Firehurler (Twinborn Trilogy) (32 page)

Brannis felt dizzy.

What does he mean by “my sword”?

Brannis picked up the broken pieces of the little
dragon that used to perch at his hip. He tried fitting them back together and
noticed that they were actually
not
the hilt of his sword, but had
actually covered it. There was a hollowed out area inside the sculpture that
was the shape of a much thinner handle, one that would have been uncomfortably
small for his large hands. It would seem to have been ideally suited to someone
Rashan’s size, though.

He knew that trying to chase down the demon was
pointless. He would not know what to do if he caught him. By the note, he bore
Brannis no ill will, but confronting him would likely irritate him at the
least. Brannis tried thinking back to when he had first met Rashan. Had he
taken any particular interest in the sword? How soon had he recognized the
weapon?

Have I really been carrying Heavens Cry around all
this time?

Ever curious, Brannis could not help but wonder about
the new blade he had been given. He pulled Avalanche from its sheath on the bed
and gave it a few experimental swings to test its weight. It felt like almost
nothing in his hand.

Probably a lightened weapon for a smaller swordsman,
someone Rashan’s size
, Brannis mused.

He swung it around hard a few times, making a
hwoom,
hwoom
sound as it displaced the air. Brannis looked around the room for
something to test it on, but his own armor, piled in a heap at the foot of his
bed, was the best he could find. Not wanting to ding his armor, he gently
tapped at the breastplate with Avalanche.

Crunch!

The sword smashed the breastplate against the floor
and took a fist-sized chunk out of the stone. Startled, he dropped the sword
and leaped back from it. The sword did not fall, but stayed point down, angled
to the floor just as he had left it. More cautious this time, he grabbed the
hilt and picked it up again, then let it go in midair. Again it stayed.

Accepting the fact that he could do little about the
demon’s desire for Heavens Cry, Brannis brightened his mood by playing with Avalanche,
seeing what it was capable of.

*
* * * * * * *

As darkness fell over the city of Kadrin, the lights
of the palace shone brightly. From the open and welcoming doors, magical
illumination spilled out onto the marble-paved road that ran past the entrance,
where carriages deposited their various personages of royal invitation. To be
welcomed at the palace that night, one had to be either a noble, a head of one
of the trade guilds, a knight, or a member of the Imperial Circle. There was a
line of carriages out front, as guests awaited their turn to disembark. Those
among the guests who lived closer sometimes walked and thus avoided the long
wait for the carriages to unload. In all, there were likely to be over five
hundred in attendance before guests stopped filling the palace ballroom.

Rashan watched the procession from the shadows near
the entrance gate, far from the doors of the palace but close to where the
carriages passed as they entered the grounds. He kept an idle count of the conveyances
as they passed, but was mostly looking to see what sort of folk were running
the Empire nowadays. There was only so much one could gather from the
partygoers at a revel, but at least Rashan saw that the Empire appeared to be
prospering; the guests were bedecked in expensive-looking finery, almost
without exception. The only ones who seemed to be dressed in less than
extravagant luxury were some of the younger members of the Circle, and a few
knights and nobles from less well-off families.

There were two in particular Rashan watched for, and
he was disappointed on one count. He saw Iridan later on toward the end of the
guests’ arrivals, on foot. He supposed the lad must have had to scramble to
prepare, given that they had arrived only earlier in the day. Rashan smiled
when he saw Iridan’s costume. While most of the sorcerers of the Circle were
dressing as knights, Iridan was in squire’s garb. Rashan applauded him for
having the humility to poke fun at his own inexperience. He saw too that Iridan
was alone. While it was certainly not unheard of to attend a ball unescorted,
Rashan had rather hoped Iridan would have had time to find someone to take.

I shall have to do something about that. He ought to
have been arranged to someone by now. Can they not see how exceptional he is?

As the last of the carriages finally left, Rashan made
his way to the entrance. He strode confidently across the lawns of the palace,
taking the shortest distance rather than following the curve of the road. With
his cloak flowing out behind him and Heavens Cry bouncing at his hip, nearly
dragging on the ground, he was like an apparition from the past. Ever mindful
of the Empire’s best interests even in small matters, he kept his feet from
touching the grass as he walked.

The entrance was guarded, but ceremonially so. With
everyone in costume, a pair of armored simpletons could hardly tell that one
petite warlock did not belong at the party. The guards would have prevented
drunken peasants from wandering in, but Rashan needed no magic to slip by them
without raising their suspicions. The herald, however, was another story. The
wizened old man whose voice called out the names of those who entered made a
career of knowing who belonged in the palace, with emphasis on knowing who belonged
at the various revels.

“Sir, I do not know you,” the herald told Rashan,
stepping into the warlock’s path. “Might you enlighten me, such that you may be
properly introduced?”

While his words were formal and said in the most
polite tone, there was a clear implication that Rashan was in the wrong.

“What is your name, Herald? I would properly address
you before I give mine.”

Rashan wanted to know this man, whom he expected he
would deal with much more once he slipped back into palace life on the emperor’s
staff. He could easily have befuddled him with magic but chose not to. Some
were a bit more sensitive to it than others, and even if he did not recall
being enspelled, the herald would deduce it later when talk of a gatecrasher
spread throughout the city.

“I am Lonford, sir, Royal Herald.” He nodded
graciously—and expectantly.

“If you have had cause to visit the Sanctum in the
Tower of Contemplation, you may recognize my face. I am Rashan Solaran, Warlock
of the Empire, High Sorcerer, and the blood-stained right hand of the emperor.
I have been away a long time, and it is a tale I have no time to tell now. I am
home now and intend to resume my service to the emperor and to the Empire.”

Rashan drew his sword as slowly and nonthreateningly
as he could manage, pulling it with his off hand and grip reversed, cradling it
along his right arm as he pulled the blade free of its sheath. He used his
magic to levitate the blade in front of Lonford for inspection.

“This is Heavens Cry, no crude copy, but the real blade
itself, forged by my hand. Tonight is my first night back in Kadris, and since
it happens to be Bygones Night, I plan to make the Inner Circle a peace
offering, for the best interest of the Empire. I will, however, leave it to
your discretion whether you would like to announce me—with the title as I gave
it to you—or just allow me to enter unannounced.”

“What game do you play at, sir? I will not be made a
fool of.” Lonford sounded indignant, but maintained his temper.

“No game, Lonford. I am back. My magic has kept me
alive longer than any of my predecessors, and I have been away for too long,
but I am here, and I am indeed Rashan Solaran,” Rashan told him in a calm tone.
He thought he might be able to convince the old herald, or he would not have
bothered talking to him at all.

“I do know your face. I am a student of Kadrin
history, of course. You know that if you are using magic to look like him,
scores of sorcerers inside—including all the Inner Circle—will see right
through you,” Lonford said.

Rashan merely nodded slightly in reply.

“And you are not worried?”

Rashan shook his head, just barely.

Lonford swallowed visibly. “Very well.”

Rashan followed Lonford down the short hall to the
ballroom. The sounds of flutes and drums and lutes wafted in as they
approached, as well as the general din of a hundred conversations taking place.
At the entrance of the room, Lonford paused, turned, and looked askance of
Rashan. The warlock nodded in reply.

“I present Rashan Solaran, Warlock of the Empire, High
Sorcerer, and the blood-stained right hand of the emperor.” Lonford winced as
he added the last part, though he no doubt knew that it was nearly as good as
an official part of the title.

The music played on, but the conversations halted as
if they had tripped. Rashan looked out into the sea of the men and women who
represented the elite class of the Empire. The sorcerers were decked out in
parchment-thin armor of silver or gold, with fanciful and mirthful crests
emblazoned on their tabards. Most of the would-be knights carried thin, dull
swords made of cheap steel, and a few had on fake mustaches to poke fun at the
knightly pretense of neatly groomed facial hair in which so many indulged.

The knights, for the most part, were dressed in what
appeared to be ill-fitted bed linens, with necklaces of dangling baubles and
pointed hats that had fallen out of fashion before even Rashan’s time—with
everyone except those who wished to lampoon sorcerous pomp.

The nobles and merchants Rashan could hardly tell
apart, for they tended to focus on more specific impersonations, and by his
accounting, there was little difference between the two groups. The nobles were
greedy, manipulative snakes who felt they were superior by birthright. The
merchants were greedy, manipulative snakes who felt they were superior because
they were good at being greedy, manipulative snakes.

The ladies present were mostly not costumed, as such.
It was unbefitting a lady of standing to admit to having rivals, and if they
were to, they would’ve had to have been forced to dress much the same
regardless. The exception to this were the ladies of the Imperial Circle, who
were dressed as knights much like their male colleagues. The women sorcerers of
the Empire had even better cause to satirize the knighthood, as there were no
women among their ranks. Everyone enjoyed the sight of the ladies’ armor and
the very large—often magically lightened—swords they carried.

All these various people stopped and stared up at the
entrance where Rashan stood smiling, giving the impression of being happily
returned to them after a long time away. Most of those doing the staring were
surprised and confused; the name was familiar to everyone, though some of the
poorer students of history might not quite have recalled from where. The sorcerers
of the Inner Circle were aghast. While they knew that Rashan, or at least
someone claiming to be him, had returned to the Empire, they all believed that
person to be safely stowed away in the most secure cell they had. One person,
and only one person, was not surprised at all that he had escaped imprisonment;
Iridan merely sighed and hoped he was not going to kill anyone.

While the entrance was up several steps from the
ballroom floor, Rashan’s lack of height meant that only those nearest the entrance
saw that he was armed. None of those close enough recognized the weapon for
anything but a prop, as least as far as they let on. As he descended down into
the crowd, a few conversations started back up, and some took on a whole new
tenor as the guests speculated as to what was transpiring. Rashan smiled and
nodded, acknowledging any who made eye contact with him. He picked his way
through the crowd until someone approached him.

“What are you playing at?” growled Gravis Archon under
his breath from just inches away from Rashan. He was wearing plate armor and a
green tabard with a crest that depicted a fat, sleeping bear, and wore a rapier
on his belt that was twisted like a corkscrew and flopped a bit as he walked.

“That is the second time someone has suggested that
this is a game. While I will admit to enjoying myself thus far on my return
home, this is no game. If you wish to hear the long and sordid tale of my time
outside the Empire, I shall tell it sometime, but for now just know this: I am
back, and I intend to stay.”

“So you think you can just walk back from a century of
neglecting the Empire and be welcomed as a returning hero? If you really are
Rashan, you have become a fool,” Gravis replied.

Rashan just looked up and down at Gravis’s outfit and smiled,
cocking his head as if to say: Which of us looks the fool?

Gravis frowned. “You make light of this? Is this all a
farce to you? You cannot expect me to be convinced you are our long-dead
warlock by acting the jester.”

“You were just a boy. You never knew me, but I was
always the jester. You can only surround your heart with so much death without
it consuming you. However, if you would like a more serious topic, who has been
in my room?” Rashan asked.

For the first time, it seemed he had hit his mark.
Gravis’s face went ashen.

“What do you mean, ‘Who has been in your room?’”