Aethersmith (Book 2) (39 page)

“Tradition?” Kyrus answered meekly in reply.

“So you have been playing at this, have you? You know as
well as I that the Empire would be better off run by the Inner Circle than
entrusted to the whim of that ennobled rapscallion Rashan plucked from the dung
heap. There
is
no royal line anymore. If you want tradition, tradition
would say that there needs to be a new dynasty. This time, though, that dynasty
will be the Imperial Circle.”

“Why come to me now? Why should I not just tell Rashan?
Better yet, why not kill you myself as a traitor?” Kyrus carefully kept his
tone neutral, posing the question as a hypothetical, rather than a bald threat.

“The same reason you can even ask that question today. Had
some puffed up knight from a sorcerous bloodline made veiled threats against me
like that, they would be finding charred bits of him from here to Zorren. But
rumors spread, Brannis. Your little escape from the sorcerer cells in the
dungeon and your altercation with the esteemed warlock in the Sanctum
yesterday—even the minor cataclysm that accompanied the discovery of your
newfound power—all show that you have more power than any of us have seen
before,” Dolvaen said solemnly. “It may well come to the point where the future
of the Kadrin Empire rests on your conscience. Whether you become a monster
like Rashan and take his place, or throw him down and let reason govern the
Empire.”

“Both those scenarios involve me confronting Rashan,” Kyrus
observed, pointing out what appeared to be an obvious flaw in Dolvaen’s logic.

“I suppose the third option ought to be mentioned: he kills
you,” Dolvaen added. “You admit he is paranoid. You know he kills when he is
uncertain of his course. How long can you expect to work by his side, growing
in power each day as you learn to control that monstrous Source of yours?”
Dolvaen asked.

“But …” But Kyrus had nothing to follow that “but.” Kyrus
could not disagree with Dolvaen’s logic.

“I think we have talked too long already,” Dolvaen said. “If
anyone noticed your absence, it may seem suspicious. However, one last thing
before you leave …”

* * * * * * * *

Kyrus spent the remainder of the afternoon working on
sketches for new airships, based on an idea he had. Brannis had made good use
of the stone folk’s dragon-working techniques to make weapons. He wanted to see
if the same principles could be applied to making armored ships. They would
look like hideous monstrosities of steel, armored like knights but in the shape
of a ship, impossible to float upon water. If he could fold runes into those
plates, though …

It warranted thought—and lots of planning and figuring. The
rune structures would be vast, covering not only the surfaces of the airship,
but layers beneath those surfaces as well. Old, sea-kissed wood could hold a
rune, but nowhere near so well as steel. The new ships would bear wards strong
enough to turn aside cannonballs, if he could only find someone with a Source
strong enough to ignite a rune structure so large and intricate. Kyrus grinned.
About time I saw some use of this Source of mine, beyond playing at Rashan’s
tests.
There were other uses he could put it to, but he wanted to bury
Dolvaen’s warnings deep in his mind.
With the shielding spell Dolvaen showed
me, I should be safe enough from Rashan, at least while I am vigilant.

The thought of Rashan reminded Kyrus that he had been
invited to the warlock’s offices in the Tower of Contemplation. It was unusual
for Rashan to make any sort of social plans, but it had certainly sounded like
one when he suggested it. Most often if the warlock wanted Kyrus (or Brannis),
he would send word by messenger, and the implication was that the timeframe was
“now.”

All along the walk to the tower, Kyrus wondered what sort of
mood he would find the warlock in. Rashan’s moods were as shifting as the
Katamic: never quite calm but ranging from “pleasant enough” to “evacuate to
higher ground,” often with little notice or time to react.

The door was open, and waiting for him when he arrived,
which in and of itself was unusual for Rashan’s doors. He was the sort who
seemed to think that doors ought to be closed when not being actively
traversed.

“Come in, Brannis.” The warlock’s voice sounded a bit
different than normal as Kyrus heard him call out as he hesitated briefly
outside.

Kyrus stepped carefully into the office, wondering what was
amiss but unable to quite grab hold in his thoughts as to what it was. The
chalice in Rashan’s hand gave him a clue.

“Are you drunk?” Kyrus wondered aloud, arching an eyebrow.

“A touch, perhaps. Just a touch. Please come in, have a
seat.” Rashan motioned to a comfortable-looking chair that had not been there
Kyrus when had last seen the office. In fact, Kyrus noted, a fair bit of
remodeling had been done, including the repair of the holes through its walls.

As Kyrus took the offered seat, the door swung shut behind
him and the usual wards sprang to life. “I did not think that would be possible
for a demon,” Kyrus noted, prodding Rashan for an explanation.

“Takes more effort, I suppose, letting alcohol take its
course upon me, but I needed a bit of respite. Too many things happening, even
for me to deal with all at once, I think,” Rashan explained. He seemed more
human than he ever had before. “But never mind about that. I think it is about
time we got to know one another, not-Brannis.”

“You … want me to have a drink with you, then?” Kyrus asked.

Rashan laughed. “Not hardly!” The warlock stood and, going
against what he had just said, took up a matching chalice for Kyrus. He picked
up a decanter, and poured a white liquid into it.

“You just said you did not want me to drink with you,” Kyrus
protested as the beverage was pressed into his hands with slightly less
crispness and efficiency of motion than Rashan was wont to display. Kyrus
lifted the chalice to his nose and sniffed.

“Sweetmilk,” Rashan said, then smiled at him. “Last thing
the Tower needs is more holes in it, am I right?”

Sweetmilk was a treat given to good children at bedtime. It
was warmed goat’s milk sweetened with honey. Kyrus had never tasted it himself,
but Brannis had loved it as a boy—as had near to every child in the Empire
whose parents could afford to waste honey on bedtime treats.

“It is delicious,” Kyrus commented upon tasting it. “Thank
you.”

“One of the many pleasures of Veydrus that I thought you
might enjoy, Brannis. There was no equivalent in Acardia, last I was there,”
the warlock spoke quietly, the first explicit admission Kyrus had heard from
him regarding Tellurak.

“So you were from Acardia, then?” Kyrus asked, wondering how
far Rashan would be willing to open up to him.

“Indeed. Born in Udur, did business out of Golis largely,
traveled the world until I got too old for that sort of nonsense. I had a
thought for a bit of fun tonight, Brannis. I have come to understand that I
will not have you as an underling for very much longer. It is time we became
partners in this endeavor. I have found myself thrust unwittingly into the role
of being the brains and wisdom behind the Empire; I was always the muscle, so
to speak. You … You are the sort whom I could leave behind to run things while
I go out to play at war. But … ahead of myself.” Rashan shook his head. “The
fun part …”

“Yes?” Kyrus asked. Rashan might have been drunk, or he
might have been faking it, but his words were a far cry from the scenarios that
Dolvaen had painted.

“I would like to get to know you, and I will tell you a bit
about myself in return. Where in Acardia is it that you were from?” Rashan
asked, smiling mischievously.

“I was born on a farm outside Scar Harbor a bit. I
apprenticed there and inherited my master’s shop. I guess that is as good an
answer as I have got,” Kyrus replied, seeing no harm in it.

Rashan set his chalice down on the desk and stood, walking
carefully to the middle of the office.

“Huaxti janidu deldore wanetexu elu mulaftu sekedori
puc’anzu margek lotok junubi,”
the warlock said as he painted the air with
his fingers. Brannis had once seen Rashan work a spell out loud to show him how
it was done. This time, a pair of illusory, ghostly hands remained in the air
where Rashan had held them when he began the spell. From each finger, a colored
line trailed in the wake of Rashan’s own fingers as he motioned through the
spell. When he finished, a tangle of lines floated in the air.

Off to the side of the room, a scene appeared in the air.
Kyrus saw cobblestone streets and horse-carriages. He recognized the Society of
Learned Men and the courthouse where his trial had been held. The view flowed,
as if they were viewing the scene through a lens, and Kyrus saw houses and
shops with unfamiliar signs outside, though he noticed that Dremmer's Pub was
still there in Rashan’s memory. The scene meandered about the city for a time,
with Kyrus lost in a sense of wonder that he had thought simple magic had ceased
to be capable of for him.

“Your turn,” Rashan spoke softly from behind Kyrus, snapping
him from his reverie as the illusion faded. The glowing diagram of the spell
hung in the air, awaiting him. “Do you remember the words?”

Kyrus shook his head, and the runes spelling it out appeared
in the air just above the snarl of colors he would have to trace. It took him
five tries, but Kyrus finally managed the spell for himself. He laid out a
vista of his own for Rashan, showing the view of Scar Harbor as he remembered
it. He pointed out his shop, Greuder’s Pastries, the Brown Elk Tavern, and a
dozen other places, including the wharf he had burned down.

The two stayed up into the late hours trading scenes from
their memories. Kyrus showed Marker’s Point and Denku Appa to Rashan. He even
managed to work in a bit from the mines of Raynesdark as best he could from
Brannis’s memories. In return, Rashan showed him the Battle of the Dead Earth,
attending the birth of Liead the Only, and the draw where he had killed his grandfather.

“I am sorry about yesterday,” Kyrus apologized, feeling like
he had taken undue satisfaction in his injuring of Rashan.

“It was my own fault underestimating you. Although,
technically that was cheating,” Rashan commented.

“How do you mean? I just hurled fire, like you told me to,”
Kyrus responded, confused.

“Well, that is why I take much of the blame. What you threw
at me was not fire but dragonfire,” Rashan explained. Kyrus’s eyes widened.
“Hurled fire mixed with raw aether. You expelled it faster than it could
ignite. I have no idea how you managed it without the physiology to back it up,
but it was the same stuff dragons breathe. I could have wound up just like my
grandfather: killed in a thoughtless, youthful show of power.

“Worthless, stupid kid, I was,” Rashan said. “My grandfather
was not a good man but he was not so bad as to deserve an end like that,
either. Had I been unlucky in emperors, I might have been killed that day for
what I had done. Instead …” He gestured to himself as if to say “Everything
else happened.”

“I did not expect regrets from you, of all people,” Kyrus
mused, smiling companionably at the warlock.

“Regrets? I can show you regrets.” The warlock chuckled
without mirth. An image appeared in the air between them, a vision of
loveliness with honey-blonde ringlets and soft brown eyes. She might have been
eighteen summers—or years, depending which world she was from—old.

“She is very pretty. Who was she?” Kyrus asked, assuming
that as a regret, she probably qualified for the past tense.

“A girl I loved, a long time ago. The first one where I
could finally tell the difference between love and simple lust. Everything
seems like love until you really, truly find it; after that, you can see all
your other silly dalliances for what they were.”

“What became of her?” Kyrus asked.

“Age. Eventually it gets them all.” Rashan sighed. “How
about you? Did you have a girl back in Scar Harbor, before you got swept up in
your little adventure?”

Kyrus just smiled in reply, and began his own illusion. As
it took shape, he was pleased that he could still recall Abbiley’s face clearly
enough to paint it for Rashan. He had worried that the time they spent apart
would have dulled his memory, left it somehow less vivid.

Rashan smiled, and nodded sagely. The warlock then took
another pull on the decanter, having abandoned the pretense of using a chalice
some time ago. “What was her name?”

“Well, I have no reason to believe she is anything other
than still ‘is,’ but her name is Abbiley,” Kyrus stated, but he was surprised
to see Rashan perk up.

“What was that you said?” the warlock asked, still clearly
inebriated.

“Abbiley. That is the girl’s name. Why do you ask?” Kyrus
inquired, wondering what possibly could have prompted such a reaction.

“Try mentioning that name to Celia sometime.” Rashan
chuckled. “But you cannot tell her I was the one to mention it.”

As Kyrus walked back to his room shortly afterward, he could
barely keep his eyelids up. Sweetmilk was wonderful at helping children sleep.
In larger quantities, it worked as well on adults.
I have to remember to ask
Celia in the morning,
Kyrus thought, fighting to keep the task in his head
as his thoughts became heavy.
Of course, if Juliana is in my room waiting
when I get there, I give it a coin flip at best that I do not recall it.

* * * * * * * *

Iridan stood at the prow of the ship, wind whipping past
them at a rate that was alarming most of the crew. The sails were stretched
taut, and the captain had been forced to ask him to ease his wind spell lest he
tear the ship apart.

I will never be a real warlock practicing with wooden
swords in the palace courtyard or contesting draw after draw with old men. I
will go out and make myself a warlock … or die.
The thought sobered him
some, acknowledging the very real possibility that his rash action would lead
to an early death. There would be no Brannis to look after him, no Faolen to
hide him, no Rashan to train him. He would be on his own.