Firehurler (Twinborn Trilogy) (35 page)

Rashan noticed the high sorcerer trying to draw aether
and slammed him against the wall to break his concentration. The sorcerers
watching from within the chamber winced collectively, but none dared intervene;
Rashan was nearly glowing in the visible light range by that point.

“No other choice? What of cousins, uncles? There must
have been a legitimate heir somewhere,” Rashan insisted.

“We were better suited. The Circle has always been the
guiding hand of—”

“TRAITOR!”

*
* * * * * * *

On the streets of Kadrin that morning, the ground
shook and a noise was heard unlike any before, a great thunderous crash. Those
who had a clear sight line to the Tower of Contemplation could see a cloud of
dust and smoke rising from a hole near the very top.

And those with very good vision could make out the
black-clad figure standing in that hole, one foot set upon the blasted rock
that was once part of the rune-carved wall, surveying the empire that he had,
quite possibly, just conquered.

Chapter 19 - That Witch I Fear

A harsh knocking awakened Kyrus, coming from
downstairs. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut to gather the strength to open
them properly, and blinked several times to clear the blur he saw at first. The
knocking repeated as he rolled out of his bed and found his shoes. He had
fallen asleep fully clothed, which left him one way-marker of etiquette closer
to being able to answer the door to polite company. He stumbled down the stairs
as he tried to bring his mind around from its torpor.

“One moment,” he called down ahead of him, hopefully
forestalling any further knocking. He paused briefly to run his fingers through
his matted and tangled hair quickly before opening the door.

“Expert Kyrus, I do not take kindly to being kept
waiting,” the client at the door said.

He was a rotund man with a beard that ran down both
sides of his face and up through a mustache, but skipped the chin. Speaking to
his apparent years, the facial hair and what remained atop his head had gone
well and truly grey. He was dressed expensively, and a carriage waited behind
him on the street, its door ajar with a footman beside.

“Lord Derrel, my apologies. I know your daughter’s
wedding invitations were a rush job. I stayed up the night finishing them. I
will fetch them directly.”

Kyrus disappeared back inside briefly. He returned
shortly with a carefully tied bundle, which he handed to Lord Derrel, along
with a rolled parchment.

“There you are, Your Lordship, eight hundred-odd invitations
and the copy of the guest list you provided. I beg your pardon for my
appearance and lateness in arising this morning.”

“Well, Expert Kyrus, you made good your promise.
Expert Juren could do no better than a week, so I was leery of your boast of
two days, but I needed those invitations quickly. When you did not answer my
knock, I suspected you had failed your commission. Thank you.” Lord Derrel
inclined his head in acknowledgment and reached into his vest pocket. “Your
payment, and perhaps a bit extra.” He winked at Kyrus.

“Would you like to untie the bundle and have a look,
to make sure you are satisfied?” Kyrus asked.

“No, no. No time for that now,” Lord Derrel said as he
turned back toward his carriage. “I must arrange for these to be delivered. With
just over a month to the wedding, far-flung guests will have barely enough time
to make arrangements to attend. If I find they are not in proper order, you
shall hear of it, though,” he said, then chuckled.

Kyrus locked the door as soon as Lord Derrel had
departed. That one job had earned him thirty-five hundred eckles, plus whatever
tip his lordship had alluded to. He could afford to close up shop for a week
and not notice the loss, so he planned to enjoy the day, especially since the
morning had not gotten off to a promising start, what with waking to an
impatient client nearly staving in his door, but there was time enough to
rehabilitate it.

Continuing to try to rub the sleep from his eyes,
Kyrus headed back upstairs. He washed up properly and changed into fresh
clothes. He levitated a comb through his hair a few times, but shaved in the
more conventional manner, as he was still not confident enough of his new power
to trust it with a blade near his throat. He would have skipped the shaving
entirely, but Abbiley had expressed a preference for his appearance without the
beard.

He regarded his reflection in the mirror and saw his
clean-shaven face staring back at him with red-rimmed eyes. The late nights
were taking something of a toll on him. With clients calling at what most folk
would consider reasonable hours, he could ill afford to be lying abed until
noon or later each day. Sooner or later, he would have to either choose to
alter the way he ran Davin’s old scrivener’s shop or to find a more secluded place
to practice his magic—maybe move to a new building that had a cellar, or maybe
somewhere in the caves along the beach south of town. However, the former would
require saving up enough coin to purchase a new building and the latter seemed
rather inconvenient. He sighed and resolved to think more on it later. For the
time being, he would save his hobbies for after dark.

Though he looked a bit bedraggled, he felt much better
after having gotten himself sorted out and more a suitable sight to be out in
public. He hefted the large purse that Lord Derrel had given him, which he had
set down on the bedside table. It felt heavy and substantial in his hand, more
money than he had ever made from a single job. Even copying an entire book
usually pocketed him less, but Lord Derrel had been desperate to have his
daughter’s wedding arrangements settled quickly. Kyrus was no fool and realized
when Derrel had approached him that his daughter must have been expecting a
child. Kyrus had priced the job accordingly and trusted in his magic to help
him do the job speedily enough.

The arrangement worked out to the satisfaction of
both, even if Kyrus might seem to have taken advantage of the desperate
nobleman. But Lord Derrel had coin to spare and needed to protect his reputation.
Kyrus, on the other hand, had reputation to spare and needed the money. Kyrus
could not help but wonder how much better a businessman he could become once he
knew a wider array of magics to help him deliver otherwise impossible results.

That thought prompted Kyrus to wonder when he would
learn any new spells. His counterpart in the other world had spent much time on
the road of late, and his two magical companions had seemingly been less
interested in showing off their magic than they had in just getting to their
capital city. Kyrus hoped that now that Brannis was back in a city of magic, he
would have ample opportunity to see new spells. Perhaps he could find a way to
more explicitly convey his desire to Brannis.

“Hello? Sir Knight? Brannis? If you can hear me, go
find a magic show to watch, or a good book of spells to read or something,”
Kyrus spoke aloud.

He was not sure if Brannis was aware of him the way he
was aware of Brannis, but he supposed it could not hurt to ask.

Kyrus made his way back downstairs in slightly less
haste than on his previous trip. He looked around the work room and saw the
quills lying about, along with half-emptied ink pots.

I ought to get that put away, in case anyone stops by.
They should wonder what kind of establishment I run if I have a dozen quills
and ink pots everywhere.

He started to walk over to tidy up—“tidy” being a
relative term, given all the other books and papers lying about—but stopped
himself short.

No one will be coming today, and if they do, they
shall find the shop closed.

Resolving to worry about the mess later—and after all,
he would just be back at work and needing them again later on—he turned for the
door. Locking the shop behind him, he headed off to see Abbiley, whistling a
happy, off-key melody as he went.

As he passed the cobbler’s shop, he acquired an
admirer. This admirer had been waiting all morning for him to leave his shop,
watching the door and biding his time. As the admirer fell into step several
paces back, Kyrus walked on, in ignorance.

*
* * * * * * *

Kyrus sauntered down the streets of Acardia, in no
particular rush. He knew that Abbiley would have work to do and that he would
be interrupting her, so he decided to take his time in getting to her studio.
She had stopped by his shop often enough during the middle of the day, though,
that he was nearly certain she could afford at least a part of the afternoon in
leisure.

As he passed near Greuder’s, he caught a whiff of the
midday pastries and veered off on a new course. He realized that he had not
eaten yet, and his stomach took over navigation and steered him toward spiced
crescents. The noontime rush had dissipated along with noontime, and there was
no line waiting to get in. Kyrus slipped inside and took a table.

“Good morning, Greuder,” he called out, smiling.

The dining area was not quite empty, but most of the
patrons seemed closer to finishing their meals than beginning them. Kyrus
recognized most, but there was no one that he knew well enough that he felt
obliged to strike up a conversation.

“Well, well, Expert Kyrus. You seldom come here for
luncheon, and you would be late even if you were of the habit. Clock tower’s
bell not loud enough for you?” Greuder said, raising his voice to be heard
across the room from behind the counter where he was beginning to clean up
after the day’s baking.

“Oh, I had a late night of it, working on a rush job.
Took the early hours off and decide to push ‘morning’ back until after midday.
Seemed sensible, since I would much prefer a few spiced crescents over a bowl
of stew,” Kyrus said.

“Well, then, I fear you have made a grave error. I
have only five of them little morsels left, and I had promised them to the
alley cats. The little dears have been waiting quietly out there all morning,
and I could not bear to disappoint them. Now if you had come in at a
respectable hour …”

“Oh, Greuder, if you have five left, I shall purchase
them and
promise
to share them with the cats. I might go so far as to
pitch in a little extra so you might find them a saucer of milk to wash it down
with.” Kyrus winked.

Greuder, of course, had made no such promise for the
last of the spiced crescents, feline or otherwise, and Kyrus was soon slaking
his hunger on the finest breakfast to be had at two hours past noon. Despite
being in no rush, he gulped down the sweet pastries as if he had not eaten all
day—which he had not.

“So, Mr. Expert.” Greuder sat down across from him as
the last of the other patrons departed. “You have yet to stop smiling since you
arrived. I know how wonderful my spiced crescents are. I actually know
precisely
how wonderful they are, but they are not
that
wonderful. Out with it,
Kyrus. Have you found yourself a girl, or have they just gone ahead and made
you High Overlord of All Scriveners this time?”

“Is it that plain to see?” Kyrus asked, trying his
best to look sheepish but falling short of the mark.

“Aye, it is. Do tell.”

“Well, it seems that I have a rather unique and
remarkable gift, and my fellows in the Scrivener’s Guild—”

Greuder cut him short with a cleaning towel to the
head, which got them both laughing.

“No, really, boy. Who is she? You intend to keep it
secret?”

“Not hardly.” Kyrus grinned. “I doubt I could had I
wanted to, given how transparent I apparently am. Do you know Abbiley Tillman?”

“You mean old Geremy’s girl, the painter?” Greuder
asked.

“I suppose so. I had never known her father, but she
is a painter,” Kyrus replied.

He knew that Abbiley was orphaned and that she had a
younger brother she helped to raise, but he knew little of her parents. He
could think of no delicate way of asking about them, and he was unsure whether
she would want to be asked. Kyrus saw his own family infrequently enough, but
he felt reassured in the knowledge that they were safely at home on their farm,
just a half-day’s ride to the west.

Kyrus had always been the odd piece in the family
puzzle. His parents loved him and raised him the same as his brothers and
sisters, but farm life had never caught hold of him. His mother taught them all
to read and do simple ciphering—the sorts of things they would find useful in
buying supplies and selling goods at market one day when they were in charge of
running the farm. With Kyrus, however, he wanted more of the “book learning”
and less of animal husbandry and crop rotation. He took care of his chores—at
least as much as any young boy would—but never was interested in his older
brothers’ rough sports, which even his sisters found more interesting than did
he.

When Kyrus had been shipped off to Expert Davin to
become a scribe, he and his family knew it was right for him. They were never
going to make a proper farmer of him, so they let him find his fortune in city
life. He visited on occasion and took comfort in knowing he was always welcome.
He had not severed ties with them so much as taken a different direction.

With Abbiley, she had lost her parents some years ago,
though Kyrus did not quite know how. He briefly considered asking Greuder about
them, but he somehow did not feel right about it. He would hear about them from
Abbiley when he felt comfortable enough asking her.

“Well, she always seemed like a nice girl. You be good
to her, Kyrus, you hear me? Else there will be no more seat for you in my
bakery.” Greuder winked at Kyrus, possibly only half-joking.

“I will. I promise,” Kyrus replied, and he meant it.

*
* * * * * * *

“It is beautiful,” Kyrus remarked, looking at the
first painting Abbiley showed him.

After Greuder’s, he could not help but head right over
to Abbiley’s studio, where she worked mostly on commission, painting portraits.
The rest of her works were done in her ample free time, portraits being a
service of infrequent and unpredictable demand. The one she was showing him was
a painting of the Katamic Sea during a storm.

“How did you manage to paint this without getting the
canvas ruined in the storm?”