Aethersmith (Book 2) (32 page)

Bowmen, who had been patiently awaiting the Megrenn army’s
arrival at the base of the hilltops, opened fire in earnest. Arrows filled the
air, occasionally snagging in thick fur, but rarely doing serious harm to the
stripe-cat cavalry as they advanced. Stotaala felt one graze her leg, but the
sting would not hinder her unless it started bleeding badly.

Thunder echoed in the air under a clear sky. Roars of
wounded cats answered back.
The Kadrin sorcerers have decided to join this
battle. They must respect our charge. They know we mean to enter their walls.

The sound of hooves hammering the landscape caused Stotaala
to lift her head to see what was happening before her. Munne had opened both
its inner and outer gates, and raised its portcullis. Kadrin knights had
emerged and were riding hard, lances leveled. It was foolish bravado.
Perhaps
they think to die better here with lance and horse, than fighting within the
city, sword against claw and spear.
A futile gesture though it may have
been, Stotaala respected the choice. It was the choice of a warrior to meet his
fate with his life’s blood pooling with that of his enemy.

The world stopped making sense. Stotaala’s vision went dark
and spots swam before her eyes. She heard nothing but a high-pitched whine in
her ears. She had a drunken feeling, like the world was wobbling beneath her. Instinctively
she clutched Katiki’s fur for support, her spear forgotten, and her shield
flopping loosely from her forearm. A massive weight briefly mashed her against
Katiki’s back, forcing the breath from her lungs.

As her vision cleared, Stotaala saw one of her sisters leap
over her. The stripe-cats were meeting the Kadrin knights. Some pulled short to
bat away lances and bite at horseflesh, others leapt the cavalry formation to
attack from the rear. Stotaala sat dazed in her saddle, atop a raggedly breathing
Katiki who was trying to drag herself to her feet. Katiki seemed badly hurt,
but certainly alive and with spirit left to try to fight on. Stotaala was sure
she had broken ribs when Katiki had rolled over the top of her.

She watched as the battle passed her by. The knights were
dispersed quickly enough by the stripe-cats, and left for the second wave of
the Megrenn advance to finish off. The stripe-cats reached the wall, five times
the height of a man, and leapt atop it.

* * * * * * * *

“… and once the stripe-cats entered the city, the
defenses unraveled. Lord Grenorn and his family were evacuated on the
Dragonhawk
,
and the
Cloud Maiden
is making ready to depart with as many of the
senior sorcerers and knights as they can fit aboard it. I am taking it as my
duty to remain behind until the last possible moment and destroy the speaking
stone before it falls into Megrenn control. Until then, I will report as I am
able.”

Rashan scanned the report, hurriedly scribbled by one of the
speaking-stone attendants who were listening for news from the Battle of Munne.
“Get word back to that messenger. Tell him to surrender the stone to the
highest-ranking Megrenn he can. Have him tell them I wish to speak with them.
Under no circumstances is he to allow that stone to be destroyed.”

“What are you thinking?” Dolvaen asked. He was sitting
across the desk from Rashan, getting updates as they became available. It was a
nervous, tense, maddening sort of waiting. Kadrins were fighting and dying
across the Empire as the border war expanded. Munne was a major city, though,
the first real conflict since Raynesdark, and it was about to fall.

“Dolvaen, see to it that the wards on the future emperor’s
chambers are secure and treble the guard, then meet me at the speaking-stone
chamber,” Rashan replied, speaking quickly as his mind formulated a plan.

“To what end?” Dolvaen seemed suspicious. Aside from a
rage-addled killing sojourn after the assassination attempt at the wedding,
Rashan had not left the capital since his return from the Battle of Raynesdark.
Ever since the new emperor had been selected, the man had been under constant
guard, and Rashan was loath to leave the vicinity of the palace for fear of
assassins.

“I do not abide well,” Rashan answered, apparently all the
explanation Dolvaen was likely to receive.

Once he had seen to the warlock’s instructions, and secured
the emperor’s safety, the senior non-demonic member of the Inner Circle sought
out his superior. As promised, Rashan awaited him in the speaking-stone
chamber. At least, he was there as he said he would be. Rashan was not waiting.

The warlock had his hands on the stone, lost in thought. The
conversation, with whomever was on the other end in Munne, was brief.

“Back out of the room. When the spell resolves itself, see
to the safety of our own sorcerer, if I manage to get him, and kill or capture
anyone else who comes along,” Rashan ordered hurriedly. A sphere of opaque
aether enveloped the warlock, the speaking stone, and a good chunk of the room
as soon as Dolvaen retreated.

A few breaths later, the sphere disappeared. A speaking
stone much like the one that normally occupied the room was situated in the
middle of the room. The floor was set unevenly, as the chunk of Veydrus
snatched from Munne was set just a bit differently from the chunk exchanged
from Kadris. Three men stood about it as well. The one in black robes looked
astonished and relieved, reacting with impressive presence of mind to dive past
the looming Sorcerer Dolvaen Lurien, who was already chanting.

“
Fetru oglo daxgak sevdu wenlu.
”
Dolvaen’s
fingers wove runes in the air before him, culminating in an imperious pointing
gesture. Both the Megrenn sorcerer and general, by their attire and insignia,
were fried from within as Dolvaen’s lightning tore into them. There was a brief
flicker from about the sorcerer, as a ward gamely tried to protect its owner
before giving up in defeat.

“What just happened?” the Kadrin messenger wondered aloud as
the smells of ozone and burnt flesh mixed in the air.

“Warlock Rashan just took a holiday, I think,” Dolvaen
replied dryly. “I imagine he may wish to speak to you upon his return. I will
have someone find you quarters and fresh garments. If you have not soiled
yours, you are a better man than I.”

Dolvaen’s heart pounded in his chest. He had not cast a
spell with deadly intent in over twenty winters. The war had suddenly turned
real for him.

* * * * * * * *

“I wish I had dared stay longer,” Rashan opined. “But there
is only so long I can justify being away when I hold responsibility for not
only the stewardship of the Empire, but also the soon-to-be-emperor’s life.”

“You enjoyed yourself, though, did you not?” Dolvaen probed.
The warlock had been nearly giddy upon his return. “I killed two men, and I
felt like vomiting afterward, the stench hit me so. It was all I could do to
keep my composure in front of that sorcerer you saved. His name is Arrin
Heartstone, by the way … one of mine.” Rashan understood that Dolvaen meant a
sorcerer from a nothing bloodline. They were a pet cause of his. Rashan thought
it to be one of the man’s few real flaws, akin to children who try to adopt
each stray or wounded animal they find as a pet.

“I cannot deny the thrill. A dragon among horses, feasting
at leisure and slaughtering for the sport of it? Who would not revel in such
dominion? Alas, these were not goblins, and there were real sorcerers out there
among the Megrenn host. If one of them were to have been carrying the Staff of
Gehlen, I might not have made it back at all.” Rashan had reappeared in the
palace gardens, and ordered some guards to haul the Tower of Contemplation’s
speaking stone back indoors, and stow it somewhere safe. Rashan had managed to
get back to the one he had brought with him before working a second
transference spell.

“Aye, it will be a game of two hunters, you and this
sorcerer of theirs who has the staff. Whoever finds himself in the wrong place
at the wrong time is done for. Thus a stalemate as each fears to act,” Dolvaen
reasoned. “Excepting tonight’s adventure, of course.”

“I saw the carnage I left in my wake, but I know the risk I
took. I shall avoid repeating that folly. What I need are more
weapons
.
We cannot face the Megrenn with their beasts and their alchemical magic if we
do not counter with magic—real magic, not the stuff those Third and Sixth and
Fifty-fifth Circle sorcerers out there were playing at,” Rashan ranted. He was
growing frustrated and agitated. Dolvaen leaned ever so slightly away, just in
case.

“But Iridan just is not ready yet. I should have raised the
boy myself. He avoided the trap of arrogance and entitlement too well. He lacks
confidence and ruthlessness,” Rashan continued on.

“Well, I hear that Brannis’s newly discovered Source is
rather impressive,” Dolvaen joked. Potential or no, it took years to train a
sorcerer, let alone a warlock.

“Oh, I have already decided that I will test our new Brannis
to see what he is capable of. No worry of that …”

Chapter 19 - Competitive Advantage

Kyrus awoke to find that the wards that had surrounded his
bedroom had gone away. He could see the Sources of a pair of guards standing
outside the door, but suspected that they were there to keep others out, not
keep him within. At the foot of his bed floated a message—not the paper and ink
sort, but Kyrus understood its meaning clearly enough. It was a wooden chest
that he remembered from Brannis’s past and atop it lay a wooden sword.

Kyrus got up and lifted the lid of the chest, finding as he
suspected he would, a suit of Brannis’s old armor. It was simple, battered, and
smelled strongly of the light oil that kept it from rusting in storage. He—or
rather Brannis—had not worn it in years. It was a suit that had fitted him well
enough when he had commissioned it, but he had been a lad then, fully grown but
not filled out. Had Brannis tried to put it on, there would have been
fist-sized gaps at the sides, had the straps even reached to buckle it on.
Kyrus’s face curled into an annoyed sneer as he realized it would likely fit
him just fine.

No,
Kyrus decided.
I will not play this morning’s
game. He can give me a proper order if he wants me to obey. Brannis thought to
match wits with Rashan, pass all his little tests and see through his ruses. I
will hold things together here best I can, for now, but I will send him back his
grand marshal as soon as I am able.

Of course, I should still go see what he wants of me.

* * * * * * * *

“A fine morning for a friendly sparring match,” Rashan
commented despite the cool, rainy weather that few would have chosen to
describe as any sort of “fine.” “I see you have not dressed for it, however.”

Kyrus wore one of Brannis’s outfits. It hung loose about
him, just as Brannis’s old too-small armor would seem to have been his size.

“I heard rumors in the halls on my way down here that Iridan
returned late last night,” Kyrus said. “You can spar with him this morning,
instead of me. I still do not feel quite up to swordplay yet.” Kyrus looked
about, noticing that a larger number of spectators than usual had turned out to
watch the practice session. Nearly the whole of the Inner Circle was in
attendance. There were a number of other prominent members of the Imperial
Circle as well, not to mention a few knights, the hangers-on at court, and a
number of noblemen that were in the city for the impending coronation. Some
were down around the outskirts of the courtyard. Others looked down from the
balconies surrounding it.

“I had not expected to be your opponent this morning. I had
expected you to be Iridan’s.” Rashan smiled to him. “Iridan!” the warlock shouted
out into the courtyard, where Iridan was conversing with his new oathfather.
“Look who is up and about.”

“Brannith!” Iridan called out, smiling and revealing a
handful of half-regrown teeth, giving him the look of a schoolboy. He jogged
over to see his friend. “I had heard about your acffident.” Iridan paused,
rolled his eyes in frustration and tried again. “Ac … ci … dent. You all wight?
You wook wike you been rung out wike a woffcwoff.”

Kyrus frowned, fairly certain that he had just been compared
to a damp rag. Did everyone in Acardia think of him thus as well, and just
never said anything since they had no expectation that he ought to be
otherwise?

“I ought to be fine, Rashan tells me, though I have seen
better days.” Kyrus tried to keep in character as best he could. In truth, he
felt fine. He had slept well, for despite an unfamiliarity about it, the bed
was finer than any he had slept in. His dreams had reassured him as well.
Brannis would find passage off Denku Appa unless something odd befell him, and
he had even rid himself of the attentions of the island girls.

Why had I not thought of that?
he wondered.

“I had ffought Raffan was joking, or toying wiff me when he
threatened to pit you againfft me thiff morning. Now I see that I could
probabwy knock you over wiff a bwoom,” Iridan joked, clearly enjoying seeing a
Brannis that he might be able to defeat in a fight.

“Well, as I had no other opponent prepared for you this
morning, and Brannis is not going to oblige, perhaps we will skip the sparring
this morning … unless of course you would prefer to challenge
me
,”
Rashan offered.

Iridan took a half step back away from his father, clearly
not amused by the prospect. There was no trick to be used against Rashan, no
clever ploy to find victory against some foe he fought on unequal ground, using
only his skills with a blade lest he render the contest moot with fire or
lightning. Iridan shook his head, enthusiastically declining.

“Very well then. Get out there, and I shall send you an
opponent from among our esteemed spectators for this morning’s draw.” Rashan
smiled, shooing Iridan out into the midst of the courtyard. Kyrus noticed that
four extra basins had been placed around and filled with water. Kyrus wondered
whether Rashan might finally think Iridan was ready to face him. He looked
about to see who else might be chosen.

Dolvaen was on one of the upper balconies, gazing down.
Iridan had never bested him, and he had long said that he thought Rashan would
require that of Iridan before he ever drew against the warlock himself.
Caladris was talking with Shador on one of the low terraces—Caladris at least
was a possibility, though Shador might acquit himself well if it was him. The
rest of the Inner Circle were
all
there, he realized. Perhaps Iridan
would be facing more than one …

Kyrus felt a nudge at his back. “Go get him,” Rashan
whispered.

Kyrus’s eyes widened and his knees went weak.
Not me!

His only experience in a draw was the one time Brannis had
done it in his final days at the Academy. Brannis had felt like he had showed
up to a horse race with a child’s toy stick horse for a mount, and Kyrus
remembered the feeling vividly. Brannis had never even been able to watch a
draw, and now Kyrus was being thrown in against Iridan, who was working his way
through the ranks of the Inner Circle—and near as Kyrus could figure would rank
around fourth or so among them, were they holding to the Academy’s method of
determining such.

Kyrus sleepwalked to the middle of the courtyard, his
thoughts running to escape the crowd of curious eyes that pursued him.
He
wants to see what I am made of. I just told myself I would not get caught up in
his tests. I refused to don Brannis’s armor. And now here I am. I wonder if I
had sparred, would I have been spared this, or would it have been even worse,
being roundly thrashed by a “warrior” that Danil could probably best?

“Is thiff a joke?” Iridan called out to Rashan. “I heard
about hiff acffident and his Ffourff, but reawwy? Try him againfft ffomone from
ffe Academy, wike you did wiff me and ffordfighting.”

“Just look at him,” Rashan called back.

Kyrus blushed, knowing that everyone was now probably ogling
him in the aether. He could only wonder what they were seeing, but when he
scanned the crowd, he saw people blinking away their aether-vision, or
squinting at him with pained expressions—even though squinting the eyes did
nothing to help when viewing the aether.

“You see,” Rashan stated. “Now prepare yourselves, both of
you.”

Rashan paused a moment for them to compose themselves as
they readied for the draw. Iridan looked wary and was not looking straight at
Brannis—or Kyrus—at all. Kyrus felt ill with nerves. It was un-Brannis-like of
him but he could not help himself. He had nearly seared his skull dry in his
first attempts with aether.
I knew nothing of what I was doing.
He had
lost control in Marker’s Point and destroyed a neighborhood.
I was panicking
then but this is just a game, a practice … I will be safe.
He had drawn the
Source right out of men.
They were thugs, right beside me; these are
sorcerers and Iridan is the closest, ten paces away.
He had burned down a
ship, but that just proved he was just a firehurler.
This is not about
skill; it is about power and endurance. I held back the sea. I can do this!

“Draw!” Rashan commanded, and Kyrus was shaken from his
musings by the curious feeling of aether rushing
away
from him. Kyrus
had been using his draw for months, but it was the first time he had ever
experienced anyone else fighting him for control of the aether. Startled and a
bit disoriented, Kyrus made an attempt to pull back.

There was really no trick. Iridan was not pulling very hard
at it, and Kyrus matched him.
You have always been a good friend, Iridan.
Thank you for starting out going easy on me for my first try.
As Iridan
gradually increased his draw, so did Kyrus, keeping them as evenly matched as
he could. Kyrus could not tell how long they had been at it, but watching in
his dual aether- and light-vision, he noticed something he was unprepared for:
Iridan was struggling.

“Hold!” came the call from Rashan. Instantly the even flow
of aether to the two combatants turned into a torrent flowing solely to Kyrus.
It took a moment, but Kyrus collected his thoughts, and stopped his own draw as
well. He looked on in dismay as he could see the strain on Iridan’s face. A
light rain fell, but Kyrus could tell Iridan’s brow was wet with sweat as well.

I feel nothing,
Kyrus realized.
This aether is no
burden at all. I must have had tenfold as much passing through me on the Denku
Appa beaches when I walled off that Katamic Sea storm, and tenfold
that
when I sent myself here.

Kyrus swallowed, wondering what he ought to do. Though he
had never watched draws, he understood the etiquette. Iridan had let off a show
of force the first time he had claimed victory at the Academy’s tournament;
doing more than just blowing steam from the basins was gloating. Worse yet was
to do nothing afterward. Holding onto one’s aether beyond the end of the
contest was a sign of contempt. Kyrus could easily have managed such a feat, he
knew.

Four basins, the four on Kyrus’s side of the courtyard,
shattered as superheated steam exploded from them. Kyrus went to one knee, as
he had seen other defeated sorcerers do, swaying slightly and breathing
heavily. Steam erupted from Iridan’s shortly thereafter, the victor making no
further claim of dominance over his vanquished opponent.

Iridan walked unsteadily over to Kyrus, and offered him a
hand up. “Well fought, Bwanniff,” he congratulated Kyrus. Kyrus muttered something
gracious back, and the two of them went off to a corner where a table was set
with refreshments to replenish them after their match.

* * * * * * * *

At the edge of the practice field, greedy, immortal eyes
fixed hungrily on Kyrus. Conversations broke out all about him, discussing what
they had just seen: a raw talent that had just given Iridan, a fine duelist in
his own right, all he could handle. But Rashan had watched more carefully.

“You noticed too, I assume.” Caladris kept his voice low, so
that only the warlock heard him. Rashan nodded slowly. “Nice enough lad, that
Brannis, but I would not want to cross him. I certainly would not step in
against him in a draw after seeing that.” Caladris chuckled softly. “Think you
could best him?”

Rashan did not respond.

* * * * * * * *

Juliana’s fingers caressed the page as she read. The book
was well over one hundred summers old, and not preserved at all by magic. It
felt
old, much more so than the heavily protected works that were given to the
children studying at the Academy. There were treatises on basic aether theory
and the early history of the Empire that were over a thousand summers old. They
had been handled by ten-summer-old boys throughout their entire existence, and
yet they did not seem so old as the book she perused.

The Warlock Prophecies
, its title proclaimed it. It
was a simple enough description but that was not what had drawn her to it. It
was the book that Illiardra had been reading, the one she left floating in the
air when she vanished the previous night. Juliana had no way to be sure, but
she suspected that it had been left for her to take. Though she had flipped
through it, and read several sections, she had marked the page Illiardra had
left it on.

Four tongues Wise,

Four tongues Foolish,

Four tongues False.

False whispers in Foolish ears will doom the Wise,

And the False shall rule with a crown of chains.

Juliana was not sure what was meant, exactly, but if it was
left as a message for her, she suspected what it might. Twelve tongues in total
probably meant the Inner Circle, especially if the author truly was a warlock.
If the prophecy was meant to tell about Rashan’s return to the Empire, it
implied that the three conspirators he executed were among the “Wise.” It would
also seem to say that he was one of the “False,” though the crown of chains was
still a bit opaque to her.

A knock on her door startled her, and she hastily shut the
book, leaving it facedown with the spine toward the wall so that the title was
not easily seen.

“Come in,” she called out.

“My pardon, Sorceress Juliana,” one of the palace messengers
apologized. “The regent has requested your attendance in the lower levels.”

“Tell him I shall be down directly,” she replied.

Gut that demon! I had thought that Iridan returning and
Brannis’s condition would be enough to distract him. Rashan has entirely too
much attention to spread around if he can still spare it in my direction.

“I will wait outside. I am to escort you there personally.
Please be prompt; the regent is waiting,” the messenger instructed, then
excused himself, closing the door behind him.