Kidnapped from the Porch

"I don't believe we were followed, milady," Lyren said.

"Doubt is a luxury we cannot afford," the woman replied, her voice sharp. "We cannot rely on what you believe, Lyren. We must be certain."

"My apologies, milady."

"He is stirring, Lady Helena."

Wells drifted back to consciousness through a fog of pain. The dull throb in his skull had intensified into a blinding agony that was the first thing his senses registered. As his vision slowly sharpened, the next was the discovery of his restraints; his wrists and ankles were tightly bound. At his feet, Aria lay unconscious, a heavy rope cinched around her small chest, pinning her wings. Two men, one tall and the other short but both powerfully built, loomed over him. To their left stood a woman of such breathtaking beauty that the term seemed inadequate.

A knot of pure terror tightened in Wells’s stomach. These were the people from the chase that afternoon. With a sickening lurch of recognition, he realized the two men were the same ones he had shouldered past in his haste to leave the Blade and Band. He swallowed hard against the dryness in his throat.

"So, you are awake," said the woman, who he presumed was Lady Helena. Her voice was a silken melody, though it struck Wells as utterly false. "Good. Excellent. It’s Wells, is it not?"

Wells remained silent, his jaw clenched in defiance. Lady Helena smiled, a flash of brilliant white teeth, and for a fleeting moment, Wells imagined her canines were fangs, sharp enough to puncture skin.

"Silence will not serve you, Wells," she cooed. "I can compel you to speak, but I would truly rather not subject you to such an unpleasantness. Wouldn't you?"

Again, Wells said nothing.

"Very well. If you insist on this quiet defiance, I suppose I shall have to make the introductions." She knelt before him, bringing her fully into his field of vision. Her hair was a river of polished jet, and her hazel eyes held a look of warm curiosity. A subtle yet commanding perfume clung to the modest velvet of her dress, which nonetheless looked opulent on her. At her throat, a golden brooch held a glittering amber stone.

"I am Lady Helena of the Imperial Court. His Imperial Majesty is my cousin. These are my companions, Lyren," she gestured to the tall one, "and Isrien. I have come to train you as a sorcerer."

"You mean you've kidnapped me," Wells retorted.

A wide grin spread across Helena’s face. "Oh, good, we're speaking now. I have not kidnapped you, Wells. I have rescued you. Rescued you from the likes of Cirus Crewe and other such predators."

"Cirus is not a predator," Wells stated, his voice like ice. "He is the greatest sorcerer in all of Remira."

Helena let out a tinkling laugh that grated on his nerves. "Wells, Wells, Wells. That is a highly debatable claim. In fact, I imagine that particular school of thought has very few adherents these days."

"My name is Wells," he snapped, incensed by her condescending tone.

"Of course it is, Wells," Helena murmured soothingly. "I fear Cirus Crewe has done more than simply cloud your mind; he has stifled your true potential. He has brainwashed you. I had no choice but to intervene. Once your poor, muddled head is cleared, you will understand why this was necessary." Leaning forward, she pressed a kiss to his forehead. Wells flinched with an involuntary shudder, but she seemed not to notice.

Rising, she turned her attention back to Isrien and Lyren. Wells strained against his bonds, trying to survey his surroundings. He was propped against a large rock, and somewhere out of his line of sight, a fire crackled. Beyond that, they were in an unremarkable field in what he desperately hoped was still the Anolin province.

For the rest of the evening, Helena ignored him. He drifted through fragmented sleep, jolted awake periodically by the searing pain in his head. His dreams were stranger than ever. Normally unremarkable, tonight they were consumed by a singular vision: he was climbing an endless mountain. Whether he was on a forest path or fighting through a blinding blizzard, the mountain was always the same.

He had slipped into sleep again, only to find himself back on the mountain. He seemed to be at its base, surrounded by a dense forest of pines, with a single trail winding its way upward. But this time, he was not alone. Aria was there.

"Wells?" Her voice was hesitant, laced with fear.

"What are you doing in my dream?" he demanded.

"Your dream?" Aria retorted, and Wells knew instantly something was different. His own subconscious creations were never so contrary. "This is my dream."

"No," Wells said calmly. "It's mine."

"It is not, because I've been dreaming of Nenara—"

"So we're on Mount Nenara?" Wells interrupted, looking around at the strange stillness of the forest, the absence of any fauna. "In the Kithara lands? Is this the forest you told me about?"

"Yes," Aria confirmed. "But I don't understand what you're doing here. I've been dreaming of this place all night—"

"As have I," Wells cut in. "You called it Nenara? I've been climbing it. All night. I have no idea why."

"Strange," Aria mused. "So… whose dream is this? Yours or mine?"

"I think," Wells said slowly, "that we're sharing it. If that's even possible."

Aria surveyed the clearing before her gaze returned to him. "I think it is. For a sorcerer and their kithara, anyway. I heard the Great Dragon speak of it once."

"Then let's make use of it," Wells said, settling onto the mossy ground. "What's our plan?"

"Our plan for what?"

Wells laughed in disbelief. "For what? Aria, they've captured us!"

Aria nearly toppled from the branch where she perched, her wings fluttering frantically as she regained her balance. "We've been captured?" she cried. "What happened? Tell me everything!"

"You don't know?" Wells asked, and quickly recounted the ambush and his awakening. "And right now, in the real world, we're tied up and they're all asleep."

"We have to escape."

"That much is obvious," Wells said. "But how?"

"I don't think we can figure that out while we're dreaming," Aria reasoned, flying from her branch to land on his shoulder. "We need to wake up and find out where they're taking us."

"I understand, but—" Wells began.

Suddenly, Aria's form wavered, shimmering like heat haze on a summer road. A look of alarm crossed her face before she dissolved completely. "Aria?" Wells cried out, a fresh dread gripping him. "Aria!" He realized at once what had happened. She had woken up. "Brilliant," he muttered to himself. "Just perfect."

The dream world vanished as Wells's own eyes snapped open. The sun was just cresting the horizon, painting the sky in pale, washed-out blues. A rough hand seized his shoulder, shaking him from the dregs of sleep. It was Lyren, who then moved toward a string of horses Wells hadn't seen the night before. Wells's gaze shot to Aria, where he saw the other man, Isrien, handling her roughly by her bonds.

"Leave her be," he snarled.

Lyren merely chuckled. "You're in no position to give orders, little sorcerer," he scoffed.

"Let her go!" Wells roared. He felt it before it happened—a familiar coldness coiling in his gut before surging outward. Strobing flashes of blue light erupted from his ring, and a storm of hailstones the size of lemons pelted a startled Lyren. Isrien stared in disbelief. But unlike his previous chaotic bursts of magic, Wells felt a sliver of control.

He focused his intent, directing the next shard of ice not at a person, but at Aria's bonds. He willed it to find its mark, and it did. The projectile flew true, striking the ropes and severing them. Aria let out a shriek of triumphant fury.

"ARIA!" Wells yelled. "FLY TO PELARA! FIND CIRUS AND GET HELP!"

Without a second's hesitation, Aria launched into the sky, streaking away with a speed that must have been aided by magic. It was then that Wells made a fatal miscalculation. He paused his assault on Lyren to watch her escape. In that instant, Lyren lunged, tackling him to the ground. Kneeling on his chest, he began to pummel Wells's face.

"You little bastard!" he screamed, his words punctuated by vicious blows. Pain exploded across Wells’s face, and he felt the cartilage in his nose give way with a sickening, wet crack as blood gushed forth. He cried out, but Lyren's savage attack only continued.

Then, a stream of searing, teal-colored fire erupted from behind them, striking Lyren in the face. He scrambled off Wells with a howl of agony. "Lyren!" Lady Helena's voice pierced the morning air, stripped of its previous false sweetness and now sharp enough to cut glass. "You will leave my apprentice alone."

"But did you see what he did?" Lyren roared, fanning the fresh burns on his cheeks. He looked significantly worse for wear, covered in bleeding gashes and rapidly forming bruises from Wells's ice. "He freed the kithara!"

"The kithara was never essential to our plans," she replied sharply. "The boy made a foolish choice, letting his only companion go. That is on him. But..." She turned her gaze to Wells, whose face was a ruin of bruises and congealing blood, not unlike Lyren's. Wells saw her ring glint as she raised her left hand. Bracing himself, he squeezed his eyes shut, but it did nothing to stop what was coming. Helena sent a jet of flame lancing toward him, and a brief, excruciating flash of pain seared his face.

"You are proving more trouble than I anticipated," she said coldly. "You will learn, Wells, that actions have consequences." She raised her ring again, and Wells tensed for more agony.

But this time, the magic was not fire. It was a soothing current, a cool breeze that washed over his skin, sweeping away the pain, the fear, and every anxious thought from his mind, leaving only a placid calm.

Lady Helena had healed him. He hadn't even felt her touch his face. Of course she healed him. She was saving him. She was good.

Wells sighed contentedly, not even flinching as Isrien hauled him roughly to his feet and threw him onto the back of a horse.