Reckoning (The Empyrean Chronicle) (12 page)

Elias leaned back on his heels, then plopped into his chair,
curiosity cooling his fury. “Huh. So, Macallister’s aura?”

Phinneas shook his head. “Scant the equal of a first year
Arcalum apprentice.”

“Not a glimmer more than a cud-chewing steer,” Bryn said.

“What’s more,” said Phinneas, “enchanted items cast auras as
well, whereby a properly trained arcanist can detect them and try to interpret
their power and function. That’s the genuine source of Macallister’s power. That
gold ring he wears is magic, as is that dagger he’s been showing off around
town. Wouldn’t be surprised to learn that he has a whole chest full of such
trinkets.”

“And, you Doctor?” Elias said. “What’s your story? If you
can see auras, then one can only assume…”

“I know a bit about magic, yes. Keep in mind though, that
many people have talent in various disciplines of the arcane, and a great deal
of them go through their life and never realize it. Take Abe Radcliffe, for
example, who always seems to know when it’s going to rain at night and covers
up his tobacco. Midwife Clopton can predict the gender of a baby with remarkable
success and knows when a pregnancy is about to turn bad. The title of wizard is
conventionally bestowed on those who dedicate themselves wholly to the mystic
arts and have amassed considerable power, but many people have learned to
utilize their natural gifts, most with no conscious knowledge of it.”

“And you?” Elias asked.

The doctor shrugged. “I have the healer’s touch and the
ability to sense the subtle energies that flow in the human body. Beyond that,
my powers culminate in a keen sense of intuition. However, when refined, intuition
can be used to sense others emotions, catch glimpses of the future, or to know
which herbs will make an effective poultice.”

Elias sat forward. “That potion you gave me—you said you had
a feeling it might come in handy so you brewed a batch the other day. You knew
trouble was coming?”

“If I had foreseen all this,” Phinneas gestured with an open
hand, “I would have done more than mix some witch’s brew. Sadly, fate did not
gift me with prescience, but when I awoke with the urge to make the mustroot
tonic, I knew to heed my gut.”

“It is good you did,” Elias said, his curiosity melting away
as grief ate its way through him with rusty teeth. “That tonic gave me the edge
I needed to defeat Slade. It made me faster.”

“Faster?” asked Lar, his eyes wide with wonderment. “I sure could
use some of that!”

“It doesn’t work on your wits,” Elias jibed with a tight
smile, appreciative of Lar’s attempt at levity.

“That tonic alone is not responsible for your success, Elias,”
Bryn said. “Lar and I were defenseless against Slade’s magic. It immobilized us
almost immediately, but not you. Somehow you resisted Slade’s spell. Not only
that, but you used your sword to literally cut through his magic and repel his
attacks. I hate to put a snake in your britches, but it just may be because
you’re gifted like your dad.”

“I have no knowledge of magic,” Elias said. “It’s my father’s
sword. Here, take a closer look at this.” He stood and bared his right forearm,
showing them once again the characters branded into his arm. “Does this mean
anything to any of you?”

Lar and Bryn were clueless as to the origins of the runes,
but the doctor scratched at his chin thoughtfully. “I have no idea what the
significance of these markings are,” said the doctor, “but they resemble the
written language of the peoples that live on Ulbrea, the continent far to the southeast
of Agia. Perhaps Eurinthium? How in tarnation did you say you got them?”

“I didn’t.” Elias sat back and explained his disconcerting experience
upon drawing his father’s sword. “Doctor, did my father ever discuss anything
like this with you?”

“I’m afraid not. I always admired Padraic’s weapon, but we
never talked about it, and I can certainly tell you he had no such markings.”

“Do you think the sword could be possessed?” Lar asked. “By
spirits or something?”

Given the circumstances, Elias thought, Lar’s question wasn’t
as crazy as it sounded. “Whatever the sword’s story is, it is clearly
possessed
of a powerful magic, at the least. Through these brands, it and I are somehow bonded.
Though I have only carried the blade for a short time, I feel we are connected,
like it’s an extension of my body.” The probing glances Bryn and Phinneas
shared were not lost on Elias, but he didn’t feel like discussing the subject
any further.

Elias sighed, and some of the fire went out of him, and left
in its place a profound weariness. “Phinneas, I am thirsty something fierce. Have
you any ale?”

The doctor sent for Agnes who returned shortly with a
pitcher of ale and mugs. Elias took a long draw on the hoppy brew, and then lit
one of his father’s cigarettes with his flint and steel lighter. He offered the
tin to the others and much to his surprise they each took one. The four
companions shared the silence for a time, white-blue skeins of smoke drifting
about them as they sipped the cool ale.

Elias ground out his cigarette. He told the doctor that
Slade’s left wrist bore a bright red tattoo of an S. Phinneas’s face blanched,
and he took a shaky drink of his ale.

“What is it Doctor?” Elias said. “You look like you’ve seen
a ghost.”

“The Scarlet Hand,” the doctor said, almost reverentially,
as if he uttered the true name of the One God, or a demon.

“I have never heard of them before,” Bryn said. “Are they an
assassin guild?”

“That’s something of an understatement,” Phinneas said. “I’m
not surprised you haven’t heard of them. Not many have. The existence of the
Scarlet Hand is known to very few and is closely guarded. Only a handful have
heard the words
Scarlet Hand
spoken aloud. You are now among them.”

“God’s blood, Doc,” Lar said. “You’re scaring the sand right
out of me. What in the hell’s going on here?”

“Phinneas,” said Elias slowly, “this Scarlet Hand is
responsible for my Father’s death, for reasons at this time unknown. This thing
may go deeper than I had initially thought. It looks like Slade may have been
motivated by more than greed.”

“Greed?” questioned Phinneas.

Elias waved a hand cursorily. “Slade said he had been
hunting for my father’s sword for decades and that’s why he came, but I’ll get
to that in a moment. First, tell me what you know of this Scarlet Hand. Our
lives may well depend on it.”

Phinneas studied his hands and let loose a deep, slow sigh. “Padraic
feared that the Hand would return in our lifetime, and it looks like he’s
right,” Phinneas said, almost to himself. He blinked away a distant memory and
looked up at Elias. “There are five noble houses in Galacia and the ruling house,
the House of Denar. The five houses sit on the king’s, or queen’s, council. However,
once there were six houses.”

“Hold up,” said Elias. “My father’s Marshal shield bears the
heraldry of the House of Denar. On it there is a tree that has seven stars
caught in its branches. Six houses, plus House Denar—seven.”

Phinneas nodded, pleased at Elias’s observation. “Yes, yes,
just so. The seventh house has fallen out of memory, but its star has never
been removed from the heraldry, a vestige from a long forgotten time. Moreover,
if you draw lines between the six outer stars, you will draw a large six-sided
star, with one in the center representing the House of Denar. In the formative
days of our kingdom, the houses were called The Seven Stars of Galacia and
comprised a single star, which represented a unified land.”

“But why didn’t they take the seventh star out of the
heraldry?” asked Lar. “And what happened to the seventh house in the first place?”

“Padraic surmised that the star had been left as a reminder
to subsequent generations of how close treachery could lie, which was
ultimately why the seventh house was banished.

“As the story goes, the seventh house shared a kinship with House
Denar, and next to it was the most powerful of the noble houses. But the
seventh house wasn’t satisfied with second fiddle and lusted for the crown,
and, ultimately, attempted to seize the throne. The coup failed, but only just,
and not before incurring heavy losses on both sides. The king at the time,
Mathias Denar, was a wizard of no small consequence and placed an enduring
curse upon the entire seventh houses’s bloodline, banishing every last scion
and prohibiting any offspring of the cursed line from ever returning.”

“Britches,” Elias breathed, borrowing Lar’s favorite curse.

“Legend holds,” Phinneas said, “that each member of the
seventh house, and those born to it hence, were cursed to have a left hand
colored bright red, so that all who saw them would know that they had steeped
their hand in their brother’s blood. As they were exiled, the banished house
swore an oath that it would one day find a way to return and take vengeance on
House Denar, and reclaim Galacia and Agia for its own.”

The companions exchanged grave looks and Elias felt himself
shiver despite himself. “That’s quite a bedtime story,” he said.

“Indeed,” said Phinneas as he peered into the dregs of his
mug.

“Could the return of this cursed house actually be upon us?”
Elias asked. “If the curse has endured so long, what could possibly break it
now?”

“I don’t know, Elias,” Phinneas replied. He drained his mug.
“Agnes! Pray bring more ale.” Phinneas stretched his arms over his head and
then rubbed at a kink in his neck as he continued. “Magic has laws. That much I
do know. Banishing an entire bloodline is no small feat. Such a geas is old
magic, and beyond our ken. What I can surmise, is that such an act required an
ornate ritual, which might well have included King Mathias making a pact with a
greater power, the use of artifacts, or any number of criteria foreign to us.”

“Has this curse,” Bryn said, “if it is in fact genuine,
already been lifted? For if not, then how could Slade have come?”

“The Scarlet Hand, as far as I know, is merely, well, the hand
of the banished house—their agents abroad. Long has there been the whisper of
such men walking the lands gathering intelligence for the seventh house, but this
is the first time in generations that one has been discovered, much less taken.
This is the first time the Hand has left any witness alive.”

Elias felt the others’ eyes upon him, and he shifted
uneasily under their weight. “Well, it won’t be the last. If they are as
far-reaching and covert as you say, we may not have to find them at all—they
may very well come for us to tie up loose ends.”

“The queen must be warned,” Bryn said. “Her life could be in
danger.”

“If Phinneas is right, the entire House of Denar is in
danger, including you,” Elias replied. “You may all be marked for death. For my
part, my first order of business is to deal with Macallister.”

“Do you think he is involved with these guys?” Lar asked.

Elias snorted. “Macallister is an opportunist. I can’t
imagine he has any real knowledge of the Scarlet Hand, or their motives. No, I
suspect he stumbled into something bigger than himself, and is nothing more
than a pawn. Still, I plan to bring him in. His observations, however trivial,
may be of some consequence. And,” Elias added, his countenance darkening,
“Macallister must be made to answer for his crimes.”

Elias saw the doctor smiling thinly at him. “What is it?”

“Oh, nothing, son,” Phinneas said, “only that you reminded
me of your father just now.”

Elias sighed deeply. “Ah, Dad…” He felt his eyes well up,
but blinked them clear. He refused to succumb to his emotions, at least not
yet. He still had work to do. Elias cleared his throat. “Something about this
just doesn’t feel right. I can’t imagine an ancient order like the one you’ve
described hiring out to assassinate a whiskey distiller. As I said, Slade told
me that he came for my father’s sword, that it belonged to him. But all that
carnage for a sword? It doesn’t make sense. There must be more to it. It must
be because of who my father was.”

“I don’t know,” Bryn said, “you heard what Slade said. That
blade is no usual sword. That thing reeks of power. It’s old magic. And what’s
more, it’s not Galacian. God alone knows how old that thing is.”

“You seem to know an awful lot,” Elias said, a little dryly.

Bryn grinned, nonplussed. “Court education.”

In the aftermath of Bryn’s words the companions fell silent
as they waited for Agnes to bring more ale, each alone with their thoughts. Bryn
waited for the doctor to pour the ale and then broke the silence. She looked
hard at each of them in turn and said in a soft voice, “It is because of
Macallister that I have come to Knoll Creek.”

Bryn’s Story

“Come again?” said Elias as he exchanged looks with
Phinneas, while Lar choked on a mouthful of ale.

“You’re right, Elias, I’m not a tax collector. I work with
the captain of the queen’s guard, Daryn Blackwell, under the queen’s steward,
Ogden Vandrael. We are members of the Vanguard, the modern incarnation of the
Knights Vanguard, but our mission remains the same—safeguard crown and kingdom
against any threat by any and every means available. Our order has changed with
the times and now rather than fighting enemies on the field of battle, we do so
in Peidra’s Court, countless other political arenas, back alleyways and dark
corridors—anywhere a dagger is preferred to the broadsword.

“A Vanguard operates outside of the purview of the public
domain. For lack of a better word, I am a spy. As a cousin to the queen I am
well-known at court and have a reputation for being whimsical—a reputation I
willingly foster. As a result I can come and go as I please and when some
plotting upstart is in his cups he doesn’t think twice about spilling his beans
to the comely, dim-witted girl that’s been flirting with him all night.”

“Sounds like a good gig,” Lar said into the pregnant silence.

“It has its moments,” Bryn said with a wink, but her face
assumed a grave expression presently. “Since the death of my uncle, King
Peregrine, Eithne has dodged an alarming number of plots against her, both
politically and corporeally, which is precisely why I am here in your fair
town. Before I begin, I must have the word of each of you that what I say here
will not leave this room.”

“You have it, freely given,” Elias said as he saluted her
with a clasped right fist over his heart.

“Me too,” said Lar.

“And I,” said Phinneas.

Bryn leaned over the table. “Last month we intercepted a
cryptic letter without signature or salutation. It was written mostly in code
but we were able to decipher small portions of it. Our primary clue was the
phrase
hart hunt
. Hart is an archaic word for a stag, which is the
central character on the Denar coat of arms. In times past the Kings of House
Denar were called
the Stag
. As you can imagine, this was quite alarming
for it hinted at a plot on the queen’s life.”

“How did you come upon this correspondence?” asked Elias.

“Captain Blackwell observed that a palace page, Tomas, had
begun acting strangely. He had a wild unkempt look, and he had been seen talking
to himself. Now this fellow was popular with the ladies and known for his amiability
and social grace, so when he began skirting friends and lurking in his quarters
during his time off, the captain took note of it. Nothing really threatening,
mind you, but Blackwell thought I better look into it just to be sure.

“So, one night I visit Tomas in his chambers. I practically
had to force my way in. I tried to get him to drink some wine with me, but he
refused, muttering that the One God didn’t look kindly on indulgence in the
fermentation of grape or grain. Convinced something was amiss, I broke into his
room when he was on duty and discovered the letter stuck away in a chest. Then—”

“Hold up,” said Elias. “You said he had a wild look—what do
you mean by that? Was it in any way similar to Danica’s behavior when we found
her?”

Bryn cocked her head to a side as she considered. “Come to
think of it, yes, I believe so. Actually, he had that same spooked look in his
eye.”

“So, it’s possible that he may have been under the sway of
an enchantment,” Elias said, “which could have caused his sudden change in
character—perhaps the very same kind of fell magic that afflicted Danica.”

“You may just be on to something.” Bryn leaned back and took
a deep draw on her mug of ale. “It doesn’t fit that a spy infiltrated Lucerne
Palace by posing as a page, only to blow cover by acting out of character after
years of exemplary service. No, someone got to him. The questions then are how,
and whom.”

“And now we have a good idea as to who—The Scarlet Hand,”
Elias said. “Please, continue.”

“As you can imagine,” Bryn said, “the note moved us to take
up a heightened state of alert. We had no leads other than the knowledge that
there was a conspiracy against the crown, whether foreign or domestic. However,
all this business happened during the Summit Arcana, which gave us somewhere to
start, but also gave would-be conspirators a literal sea of suspicious
characters to hide in.”

“What’s the Arcana Summit?” Lar asked.

“The Summit is a three day convention, where like-minded
people gather to discuss magic and sell and trade books, potions, baubles and
whatever else you can imagine, and plenty you can’t. It’s an annual tradition
started centuries ago by King Malachi to foster good relations between arcanists
in a neutral, safe place and to increase our knowledge and exposure to the
arcane arts. These days it’s mostly populated by hacks and wealthy poseurs.”

“Like Macallister,” Elias said.

Bryn grunted. “Like Macallister. Many travel a great
distance to attend the Summit and among all the greenhorns there are some
legitimate practitioners and vendors. As a result, many arrive before the start
of the summit, to rest after a week in the saddle, or because the distance is
so great they make a holiday out of it and enjoy all Peidra has to offer. Because
of this, the inns and taverns bustle all the week, and the city is teeming with
tourists, which makes it harder for the city guard, the Blackshields, to keep
an eye on everything.”

“The ideal time to make a move against the crown,” Elias
said.

“Precisely,” said Bryn. “Now our Page, Tomas, was known to
frequent a tavern that lay in close proximity to the Summit. He had begun acting
odd at the beginning of the previous week, and I apprehended the letter on the
second night of the Summit. The Captain and I decided that I should attend the
final day of the Summit, assume the role of the flippant aristocrat, and see if
I could scrape together any leads or spot any suspicious characters.”

“And out of everyone there you picked Macallister?” Phinneas
asked.

“Not quite,” Bryn said. “You see the trouble is that keeping
an eye out for suspicious individuals at the Summit Arcana is like trying to
find a needle in a pile of needles. I couldn’t very well walk around asking
people if they had seen anyone suspicious amongst the masses. After turning up
little of value, I went to the tavern Tomas frequented, a modest drinking hole bearing
the ridiculous name of
The Frothing Otter
. The way I figured, Tomas’s
relief would be coming in soon and he might go to the tavern to meet his
coconspirator, if said individual was using the Summit as cover. He was being
tailed by the guard in any case, but I had little else to work with.

“I made myself comfortable against a wall and waited. In
short order, happily, Tomas entered the tavern. Moments later followed two men
I recognized from the palace guard dressed in plain clothes. Tomas went to the
bar and sat next to a man who had busied himself with peering into his mug of
ale. The man didn’t look up from his drink. In fact, the man did not give any
indication that he knew Tomas existed. Tomas glanced briefly to either side,
drank one mug, paid and then left. The guard, none the wiser, followed him back
into the streets.

“Something about that man at the bar bothered me though. I
couldn’t quite put a finger on it. He didn’t stand out in any way: Nondescript
clothing, his posture didn’t suggest he had anything to hide; he didn’t look
around furtively as the guilty often do; normal, well-manicured haircut, no
distinguishing marks. He looked like nothing so much as an average citizen
enjoying a drink after a long day. In the end maybe it was that that tipped me
off—he blended in a little too well.

“So, I waited. I figured if this was the guy that got to
Tomas, he would be clever enough to notice the page had been followed, and
would tell him to scat. The man continued to sit there, nursing the same mug,
for well over an hour. Now convinced I had my man, I stayed. The odd thing is,
despite the fact that the tavern was packed, no one else took the bar stool
next to my mark and the barkeep never offered him another drink.”

“That smacks of magic,” said Phinneas.

“Agreed,” Bryn said. “Then in walks none other than one Roderick
Macallister. I was suspicious at once. You see, The Frothing Otter is a
reputable enough establishment, but it’s a working man’s drinking hole. Macallister
was dressed far too well to be anything but a member of the gentry, or a
wealthy merchant at the least. He took the empty stool and, like before, the
fellow looked into his mug and paid the noble no mind. However, Macallister
seemed fidgety and he leaned his head a little too close to the man in question.
Macallister paid for his drink with a platinum note. The barkeep brought him a
handful of gold sovereigns as change—hell, on a normal day the barkeep probably
wouldn’t have had that much change on hand. Macallister finished his wine and
then headed for the door, leaving his coin behind, which the man scooped up in
a single motion.”

“It was Slade!” Elias said.

“Truth be told,” Bryn said, “I never got a clean look at
him. As he left he kept his face turned from me, almost as if he knew I watched
him.”

“Likely he did,” Phinneas said dryly.

“Regardless, I followed him out into the twilight streets,
but he had disappeared as if he never were. Frantic at the prospect of losing
him I climbed a lantern post, but I couldn’t spot him in any direction. I had
lost my only lead, and had little hope of locating him again, especially
considering I couldn’t identify him even if I did.”

“However,” Elias said, “it was easy enough to find out who
Macallister was and follow him back to Knoll Creek. All you needed was a suitable
cover.”

Bryn leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. “That’s
my story.”

“Why didn’t you bring Macallister in and question him in
Peidra?” asked Lar. “Why come all this way?”

“My experiences in the Frothing Otter taught me one thing:
whatever the identity of the man in question may be, he was highly skilled at
avoiding detection and extremely intelligent. Consider also his choice in
Tomas. He picked a spy that could go virtually anywhere in the Palace, even the
throne room, without raising suspicion, and what’s more, a spy that no one
would look twice at—for all intents and purposes, virtually invisible. It is
only due to the vigilant eye of Captain Blackwell that I am even here.

“I have no doubt that if we took Macallister in Peidra, this
man and his agents would find out and go to ground, and then we wouldn’t have
any chance of uncovering their plot and no further leads. Our only chance lay
in stealth and secrecy, to observe Macallister in the hope he could lead us to
this man. I didn’t even follow Macallister for fear he was under surveillance. I
allowed him a two-day head start.”

“You came alone?” Elias asked.

Bryn shook her head around a yawn. “No, I came with an
entire company of the queen’s finest Redshields, but I figured our quarry could
probably pick out a guardsmen in civilian clothes a mile away, so I left them
in Ralston, where they’re close enough to be summoned in a few hours, but
without jeopardizing my cover. I traveled the rest of the way to Knoll with
just my two retainers.”

“Speaking of which,” Elias said, “where are your retainers?”

“I left them in town, with instructions to go for help if I
didn’t send word by nightfall. I figured if we ran afoul, there’d be no one to
alert the Redshields in Ralston.”

Bryn’s yawn proved infectious, and Phinneas found himself
following in kind. “We’ve all had one hell of a day,” he said. “Why don’t we
call it a night. This palaver has kept an old man up far past his bed time.”

The companions decided, after a little prodding from the doctor,
that the safest and most practical course of action would be that they all
stayed the night at the ranch. Talk of the Scarlet Hand and ancient curses had
made everyone a little skittish.

Later, as Phinneas tried to find a comfortable spot in his
bed, his thoughts dwelled on Elias. Bryn had been right about the distiller—Elias
had the gift. More than that, unlike many of the arcanists of the day who
manipulated the magical forces that permeated the universe through study and
the use of incantation and formula, Elias was an Innate. He had the rare gift
of being able to channel magical energy through force of will, rather than
having to rely on ritual and formula.

Phinneas only hoped that Elias could learn to control his
budding abilities, and not the other way around. Despite the great power
available to an Innate, it was a double edged sword. Many such individuals
could not cope with their gift and were consumed by the very energies they
sought dominion over.

Thus troubled, Phinneas Crowe fell asleep at last, only to
be haunted by visions of an all-consuming fire and an ocean of indigo energy
washing over all he knew.