The Arcanist (30 page)

Chapter Twenty Eight

“What do you mean you couldn't reach them?”

Simon yelled at the man with all the strength he could muster. He was beside himself with anger as he sat on the throne listening to the captain's incompetence, and he didn't care who heard him. The mistakes were piling up and it angered him. It more than angered him. Each new mistake, each new act of disloyalty threatened his throne, and he knew that if he lost the throne he would lose his life. Taking the throne had been a gamble and little by little it was beginning to look as though he was finally going to lose a wager.

“I don't know Your Majesty. We followed the road up the hill to the fort, again and again and again. There is only one road. We charged the hill so many times. We sent scouts around to circle behind the fort. But each time we all found ourselves turned around, galloping back to the town.”

“Are you drunk?!” Simon screamed down the entire throne room. “You can't even ride a few hundred paces up a road to find a fort standing in plain sight!”

He was rapidly becoming convinced that there was a drinking problem among his soldiers. Edouard had escaped because of soldiers drinking on duty. And now they couldn't even ride up a straight road. It was the only explanation. It was a problem that needed to be stood on fast.

“No Your Majesty! I'm sorry Your Majesty!”

The captain went down on one knee before him, sweating profusely. But his apology wasn't enough. He should have known that before he returned to the city. And long before he dared approach his king with such a tale of abject failure. At the very least he should have seen the heads of the other soldiers sitting on their posts. The ones who had failed before him.

“Guards!” Simon bellowed some more, and was instantly rewarded by the sound of steel shod feet clattering on the marble floors. “Take this man away and hang him.”

“My king –!” The captain screamed, but too late. He didn't even have time to find his feet before the guards had grabbed him by the armpits and were dragging him away to the gallows. He screamed with fear with every pace they took, and he begged, but he couldn't stop them.

Soon the newly rebuilt double doors to the throne room had closed behind them, and there was silence once more, the distant screams of the captain less than a memory. That was good. He liked the quiet. But even with the wretch gone he could still hear the sound of the wind whistling through the broken walls of the room and see the parade ground through the massive holes. That annoyed him. After all this time the workers still hadn’t progressed any further than clearing away some of the rubble. Because they were all at work on Vesar's damned temple. Did they not understand that this was their king's throne room?

“Vesar!” Simon screamed for his advisor and the man was instantly beside him. It was almost as if he had always been standing beside him. He did that a lot and like many other things he did, it annoyed him.

“Explain this.”

“Magic Your Majesty. Your brother has gained magic to confuse the minds of the soldiers.”

He spoke so calmly, as if it was something that was completely obvious. But if it was so obvious, why hadn't he said something about it before? Simon instantly demanded an answer, or his advisor would be swinging from the gallows as well.

“It's not your brother's magic Your Majesty. He has fire and this is something of the mind.”

“So?”

“So he has help Majesty.”

Vesar was right of course. Simon was beginning to think that that was his gift. Stating the obvious. But as angry as he was, it didn't matter just then. What mattered was that his brother was free and mocking him with his magic. He had to be taught a lesson.

“Another spark then. Can your magic defeat his?”

It angered Simon that he should have to ask. But after his patrol sent to capture Linstrum had not returned he was beginning to realise that for all his vaunted magic Vesar was not unbeatable. The fifty men they had sent to catch or kill the flame had all been wearing his advisor's charms. Charms that should have protected them against savage creatures. But from what he had gathered the beasts had eaten the charms as well as gulping down those wearing them.

As for the other three – Prator, Telos and Agatha, they had vanished and for all his power it seemed that Vesar couldn't find them. The man's failures were mounting up, and his usefulness was waning.

“I don't know Your Majesty. This spell is not of the magic of any of the six sparks known in the land. It is also more subtle and pervasive than I would expect of a spark. And neither of the flames have the magic of confusion either. It could be from one of the faithful, but they have been driven from both the city and the realm. Or it may be from something greater still such as a power. I would not want to stand against such a creature.”

His words sounded like an excuse to Simon, and he didn't like excuses. They also sounded like cowardice, and he liked that even less.

“There are only three powers in the land, a dragon, a giant and a hamadryad, and none of them like men. None of them would have a care if my brother died. Most of them would happily kill him on sight.”

“One of them does Your Majesty. One of them almost certainly does.”

Vesar spoke with all the solemnity of a priest intoning a prayer for the dead, and that did not please Simon at all. Especially when he remembered that the damned hamadryad had allied herself with his family. She might not like men. She might not like Edouard. But she still might protect him. And Vesar surely knew that as well – that was what he'd been hinting at – though he hadn't mentioned it.

Simon cursed at the walls. He wanted this thing over. He wanted his brother dead and soon. He did not want to hear that there was a problem. And he especially did not want to hear that his brother had such a powerful ally protecting him.

“Then what are you going to do about it?”

“There is not much that I can do Your Majesty. Not against a power.”

For the first time Simon heard something other than the smooth self-assured tones of his advisor. He heard something that might even have been called fear. He would have liked it if it was fear of him. But he still didn't like the answer. Vesar however, had an answer for that too.

“Unfortunately if your brother is home and protected behind a spell of confusion, then he's safe there for the moment. But fortunately he's also trapped there Your Majesty. He can't return to the city because I can set wards against that. And whatever being now protects him would not enter the city either.”

“His choices are only two. Sit where he is and rot, or flee like the rest of his family to Bitter Crest. Whichever he chooses to do he cannot interfere with your plans Your Majesty.”

“Be damned thrice!” Simon cursed his advisor. “You’re advising me to let him be? My brother who has openly denied my claim to the throne? Who has now escaped my dungeon and humiliated me again? That will not stand!”

Simon wasn't happy with the idea of letting him be. It felt like failure. By the seven hells it was failure! Edouard had denied him, he had embarrassed him in front of the court by refusing to yield. And then he had insulted him by escaping. And now he was mocking his armies! He had to die! All of the children had to die. It was the only way he could strike back at his father for his endless betrayals. He would kill them all! All except April.

But Vesar made a good point. He always did. Besides, there was a reason that Simon always won at cards and other games of chance, and it was simply that he knew the rules of the game and how to play. Luck on its own was not enough. Not even his. Battle was the same, something even his hulking brother Marcus surely knew. And leaving Edouard stuck in his little fort in the middle of nowhere was the strategic move.

Simon hurled a few more curses at the walls.

“If he's trapped, then he stays trapped. Send my armies to the town. Barricade the roads in and out and keep watch over the fields. If that foul horseless carriage of his should appear on the roads, catch him and kill him.”

“Yes Your Majesty.”

Vesar turned and left him then, off he assumed to carry out his bidding, but moving slightly faster than normal. Maybe he understood just how angry his ruler was, and how dangerous that could be? Simon hoped so.

But that just left him sitting there on his throne, staring at the distant guards by the doors, and the dozens of workmen busy trying to rebuild the rest of the walls. Maybe the mammoths had been a little more than required. But still…

He barely even heard the sound of the gallows trapdoor slamming open and the final shriek of his former captain echoing through the city as he fell to his death and he didn't pay it any attention. If he had he wouldn't have cared. The man had failed him so of course he should die. And his head should adorn one of the pikes in the common as a warning to others.

Of course business had been brisk during the past few weeks, and there might not be a spare pike available. Maybe it would be enough to just toss his remains over the side of the city wall and into the pit with all the others?

A king should show some mercy after all. Besides, if this failed he would be joining the other dead soon after. He could use some mercy in return.

“Music!” Simon bellowed at the group of musicians standing just outside the doors to the throne room, and quickly watched as they were ushered in and set up their instruments.

“Something uplifting.” He commanded them and soon heard the sounds he had so wanted to hear. But for some reason even the music couldn't lift his spirits. It was good. He paid for the best musicians around. But after such a litany of failures even music had its limits.

Why had those damned thieves got caught? Why? Why? Why? Because it seemed to him that all the problems in his life had begun with that single mistake. It was time he thought, when the music finally stopped playing that was, to have a long hard talk with them.

Chapter Twenty Nine

Edouard stood on the central tower, leaning against the wall and watched the soldiers that had been galloping up the hill towards them galloping back down it. It was a sight he enjoyed seeing, no matter how many times he witnessed it. He especially enjoyed it knowing what fate the soldiers had planned for him. And though it was probably petty, he really enjoyed seeing the expression on their faces as they realised they'd been turned around again. After more than a week you'd think they would have learned. But they hadn't. Not completely. They still kept trying every so often. Perhaps hoping that the magic had worn off. And it always seemed to catch them by surprise. Edouard particularly loved his spyglass which allowed him to see that confusion and shock so perfectly painted on all their faces.

Of course just because they'd been turned away again, that didn't mean they were going to give up. They weren't. And the spyglass could show him the half dozen small camps surrounding the fort and the town, in which the soldiers had set up bases. If they couldn't reach them they could still ring the town and make sure he couldn't leave. And then every so often they would send another patrol galloping up the hill just to see if the enchantment was still working.

Of course there was more to see than just a bunch of confused riders. If instead of looking down from the front of the tower over the road leading down to the town, he turned his attention to the back, he could watch Mara and Anatha as they worked in the back garden, building the shrine to their Honoured Mother. And while he didn't understand either the reason for the shrine or its purpose, it was still interesting to watch. To see the plantings going in, the altar being set up and the various wards being enchanted and prayers being spoken.

It was quite a pretty construction as well, and he had to admit his yard had needed some attention from the gardeners. Now his entire back yard between the stables on one side and the vegetable plot on the other was being transformed into an oasis of flowers and small trees. No doubt the horses and goats would welcome it.

It was a little annoying though.

This was his home after all. Part of the Severin family estate. Part of the House of Barris. It wasn't a temple. It had never had a shrine on it. At least not since he had owned it, and when the women set to work in the back garden it felt a little as though he was ceding some of his sovereignty to the temple. He probably was.

The handmaidens had explained the deal that had been struck. Explained it in detail. They had even provided a document in due course, a letter from his father explaining what had been agreed to. And he had to admit that his family and his house had done well out of it. New trade routes, introductions to various courts, supplies of rare herbs and so forth. It was a profitable alliance, and he had no doubt that his father would have been rubbing his hands with glee. But when it meant that strangers were doing as they wished to his home, Edouard wasn't so pleased.

In the end a man's home was his castle as they said, or in his case his fortress, and he didn't like that others suddenly had a claim to it.

“Enjoying the view?”

Edouard didn't turn around. He knew it was Kyriel. He'd heard her clambering up the wooden stairs so her words didn't come as a surprise.

“It has its charms.”

Which was true. But maybe better than the view was the fact that he could climb up to the tower any time he wanted and then see the open sky before him. The world spread out at his feet. After his time locked away in the dungeon that was a blessing. Then too it was nice to be able to get away from the others and just think. Or even not to think; just to relax and let the vista wash over him.

The fort was crowded at the moment. With four handmaidens and sixteen more escaped prisoners from the dungeon all calling it home, every room was taken. Of course normally it held only one person; him. So having anyone else staying there at all was something that took a bit of getting used to.

At least the fort was fully prepared for battle now. All the cannon had been lifted into position – his spine still knew the aches and pains from that – and there was enough powder and shot for them to be fired at least a dozen times each. Where the handmaidens had found the extra powder he still didn't know. Nor how they'd got it into the fort. Obviously they had a way through their ward. But he didn't care either. It was enough that they had it, even if the cannon had not been needed thus far. Of course getting the cannon into position had been a monumental task. You never quite realised just how much a cannon weighed until you tried to lift one, even with ropes and pulleys. And it might have been nice if there had been more of them and more time.

The front gate had been secured properly, which meant at the least that he wouldn't be woken up in the middle of the night any more by people thumping on the front door. He'd been getting quite tired of that. And though it was probably going too far he'd set up muskets and loaded crossbows in front of each of the murder holes. If anyone did get through the ward and then survived the cannon fire, they would fall quickly enough at the wall.

In another week or so the front facing cannon would have new stands. Not wheeled mounts as he didn't have the parts, but still stands that would allow them to be swivelled and aimed with relative ease. There would be a score of new muskets and as many pistols as well as he spent all the time he could at the forge, crafting the parts. Those with skill in shooting helped the other handmaidens train in the weapons. His goal was that all twenty one of them should have a musket and a pistol each and be able to use them. Just in case the ward finally failed. And Fergis was busy crafting more swords and enchanting them with fire.

But all that effort and security had come with a price. Some days he wasn't completely sure whether this place was a fortress or just another more comfortable prison. Did it keep the bad men out, or keep him securely locked up inside? Then again, the fact that it came with sunshine and fresh air meant he was unlikely to complain. He tried to turn his head around to see his visitor but winced in sudden pain, and no matter how he tried to hide it, noticed.

“Your wound is troubling you?”

“Not so bad. Janus' skill is impressive.”

But not as impressive as the healer's ability to castigate him repeatedly for his pitiful attempt at healing his wounds. Some days he simply would not be quiet as he lectured him again and again about proper wound treatment. The healer was truly upset with what he'd done. But maybe he had reason. Edouard's back still hurt. It burnt when he was warm and ached when he was cold. Worst of all the skin on his back was too tight. It restricted his movement and if he forced it the skin tore. Some nights when he undressed for bed his shirts and vests were sodden with blood. His jackets too. Janus seemed to think he was lucky to have survived.

“It is that.”

“His knowledge too?”

Edouard asked the obvious question. He still wasn't sure he completely believed the healer about Vesar being a Cabal wizard. Let alone the thought that he might actually be Vesar the Corrupt, someone who had lived thousands of years ago. True, he matched everything they knew about him. But it still seemed too fanciful. The Cabal were a myth from the mouldy old tomes of ancient history. A scary story told to children at night to make them stay in bed. And even if they had truly existed what would one of them be doing among them, thousands of years later? Of course it was probably foolish to expect the handmaiden to know.

“Maybe.” Kyriel shrugged helplessly. “I don't know. Word was sent back but no one has responded. I'm not sure anyone would really know.”

And that was the sad truth of the matter. He had no idea at all who might know. There were no records left of the time. Only legends. It was simply too old. They had come, they had started great and terrible wars. They had been defeated and they had left. That was all anyone really knew.

“Don't your people have records dating back that far?”

He wasn't actually sure. He just remembered reading somewhere that the Tennari had a history older than that of any other people in the world. Records going back thousands of years. Of course knowing them, that history would likely consist of accounts of battles and duels. Her people were ancient and they had developed some interesting machines, but the warrior blood in their veins had held them back. The Seven alone knew how much further they could have advanced had they actually worked together instead of constantly warring with one another. Each war, each battle destroyed much of what they had achieved. Periodic revolutions destroyed the rest. And if they had truly advanced any art then it was sword making. Tennari blades were considered the finest in the world.

“Not that far back.”

Edouard didn't ask her any more about it. She was skilled at maintaining her composure but beneath her calm exterior he could sense a troubled heart. Troubled because however incidental it might be, he had asked her about her past. That he guessed was normal enough among the handmaidens. Many of them came from unpleasant backgrounds. It was why they fled to Tyrel. It was why they championed her cause.

“So how much longer do you think my brother can afford to blockade the town?”

He decided to turn the conversation to more mundane matters, and he was curious about it. Surely the half dozen camps dotted around Breakwater preventing people from entering or leaving, had to hold at least three hundred soldiers between them. That was a lot of gold he had to pay out each week for them to simply sit on their backsides and harass the locals.

“Forever?”

Kyriel came over to stand beside him and lean against the railing. He wasn't sure which surprised him more. Her answer or the unexpected closeness. But he was suddenly aware that she smelled very good. All that work in the backyard beautifying the shrine had obviously been good for her. Some of the scent of the lilacs and roses had rubbed off on her.

“You aren't the only one he has sent soldiers to blockade. The temple is blockaded too, with easily twice as many soldiers camped around it as here. Of course they don't dare to actually enter the grounds as they do here.”

They wouldn't! Edouard almost laughed at the thought. They wouldn't dare if they had any sense. No one with any wit left to him would annoy the hamadryad. Just doing what they were doing was likely to be risking more than any sane man should. If Tyrel should get angry … Edouard didn't like to think what she might do. Of course she was like the other local powers; a homebody. The soldiers were probably careful not to bother her. As long as they didn't harm her handmaidens or enter her home they thought they were safe. Perhaps they were.

There was one question though that he desperately wanted answered even if he couldn't raise it directly with the handmaidens. Were the powers actually bound to their homes in some way? Because it was the only explanation he could find for Tyrel's lack of action.

“He's also sent more soldiers to blockade Ascorlexia's cavern and Yule's castle. But again they don't dare enter the grounds. They just prevent those inside from leaving.”

Edouard was surprised by the news, but again not by the fact that the soldiers didn't try to enter the lands of the powers. If they had they wouldn't have left them alive. But still, Kyriel was talking about thousands of soldiers involved in the blockades at the least. That was an awful lot of gold spent on nothing. What madness could drive his brother to do something so wasteful? He was normally the most spendthrift of all men. But a second later he realised the truth. It wasn't his madness. It was his advisor's. Vesar, the Cabal wizard or black priest or whatever he was. And yet it told him something about the wizard he suddenly realised.

“My Lady, you studied your blades?”

“Of course!”

He knew she had just as he could see the sword strapped to her waist. A Tennari steel duelling sword. An odd thing for a handmaiden to carry, but exactly what he would expect a Tennari maiden of noble birth to wear.

“And the dance of battle? The circle of melee?”

“Yes.”

“Then have you considered that these actions of my brother, or more likely the foul black priest that stands beside him, are following a similar pattern?”

She turned to face him directly a white gold eyebrow delicately raised in question.

“Consider the circle. The dance. What you strike at is what you fear will do you harm. What you protect from your enemy's blade is what you fear being struck. This is the same.”