to fry, too, if you’d like.”

  “Whatever you have is fine,” I replied with a shrug. All of her food was delicious—the closest I’d found to the chefs’ in the castle in Yândarî. Pulling my attention away from the path outside the window, I asked, “Do you think they’ll be back today?”

  Dostane’s wearied features softened, but the fine lines around her hazel eyes deepened, and new ones materialized around her mouth as she frowned. Even so, she appeared far less than her thirty-eight years. “Every day I wake up hopeful. They’ve been gone ten weeks, today.”

  Of course she’d anticipated my question. I’d asked it at least a dozen times every day for a dozen days. The trek from Heza to Yândarî normally took three weeks. Although, the mines’ yield was exceptionally plentiful, and the mules were heavily laden when the group of male magî left for the capital over two months ago. And even after accounting for extra travel time and additional time to sell the increased quantity of stones, the company of magî should’ve been back by now.

  I opened my mouth, but she rapped on the table.

  “I’ll be right back with something for you to eat,” she said, cutting off my next question. Then, after exhaling, she added, “No, I don’t know when they’ll be back, but I do know you’re losing weight, Dîsa. And no magî from Heza wants to see his partner, or future partner, scrawny.”

  She stepped away from the table and my sputtering protests, continuing to speak until she disappeared into the kitchen, her words floating out to me.

  “It implies incompetence.”

  Snapping my mouth shut, I glared at the now empty doorway. “No one would ever think Mar incompetent,” I muttered after her. Then I raised my voice and added, “And nothing is going to happen with me and him!”

  Mar, her eldest, was tall, thick, strong, and the epitome of his deceased father. What Mar lacked in magîk, he more than made up for in work ethic and strength. He was loyal, reliable, and kind. I liked him, but I didn’t love him. And I definitely had no intention of partnering with him, or anyone else for that matter. Love made one stupid and gullible, and I had no intention of being either ever again.

  The back door slammed shut, and Doli, Dostane’s daughter, yelled, “They’re back.”

  With the excitement in her voice, relief flooded me. My neck and shoulders dropped, and I sucked a deep breath in through my nose. But the air tasted wrong on the back of my tongue, and a stone settled in my stomach, my skin crawling with unease. I stood so suddenly the chair tipped back and fell to the stone floor with a clatter. Clenching my hands, I tried to reign in my racing heart as the feeling of dread grew, unfolding like a poisonous blossom.

  “What the rot? Are you okay?” Doli exclaimed as she entered the dining room. She met my gaze and tittered with nervous laughter. “You scared me, Dîsa.”

  I stared at her—her wide eyes so like her mother’s—and the ball of darkness swelled, filling my entire abdomen and pushing into my chest. My mouth dried, and the yeasty scent of fry bread made my stomach turn.

  “What’s wrong?” Doli hurried to my side. “You look sick. Mom!”

  Forcing my lips open, I inhaled, and the rancid taste of death coated my tongue like old, putrid oil. My eyes widened with horrific understanding, and the air seemed to charge. Death was here; it was coming for us. I grabbed Doli’s hand, yanking her along behind me as I darted to the kitchen, screaming, “Dostane.”

  Doli squealed and flailed, unsteady on her feet, and a moment later she crashed into me. We stumbled forward with the momentum, through the arched doorway separating the two rooms. We tumbled to the floor, and she landed on top of me, forcing the air from my lungs.

  “What the fetid—”

  Her exclamation disappeared into an explosion of rock and splintering wood, pieces raining through the open doorway and pelting us with hard, uneven fragments. My ears rang, a high-pitched bell, and I was deaf to everything else. Doli scrambled off me, and I jumped to my feet. Dostane stood rigidly, her mouth unhinged, staring at the doorway now billowing with dust and smoke.

  Rot. Smoke—a lot of smoke. Magîk smoke. The air singed the inside of my nose with the acrid stench.

  My eyes burned and heart raced. The smell grew, and I grabbed for the other two magî. The three of us knocked into each other on the way out the back door, stumbling into Dostane’s garden—the only way out. The saturated haze of a greedy, belching flame covered the expanse, and the shapes of the plants were distinguishable only at close range. Every time I opened my mouth, I tasted death. I scanned the area, unable to see anyone, but with all the smoke, that didn’t mean we were alone.

  The garden backed to a sparse copse of trees and a rocky slope which disappeared into the sheer face of the mountain—which meant no one would need to stand guard out here; there was nowhere for us to go. A gust of breeze shifted the curtain of smoke and confirmed our lack of company. At least for now.

  “What’s happening?” Doli cried, her voice muffled by the residual tinnitus.

  “No idea,” I huffed, not sure what to say, or if she could even hear me. But my magîk was never wrong, which meant death was here in Heza. A lot of it. “We need to hide.” I glanced to Dostane, hoping for a miracle.

  Her pupils were dilated, but her jaw no longer gaped. She nodded once and then inclined her head toward the scraggly trees clinging to the rocky slope. The wind shifted and smoke swelled and thickened, and suddenly the muffled screams of magî bounced through the cloud of ash.

  “We can’t. There’s nothing there,” I said. Gritting my teeth, I wondered if there was a way to sneak through whomever was waiting in front.