Aethersmith (Book 2) (64 page)

Brannis had always had a sort of general curiosity about
history, but mostly as related to war and conquest. It was a phase many boys
went through, especially those encouraged by the School of Arms. Kyrus was
finding little tidbits about the lesser aspects of Kadrin history as he delved
deeper into a particular era.

For long hours, Kyrus made little progress on the meat of
his search. He got sidetracked, and read entire passages even after discovering
straightaway that they were not germane to his search, at least at first. After
a time, he realized that the whole era of history was wrapped around Rashan
like a cloak. There was no aspect of either the Circle or the military that he
had not insinuated himself into. Rashan had the emperor by the chin, pointing
his head wherever he chose him to look. Of all the books,
The Diplomacy of
Fire and Steel
was the only one written after his apparent death that cast
the warlock in a positive light. Had the thought not been so implausible, Kyrus
would have reasoned that the author knew Rashan would return one day and read it.
Every other account immediately after the Battle of the Dead Earth seemed to
thank Rashan for saving the Kadrin Empire from Loramar, and backhandedly thank
Loramar for saving them from Rashan.

The picture he assembled of Rashan was both tragic and frightening.
He had few friends over the hundred and forty or so winters he lived prior to
his disappearance. While he got on well enough with many of his apprentices,
there was always the implied dynamic of the master-apprentice relationship at
work—they could not afford to get on poorly with him. The closest person to
Rashan had seemed to be Emperor Liead the Only, to whom Rashan was friend,
mentor, and surrogate father. Rashan’s early writings, once Kyrus began to pick
up enough clues to begin placing prophecies amid historical markers, showed
occasional signs of irrational anger. His later writings, after the death of
Liead, showed little else.

One interesting conclusion he drew was that there was a
large gap in the entries. He had already taken note of a passage that 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

Kyrus had learned from
And They Knelt Before Him
, a
treatise on the lives of several Kadrin emperors around Rashan’s time, that the
warlock had gotten on poorly with Tameron the First. He had come to the
conclusion that the passage was a reference to the birth of Liead. It showed a
skeptical sort of optimism that his days serving a “potato” of an emperor were
giving way to an era of a quality yet to be determined. Kyrus did not need
histories to hear how Rashan spoke of his friend and emperor Liead. Throughout
the rest of Liead’s lifetime, there was not another entry in the book of
prophecies.

Once he established a foothold in the timeline, Kyrus’s work
accelerated. The loss of Rashan’s only true friend tore him apart. The
prophecies darkened. By all accounts, Rashan had liked Merenon the Second well
enough, but was always just a mentor to him. Merenon ordered the creation of
the Red Riders, Rashan’s sorcerers who trained as knights, and used their draws
only to defend their own Sources against Loramar’s powers. Rashan understood
the decision. It was rational, logical, and cold-blooded. Merenon was not the
one who had to train the sorcerers from adolescence, knowing that in the end
their destiny was to be thrown against the undead legions until one side or the
other was exhausted.

Kyrus found that the three passages he had marked previously
as important were hinting at Rashan’s developing plan to defeat Loramar by
becoming immortal. He made his own copies of the passages, and pieced together
what he could infer from both other prophecies and the happenings of that era.

Death fights the act of death
—Loramar and himself,
warlocks being bringers of death

How many times must Death be killed

One more
—First Necromancer War

One more
—Second Necromancer War

Never

To stop the rebirth of Death

First defeat death
—He capitalized it when he meant
Loramar; he meant “become immortal.”

Then Death

Kyrus felt confident that he had the thrust of the prophecy
correct, whether or not he had it exactly right in the details.

Broken vase spills blue-white blood
—Aether? Is the
vase the mortal Source?

The missing pieces are keys that lock the final door

Patch the wholes that are only halves

…

One vase, filling fast, spilling faster
—Another
Source reference? A leaking bucket?

To see another, no mirror may reflect it

Where to find its shadow, an absence not a copy

Seek a way among the spirits
—Could there be spirits
in the aether, as the Denku think?

The first of the three making some sense to him did not help
decipher the other two. They seemed as important as ever, but the imagery was
too vague. They seemed to say that the Source needed to be repaired, but did
not give a clue as to how, aside from seeking an answer among the spirits.

Kyrus was disturbed from his research by a knock at the
warded door. It surprised him only insomuch as he had not realized the time
that had passed.

“Come,” he called out, releasing the wards as he said it.

Celia was there when the door opened. Kyrus beckoned her
inside.

“My, what an undertaking,” Celia commented upon seeing
Kyrus’s pile of open and ready books, hovering open in midair when they were
not in use. Kyrus was not worried that she would piece together his puzzle,
since all the clues he had discovered were written in Acardian, as good a
cipher as he was likely to come up with that was not a hindrance to his work.
If she could read it, all the more evidence that she was really Abbiley.

Kyrus shut the door behind her, and re-warded it. Celia
turned around as the door slammed a bit upon closing, startling her.

“Intent that I not leave?” Celia smiled coquettishly,
tossing her hair.

Kyrus maintained a stern expression despite the rise of
other feelings beneath the surface.
Curse all women, my brain stutters over
the simplest of looks. How do they manage such aetherless magic?

“That depends, in part, on why you are here,” he said.

“Well, business first, I suppose. Caladris wanted to know
how your meeting with Dolvaen went,” Celia told him. She held her hands clasped
in front of her, posture rigid with her chin straight out, as if she was
reciting spell words before the whole class.

“I am closer to uncovering the mystery of the murders than
Dolvaen is,” Kyrus said, leaving vague whether he was closer because of some
special insight or merely disparaging Dolvaen’s progress sarcastically.

“He is doing that badly, is he?” Celia smiled, relaxing from
her “business first” posture. Kyrus nodded. “So was that the ‘why’ that lets me
stay a while or the one that gets me sent away?”

“Neither, yet. Answer me this if you can: who did Caladris
get to kill those three sorcerers?” Kyrus asked.

“What has Dolvaen been telling you?” Celia demanded, her
voice rising as her face reddened. “Brannis, do not tell me you let him
convince you that Caladris killed three of his own sorcerers.”

“I already told you, I know more than Dolvaen. Dolvaen was
correct when he told me that murdering Rashan’s least significant supporters
was not in his interest. It got the whole Empire gossiping about conspiracies,
which is the worst environment for such a conspiracy succeeding. That is
Caladris’s play, framing the conspiracy for murder. Sacrifice pawns, expose
their king, protect your own.”

Celia flushed, if possible, a deeper red. She turned and ran
for the door, but Kyrus’s wards might well have rendered the wall an unbroken
cliff wall. The door gave no sign of even noticing her efforts to open it.

“It was you,” Kyrus said aloud, just as the realization
dawned on him.

“Please, just let me go!” Celia begged. She began to cry,
slumping against the door, and sliding down until she was sitting with her back
to it. “He said I had to …” Celia managed between sobs.

“I see now. Caladris is Rashan’s agent on both sides of
this. He gave me a choice. I either join his side or I have to see you pay for
the murders he made you commit. Checkmate.”

“What are you going to do with me?” Celia said, fear evident
in her quavering voice.

Kyrus walked across the room to her, feeling a pang of guilt
as she cowered at his approach. He put his arms around her.

“I am going to protect you.”

Chapter 36 - Pulling the Chain

“Brannis,” Soria whispered. She put her hand on his
shoulder, giving a shove that bounced Brannis’s limp body on the bed. There was
no hint of response; Brannis continued to slumber on. The sun was up, and Soria
was tired of waiting for him to arise. She was tempted to go find herself
breakfast without him.

“Brannis,” she called out again, this time not bothering to
whisper. She shook him with hands on both shoulders, eliciting a rude grunt,
and prompting Brannis to roll over, turning his back to her.

Soria climbed up onto the bed, kneeling next to him. With a
great heave, she attempted to roll him onto his back once more, but Brannis’s
knees were tucked up enough that she could not get enough leverage to turn him.
She briefly tried magic, but Brannis’s Source might as well have been greased
in pig fat.

“Merciful Tansha, forgive me,” Soria prayed aloud, looking
up at the ceiling. She took the washbasin, and tilted it above Brannis’s head,
letting a trickle of water pour down onto his face.

“Mpff,” Brannis grunted, bringing his hands up to defend
himself. Soria stopped the flow as Brannis wiped the water and the sleep from
his eyes. He blinked several times, shook his head, then blinked a few more.
“What is going on?”

“You are wasting away the morning is what.”

“No, I mean I can still see Veydrus,” Brannis clarified. He
shook his head, and rubbed his fingers in his eyes.

“That’s probably from me waking you unexpectedly. Sorry, but
I would have thought you would have grown accustomed to it by now,” Soria said.
“I used to have it happen all the time when I was little, but I learned how to
block it out easily enough. Once you’re alert, it should go away on its own.”

“Yes. It has mostly faded now,” Brannis said. “What was so
important that you needed me awake?” Brannis looked at her in earnest for the
first time since awakening. She was wearing an outfit of all black,
loose-fitted fabric. It had a certain stylishness to it, but was unflattering
to Soria’s figure—specifically in that it was hard to tell she had one. “And
where did you get that ensemble?”

“Well, to answer both, I have been out scouting,” Soria
replied. She pulled the hood of the cloak down. It hung low, over her eyes. She
reached both hands back within the hood, and tied something, pulling the hood
close over her eyes. There were cutouts for her to see through, and the rest of
the hood hung low over her nose and mouth. She took a pair of black leather
gloves from where she had tucked them in her belt and pulled them on. Fully
kitted out, it was hard to tell much of anything about her aside from her
height—and the color of her eyes if one was truly observant. “I visited your
old shop a little while ago, before the predawn light came and spoiled
everything.”

“Did you find anything interesting?” Brannis asked. He
pushed himself up onto his elbows to be at less of a disadvantage in the
conversation.

“Well, for starters, did you happen to live like there had
been some sort of riot going on in your workroom?” Soria asked.

“Yes,” Brannis replied, perfectly serious.

Soria laughed. “Well, then, it would appear nothing was put
amiss. I took a few things I thought you might like to have back.” She gestured
to a knapsack in the corner of the room. “There was only so much I could carry
when traveling by rooftops.”

“Thank you,” Brannis said, smiling at the mysterious masked
figure in his room.

“We have a lot to do today, according to your plans. Let’s
get changed into some respectable attire, and be about our day.”

“Why is my armor all laid out on the floor?” Brannis asked.

“Scar Harbor doesn’t see too many knights these days, but
that doesn’t mean there aren’t any. Besides, you’re going to be foreign,
remember, Erund? What could be more respectable—and less Kyrusy—than a knight?
You look near to twice his size as it stands; you’ll look thrice with the armor
on. Mind you, leave the helm behind … nasty thing.”

* * * * * * * *

Wendell sat bolt upright, hitting his head on the bunk
above. Cursing himself, he rubbed at the sore spot on his head he had just
created. He found himself breathing heavily, but quickly calmed himself with
the knowledge that there was no immediate threat to
him
. It was Faolen
who had just made a harrowing escape.

“You okay over there?” Zellisan asked. He was sitting, fully
clothed, on his own bunk. He was watching Wendell with a concerned vulture’s
look.

“I am fine. Faolen less so. I need you to get a message to
Sir Brannis.”

“What’s the message?” Zell asked. It was the first time
Wendell had shown any interest in sending word back to Brannis for anything.

“I need passage out of Zorren—and quickly. I have heard
rumors of flying ships that we have now. If those rumors are true, I need one
sent to fetch me,” Wendell said.

“They are true. Sir Brannis had a bunch of them made up.
What kind of trouble are you in? They are going to ask before sending an
airship for you, I would think.”

“I have failed to obtain the Staff of Gehlen, but I should
be able to escape with Anzik Fehr.” Wendell chose his words carefully, lest the
intermittently observant, slumbering boy overhear. Zellisan was an old
coinblade; he could probably hear the words “hostage” and “kidnap” even without
Wendell having given voice to them.

Zellisan fixed an unsteady, sleepy glare on Wendell.

“Fine,” Zellisan agreed after a moment’s contemplation. “I
suppose it won’t be the worst thing I’ve done. I’m still drunk enough to fall
right back asleep, I think.” The burly coinblade lay back down in his bunk, and
began to snore before Wendell had time even to wonder whether he would remember
the message, if he was as drunk as he claimed.

Dismissing the thought as a ship already sailed, he turned
his attention to Jadon’s bunk. The thin sliver of a boy slumbered peacefully,
showing no sign that he had been aware of Wendell and Zellisan’s conversation.

“Anzik,” Wendell whispered. “Can you hear me?” He waited.
There was no response. “Anzik, can you hear me? It is me, Faolen, the last of
the voices you will hear. Tell me where you are.”

“Go away.” The voice came from Jadon, but it spoke Megrenn
with more purpose and clarity than Jadon was wont to display. The boy rolled to
face him, eyes heavy-lidded, but open.

“Yes, we can go away. I have an airship coming to take us
away. A ship that flies in the sky.”

“Will Father be on the ship?”

“No. He will stay behind, and you will not have to hide
anymore. Nice beds, good food …”

“Your store burned down.”

The abrupt change in topic was jarring. Wendell was not sure
what Anzik was driving at. The boy’s motivations were simple on the surface, but
what roiling waters lurked beneath he could only guess at.

“Yes, it did. I was there when it caught fire. I had to run
away,” Wendell explained.

“Your man lives there now,” Anzik told him in Jadon’s voice.

“That is good news. I had not found him after the fire. I am
happy to hear he is doing well.”

“He lives in a basement in a burned building. Why?”

“He is probably hiding, just like you. How about we all stop
hiding, and go together on the airship? Go find him there, after dark. I will
meet you there as well.”

* * * * * * * *

Varnus stalked down the hallways of the palace, garnering
occasional salutes as he passed the guardsmen under his command. The imperial
uniform felt the same as his House Archon regalia, mainly due to it lying atop
the same suit of armor he had worn for many summers. The effect it had on
others was remarkable, though. While the guard captain of a highborn house
might have some large degree of influence within his lord’s or sorcerer’s
realm, visitors always took him for, but the foremost among many lowborn,
insignificant men. Captain of the Palace Guard was a real position of
authority, though, speaking for the safety of the emperor. Folk moved when he
came by.

It was thus with a certain degree of humbling consternation
that he stood outside Kyrus’s door with no means of entry. He had tried
knocking in the usual spot, a place the servants and other non-sorcerers had
been shown where Sir Brannis could be alerted to their presence outside. There
had been no sound at all. Magic was something Varnus only understood in bits
and pieces, and he had no experience with it at all personally. Though he
understood there were wards and aether at work, it was still unsettling rapping
your knuckles against something, and not hearing so much as a finger’s tap for
the effort.

He could not fetch someone to open the door for him, nor
even ask that Brannis be alerted by some magical means. He had no official
business that he could give as justification for such a request, and folk were
wary of Sir Brannis since his Source had torn itself loose of whatever shackles
that once held it. Of course, Varnus knew it was Kyrus Hinterdale’s Source they
were all in awe of, not Sir Brannis’s, but there was no way to make use of that
knowledge, either. Juliana might have been of some use in gaining entrance, but
she was off on her own airship somewhere. Tanner knew a bit more magic than he
did, but Varnus knew his skills would not be enough; if Tanner was a sorry
sorcerer in Tellurak, he was a mule’s whisker short of useless in Veydrus.

Varnus waited.

After how long, he had no idea, the door to the grand
marshal’s chamber opened, startling three people.

“Sorceress Celia.” Varnus nodded in her direction. “My
pardon for startling you. I have business with Sir Brannis of an urgent nature.
I was unable to alert you to my presence, so I waited without.”

”It is all right, Captain Varnus,” Kyrus replied on her
behalf. He turned to the sorceress. “Celia, just do as I told you, and
everything will be fine.”

Celia nodded, her reddened eyes speaking volumes about her
state of mind as she hastened down the hallway, her destination unknown to
Varnus.

Varnus stepped into the room as Kyrus made way for him. The
door shut behind him, presumably warded as well. Kyrus seemed to be getting the
hang of a few basics of sorcery, at least.

“What did you need to see me about?” Kyrus asked. Varnus
made no immediate attempt to reply, he just looked askance of Kyrus. A sly
little smile worked its way to the corner of his mouth. “You want to know what
she was doing here? Fine. We will discuss that first. I think you best to tell
anyway, I suppose.

“Celia Mistfield is twinborn. I was skeptical at first,
since it seemed entirely too convenient, but the evidence has piled high on
just one side of the scales; I can ignore it no longer. She has been caught up
in the murder conspiracy.”

“She’s one of ours?” Varnus asked. “Who would have guessed
…”

“Certainly not her. She is not entirely certain of herself.
I have just taken my attempt at explaining it to her, but her dreams are still
scattered recollections at this point. Caladris and Rashan figured her out
before I caught on. One or both—and if just one, I suspect Caladris—is likely
working on securing her twin. If Rashan is involved, he is either the oldest
man in Tellurak, or he has additional agents at his disposal.”

“Caladris, too? I had suspected the warlock, frankly, but
that chubby, drunkard uncle of yours? Nah.” Varnus had never minced words when
it came to Brannis’s relatives. Despite intermarriage between houses dulling
the worst of the rivalry, they took their shots at one another often enough,
especially among the household servants. Varnus had nicknames and unflattering
descriptions for all of them—though he had ceased disparaging Brannis a long
while ago, about the time Juliana got to the point of being a bit dangerous
when angered.

Varnus listened as Kyrus outlined all he knew of the plot
between worlds, the connection between Abbiley and Celia, and Caladris’s role
in the murders, using Celia as his pawn.

“If you think she might be in danger, why not let her stay
here, with you?” Varnus asked. “Everyone thinks this place is locked up tighter
than a dragon’s …” Varnus trailed off, realizing the turn of phrase he was
about to use was less than appropriate for polite company—and he did not know
Kyrus quite well enough to be sure how he would take to being spoken to like a
tavern regular.

“Because I want her safe, period. I do not want her safe
just long enough for Juliana to return, and find out—via whatever feminine
network of spies keeps track of such things—where Celia has been spending
nights.”

“Good point.”

“By the by, what had you come here for, initially?”

“Oh, that. Faolen just needs an airship …”

* * * * * * * *

Darkness negated much of the need for invisibility, but
Faolen was past the point of taking chances. It was just past dusk, and folk
were still milling about the streets, enjoying a fine springtime night, even in
the midst of war, as they set about finishing their day’s business. In a city
the size and diversity of Zorren, a lone figure clad in little more than rags
might have been unusual, but not so much as to draw extraordinary attention. Of
course, all it took was for one person to realize that the roughspun garments
he wore marked him as an escaped prisoner, and he would be on the run again in
a hurry.

He peeked above the tops of the two barrels he had hidden
between, wary even while invisible, as he turned his consciousness fully to
Wendell’s world. Seeing that there was no one likely to bump into him, he
stood. He was still wobbly of leg after his ordeal—wobbly of stomach as well.
The sudden change in his equilibrium was the final indignity his guts would
suffer. He vomited the stew he had tried for so long to keep down, hiding his
head between the barrels that had been his haven, hoping to keep the sound from
carrying far enough to draw attention.