2
Dorian Blackwood woke to the sound of rain pattering softly and the familiar smell of sweet spices.
He snuggled deeper into his warm blankets and sighed.
Maybe his mother was making apple crisps for breakfast. He loved apple crisps.
Especially with the big, tart apples from the farm.
They would harvest soon. But not yet. Not until his father said he could smell the snow.
No, that wasn’t right.
His mother and father had died of the fever before the harvest. He would have to do it alone. How was he going to manage alone? He was too small.
No, that wasn’t right either.
They had died over a hundred years ago now. Before the farms were all abandoned. He didn’t harvest. He wasn’t big enough to do it alone. He was big enough to fight, though. They all had to fight. How long had it been since he had apple crisps?
Memories flooded his groggy mind with visions of war and death.
Year upon year of fighting the brutal mages.
Then, more recent, a frantic run with his men.
Almost to the neutral ground. The farm looked like his father's. They could hide there. Then pain. Searing pain, and the cold ground. But he wasn’t on the field anymore.
Or cold. Was he dead? Maybe it was his mother making apple crisps.
Dorian opened his eyes and was disturbed by how much effort that took.
His eyes felt grainy and his body far too heavy.
There was some pain, but nothing compared to what it had been.
The thin blanket covering him looked worn and strange.
The bed was hard and unfamiliar. Above him a window showed muted grey light through dusty panes.
A noise in the next room drew his attention.
He turned his head and saw a man standing over a small stove.
The man’s back was to him, but his golden hair and loose green tunic felt familiar. The elegant line of his pale neck tickled a memory he couldn’t hold. When he turned slightly to take something from the window, the dim light glinted off a medallion chained to his chest.
“Mage.” That was what he meant to say as he tried to sit up. It came out more of a harsh croak, and his sitting up failed halfway to anything useful. It was enough to get the man’s attention, though. He turned from what he was doing and started toward Dorian.
“No,” he tried again. It came out a little more human this time, at least.
“It’s alright. You’re safe.” The mage held up his hands, and Dorian flinched, waiting for the pain that was sure to come.
But the mage only sighed and knelt beside him.
“Here.” He picked up a dented metal cup from the floor.
“Water. It’ll help. There’s a well just off the kitchen, and the water is still clear and clean.
I’m making something to eat as well. Not much, but enough to get us through.
You’ll need it. We both do, really. I’m Hadrian. ”
Dorian just watched him, torn between confusion and fear until he pressed the cup closer and he tried to scoot away.
“It’s just water,” the mage said with a crooked smile.
“Water from a mage,” Dorian spat as best he could. He struggled again to sit up, and the mage put a hand on his shoulder when he nearly fell off the side of the bed. “Don’t touch me.”
“Fine. I get it,” he said, sitting the cup down beside the bed again and walking away.
He stopped and leaned one hip against an old dresser across the room.
“I’m a magic user and you’re a rebel, and we can’t be nice.
But I didn’t heal you and then drag you across half the plains just to see you die of thirst. Drink the water. ”
“You…” Dorian stopped and shook his head. He wanted to close his eyes and lay back down. But this was a mage. If he closed his eyes, he’d end up dead. “You healed me?”
“Yes, I did.”
That had to be a lie. No mage would help him. But Dorian remembered the pain of the fire on the field. The screams of the other men around him as he fell. He saw the archers take the mage that had killed him as his men ran to safety.
“Why?” Dorian asked.
“What do you mean, why?” He huffed. “Because you were dying. That’s why. Because I’m a healer, it’s what I do. Because I’m not a monster.” He shook his golden head. “Just drink the water and I’ll bring the food. Then I can finish the healing, and we can be done. I won’t hurt you.”
“That is rich coming from one of the Black Butchers' men.”
He turned back to look at him. “The…what?”
“I know who you fight for.”
“You mean General Valen?” The mage wrinkled his nose. “Is that really what you call him?”
“As if he would not enjoy knowing it,” Dorian sneered.
“No,” he said thoughtfully. “I don’t really think he would.”
“What—” Dorian had to stop as a coughing fit took him.
The mage ignored him and went back to the kitchen.
Dorian picked the water off the floor and drank.
He wasn’t completely unreasonable. He didn’t believe a word this strange man said, but he had little other choice but to take his gift, poison or not.
The lukewarm water tasted like the best thing that had ever touched his lips.
He drank the whole thing in one long pull.
“There’s more on the table by the bed,” the mage called from the other room, and Dorian grumbled as he turned to refill his cup with some effort. He didn’t feel good, but he was stronger than when he woke. His head still felt full of fog though.
Dorian was finishing off his third cup of water when the man came back with two wooden bowls and tried to hand him one. When Dorian didn’t take it, he gave him that infuriating crooked smile again. The man looked part nymph.
“Eat,” he said. “I told you, you’ll need it—”
“So you can use more of your magic on me?” Dorian spat. “Want to play with your kill before the end, mage?”
“Oh, yes,” he said and sat the bowl down on the bedside table hard enough some of the brown liquid inside splashed over the side.
“You’ve found me out. That is absolutely my plan.
I found you in a field, healed you with the last strength I had, carried your dead weight across a field in the dark while avoiding people that would have killed us, tucked you into bed, and then fixed you breakfast as part of my master plan…
to kill you.” He gave Dorian a flat look.
“If you can’t be bothered with thank you, at least eat so I can finish the job and leave in peace. ”
“Thank you? You expect me to thank you?”
The mage shrugged and took a drink from his bowl. “Sort of, yes.”
“Even if everything you say is true, you’ve done nothing but curse me. My men saw me fall. How would I explain coming back without a wound? They will hang me for treason for what you have done to me, mage.”
“You can’t be serious? They would do that?”
“You are telling me the mages would treat you differently if they knew you were helped by rebels?”
“I—” He closed his mouth, and a sadness washed over his face that took Dorian by surprise. “Would you rather I left you on that field then?” he snapped.
Dorian had spent his whole life being told mages were arrogant, cruel fools who only sought to lord their power over others.
He had been trained in the best ways to kill a mage since he was old enough to hold a staff.
There had never been a time when there was not war.
A war that was necessary for their very survival because the mages would otherwise kill them all.
This man had to be a lie.
“It does not matter now,” Dorian said finally. “It is done and can not be undone. I will eat and then go. I will find my own way through this.”
He picked up the bowl, and his mouth watered at the smell of warm vegetables and spice. He took a drink and couldn’t help the sigh that left him. He looked up to find the mage watching him with bright, keen blue eyes and tried to contain himself as he greedily drank the rest.
“Good,” the mage said when he was done. “But you won’t be going anywhere anytime soon.”
“Going to burn me if I try to leave?” His hand went instinctively to his belt where he kept a dagger and was shocked to find it still there.
The mage sniffed and snatched the bowl from his hand.
“First, my name is Hadrian. Not mage. Use it or I’m going to start calling you rebel in that shitty tone.
Second, I am a healer. I couldn’t throw a fireball to save my life.
Not that I can’t defend myself. Especially against someone in your current state.
I could probably take that dagger you’re fingering from you before you could stand up.
And third, I told you I couldn’t heal you completely last night.
When I do, it will tire you again. You’ll need someone to help you through it. ”
“Do you always talk so much, mage?” Dorian sat up straighter and tried to ignore how heavy his eyes suddenly were again.
“I did not bring you this far, break every rule, and probably get myself exiled just to see you die of stupidity, rebel."
Dorian didn’t know what to do. His head was heavy, and he didn’t understand.
He didn’t want to understand. This man—this mage—could not be what he seemed.
He had killed hundreds of men like him as they tried to kill him.
If he was what he seemed—if he had saved him for no other reason than kindness... No, that wasn’t possible.
But Dorian wasn’t an idiot. He couldn’t deny what was before him. Hadrian had saved him. He had been snatched from death’s door somehow. He had gotten from that field to here somehow. And nothing about this man made him afraid except the expectation Dorian carried with him.
“Where did you get sweetleaf for stew?” Dorian asked. He was pleased to see the sudden change in conversation threw the mage.
“Um, this was an old farmstead. It was part of their fall crop, I think. Carrots, corn, and greens too. A little patch of sunbell. That was probably for personal use though.”
“These farms have been abandoned for at least a century, mage.”
Hadrian smiled. “The plant does not forget how to grow when we are not around to benefit from it, rebel.”
That sounded very much like something his father would say. Dorian sighed and shook his head. “Dorian. My name is Dorian.”