Aethersmith (Book 2) (62 page)

One wife that always vexes me, mother of a son who vexes
me all the more. If Anzik has children of his own one day, they will be the
death of me.

While Jinzan could have transferred to the Council chambers,
his Source was weary from all the aether it had channeled earlier in the day.
Without having to actually use his Source to draw the aether, the strain had
been lessened, but the forming of the magic still took considerable effort. He
rode instead, taking the road along the shoreline so he could watch the Aliani
Sea crash against the shores. He wondered for the hundredth time whether Denrik
Zayne ought to take his retirement in Khesh when the time came. He could look
into buying up the same piece of land that his own home was on in Veydrus, and
have the same view in Tellurak.

The ride put Jinzan better at ease, though riding with a
staff in hand was more awkward than he had envisioned. He was unlikely to leave
it behind any time soon, after the trouble he had gone through to reclaim it.

“Jinzan, get your scrawny arse in here. Narsey’s boy must
have got to you an hour ago,” Kaynnyn bellowed from the Council table, where
only his own seat was vacant. On the table rested one of the Ghelkan-made
speaking helms.

“Your messenger did not convey a sufficient need for haste
for me to attempt a third transference spell today,” Jinzan replied as he
strode across the room to take his seat.

“So it is still fully functioning?” Narsicann asked, jumping
straight to the magical concerns.

“Yes, it appears no worse for its wanderings.”

“Good, because you are going to be needing it in earnest
soon, I think,” Narsicann said. He gestured to the helm on the table.

“What is this about?”

“General Hellmock’s army carried one of the helms. We heard
from that helm after a battle that took place this morning, along the Thadagar
River, just north of Pevett,” Kaynnyn replied.

“What news, then? Are they encountering difficulties?”

“
They
were not the ones who wore the other helm,”
Narsicann replied. “I was the one who took the message. It was—”

“It was
him
! Rashan Solaran,” Kaynnyn interrupted.
She shook her head in dismay, accompanied by a tinkling sound of dangling
jewelry.

“He asked for you specifically,” Narsicann followed up,
nonplussed by the interruption, which was unusual all on its own. Narsicann was
prickly at the best of times. He had a haunted look on his face.

“You expect me to pick it up, and find him waiting to speak
to me?” Jinzan asked. He eyed the helm with trepidation. Long moments passed,
he realized, without making a move toward it.

“So I see I am not the only one spooked by ghosts speaking
to me from history, heard only within my own head,” Narsicann joked lamely,
trying to salvage a bit of pride. “Varduk has given me naught but grief for
most of the time we have waited for you.”

“Give me that,” Jinzan said testily. He reached to the
center of the table, and grabbed the helm, armoring himself with anger against
the rising bile in his throat. He jammed the helm down onto his head before he
could have second thoughts, keeping the Staff of Gehlen in hand, despite the
fact that the helm could not harm him.

“So which of you is it this time?”
a disembodied
voice came through clearly in Jinzan’s mind. Devoid of timbre, it was less
fearsome than he had expected. It sounded … flippant?

“I am High Councilor Jinzan Fehr,”
Jinzan replied.
“Am
I addressing Rashan Solaran?”

“Why yes, you are, Councilor. I just wanted to try this
thing out. It is like our speaking stones but portable. The voices sound awful,
I must say, but it is a fair price to pay for the convenience.”

“What do you want?”
Jinzan asked. He had no time for
idle banter. He knew that time passed strangely while conversing in the aether.
He trusted that Narsicann or one of the others would prevent him being in the
thrall of the helm for more than a few hours, but he did not want to waste that
time, however much he had.

“
Why … a great many things. I have the patience to get
them all, I think. I want Ghelk. I want the ogrelands. I want Safschan and
Narrack, the Painu Islands … and I want Megrenn. I want the Staff of Gehlen. I
want your skull for a trophy.”

“Oh, is that all? Well, demon, I have the Staff of Gehlen,
and I think I have the power to destroy you with it,”
Jinzan boasted. It
was all he could think to do besides tear the helm off his head, and throw it
across the room.

“Oh, maybe you do, maybe you do not. What you do have,
though, is a need to sleep. I could wait, find you defenseless in your own bed.
I can slip past whatever wards you think to set up to prevent me. Or else …
perhaps I could come to where you go when you sleep. What would you think of
that, Captain Zayne?”

Jinzan felt his breathing coming quick and shallow. What
sort of monster was he talking to? He could think of no response. He heard a
chuckling laughter through the helm, stripped of all humanity by the magic. It
sounded demonic.

“
Sleep well, Captain. We will meet … soon enough.”

* * * * * * * *

Rashan removed the magical helm from his head, still smiling
and chuckling. He crushed it between his thin, delicate-looking hands, and
tossed it into the Thadagar River.

Chapter 35 - Unlocking Secrets

Kadrin was a vivid map beneath them … or perhaps it was
Megrenn. For an aspiring ship’s captain, Juliana’s knowledge of geography
translated poorly from old paper and ink maps to real trees, rivers, and
mountains. There were no dotted lines denoting borders, no names scrawled in
giant letters above cities and forests. From what little she had ever paid
attention to maps, she was surprised by the number of tiny communities that
existed where no map took the trouble to denote them.

Juliana had kept the
Daggerstrike
heading north by
keeping the Cloud Wall to their left. Her ship was an airship, and her crew
were soldiers, not sailors. She would be gutted before she had them all waste
time learning what starboard, port, and all the other nautical nonsense meant.
Left was called left, right was called right, and since they all spoke Kadrin,
everyone knew what everyone else was talking about.

It was lonely on deck. Despite the two spotters on each side
of the ship, tethered to the railings for safety, conversation needed to take
place at a shout, and preferably from close range. Soria had spent enough time
alone with her thoughts for the both of them, and now that Soria was ensconced
with Brannis in Tellurak, Juliana hoped that the two of them had not exchanged
roles; she did not wish to become the stoic one.

One of the spotters on the right side of the
Daggerstrike
shouted something that could not be made out over the rush of air. Juliana
slowed the ship from “gale” to “breeze” speed.

“Horses, heading north,” the spotter repeated, pointing down
to the ground.

Juliana fiddled with the ship’s wheel, trying to activate
the proper runes to convince the illusory display to show her where her spotter
was pointing. The scene shifted wildly at each touch. Finally she got it facing
roughly forward and below them, and turned the ship instead, rotating it in the
air until the viewer displayed the aforementioned horses.

There were five of the animals in all, pushing hard. Three
bore humans, the other two went riderless. Juliana and her crew had found a
battle farther south along the Thadagar and steered well clear of it. It seemed
likely that these were either runners racing to Megrenn with news of their
battle—which would account for the spare horses—or survivors fleeing for their
lives—which would account for the missing riders.

Juliana looked over the runes on the many handles of the
wheel. They were not labeled with their function, which meant she either had to
look over the rune structures to figure out what they did, or she had to
remember Kyrus’s whirlwind tour of the ship and what he had told her of their
purposes. It would be some time before she knew them all to use the ship
without consciously thinking through every action.

“Now, one of these shouts inside the ship, the other to the
outside …” she muttered to herself as she examined the handle that bore
communication runes. She touched one, sneaking just a bit of aether into it as
a test.

“Hello. Hello. Can you hear me?” she said, keeping her voice
low. She heard her voice coming from over the side of the ship. She swore
beneath her breath, heard that coming from over the side of the ship as well.
She heard laughter from belowdecks, so they were at least hearing her, even if
her words were being shouted into the sky. She tried the other rune.

“Fine. Laugh all you like, but we are going to be taking on
our first enemy target, so I want straight faces and sharp eyes by the time we
reach ground level. Bows to the ready, arrows nocked. Wait for my signal to
fire unless you see a sorcerer begin casting,” Captain Juliana ordered. There
was a loose brotherhood at best among sorcerers, even within the Empire. If
anything, knowledge of how their own kind thought made them
less
likely
to be lenient, rather than more.

Juliana brought the
Daggerstrike
into a shallow,
spiraling dive, still wary of repeating her initial mistake about flipping the
ship on a whim. Her archers would be far more accurate if they were not busily
retching out their dawn feast all about the hold. At least she was getting the
hang of steering the ship, even if many of the other controls left her baffled.

It was near enough to noontime for the shadow of the
Daggerstrike
to alert the Megrenn to their presence overhead. They were caught, however. The
flatland between the river and the surrounding forest was the only terrain
suitable for horses. The flood banks of the Thadagar were chest height to a
horse and, even if leapt, would only put them in dense forest, too thick for
their mounts to navigate quickly. The Megrenn pressed on, hurrying their horses
in a desperate hope of finding a breakaway to the east, some trail or road that
led into navigable forest.

The
Daggerstrike
swooped low, coming alongside the
frightened horses. Juliana banked them in gently, giving herself enough of an
angle such that she could see them for herself without having to rely on the
magical viewer and its convoluted workings. Two wore armor—bearing markings of
Megrenn and Safschan between them, though helms hid their faces from easy view.
The third was Ghelkan by both skin and dress, wearing the tan colors of his
people’s sorcerers beneath a Megrenn-blue cloak.

“SURRENDER!” Juliana called out in Megrenn, her voice
echoing from the sides of the ship as she remembered the correct rune to touch.

Though she assumed the Megrenn had understood her, despite
her Kadrin accent, and the distortion from the magical amplification, they
nonetheless galloped away. Juliana fought with the viewer’s controls to try to
get the horsemen into the picture, rocking the ship side to side to give
herself intermittent looks at them to keep apace.

At length, more through chance than practice, she was able
to realign the view to her liking. She steadied the ship alongside the riders
again. Even if they were to find an eastern escape route now, it was blocked
off by the bulk of the
Daggerstrike
, flying too low to the ground for
the horses to cross beneath, even were the riders to duck.

“LAST CHANCE! SURRENDER OR WE WILL FIRE!” Juliana warned.
Had she anyone at hand to wager with, she would have bet against them
complying. Still, it hardly seemed sporting not to offer.

The Ghelkan let go his reins, and attempted to cast a spell.
Juliana never got a chance to figure out what it ought to have been, as a dozen
arrows streaked out from the left side of the ship, three finding their mark.
The sorcerer’s shielding spell held, but his concentration was ruined. In the
blink of an eye, the Ghelkan burst into flames, not even surviving long enough
to scream, though his horse did enough to account for the dead man’s share as
the panicked beast threw its flaming rider, losing ground on its companions
before falling into pace behind them.

Realizing that their attempt at escape was merely testing
the ship’s archers rather than saving themselves, the two survivors slowed
their horses to a trot and surrendered. Juliana slowed the
Daggerstrike
to match them. The frightened steed whose rider had burned, seemingly the
wisest among them, continued to run, leaving the rest to their fates as Juliana
did not bother with pursuit.

“Who are you?” the Megrenn survivor shouted up. By his face,
he appeared native Megrenn, a blank palette if ever a people were one, with
skin not quite so pale as common in the Kadrin southlands, mid-brown eyes and
hair, and a face neither flat nor particularly angular.

Juliana set the
Daggerstrike
down, the deck pitching
a bit left as it settled on the uneven ground, and opened the side hatches.
Then she unbuckled herself from the captain’s harness, and made her way over to
the railing to introduce herself in person.

“I am Captain Juliana of the
Daggerstrike
,” she
called down to him. “What are your names? If I find you cooperative, you may
yet live through this day.”

“I am Colonel Jaimes Arbret of the Free Megrenn Army. My
companion is Puuna Tsaki, Third Highblade in the Safschan Army. What do you
intend to do with us?”

Several of Juliana’s crew, with swords drawn, made their way
down the ramps that the hatches became when opened. They encircled the four
horses, taking the reins both of the ones that were mounted and those saddled
but riderless. From within the ship, archers still manned the arrow slits,
ready to provide covering fire.

“For starters, to find out whether you speak any Kadrin. I
would prefer my men be able to understand what you are saying,” Juliana said
over the railing.

“I do,” Colonel Arbret conceded, demonstrating by replying
in Kadrin. “I grew up in an occupied Megrenn. Puuna only speaks a few words,
best as I know.”

The dark-skinned Safschan shrugged, nodding.

Neither of the two looked to Juliana to be a great warrior.
Colonel Arbret was thin of build, Puuna’s hair was shot through with enough
grey to suggest his best summers were long past. She gave no order to have them
disarmed, so each of them sat their horse with a sheathed blade at hand.

“Good,” Juliana said, switching to the language her crew
understood best. “First things first, were you a part of that battle we saw,
farther down the Thadagar?”

“Battle?” Arbret scoffed. “There was no ‘battle.’ That was a
slaughter. We three were the only ones I am aware of who escaped, and your
archers just killed Vaeldak.”

“Warlock Rashan?” Juliana guessed.

“Who the bloody gravelands knows? One moment, we are getting
ready to launch our assault on your forces, dug in betwixt the river and the
forest; the next, your infantry is advancing. It got a bit hazy after that,
what with the monohorns being flung in amongst us, and half our forces bursting
into flame. I turned and fled before being properly introduced.”

“Well, it certainly sounds like him,” Juliana replied,
trying to keep an even tone as she heard about the horrific destruction her
oathfather had wrought. She knew he was powerful. History had told that he had
swung the balance in every battle he had fought. But the succession of wars
against Loramar and his undead legions had hinted at limits to his power, of a
foe nearly his equal, a force that he had to strike at and retreat. “Where
would you go now, if you had a choice?”

“Hah, to Azzat, if I could. As far away from here as I can
imagine. I used to think the myths about a demon that secretly ruled there were
just meant to keep outsiders from attacking, and give them an air of mystery.
Now? I would go there, and hope that a few thousand years of never being
conquered were more than a coincidence.”

“Well, Azzat is a bit out of our way, but we could drop you
at the next Megrenn settlement or force we find, for the cost of your weapons
and a promise of good conduct,” Juliana offered.

“Why would you?”

“Why not? You think it works against Kadrin to report what
happened to one of your armies when it crossed paths with our warlock? If you
ask me, history has not done him justice. It would be good for your people to
hear about it firsthand from a survivor.”

Colonel Arbret studied her a moment, weighing her offer.
Having apparently made his decision, he unbuckled his sword belt. Third
Highblade Puuna took his lead, and did likewise, handing down his weapon to the
crewman nearest to him. The two officers then dismounted.

“What of the horses? If we are to set them wild, we should
unsaddle them first,” Arbret asked. Juliana frowned, not having considered the
fate of the animals.

“Bring them aboard,” she said. “But if they foul the hold,
you two are cleaning it up.”

* * * * * * * *

“Not much of anything, really,” Dolvaen said. He sat in his
study, same as Kyrus had seen him the last time the two men met privately. He
seemed to prefer it to working from his office in the Tower of Contemplation.
“There is scant evidence to be found.”

“Since we are alone, and I can see that you have the room
sufficiently warded, I would like to be frank,” Kyrus said, standing across the
desk from Dolvaen with his arms crossed. He tried to keep a stern expression on
his face, hoping it did not come across as comical. Kyrus had never been one to
bully, so the posture was new to him. He hoped that bullying worked the same
when it came to intimidating by magical might. There was a whole cultural rift
that Brannis had been unable to prepare him for.

“Go right ahead. Be forewarned about frankness in return,
though,” Dolvaen both agreed and cautioned. He crossed his arms as well. Kyrus
was not sure whether he was prepared for an arm-crossing contest. Dolvaen
seemed more experienced at battles of will.

“The three murdered sorcerers were known to be supporters of
Rashan. You have admitted to me that you are, if not the leader, then at least
chief among his opponents,” Kyrus said.

“I am the leader,” Dolvaen interjected into a pause Kyrus
had left open too long.

“Have you begun killing off his supporters, starting at the
lower echelons?”

“Hmm, more frankness than I had even expected. You came
right out and accused me of murder.” Dolvaen sounded mildly surprised.

“I find that I am perhaps one of the few left the luxury of
bluntness to the point of rudeness. It took me a while to realize, but I am
growing to be widely feared,” Kyrus said. “But no, I ask, not accuse. If I had
meant accusation, I would have hauled you down to the palace dungeons first.”

“You might have tried …” Dolvaen left the rest of his
statement to Kyrus’s imagination.

“If you will allow me a simple demonstration, and please
construe this as no actual threat,” Kyrus said, drawing a consternated look
from Dolvaen. That look—lips pursed, brow knit—froze on the elder sorcerer’s
face as Kyrus’s magic grabbed him, and held him from moving. Kyrus felt a
thrashing at his aether construct, silent spells cast by Dolvaen to affect his
release.