The Cerberus Rebellion (A Griffins & Gunpowder Novel) (6 page)

“
The King wants to make sure that everyone is clear in what he intends to do,” a voice said. Raedan looked over his shoulder. Hadrian’s advisor had entered the study, his steps eerily quiet.

Auberon Strait was the bastard offspring of some elven lord and a high born lady in the East. He was a head taller than most men, though he was dwarfed by the Clyve brothers, with ears just slightly longer than normal. He was nearly four hundred years old; young in comparison to most of the elves that Raedan had met.

Auberon had served as the advisor and castellan for Castle Garand and the Broken Plains Barony. It had been Auberon who had ridden to the Overlook to tell Hadrian that the last Lord Garand had passed away and that he was the nearest male heir. When Hadrian had purged the lands of its barbarian invaders and installed his brother as the new Baron of Broken Plains, he had asked Damon Kor to serve as Raedan’s advisor and took Auberon as his own.

“
And what does he intend to do?” Raedan asked. Auberon took the letter and his sapphire eyes flicked across the page.

Raedan crossed his arms, leaned back in the chair and rubbed the onyx stone on his chest. Something about the advisor unsettled him. He could sense the magic flowing through Auberon’s veins, but he had never seen the man with any of the typical symbols that he was of any Order. Raedan supposed that it was possible that the half-elf kept his gems hidden, but he couldn’t figure out why someone would do that if they knew that others would be able to sense their power.

Damon had suggested that Auberon didn’t know that he had magic in his veins. He had been born to a human mother and raised without the training and knowledge of his elven heritage. It wasn’t outside of reckoning that the half-elf had never been told of the magics that were his birthright.

Raedan doubted that explanation, though he didn’t have a solid reason to do so. The councilor was loyal, knowledgeable, and friendly enough. Raedan just couldn’t shake the unease that came with his presence.

“
I would wager that he intends to send some of the nobles across the sea with their soldiers.” Auberon sat in one of the few empty chairs and picked up a book: the written history of the Clyve family. He thumbed through the pages. “There wouldn’t be any other reason to have the nobles accompany their soldiers to the capital.”

“
I think Auberon is correct,” Hadrian said. “The King will want to show Welos and Istivan that he is committed to their cause. What better way to show that commitment than to send your nobles to lead their troops into battle?”

Some of the nobles, like Lord Tullen of the South Griffin Cliffs, were too old to be sent across the sea to lead their troops into battle. Others, like him, had no direct heirs or were not in a position to abandon their lands for an extended period of time. But there would be nobles who would have no answer to the King’s decree to travel across the Vast Sea.

“
Not many will like the idea of going abroad for something that we have no direct interest in,” Raedan pointed out.

If there was one aspect of being a noble that he had grasped quickly, it was the attitudes of the nobles around him. Recently, the nobles of West Ansgar had become increasingly unhappy with the laws and decisions of their king, thousands of miles away. Some had expressed their discontent in private meetings, a few had done so in open council, but no one had yet made their displeasure known directly to the King. Raedan supposed that this might be the issue that brought all of those emotions to the surface.

“
An understatement, my lord,” Auberon said. He set the book down on the table and steepled his fingers under his chin. His silky red hair fell over his ears and covered his eyes “But My Lords, what other option do we have but to call our levies?”

“
I don’t know.” Hadrian’s eyes narrowed. “But perhaps Lord Croutcher will have some idea.”

Lord Dalton Croutcher, Duke of Arndell, was liege lord to both Hadrian and Raedan. He controlled most of the north-western territories of Ansgar and had long been an outspoken advocate of increased autonomy for the western nobility. If anyone had ideas to counteract the King’s overly aggressive policies, it would be Croutcher.

“
When do we leave for Arndell?” Raedan asked. The city of Arndell was the largest in western Ansgar, two thousand miles to the south-southwest from the North Griffin Cliffs.

“
I assume you have a contingent of guards riding this way?”

“
Yes, Kent is riding with twenty hand-picked guards. They should be here by week’s end.”

“
Very well.” Hadrian stood. “We’ll leave for Arndell the day after they arrive. That will let your guards get a night’s rest. The train will stop at Odwolfe Castle and we will see if Wallace or Cedric want to join us.”

“
I will alert the guards,” Auberon said as he stood. He bowed and left the Clyves alone.

“
There's something about him that doesn't sit square with me,” Raedan said. He folded the letter from the King and set it on the table.

“
He has proved to be a capable and loyal advisor,” Hadrian said.

“
I need to go into the vaults,” Raedan said.

The vaults of the Overlook extended two hundred feet below the ground floor. The upper levels were used to store food, beer and wine. The middle levels were used for more general storage: summer goods during the winter, winter goods during the summer. The lowest levels, buried deep beneath the surface, were home to the Vaults: cavernous rooms cut from the cliff face and sealed with iron doors.

“
Something for Damon?”

Damon had culled out a corner of the vaults for himself. A small study, a library and a small chamber that he called home. The simple folk had claimed that they had heard strange voices in the depths of the Vaults and only the most stalwart servant was willing to make the journey into the depths of the cliffs.

“
There are some books that he wants me to bring back to him,” Raedan lied.

“
I'll have a room made up for you,” Hadrian said.

Raedan walked through the passages of the Overlook alone, a lantern in his left hand. He passed through the ground floor of the ancient keep. The smell of baking bread wafted from the kitchens, servants washed the stone floors, and guards milled about in the common rooms.

The stairway to the vault was guarded, but the men stepped aside as Raedan approached. The stairs were wide, curving in a loose spiral that would allow five men abreast to walk into the depths. Lanterns marked each of the levels and Raedan kept careful count of each wide entrance as he passed it. After the fifth upper level, the stairs narrowed; only three men could fit down the stairs to the middle vaults.

There were only three levels of middle vaults and there were no lanterns to mark their entrances, only the smell of stale air and a vast, dark cellar. These vaults hadn't seen use in months, not since the chests of summer clothing and the summer pavilions had been brought down for storage and winter cloaks and blankets had been taken above.

The first of the deep vaults, below the storage levels, had a wide open entrance more than ten feet across and ten feet high. These were the burial chambers for the most recent Clyves. Huge stone sarcophagi held the remains of Raedan's father, Grayson, and his grandfather, Ardain. Hadrian would be buried here, as would his son and grandson.

The other deep vaults were smaller, and were sealed with oak doors banded with iron. Dust and cobwebs covered the doors for the next three levels. Those vaults stored the lesser valuables of the Clyve family: ancient suits of armor long gone out of style, minor artworks, swords and battleaxes from more than a millenia of warfare.

Raedan stopped at the entrance to the eleventh vault. The door was made of iron. Raedan pushed against the door; the hinges screamed as the door swung open. The room was fifty feet across and reached fifteen feet to the stone ceiling above. The light from Raedan's lantern danced over the massive stone table in the center of the vault and he closed his eyes.

He could still remember the smell of this room when Damon had lit the candles produced from his chambers. They had smelled of garlic, honey, rose, and beeswax. They had done little to light the cavernous space, but that had not been their purpose.

The three hatchling griffins had been placed on the table and Damon had drawn an ornate dagger from an equally ornate scabbard. The blade was long, thin, and curved in a smooth arc. Runes were scrawled across the flat of the blade and the ruby in the dagger's pommel pulsed faintly.

Damon had chanted a long, complicated spell as the mother griffin's heart was brought before him. He sprinkled powders and poured potions into the bowl. After what a young Raedan had felt was an eternity, Damon had cut the heart, first in halves and then quarters. Three of the pieces were presented to the young griffins; they had eaten with a fervor while Damon continued to chant.

Finally, it had been Raedan's turn. He had been warned that the heart would be hard to stomach, but the taste of blood had nearly caused him to vomit. Even at thirteen he had been a willful boy and he had been able to force himself to continue. When he had finished, Damon had pressed his palm to Raedan's head and chanted a spell.

The spell had been different than the others. It had been spoken in a throaty, guttural language interspersed at regular intervals with grunts. When Damon had finished, both of them had fallen to the floor unconscious.

Raedan stepped past the table to stand before another iron door. This one did not have a handle, nor any visible locking mechanism. Had he tried to push the door open, he would have found the task impossible. Old magic warded the door and kept it sealed.

He pressed his hand to the surface of the iron; the metal was cold to the touch. He whispered the spell that Damon had taught him and the door groaned open. The room on the other side of the door was less than ten feet to a side. Books occupied shelves that were crammed into the room from end to end.

More books rested in stacks on the two small tables that shared the room. Many of them were leather-bound and inlaid with gold; they all looked to be in pristine condition. Ttheir appearances were a deception, ancient magics kept the books looking like they did. In truth, most of the books were older than the nation of Ansgar.

They were also largely useless, at least for Raedan's purposes. There were more history books than Raedan cared to remember, and he did remember them because they had been a part of his study as a boy. There were books that recounted the history of every noble house in Ansgar and every major war that had ever been raged over the face of Zaria.

Raedan set his lantern on one of the tables and found the books he had come for: a thick tome bound in red leather with a rune so ancient inscribed on the cover that even Damon didn't know what it meant. He picked up a pair of books bound in black leather, whispered a spell over them and spread the three out over one of the tables.

He had just sat down to read when he was interrupted by the sound of leather shoes scraping across stone. The servants knew better than to travel into this vault and the guards would have worn boots. He touched the first two fingers to the onyx in his amulet and closed his eyes. His mind reached out into the darkness and sought out the shadows.

He had not yet mastered seeing through the shadows, but he could feel their presence and sense the light that caused them. Someone was approaching with a lantern; someone tall and slim. Raedan drew his revolver from its holster and pulled back on the hammer.

The distinctive
click
of the hammer setting echoed through the small room and into the vault outside. The soft scraping sound stopped.

“
My lord,” Auberon Strait called out.

“
You may enter,” Raedan said. He let the hammer down on his revolver and slid it back into its holster.

“
My apologies, my lord,” the half-elf said as he stepped through the doorway. “I was told that I could find you here.”

“
What do you need?” Raedan asked. He closed the tomes and stepped between Auberon and the table.

“
I thought that I might be of some assistance,” Auberon said. He set his lantern on a hook. “I know that you speak elven, but I was raised with it.”

“
Where did you learn elven?” Raedan asked. “I was under the impression that you had been raised by your mother; a human woman.”

“
I was,” Auberon confirmed. “But I was raised in the house of a noble. I learned from his advisor.”

“
My elven is sufficient,” Raedan said. He lifted his lantern off of the table.

“
Then perhaps I could help you expand your knowledge of the abilities that flow through you.”

“
What do you know of that?” Raedan's eyes narrowed as he studied the half-elf. The advisor's expression was neutral and he emanated calm.

“
I may not have mastered the gift, my lord, but I know those that have.” Auberon flicked through the pages of an open book. “You would not have come down here if you did not seek to expand your knowledge, outside of the guidance that Damon is willing to provide you.”

“
And how can you help me expand my knowledge if you have not masterd the gift?”

“
I may not be able to bend the shadows or light to my will, or heal or kill with a thought, but I have knowledge that can help you achieve whatever goal it is that you seek,” Auberon said. “I have served as advisor for several nobles throughout Ansgar and in that time I have learned many secrets.”