Aethersmith (Book 2) (46 page)

Danil turned, looking at Axterion with wide-eyed innocence,
as if nothing at all was amiss.

“Hello, Grandpa,” Danil said, lowering his sword. “I have to
practice if I am going to be a warlock someday.”

“Is that so?” Axterion replied, his tone suggesting that the
question was rhetorical. “Well, I seem to recall that warlocks need to know
their arithmetic, and certainly their penmanship. It took me and three of the
servants to get your tutor out of the storage closet.”

“I am going to the Academy this autumn. I can learn all that
stuff there, from sorcerers who are smarter than Challeigh,” Danil said. “They
won’t teach me to sword-fight there, though, so I have to learn that on my
own.”

“Challeigh is a fine young man and smart as they come. We
spare no expense in educating you, I trust you know.”

“Not smart enough to get himself out of a closet,” Danil
muttered.

“Just because you can lock the door with a ward, and he
cannot break it does not mean you are smarter than him,” Axterion said. “He is
a scholar, not a sorcerer. Now set all that rubbish aside, and we can get you
back to your lessons.”

Danil stared at his grandfather but did not move to obey.
What might have begun as a look of defiance slid slowly into a sly grin.

“Make me.”

“Hmm, what was that?” Axterion asked. “I may have misheard
you just now.”

“Challeigh isn’t a sorcerer, Grandpa, but you are. Beat me
in a draw, and I’ll go back to my lessons.”

“It appears that I did indeed mishear you,” Axterion began,
a note of menace creeping into his voice. “Because I thought I just heard you
challenge the former High Sorcerer of the Imperial Circle to a draw. That
cannot be true, of course, seeing as how you are a young, unblooded pup who has
yet to even practice in draws against his peers, while I was once the strongest
sorcerer in the Empire. It also cannot be true, because I am a feeble old man,
using what I have left of my Source to hold onto the last few hours of life I
have left in this creaky, old corpse I walk around in; it would not be
sporting. One might question the valor of a warlock went around challenging
greybeards in their twilight. But of course, I am certain I misheard you. Correct?”

Danilaesis nodded vigorously but said nothing.

Axterion took the boy by the hand. With a quick, masterful
tug—about all the magic he could manage—he unraveled Danil’s clumsy levitation
construct. Brannis’s armor clattered to the floor with a sound like a kitchen
accident.

“Besides,” Axterion said, “there is no one about to judge a
draw at the moment. And let me assure you, I am just about enough of a
competitive, stubborn, spiteful old bastard to accept. I would teach you a hard
lesson about humility, and it would cost you a grandfather. Now … let us get
you back to your lessons, if Challeigh is in any fit state to teach for the
remainder of the day.”

“Can I practice more after lessons, at least?” Danil asked,
sounding hopeful.

“I suppose. I do not know why you are so set on becoming a
warlock, though. Your uncle Rashan is rather an exception. Few of them lived
long enough to become old and feeble like me. Take my advice: aim to become
High Sorcerer one day, not Warlock. You get to work indoors, and the only
people trying to kill you are friends and colleagues.”

Danil nodded respectfully but made no comment.

* * * * * * * *

“The work is much the same, I suppose, but in all other
respects, I can scarcely imagine a greater adventure,” Davin Chartler replied between
sips of wine.

“As it should be. As it should be,” agreed his dinner
companion, Oriedel Conniton. The elderly former scribe to King Gorden was
naught but skin and bones. His body’s only task left seemed to be the carrying
about of fourscore years’ wisdom locked up in a hairless, age-blotched head. “I
must say I have missed it terribly. Once he warms to you a bit, you will find
no better companion than His Majesty, you know.”

“Indeed, I could only imagine,” Davin replied. Expert
Conniton had known the king since they were both much younger men. If such a
bond were even possible between Davin and His Majesty, it would be years in the
formation.

The elderly scribe chuckled. It sounded like a wheeze. The
older man looked all about the small dining room in the servants’ wing of the
palace, taking in everything, and clearly lost in reminiscence.

“This was my home a long time, but I believe you cannot
truly appreciate something until you lose it or discover you are about to,”
Expert Conniton observed. Sensing that Conniton was about to embark on a
soliloquy, Davin did not step in to fill the gap in the conversation as
Conniton paused. “I had the ear of a king, and I think I had no small part in
His Majesty’s reforms. King Gorden is a man of reason, and you can appeal to a
man of reason with logic and sense. I see a fair bit of that in you, Davin,
mind you, so do not withhold it from His Majesty. I had my little plans and
intrigues on the side, of course, just like everyone at court, though my aims
were at once both more humble and more noble. Disenfranchise the nobility,
focus on the greater good above personal gain, let the smart folk run things.
That was my advice.”

“Sound advice, indeed,” Davin murmured, drawing an approving
nod from Expert Conniton.

“Yes, but I have one regret. One last task that I feel I
need to pass along to you.”

“What is that?” Davin asked.

“Your former apprentice …”

“Kyrus?”

“Yes, Kyrus Hinterdale,” Expert Conniton said.

“What a mess that was.” Davin shook his head. “I do not even
know what to make of it all. Kyrus, accused of witchcraft, murdering guards and
escaping a jail cell in Scar Harbor. They even think he was consorting with
Denrik Zayne. It seems farfetched but everyone believed it at the time.”

“Well, I had hoped to meet your Kyrus before that chaos
swept him off to who knows where. If he were to return to Acardia, though, I
suspect he would seek you out,” Expert Conniton said, looking hard at Davin as
he did so.

“I would hope the boy would have more sense than that, but I
admit the possibility,” Davin said, trying not to sound too hopeful. He missed
Kyrus terribly, especially knowing that he had fled Acardia as a fugitive, and
that his return was implausible.

“Well, as I said, I had hoped to meet him personally, and I
still do. If he comes to you, have him seek me out. However, I know that I have
not much time left. I find my health failing faster than I had accounted for in
my planning,” Expert Conniton said, snorting in self-derision. “If the day
comes when Kyrus returns, and I have expired, have him seek out Lord Dunston
Harwick in my stead.”

“Lord Harwick?” Davin asked, perplexed. “The magistrate?”

“That is the one. We are … kindred spirits, you might say.
He will want to see Kyrus, I am sure.”

“What make Kyrus so important to you … if you do not mind my
asking, of course?” Davin hastily amended, remembering to whom he spoke.

“I had certain suspicions about him after reading a book he
copied. I have shared my suspicions with Lord Harwick, and he will look into
them on my behalf if I am unable.”

“What sort of suspicions?”

Expert Conniton paused for a moment, pursing his lips,
before answering. “I suspect we might be … distantly related. I suppose that
would be my suspicion.”

* * * * * * * *

On a moonless night in a secluded vale, a slim, fey figure
knelt in the mud, heedless of the white gown she wore. Tiny hands pressed
lightly into the muck to support her as she hung her face over a puddle. Light
radiating from that puddle cast her features in harsh relief against the dark
of night, colors dancing in patterns too muted by reflection to make any
attempt at ascribing meaning to them.

With but a thought—half a thought even—she could have held
herself aloft and clear of nature’s grime, but the scenes she witnessed playing
out before her held her rapt. She had not the thought to spare.

A splash in the water shocked her from her reverie. The
image in the puddle wobbled and warped as the echoing ripples of a rock’s
passing spread. She glanced about, startled, unused to being approached unawares.

“Viyax!” Illiardra scolded when she noted the bronze-skinned
intruder upon her privacy. “Why did you do that?”

“It seems you are becoming too attached to something you
know will not last. You said yourself you expect him to fail,” Viyax said.

“I may have, but I keep seeing signs of hope,” Illiardra
countered.

“Hope for which of them?” Viyax asked, smiling like a cat
who had just trapped a mouse in a corner. “I thought you had given up on
Rashan.”

“Both. It is the same hope: redemption.”

Viyax peered over her and into the vision in the puddle, a
look of detached interest on his face. Illiardra watched him watch. A sudden
look of disgust curled Viyax’s features, and he cringed. Illiardra’s eyes
snapped wide as she spun about on her knees, and looked to see what had
befallen.

“No!” she screamed when she saw.

She slammed a small fist into the puddle, splashing both of
them with crystal-clear water as her hand hit the muddy bottom. The spell ended,
and the water became just water again. Leaping to her feet, the mud on her
hands, knees, and dress sloughing off to leave every bit of her pristine, she
ran off into the night, sobbing.

Viyax watched her depart. He stood for a while staring at
the ruin of the scrying puddle. After a time, he shook his head slowly,
shrugged, and walked off in a different direction.

Chapter 26 - Pieces of the Past

It was an unusual book, and Kyrus was an expert on books.
The script within it was sloppy, harsh, and if Kyrus could attribute emotion to
lifeless ink on paper, it was angry. Flecks of ink were scattered here and
there; Kyrus would have discarded and rewritten them had it been his own work.
There were smudges as well. It contained empty pages in plenty; nearly the last
half of the tome was blank. The book must have been created blank, and been
written in as a bound volume. Kyrus assumed it had been written as a journal
rather than compiled from notes.

Kyrus leafed through the pages, hardly stopping to make out
words. He watched for changes in the character of the writing. At times, it
grew slack, flowery, and lazy. Other pages were barely legible, looking as if
they had been scratched out in great haste or with great anger, leaving scores
where quill had gouged into paper. Likely there were ways to tell the age of
ink or paper, but Kyrus did not know them, neither magical nor scientific. He
suspected years might have passed between individual entries, though it was
mere speculation on his part.

Kyrus sat with a readied quill, ink, and a stack of paper
beside him when he began to read. He intended to copy the contents before
finding a way to return the original to Rashan’s possession.

The large majority of the passages were gibberish, or at
least they were as he began. As he got farther along, he began to take note of
themes, repeated imagery, and allusions to historical events that Brannis had
learned of as a boy. It might take many readings, Kyrus knew, before he could
understand the contents.

Kyrus read one of the more lucid passages:

Lion cub, copper crown

Grows but never grows father’s claws

Purrs his orders, his pack grows wheat and worships
scarecrows

His only hunter kills his cubs

His only hunter steals his cub

His only hunter waits and feasts on carrion

Another read:

Fallow field, fertile mind

Potato planted but grows into grape

The vintage will only tell with time

We sip the vintner’s craft whether we choke or revel in
it

A drunkard captains the ship we all sail on but does not
steer it

These two passages Kyrus made a note of in his own copy,
suggesting a link between them and the historical events they foretold. If he
could find similar links elsewhere in the prophecies, he might be able to
construct a rough chronology of the entries.

Kyrus could make no sense of any entry for a long while.
They seemed to rage, making vague threats against uncertain foes. It was
disturbing to read, knowing that it was Rashan who had written it all. The
worst he found among them read:

Breathing blood

Thinking fire

Eating hope

Deaf to mercy

Blind to fear

Cities become tombs

The grateful chain held by no hand

Kyrus was tempted to give in to the lure of sleep, but he
felt the need to see the task of copying the book through in a single night.
Even if he did not understand everything he read—or even much of it—he needed
to see it all.

Time started swimming in Kyrus’s head. The drawn curtains of
his window showed no fringe of light about them to suggest that sunlight dwelt
outside, but that was the only clue he had as to how long he had read. His eyes
burned with fatigue, making it hard to bring the scratchy text into focus.
Kyrus noted that there seemed to be more consistency between passages later in
the book, at least insomuch as it looked like it was written in a similar hand.
He decided that the entries were being written with less time between them.

Kyrus noticed another trend as well. There seemed to be more
specifics mentioned. He could not identify everything, but he strongly
suspected a correlation to actual events that took place.

“If these are actual events, then what place would they have
in prophecies?” Kyrus wondered aloud, a clear sign that he was overtired. “Who
predicts events that have already taken place?”

Kyrus closed his eyes, and rubbed his temples, trying to
think. He needed to find historical references to compare the prophetic texts
to. If he could begin matching entries to Kadrin history, he might discover the
reason. Tired as he was, he could not make the link solely within his own head.

He made note of three more entries:

Death fights the act of death

How many times must Death be killed

One more

One more

Never

To stop the rebirth of Death

First defeat death

Then Death

Followed by:

Broken vase spills blue-white blood

The missing pieces are keys that lock the final door

Patch the wholes that are only halves

And lastly:

One vase, filling fast, spilling faster

To see another, no mirror may reflect it

Where to find its shadow, an absence not a copy

Seek a way among the spirits

Piecing together the three of those seemed to be the key.
They were not consecutive in the text but seemed related. He would need fresh
eyes—and a fresh mind—to make any further progress. Kyrus set the book
cover-down on his desk, with the spine facing the wall, then set two others
atop it. His loose-sheet copy he rolled, and put into a case that had contained
a report from Pevett.

He fell asleep in his clothes, atop the blankets.

* * * * * * * *

Rakashi found Soria breaking her fast on a meal of bacon and
eggs in the common room. They had stayed overnight at an inn whose Takalish
name translated to “Quiet Sea.” The rocky outcroppings north of the port city
of Daisha shielded the small, expensive establishment from the noise of the
busy port. Soria and her companions had grown accustomed to the finest
accommodations, and spared little expense in their choice of lodgings.

“Just you this morning?” Rakashi asked, pulling up a chair
next to her.

“Brannis sleeps like a bear. Our ship won’t leave until
noontime, so I left him in our room. Figured it was easier than trying to wake
him,” Soria said, not bothering to wait between bites. She ate like a warrior,
not a lady, Rakashi noted, not for the first time. She shoveled her food in
until her cheeks bulged, washing it down with ale even in the morning hours. He
wondered how much of her behavior was rebellion against the strictures of
Kadrin life, and how much was just how she preferred to live. It was the hatred
of those strictures that he needed.

“Has having him here, in Tellurak, made life in Kadrin
easier?” Rakashi asked. “I remember how upset you were when you told me of your
betrothal. Before your wedding day, you were worse. You seem happier now but
what of Juliana?”

“Philosophical this morning?” Soria asked, casting a
sidelong glance at Rakashi. “I am fine. I have Kyrus there now too, don’t
forget. Iridan didn’t even stay long after the wedding. We had a fight.” Soria
stuffed another forkful of eggs into her mouth, forestalling any elaboration.

“What did you argue over?” Rakashi asked. “Was it something
to do with Brannis?”

“You’re starting to sounds like the House Archon
lady-servants, you know. And I never said we argued. I made some jest about his
manhood, and he took a swing at me, caught me off guard,” Soria said, not
looking in Rakashi’s direction.

“How cowardly …” Rakashi said, developing a stronger dislike
for Iridan than he had known before. He preferred it, suspecting that he would
face him soon in Munne as Tiiba. Just from talking with Soria, he knew that
Rashan was still in Kadris, not making trouble in the newly conquered city.
“You tell me much; why had I not heard of this? I would have offered solace,
you know this.”

“Spare me the maiden rescue, Rakashi,” Soria replied. “You
know my temper. I stopped myself just short of killing him with my bare hands.”

“Juliana bested the new warlock?” Rakashi asked, a bemused
grin spreading across his face, white teeth shining out from his dark features.

“Hey now! I might have bruised some knuckles and twisted a
wrist, but I can fight,” Soria said, vexing Rakashi with her persistent use of
the first person for both herself and Juliana. She was the only twinborn he had
known to suffer that particular foible. “For my coin, Kadrin still only has one
warlock. Iridan panics when he’s caught off guard … aether-burned himself
trying to raise a shield spell.”

“Have you heard from him since he left?” Rakashi shifted the
conversation slightly.

“Naw …” Soria turned and gave Rakashi a long look. “I get
it. He’s not twinborn, so you’re trying to sneak around our little pact, right?
I might tell you about my marriage problems like you were the girl who helps me
into festival-day dresses, but I’m not going to sell out my husband or Kadrin
that easily.” She winked, making it appear a jest. Rakashi shrugged with a
little smile, because after all, he could not deny the charge.

“Is there really so much difference between Iridan and his
father?” Rakashi asked, hoping Soria might find the question less invasive.

Soria bit into a strip of bacon, leaving only a morsel the
size of her thumbnail. She held it out for Rakashi’s inspection.

“The difference between this and a whole pig,” she told him.

“What of Kyrus?” Rakashi asked. “He is one of us, and yours
in particular. I am merely quite curious.”

“Even in jest, I would stay well clear of Kyrus. I don’t
think Brannis trusts you yet, but he has enough self-control not to act rashly.
Kyrus isn’t like Iridan. When he panics, I wouldn’t want to be anywhere near
him; you saw Marker’s Point. Even with the bit of magic he knows, I think
Rashan’s nervous around him.”

Rakashi took her advice to heart. While Iridan was his
problem in Munne, he would do all within his power to steer clear of the
Acardian twinborn.

* * * * * * * *

Rakashi sought his own morning meal after that exchange,
leaving Soria alone for a moment. She suspected that his interest in Iridan was
something of a practical matter. If the reports of Iridan terrorizing Munne
were accurate, it would not surprise her to hear that Rakashi’s counterpart had
been sent to deal with him. She was not certain how she felt about that. For
all her claims that Iridan was no warlock, he was certainly powerful in his own
way. She would be furious with him should anything happen to Rakashi, whom she
loved like a brother.

The thought sobered her when she put it in those terms.
Their years of conflict—much of it instigated by her—had never resulted in her
hating Iridan, but despite the trappings of marriage, neither did she love him.
He was always Brannis’s little puppy, following Brannis around even when he was
not wanted. He had been an annoyance but a familiar one. Yes, that was it:
“familiar”—that was how she felt about Iridan.

The part about Kyrus worried her more. There had been two
books she had thought to leave him. The book of prophecies was a warning;
things went on inside the head of her oathfather that Kyrus might puzzle out
better than she, and none of it seemed reassuring. The second book she had
found in her room after receiving the first. She could only assume it was left
by her fey oathmother as well. The title had read
The Peace of Tallax
.
She knew the name, associated with ancient legends, but nothing of the story
behind it. Having read the whole of it—more than she normally read in a
season—she could not decide whether to share it with Kyrus as well.