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The Grand Mage's Dilemma
Alera tapped her fingers on the edge of the scrying mirror as she watched her sister march deeper into the enemy’s castle. She tasted blood as her teeth tore into the skin of her cracked lips. In the pit of her stomach, a thousand snakes writhed.
Her younger sister, Jenel, was a hundred miles away, unarmed, all but unguarded, all but alone. She looked in every way a queen as she walked down the halls of their family’s enemy. She held her head high, her gold circlet glistening atop her raven dark hair in the rose-tinted mage lights, her eyes unflinching as she stared down the snake of a man, Lord Malek.
If she felt any of the apprehension Alera now felt, Jenel hid it well.
Alera waved a hand over her scrying mirror, zooming in on her sister’s face. She scrutinized the determined eyes, but still found none of the doubt or fear in them that turned Alera’s own stomach.
She zoomed out again, expanding her field of view to include Lord Malek.
He stood before his throne, his arms spread welcomingly to either side. He was a young man—only a year or two older than Jenel—with beady eyes and a twirling mustache. He was as much a greasy, slithering man as his father had been, no more deserving of trust than a rat in a granary.
But Jenel said they should try to make peace. Jenel said he was different.
And Jenel was queen, not Alera.
Alera watched him closely for all the good it would do her. From here, from her keep in the family’s castle, no matter what treachery he might pull on her little sister, there was nothing she could do.
Intellectually, she knew that. Intellectually, she understood.
That understanding did nothing to settle the anxious fluttering of her heart or to stop the useless tapping of the mirror’s frame.
And it certainly did nothing to stop her from watching through the mirror.
What exactly she would do if one of Malek’s men drew a blade on her sister, she didn’t know. But it didn’t change how she wanted to see it if it did happen.
Jenel stopped at the foot of the dais, nodding her head to Malek. He returned the gesture, stepping down to join her. They exchanged words but Alera could not hear...
Her younger sister, Jenel, was a hundred miles away, unarmed, all but unguarded, all but alone. She looked in every way a queen as she walked down the halls of their family’s enemy. She held her head high, her gold circlet glistening atop her raven dark hair in the rose-tinted mage lights, her eyes unflinching as she stared down the snake of a man, Lord Malek.
If she felt any of the apprehension Alera now felt, Jenel hid it well.
Alera waved a hand over her scrying mirror, zooming in on her sister’s face. She scrutinized the determined eyes, but still found none of the doubt or fear in them that turned Alera’s own stomach.
She zoomed out again, expanding her field of view to include Lord Malek.
He stood before his throne, his arms spread welcomingly to either side. He was a young man—only a year or two older than Jenel—with beady eyes and a twirling mustache. He was as much a greasy, slithering man as his father had been, no more deserving of trust than a rat in a granary.
But Jenel said they should try to make peace. Jenel said he was different.
And Jenel was queen, not Alera.
Alera watched him closely for all the good it would do her. From here, from her keep in the family’s castle, no matter what treachery he might pull on her little sister, there was nothing she could do.
Intellectually, she knew that. Intellectually, she understood.
That understanding did nothing to settle the anxious fluttering of her heart or to stop the useless tapping of the mirror’s frame.
And it certainly did nothing to stop her from watching through the mirror.
What exactly she would do if one of Malek’s men drew a blade on her sister, she didn’t know. But it didn’t change how she wanted to see it if it did happen.
Jenel stopped at the foot of the dais, nodding her head to Malek. He returned the gesture, stepping down to join her. They exchanged words but Alera could not hear...
