Prodigal Steelwielder (Seals of the Duelists Book 3) (24 page)

Bayan felt before he saw. He wasn’t sure how that was possible, since he knew he’d left his body behind. And he wasn’t sure how he knew that, either. He let awareness return. Warmth cushioned him, as if he lay in the shallow, silty flat of the Mambajao River. The breeze, if it could be called a breeze, brought more awareness to his disembodied self. It was sweet and somehow infused with light. For a long while, Bayan could manage no coherent thoughts about what he saw and felt. He simply floated and let the sensations sift through him.

Streaks of moving light patterned the sky like shifting shadows in beach sand. Ripples of orange, pink, and green flowed from left to right across a black sky that curved like a dome.

I must be dead. Surely this is the dome of the world, Bhattara’s final realm.
A faint twinge of regret flared in his mind, and he wished he could have said a proper goodbye to his friends.

No, you are not truly dead, and this is not truly the dome of the world. I tried to make it such for you so you would not be frightened.

Bayan floundered for some kind of response, uncomfortable with the notion that he had no facial expressions or gestures to offer.
I can’t see you. Where are you?
.

Ah, yes. The limited senses of the physical plane.
A form coalesced before him, vaguely humanoid and translucent, infused with veins that pulsed with a deep golden color.

A similar body formed around Bayan’s consciousness, and he let its mouth sigh in relief.
At least I know how to operate this… whatever this is.

“Welcome to my room, Bayan Lualhati of Balanganam.” The being’s voice was clear and sweet. If a bell could ring with the laughter of a brook, Bayan imagined it would sound like that voice. “You are my first guest in several millennia, for which I have mixed feelings. On the one hand, it is nice to see a familiar face. On the other, the time delay is not to my liking, and it informs me that perhaps I did not choose as wisely as I should have.”

The golden being looked down. A gentle mound of green grass grew and tickled Bayan’s new feet. “Who are you? Why have you brought me here?”

The being squatted down and became a pool of translucent golden water in the grass. Its voice rippled upward. “I no longer have a name. But I do remember having—a very long time ago—a life more like yours. Magic, battle, love…”

Bayan sat and crossed his legs, pressing his hands against the cool grass in an effort to feel more connected to the ground. “But what does that have to do with me?”

From the golden pond sprang a dozen dwarf horses that pranced and leapt around Bayan, their high voices whinnying. One of them stopped, laid a tiny hoof atop one of Bayan’s hands, and spoke. “I was once what you now call Balanganese.”

“And I’m to become like you?”

“If you wish it. More is possible than you think. I dare not tell you all, as your first footfall has not yet landed in your journey of a thousand leagues. But understand this, little brother. You will have this journey. The footprints of those who have gone before you are lost, and you will have to find your own path. But the path will appear, and you will take it. That is your destiny.”

Part of Bayan bristled at the thought of a fixed future. “Why?”

“Your babies call you master.”

“I don’t have any babies. Are you telling me I’m going to have lots of children?”

The miniature horse shook its sparkling mane. “You are everyone’s master. To know it is to claim it.”

“Is this to do with the coming war?”

“If you want it to, then yes.”

Bayan shook his head. “That’s not actually as helpful as you may think it is. If my journey is an inevitable one, why did you bother to bring me here?”

The ponies crumbled into fragments that became flower petals, coating the small hill in the sky with pink, yellow, and blue glory. The petals moved in chorus, and a thousand voices spoke in nodding unison. “Nostalgia. The first Balang to show the promise of understanding is worthy of noting.”

Bayan squeezed the grass in his fists.
What did I do recently? Why is he talking to me now and not yesterday?
“Doc Theo.”

“You crafted a singer.”

“But that’s just hexmagic. The empire has had plenty of hexmages before now.”

The flowers rustled. “But none of them were Balanganese. You see? You mean much, but you mean even more to me. The circle closes.”

Bayan still wasn’t sure what exactly was going on, but if some strange, eternal being from ancient Balanganam thought he was worthy of something, he wouldn’t admit he wasn’t. “In that case, do you have any advice for me for the future?”

The flower petals swirled upward and reformed the golden being. Golden irises flared as it bent close. “Embrace that big picture you are always chasing, Bayan Lualhati. My reality and your reality are one, but to me, your eyes are nearly closed. Be aware that the consequences of your actions will bring you a new and ancient enemy. And far more than merely your Waarden Empire will be at stake.”

“And if I don’t act at all?”

“Perhaps that would be a blessing. Not one which I would bestow, but one you may later wish you had instead.” The being gazed across the dreamlike landscape. The small grass hill wafted in one direction, while tall, distant gray mountains capped with snow drifted the other way. Except for the snow, they looked suspiciously like Sannat and Senwat in northern Balanganam. The being pointed to them. “Sometimes, even I get homesick. Go with Bhattara, young master.”

Bayan felt his new body melt, and the grass softened beneath his feet. His new body peeled away from his consciousness, and he slithered out the bottom. He fell and fell and fell, and all around him, the dark sky was bright with unfading firedust flowers and swirls of smoke in gloriously colored layers. His surroundings abruptly became quiet, misty. He watched the black-bright paradise receding above him. He fell, and the wind whipped at his hair and his clothing, which felt thankfully familiar.

Surely, he should have landed on something by now.

His back slammed onto something hard and warm that knocked the breath from him. Miraculously, he wasn’t hurt. He had his body back, too. He raised his hands and stared at them. They looked the same as they had yesterday. Even his clothing, dirty and smudged with Kheerzaal smoke, was familiar. What was new was the smell in the air: tropical forests, dead leaves, runrock, and the sweet aroma of seerwine pitcher nectar. He heard the rising murmur of a small crowd somewhere below him. Bayan finally turned his head. The crowns of several trees rose above him, obscuring much of the bright blue sky. The edge of a runrock cliff fell away just past his elbow. With a start, he knew exactly where he was. He wasn’t sure, though, why he had an audience.

He rolled to his hands and knees and peeked over the edge of Gamay’s rock. Below, to his surprise, he saw his little brother, Mindo, wearing a flat-topped white hat and holding his arms out as if to protect a dozen people or so from Bayan’s sudden appearance.

“Bayan?” Mindo cried.

A red glow filled Bayan’s vision. For a second, he feared he was seriously injured and had only now realized it. The light moved, and a chill danced up his spine.
There’s a sint living in Gamay’s rock? When did that happen? Ay, Bhattara
. He jabbed his fingers straight into the light in an accusatory manner. “You just back off, glow bug. I don’t have time for your territorial games. You know where I’ve just been? Now, put me down with my brother.”

The red glow hesitated for a long moment as if deciding whether to comply with the demands of a mere mortal. Then Bayan felt himself lifted by sheer nothingness and deposited next to Mindo. The watching crowd, apparently petitioners, clapped in appreciation. Bayan focused on his brother’s face. “Greetings, Mindo. I guess I’m back. Is Father home?”

Mindo lifted his chin a fraction. “I believe so, Duelist Bayan. Has the sint brought you back home for a reason?”

For a moment, Bayan was confused by Mindo’s question, but once he figured out that Mindo meant the red sint above, he suddenly wondered if the Balanganese being he had just been with wasn’t some form of sint as well.
If he and I are on the same journey, then I really am back at step number one.
“I’m not sure yet. But I need to get back to the Academy. Are there any singers here?”

Mindo shook his head. “There is a swift caravan service and an express coach now. But it’s going to take you a long time to get to your Academy from here either way. You could ask my sint to send you.”

Mindo’s words carried a tone of importance, and that funny hat seemed to indicate he was speaker for the sint or possibly for those who came to beg its favors. “I’m not asking your employer for anything just now. I’m going to see Father.”

Mindo crossed his thin arms. “As you want it. I won’t be able to join you until I have spoken to Sint Aalthas for today’s petitioners. And I’m afraid that, if you change your mind and do wish to ask the sint for help, it will cost you five days of farm labor the same as everyone else.”

Bayan managed to avoid laughing aloud, but just barely. He tipped his head at his little brother. “It looks like you’re following much more closely in father’s footsteps than I ever did. I wish you Bhattara’s favor with the sint.”

Mindo’s eyes widened, and he straightened his back. “Sint Aalthas doesn’t like us to mention Bhattara here. I ask that you respect that.”

Bayan snorted. “I will not. Maybe you should look to your sint’s jealousy problem. I’ll be up at the house.”

Bayan stalked up a broad stone walkway that had been embedded in the jungle floor since his departure three years back. He glanced back more than once on his way up the gentle slope, still trying to wrap his mind around the fact that a sint had moved into Balanganam. Not only that, but it had claimed his brother as a mouthpiece. Bayan wasn’t sure which he found more offensive.

Finally, he sighed and shook his mind free of the strange situation.
I’ll deal with my brother and the sint later. Right now, I need to get back to the Academy. If it’s not under attack yet, it will be soon, and I need to be there. Not for the emperor, not for the students, not for the teachers, not for anyone in this empire. I need to stand on that soil again and defend it against my enemies, and I need to do it for
me
. One more battle to avenge myself. That’s all I ask.

Eward stepped through Tala’s portal onto the Academy campus. He hoped no other strange magical effects would make off with his hexmates this time. Tala, Calder, Aleida, Sivutma, and Bas had returned to campus with him, and he didn’t want to be without the skills and knowledge of any one of them. Leaving Sivutma to a combination of fawning over Aleida’s newfound power and making sure she hadn’t gone completely insane, Eward dragged Odjin into Doc’s office in the Chantery. He pulled the hard little flask from his pocket and held it out. “This might help us against the Corona casters if you can figure out how it works.”

Odjin took the small vial with care. “This had some kind of magic liquid inside?”

Eward shook his head. “Honestly, I have no idea. It could be sint blood for all I know. But you are the resident potion expert, and you’re also a hexmage. What d’you think of it?”

Odjin crafted a small light in midair and held the bottle up against it. “It’s not translucent. An opaque bottle usually means sunlight could affect the contents, just like our potions.” He closed his eyes and wafted the small vial beneath his nostrils. “Seems to be steel with some kind of cork stopper. It smells a little spicier than our cork, but it’s definitely bark from a similar tree.”

Eward tensed as Odjin lifted the stopper from the bottle. He had shaken it when he first found it on one of the casters’ corpses, and it had sounded empty. But since he didn’t know what he was up against, the act of unstoppering an enemy weapon made his heart pound.

Odjin sniffed the open bottle, this time with his eyes closed. “Interesting. Very interesting.”

“What do you smell?”

“One of the first things they teach us in potioneering is how to tell if our ratios are off. With time, we learn to manage that test by smell alone instead of using the laborious paper-testing process. We’re not allowed to taste the product, after all. What I smell here is familiar. Cloves, cinnamon, citrus, cumin, Akrestan kelp. I think there could even be some seawater in here.”

Eward felt frustration heating the back of his eyeballs. “But what does that mean? What does that tell you about their magic?”

Odjin tipped his head to the side, unwilling to commit to a firm answer. “I’ll tell you my first impression if that helps.”

“It absolutely does.”

“It tells me I’ve been misunderstanding that ancient book on duelism for the past two years.”

Eward blinked. “What?”

Odjin tapped the empty bottle against his open palm. “There’s a line in the text, toward the back of the book, regarding the origin of potioneer recipes. It says that the earliest concoctions predate even duelism. They were taught to the first potioneers by a wanderer who showed up one day with ‘a visage bathed in sunset.’ I always thought that meant he was Shawnash. But now I think I’m supposed to take that literally. He arrived at sunset. It was shining on his face because he had walked from the east. Do you see what this means? Potioneering is a
Corona
invention. They taught us how to do it millennia ago, and that’s why they’re still better at it than we are.” He waggled the bottle. “Their potions are so advanced, they can use them to do elemental spells and bypass duelism entirely.”

Eward goggled. “Are you saying that absolutely anyone can learn to do magic in the Corona?”

Odjin shrugged. “I suppose it’s possible. From what Sabella said, I suppose duelists are considered a rare species in the Corona, simply outnumbered by those who use potions to cast spells. That’s why their emperor controls an army that spits magic and why Bayan was relegated to the circus.”

Eward went cold. The Corona could artificially create an entire army of casters who had no inherent talent whatsoever. And that was on top of their steelwielders. “How are we supposed to defend against steel and potions?”

Odjin laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “Calm down, Eward. You came to me for advice, and I’ll give it to you.” His other hand raised the steel vial. “Who better than a hexmagic potioneer to work backward to the recipe and then test it? I’m guessing, by its contents, that it is closely related to several of our Water spells. Once I determine the correct proportions, the spell should work.”

Eward clapped Odjin’s shoulder in return. “Are you telling me that you can create spit-potions for us to use against the Corona casters?”

Again, Odjin bobbled his head to the side. “In theory, yes. In quantity, probably not. Even if I borrowed all the singers from the temple, I don’t think that the Potioneers Savant could make enough for all of the duelists to have even one vial apiece. And that’s not counting all the other potions the Corona casters carried. I’m afraid this experiment of mine is not much more than a theoretical exercise. That said, if you can bring me some more vials, even broken ones, I should be able to tease out the ingredients between my nose and a bit of clever Wood magic. I might need a hex of potioneers, but I believe I can unpack as many recipes as you can bring me.”

Hope flared along Eward’s skin, bright and hard. “Odjin, it’s like you never left.” Odjin grinned, a rare true smile that erased the hard lines from around his eyes. “I suddenly feel like I might survive the day, and that is a very good feeling, indeed.”