Firehurler (Twinborn Trilogy) (30 page)

“But to what advantage? If nothing else, we are more
suspicious of him now. If he meant to sneak among us, he has failed already,”
Fenris said.

“If he wants everyone to believe he is Rashan Solaran,
he needs to explain how he is still alive. Being immortal certainly covers
that.” Brannis could not help but point out what he considered to be the
obvious answer, rather than wait for the Circle to shake it out via debate. He
hoped he was not overstepping his bounds.

“Aha! Now that would seem sensible,” Gravis said. “If
we acknowledged him as Rashan Solaran, and thus as warlock, he would outrank us
all. Certainly there must be inherent value in that. Whatever other scheme he
may be working, access to everything in the Tower and palace, command of the
Circle and the army.

“He must have studied up on the warlock, perhaps
having infiltrated the Academy, or even House Solaran for details that he could
use to make himself convincing. I am practically the only one in the Empire old
enough to remember him firsthand, and I was a mere boy. My recollections are
poor at best.”

“It seems you have a rather compelling narrative,
Gravis,” Stalia said. “I feel inclined to agree. This charlatan, whether he is
a demon or not, seems intent on gaining power over us. Whether the details of
your conjecture bear out, I believe that you have caught this one by the tail.”

Pouring a glass from a decanter under his desk,
Caladris added, “Or we are all witnessing a return of the meanest, cruelest
warlock the Empire ever knew. One or the other.”

There was a long pause where no one spoke, and
Caladris drained his wineglass. More than a handful of his fellows wished they
kept spirits hidden away in the Sanctum as well, at that thought.

“Well, enough for now. We all have much to consider.
The prisoner will remain sealed in a warded cell until we determine a course of
action,” Gravis stated, trying to reclaim the mood of order and efficiency in
the Sanctum that he preferred. “Sir Brannis, I regret having detained you so
long. You surely have a report to give to your commander. You and Iridan are
dismissed,” and he waved them away.

There was little ceremony among the sorcerers, so
Brannis and Iridan merely turned and left the way they came in, unescorted.

*
* * * * * * *

As the two guards hauled him down the height of the
tower and toward the palace dungeons, Rashan fought to control himself. There
was one tenet that had kept him alive for over two centuries, and he had to
convince himself that he was not violating it now, despite the fact that it
certainly felt like he was. That tenet was:
“Suffer no enemy to live once
they have offered violence
.”

The trident points poised at his neck were no real
threat to him, but the guards did not realize that. They were just loyal men of
the Empire, following orders that were just and proper. It was he who was
playing at games, Rashan reminded himself. He was risking their lives against
his own lack of control.

As they walked down the corridors that ran beneath the
palace, Rashan could envision the walls painted red with their blood, and their
bones and flesh in a sloppy pile below. He could easily destroy them with his
bare hands, or with a quick blast of lightning, or—

Stop it!
he
interrupted his own train of thought.
This is why I was exiled
.
Killing is too easy—my solution to too many problems.

He let himself be led the rest of the way to a special
section of the dungeons. The guards alerted a Third Circle sorcerer, whose job
it was to help with such matters, that they needed a cell opened in the warded
area.

There was no proper door where the sorcerer laid his
hand, fingers tracing runes in a purposeful order from among the hundreds that
adorned the wall. When he finished, a section of the wall opened, and the
sorcerer stepped back quickly. The guards shoved Rashan inside, none too
gently, and quickly released the grasp they had around Rashan’s neck. A touch
to the wall outside of the cell closed it quickly.

The room was utterly dark. Neither window, nor lamp,
nor construct of aether was left to the unfortunate prisoner in the warded
cell. Rashan was untroubled by the lack of light. He was so accustomed to
aether-sight that he preferred it anyway, and his aether-sight could see plenty
well.

The walls and ceiling were of basalt, covered in runes
that were inlaid with silver. The center of the room was the only spot left
bare. It was where the prisoner belonged. The runes were a nasty framework for
an aether construct that drew aether out of the room. There was a constant pull
even against the prisoner’s Source, stronger the closer he got to the walls.
The only relatively safe spot was the very center of the room, on the floor,
for the ceiling bore such runes as well. Tiny holes disguised among the runes
allowed in enough air to keep the prisoner alive, but little else. The cell was
meant to feel like a water-filled chamber with just a small pocket of air to
breath. It was a cell for keeping sorcerers helpless. Drawing aether against
the runes’ pull was nearly pointless; they were too strong and would just draw
it back anyway if it was not used immediately. There was no stray aether
floating about, so any spells cast would have to draw from the prisoner’s own
Source, a dangerous endeavor.

It was devious and possibly a little extreme, but
Rashan was proud of it. The Empire had used them for ages, but he had made the
most recent modifications. He could still see his own handiwork in the
crafting. It was not his best work, he admitted, but it had been such a long
time ago. The aether construct upon it had been rebuilt since he had left the
Empire, but that was no surprise; such things wore down over time, how quickly
depending on how well they were formed in the first place.

But Rashan’s Source was sealed against such mild
influence as the draw of the runes, and his small demon body used only a
fraction of the aether his Source produced. He was constantly working small
magics just to burn off the excess. He waited an hour or so for things outside
to have quieted down and then proceeded to let himself out of the cell.

Rashan’s aether snaked through the wall to the same
runes the Third Circle sorcerer had used to open it the first time. The cell
tried to draw the aether apart and pull it away from him, but Rashan’s control
was too finely honed. There was no fraying edge of a spell for the wall’s magic
to grasp hold of and unravel it by.

He smirked as the door opened. The cell would hold
just about anyone, from an Academy novice to a high sorcerer, or even a
warlock, but a demon—especially one who had created it—was too much for it.

As he stepped out of the cell, casually touching the
wall to close it behind him, he looked up and down the corridor. The dungeon
was cheerier than he had remembered it. Whoever had last renewed the lights had
not much of a flair for the macabre. Dungeons were not intended to be pleasant
places; half their function was to demoralize prisoners. Rashan reached out and
dimmed the lights just a little and reddened them a bit, making it more like
torchlight.

He felt as if he had arrived home after a long holiday
to find out the caretakers of his estate had redecorated in his absence. It was
all so familiar, but the trappings had changed. Rashan allowed the tiniest bit
of doubt to steal into his heart.

Can I have everything back, as if I had never left?

He picked a direction and strode down the corridor,
heading out of the dungeons. He had a lot to do.

*
* * * * * * *

As they rode through the city streets, the soldiers’
mood lightened. Per Rashan’s orders, they were being treated as important
guests of the Empire. The guards who had originally expected to be dragging
them before their superiors to answer a lot of uncomfortable questions were
instead escorting them to one of the oldest and most respected inns in the
city. Along the way, they were headed to the market. Jodoul had the idea
shortly after leaving the city gates that they were on free horses, which had
become theirs fair and square through being at the right place at the right
time when Rashan killed their previous owners. Thus they were going to sell
them.

As they entered the marketplace, even those who had
never been to Kadrin found it unusually crowded. The tailors, clothiers, and
food stands of all kinds were doing the heaviest business. It did not take them
long to realize that they had arrived back to Kadrin just in time for the
Bygones Festival. It was the traditional day to dress up as someone you spent
most of the cycle of seasons at odds with and get drunk together.

The Bygones Festival was held just after the harvest
ended. Harvest time mattered little to the urban residents of the capital, but
the festival dated back centuries. Back then—and even in modern times in the
farmlands—it was a time just after the hardest work of the season had been
finished, when tempers were just cooling after a lot of people with differing
agendas and needs all just finished their wrangling over prices, transporting
goods to market, and other business dealings. It gave everyone a chance to
literally see themselves as others saw them and to diffuse feuds with humor and
drink before everyone was stuck indoors all winter together.

Sir Lugren had taken his leave of them once he was
free to do so, parting just after the gates. The rest of them made their way to
the market, sold their mounts, and, for the first time in their lives, were
considering a proper Bygones Festival celebration. None of the conscripts had a
valuable trade or any family wealth—otherwise they would not have been
conscripted—so it was a new experience shopping for costumes. They had horse
money filling their pockets!

The stalls and carts that clogged the marketplace
offered choices aplenty. There were merchants from Safschan selling black silk
that could be made into a fine likeness of the Imperial Circle robes, a popular
costume among the army. Traders from Gar-Danel sold polished wooden swords that
many a sorcerer would wear sheathed on his hip come nightfall. Many professions
had traditional rivals, whether through daily conflict throughout the season or
through a history of excellent salesmanship levering a rivalry into place where
none seemed quite to fit—the shepherds and fishermen were something of a stretch,
for example. For the Bygones Festival, the merchants made sure they had
something to sell to practically everyone.

“Figure this fella! Thinks I’m gonna give him two
lions for this here little rag of a robe,” Jodoul complained to the marketplace
in general, turning his back to a man who had tried to sell him a sorcerer
costume.

“It’s silk, what’d you expect?” Tod retorted,
seemingly less interested in shopping than in getting to their fancy
accommodations and having a good long rest. “Just pick out something simple and
be done with it.”

“My wife made mine out of wool, dyed black. Sewed it
all herself. Fits me like my own shadow,” commented one of the guards escorting
them. Being ordered to treat someone like an “honored guest” gave them
considerable latitude in catering to their requests. An hour or two poking
about in the markets with their charges was a better way to spend the afternoon
than at their post, so the guards were in no rush to get to the inn.

“Well, I never had a proper costume before, so I
wanted something, you know, maybe a bit nice,” Jodoul replied. “I ain’t had
this sort of money before. Are you gonna get something a little stylish, Tod?”

“Prob’ly not, my horse had got bad teeth they said.
Only gave me three lions, five hawks for the beast. I don’t want to dunk it all
on a Bygones costume. I did not get seven lions, like you did. Hey now! That
reminds me, you still owe me from our dice game,” Tod said.

“Wow. In all the confusion out there, it had escaped
my head entirely. I can’t say I even remember how we’d left off.” Jodoul
chuckled. He glanced sidelong at Tod to see if he was going to get any leeway
with this tactic.

“Four lions, three hawks,” Tod answered dryly, raising
an eyebrow to glare back.

*
* * * * * * *

Brannis and Iridan went their separate ways leaving
the Tower of Contemplation. Brannis headed for his family’s estate on the
outskirts of the city, and Iridan to his own rooms, in a boarders’ house near
the city’s western gate. Brannis wanted to change and wash before reporting to
his superiors; Iridan just wanted some rest. While Iridan had been attached to
Brannis’s command for the excursion, he was not part of the army’s chain of
command and had only to answer to the Circle. If the generals wanted answers
from Iridan, they would have to ask Gravis Archon.

The roads around the palace were usually busy, but
with the upcoming Bygones Night party the palace held each autumn about to
begin a few hours hence, there was a heavy flow of people and foodstuffs
heading toward the palace as he tried to leave. As Brannis eased his horse
through the wagonloads of wine barrels, carts of fresh fruits, and various
other conveyances filled with delicacies, he was glad of the direction he was
headed. In a few short hours, the palace would be filled with revelry and
merriment of a sort Brannis wanted no part.

As a knight from a respected family, he would have
been welcomed at the palace celebration. For most holidays, Brannis was more
than happy to accept an invitation to the royal celebrations, but the Bygones
Festival was his least favorite time of the cycle of seasons. He loved the
colorful displays of magic that lighted the night skies on Founding Day, the
elaborate banquets that were served at the Summer Equinox, and the drunken
revels of Promise Day, but the costumed puffery of the Bygones Festival he
wanted no part in. Tradition would have him dress as a sorcerer for the night,
just as all the sorcerers at the palace would be dressed as knights. Brannis
had spent nearly his whole youth pretending he was a sorcerer, and it was a
time in his life he was glad to put behind him.