Aethersmith (Book 2) (60 page)

The wine felt good as it poured down his throat. It steadied
his hands, and washed away a headache he had not even noticed until it was
gone. Iridan felt better, less irritable, more able to think. He briefly
considered bringing a bottle with him, just in case he needed it. “No, that
would be stupid. It’s glass. It would get broken far too easily, and its weight
would be awkward for fighting.”

Iridan collected Dragon’s Whisper, and set off to find his
night’s quarry. He took a quick surveillance of the vicinity of his hideaway
for Sources, finding only a few animals about, nothing smart enough to pose a
threat. “No nosy neighbors to kill tonight,” he muttered to himself. He hated
disposing of observers, since he had to move the bodies as well, lest they give
clues to his lair’s location.

The streets seemed quieter than usual as Iridan crept along
the shadowed alleyways off the main thoroughfares. He caught glimpses of fire
in the distance, more than just a torch or a signal beacon. He decided to take
a better vantage to try to figure out what the cause was. Sheathing his blade
at his back, he climbed a low wall, and leapt to a nearby window sill. He
pulled himself up, and launched himself onto the roof of the building next door
and from there to the roof of another building a story higher. He would have
taken more pride in the acrobatics had aether not done nearly all the work.

There was firelight coming from the central square of Munne.
If the square had a proper name, he knew it not. It looked like a gathering by
torchlight, if he was to guess. It cast the Megrenn’s headquarters in orangish
light. He thought he could make out someone walking on a balcony.

“
Makto enfusi delgaja,”
Iridan intoned. He hated that
there were still so many basic spells he could not perform silently. He touched
his hands together thumb to thumb, forefinger to forefinger, drawing them
slowly wider. A shimmering field formed between his hands, magnifying the
distant scene.

Walking the balcony was a Megrenn general. Iridan knew
little of their hierarchy, but by his position overlooking the gathering from
the headquarters, he might well have been the commander of the whole occupying
force of the city.

“HEAR ME, KADRIN WARLOCK!” A voice boomed through the city,
obviously amplified by magic. It startled Iridan, his foot shifting on the
slippery roof tiles on which he stood. His magnification spell ended as he caught
himself.

“I OFFER A CHALLENGE.” The voice spoke Kadrin with a strange
accent. The amplification and the echoing from all the surrounding buildings
made any further guesses about its owner pure speculation. “WE MAY END THIS
TONIGHT. DEFEAT ME, AND OUR FORCES WILL WITHDRAW, RATHER THAN FORCE YOU TO SLAY
US ALL. SINGLE COMBAT, UPON MY HONOR. I AM DENCHI, PRIEST OF THE BLADE.”

“So another of the bastards wants to take my head off,”
Iridan mumbled. “What sort of fool do they take me for?”

“YOU HAVE TWO HOURS TO DECIDE.”

“Well now. Two hours. There is a lot a fellow can do with
two hours.”

A plan began to form in Iridan’s mind, none of it involving
marching into a circle of Megrenn soldiers to engage in single combat. Instead
his thoughts turned to the figure he had seen on the balcony.

* * * * * * * *

The sewers were cleaner than he had imagined they would be,
which was the one saving grace of his chosen route to Megrenn headquarters.
Iridan had gotten as close as he dared above ground before taking a detour to
the waterways below.

Sewers were a boon to the health of a large city, keeping
offal from clogging the streets. They were also a bane to guardsmen, generals,
and anyone looking to maintain law and order. They were places respectable folk
would not go, and places disreputable folk used as highways, be they thieves,
fugitives, spies … or assassins. The same measures used to keep those
disreputables away also thwarted the civic efforts of the poor souls charged
with maintenance, and the whining of civil servants was louder than the
whisper-quiet passage of an illicit traveler.

Iridan kept a close eye to the aether as he went, chancing
no surprise encounters. He went so far as to draw the Sources out of rats when
he found them. Rat Sources were as weak as mammals came, but it still made him
feel powerful wrenching the wretched little Sources clear out of them.

Rat-killing aside, Iridan’s precautions paid off. Roughly
where he expected to find his destination, he found a pair of guards stationed
to protect the way up. Guarding the sewer exit of a building populated by
military men was among the worst assignments Iridan could think of. He almost
felt as if he were putting the two unlucky blighters out of their misery as he
slew them. They died in confusion. Iridan’s sound-deadening spell kept the
brief struggle noiseless, and prevented the crash of armored bodies from
raising an alarm.

As Iridan emerged into the keep, he scanned the aether yet
again. The building was nearly deserted. He was able to avoid a few wandering
servants, and find a window to get his bearing. He knew that the balcony faced
the east, and was on the fourth floor. Once he found which side of the building
faced the torchlight from the square, he rushed for the stairs leading up.

On the fourth floor landing, there was a large door to the
east. It had to be the one. In the aether, he saw two Sources within—neither
strong enough to be a threat.

Iridan tried the door gently, ready to hurl it back with
telekinesis if he found it locked, but hoping to conserve both the aether and
the element of surprise. It opened readily at his touch. “Cut off the head,”
Rashan had told him. It had been the key to Rashan’s easy victory over Megrenn
when he had first conquered them.

Iridan moved to make quick work of the Source nearer the
door before making his way to the one nearer the balcony, which he assumed
would be the leader of the occupation force. There was a problem, though.

Still watching in the aether, Iridan saw the weak Source he
was about to attack strengthen tenfold. A second bit of aether separated from
it, shaped like a blade, blocking the path of Dragon’s Whisper. That Source
grew a shield around it even before dragon bone had struck steel.

“Welcome, Iridan Korian, Sorcerer of the Fourth Circle,” his
intended victim greeted him in excellent Kadrin. The barest genteel hint of a
Safschan accent told him his opponent was another blade-priest.

“By the winds! Just how many of you are there? And I am
Warlock Iridan, not some Fourth Circle,” Iridan replied. He realized he was
being goaded when his response provoked a chuckle. Iridan shielded himself in
preparation for a battle rather than the assassination he had intended.

“Myself and the one who issued the challenge, in the square
below. We are the last two here; you slew the others. My name is Tiiba,” the
blade-priest introduced himself.

Iridan took a respite from the aether to view his opponent.
He saw a man larger and more muscular than himself—though most taverns boasted
a score each night fitting that description—dressed as his fellows had been.
Tiiba’s features were difficult to discern, dark flesh in a darkened room, the
only light coming from the torches at street level below. What stood out to
Iridan was the one mismatched eye, whiteness reflecting back at him in the
paltry light. He switched back to aether-vision immediately thereafter.

“My name is Iridan Solaran now, but you knew that, I think.”

“My thanks for that clarification,” Tiiba said. “It will
sound much better when my life’s victories are read, to have the correct name
for the warlock I slew, and not the name of some cowardly nobody from a peasant
family who was only Fourth Circle.”

The blade-priest launched a slash-thrust combination that
had Iridan backpedaling, taking him sidelong across the room, rather than
toward either the door or the balcony.

“You seem to know a lot about me. You have spies watching me
or the like.” Iridan tried to counterattack, making use of Dragon’s Whisper’s
superior speed, but the blade-priest Tiiba seemed to anticipate each attack and
have a parry in place and waiting by the time his blow arrived.

“You Kadrins are arrogant, brutish. You think strength of
arms or strength of magic is enough for victory. I talk to people,
listen
to people. I keep company with travelers who know both lands. I study my
opponents, when I know who they will be.”

Tiiba launched a combination like nothing Iridan had seen
before, even from two opponents. Tiiba slashed, reversed his grip, and slashed
back the other direction, then brought a foot around to try to trip him, made a
thrust that Iridan had to parry, and used the momentum of the parry to bring
the long hilt of his weapon around to slam Iridan in the face.

Iridan’s shield bore the blow well but it knocked him off
balance. Iridan stumbled against something, discovering a bookshelf in the wall
he had been driven back against.

As with the other blade-priests, Iridan found himself
outmatched in skill at arms. He switched his attacks to the aether before he
took too much punishment against his shielding spell. He gathered aether
quickly, and launched an aether-bolt at Tiiba’s midsection, hoping to blast him
backward if not win the battle right then and there.

Tiiba parried.

Iridan’s eyes widened in shock as the rune-blade turned
aside his magical attack. He did not react in time to get his blade in the way
of Tiiba’s next attack. The world spun as the blow hammered home against his
shield. Again the shield held but Iridan was hurled to the ground.

Iridan gathered aether to him, drawing for all he was worth.
A bit of it he directed into his fading shield spell, the rest he unleashed as
hellfire. Tiiba did not attempt to parry that attack. Though his aether-vision
was not detailed enough to reveal his foe’s expression, Iridan imagined with
glee the shocked look on Tiiba’s face as he set the room aflame.

His own safe haven free of the blaze would not last long, he
knew, but he could see by Tiiba’s persistent shield that the battle was not yet
over. Iridan tried to bolt for the door but Tiiba cut him off, holding his
ground despite the conflagration.

“No escape for you this way, warlock pup,” Tiiba quipped. It
seemed the blade-priest was willing to let both of them die in the fires, or at
least bring it down to a test of shield spells to see who would last long
enough to escape.

“Stay in the flames if you like,” Iridan shot back, bolting
for the balcony. It was four stories down and into the teeth of the Megrenn
army, including the last blade-priest, but Iridan still preferred his odds
there. The Megrenn commanding officer was taking refuge in a corner of the
balcony, away from the flames. Iridan cut him in two before hopping up onto the
railing, and jumping down.

The impact on his shield spell was worse than Iridan
anticipated. Despite the spell, he felt something crunch in his leg. He
collapsed to the ground.

“Stay back!” a voice shouted.

Through the haze of pain, Iridan figured it to be the second
blade-priest.
Blade-priest—Tiiba!

The immediacy of his injured leg had distracted him from the
thought of pursuit. He rolled in time to see Tiiba falling from the sky,
heading straight for him, blade raised to strike. Iridan raised Dragon’s
Whisper, preparing to deflect the attack if he could. He drew aether like a
madman, giving no consideration to his capacity. The abundance of idle Sources
milling about had left the square awash in aether.

Tiiba’s impact sent Dragon’s Whisper skittering across the
flagstones, broke down what remained of Iridan’s shielding spell but did not
finish him. Tiiba seemed to sense victory, holding his rune-blade high as he
prepared for a decisive strike. Iridan’s lips curled into a smile as he
anticipated the wreckage of a man that would be left after he unleashed his
spell.

“Juliana will never love you, monster,” Tiiba said to him,
venom in his voice.

Iridan’s eyes widened in horror. His concentration broke for
a moment, but that moment was too long. Through the searing pain of the drawn
aether coursing unchecked through his body, he saw Tiiba’s blade come down.

Chapter 33 - Reconnecting

The
Sand Piper
bobbed proudly in her berth, having
delivered her passengers safely to Scar Harbor. Porters and longshoremen filed
along the gangplanks, coming and going with supplies, cargo, and luggage. The
onshore breeze reminded everyone that autumn had come to Acardia, and that
unlike the tame lands of the south, bright blue skies did not guarantee balmy
temperatures; there was a toothy edge to it that cut through thin cloth, and
went straight to the skin.

Several of the gentlemen passengers made a show of carrying
their own belongings, generally to fluff their egos in front of their ladies.
In Brannis’s case, he felt awful watching a man half his size attempting to
wrangle a trunk filled with his armor, sword, and a collection of Kadrin books,
not to mention the full wardrobe that Soria had acquired for him. The trunk
seemed sized optimistically for future purchases, and was of unwieldy size as
well as weight. Brannis took it by the handle on one end while the porter had
both hands under the other. Soria allowed three trunks of hers to be carried by
the dockhands and Rakashi’s belongings were brought ashore by two young
passengers who insisted that it was an honor to be of assistance to him.

A short while later, they were piled into a hired carriage,
bound for The Little Manor. Soria paid for their transportation from her
seemingly bottomless supply of coin.

“Where do you all make so much coin?” Brannis asked, baffled
that Soria seemed to squander money at every opportunity without worry. “Have
you taken my arrival as a special occasion, or is it typical for you to throw
gold at every nicety that comes along?”

Soria laughed. “What brings this up all of a sudden? It
isn’t as if this carriage cost all that much,” Soria replied. She wore a warmer
woolen dress, trimmed in ermine, keeping up the appearance of being a highborn
lady.

“Well, I knew you were spending a lot, but I
know
how
much carriages cost in Scar Harbor. The other splurges passed quietly when I
hardly knew what was going on. And hey now, when did you decide to take on a
Kheshi accent?” Brannis switched trails, distracted by Soria’s transition to
another persona, one he had not seen yet, or more precisely, had not heard yet.
This time, it was Rakashi who chuckled.

“She sounds like that most of the time,” the Takalish
warrior explained.

“Brannis,” Soria said, “I grew up in Khesh. Until I started
traveling more widely, I hardly remembered the Acardian I learned when I was a
little girl. It was so bad for a while there that I could hardly get Zell to
understand me. We spoke Kadrin together for the first year and more that we
traveled together until I picked up enough Acardian. Of the three of them, only
Rakashi could speak Kheshi worth spit.”

“So what is this Little Manor like? I know of it, but I have
never needed to take a room in the city before.”

“It’s nice but stop being so … so ‘Brannis’ for a moment
while we sort a few important things first.” Soria’s curt tone reminded him
that Kyrus was a wanted fugitive in Scar Harbor, and that he bore an uncanny
resemblance to the scrawny scrivener. “We need a name and a background for you
while you’re in Acardia.”

“How about we just keep going with ‘Brannis Hinterdale’?”
Brannis said with a shrug.

“Doesn’t that sound just a bit too Kadrin to you?” Soria
asked, shaking her head.

“What if it does, a bit? Who is the wiser; my parents chose
an odd name, perhaps? Do you go about wondering where odd names come from?”

“Yes,” Soria and Rakashi answered in unison. Brannis was
taken aback.

“Brannis,” Soria said, “you’re still so new at this. We are
on guard constantly for twinborn. Whether they turn out to be potential allies,
casual acquaintances, or deadly enemies, it all comes down to figuring out
their connection before they figure out yours. There are signs to look for. If
you get good at spotting them, you have a huge advantage.”

“What if the carriage driver is one? If that is the case,
you have just given all of us away,” Brannis said.

“Well, since I plan on killing the carriage driver, I don’t
think he will be telling anyone else,” Soria answered casually, not so much as
lowering her voice. She paused, cocking her head. The carriage continued along
uninterrupted. “Nothing. Carriage driver isn’t listening to us or he has nerves
like a dragon. Anyway, if we run across anyone from Veydrus here, that name
will be a flag flying over your head with ‘twinborn’ written on it. Thanks to
my oathfather, that name is known rather widely across Koriah, on both sides of
the war.”

“What about the Hinterdale part?” Brannis said. “Someone is
bound to note the resemblance, and perhaps being a relative would be a suitable
excuse.”

“Yes,” Soria said, “that works. We need a better name than
Brannis, though. Got any ideas, Rakashi?”

“Do you speak any other Telluraki languages, Brannis?
Perhaps you could have been raised abroad, much like Soria. She is as Acardian
as you, but can pass for Kheshi easily with a bit of disguise. The language is
key,” Rakashi said.

“Well, that would be nice, but aside from picking up a bit
of the Denku tongue, I have little to go on,” Brannis said. “I left here with
Denrik Zayne, stopped in Marker’s Point, got stranded on Denku Appa for three
months or so, then a tempest’s swirl through Takalia with you two, and now I am
home again.”

“Well, how about we just say he grew up in Marker’s Point?
Hard to argue against that, unless anyone talks to him long enough to realize
how naive he is. No one as knightly as Brannis comes out of the Point,” Soria
said with a smirk. “How about ‘Erund’? Erund Hinterdale … you can plead
ignorance of any relation if it comes up. Don’t give the surname out unless
asked, though; save the excuse for when you need it or it will be suspicious.”

“Maybe grow a beard,” Rakashi suggested.

Brannis shook his head. “Kyrus used to wear a beard, if it
could be rightly called one. It would do little as a disguise. Fewer folk might
know me without one.”

“Well,” Soria said, “I heard no objection—”

“Hey, wait!” Brannis tried to enter his opinion before the
matter was deemed closed.

“—so Erund it is,” Soria finished.

“I am not sure I care for that one,” Brannis said.

“Sorry, what was that, Erund? I didn’t quite hear you,”
Soria said.

Rakashi smiled.

* * * * * * * *

Sleight of hand with coins. Silks from his sleeves. Conjured
fire. Juggling doves. Everyone cheers. Hat fills with coins. Same as every day
since they have been in Naia, a different street corner each time. Sooner or
later, everyone who cared to would have seen the act, then the coin would dry
up like a creek bed once the thaw has passed.

Zell stood off to the far side of the crowd, keeping a hand
on Jadon lest the boy wander off. Discovering that tendency had led to a
panicked search their first night in the city, but with more dutiful
supervision, it had been limited to the single incident. As for the boy, he
seemed better than when they had found him at the sanctuary. He spoke
sometimes—only in Megrenn still—but it was more promising than just staring
straight ahead with nary a blink as he so often had on the wagon ride.

Zell looked down at the boy, seeing if he was having any
more reaction to this show than any of the others. It looked strange, seeing
him dressed up like a Takalish boy. He was clearly Acardian in
heritage—possibly mixed with a touch of Feru, if Zell had to hazard a guess—and
seeing him in local garb seemed out of place. He ought to have been wearing
trousers and a plain grey or brown woolen tunic, running around barefoot.
Wendell had purchased him a proper Takalish wardrobe: wide-legged pants of shin
length, tied at the waist with a cord; a two-layer pullover jacket, the outer,
deep-blue layer parting in a large V in the center to reveal the white layer
beneath; a pair of doeskin boots; and a puffy cap that kept falling off for
Zell to retrieve.

As the show ended, Zell hooted and applauded, trying to work
up the sentiments of the crowd. They needed little prodding, however. The show
was still new and impressive; it ought to have been, what with Wendell working
in real magic. Zell had watched it once with the magic-seeing helm, and it lost
a lot of its appeal when you could see how it was being done. He looked down at
Jadon in his Takalish clothes, and gave him a gentle shake to get his
attention. It was gratifying when the boy actually turned and looked up at him.

“Do like everyone else. It's what to do at a show,” Zell
told him, using Megrenn, which was not his strongest language. He clapped to
demonstrate, filling in the gap in his vocabulary.

To his surprise, Jadon complied, clapping awkwardly but
enthusiastically.

Wendell came over to them as soon as the crowd began to
disperse. “Did I see what I think I saw?” Wendell asked, addressing Zell but
looking at Jadon.

The boy looked back but his expression was blank.

“Aye, you did indeed,” Zell said. “Not sure what got into
him, but whatever it was, it got in somehow. Not sure whether he finally
understood the show or just got caught up, and copied what I showed him,”
Zellisan replied, using Acardian, as Wendell had when speaking to him.

“Well, either way, that is wonderful, Jadon. Keep this up,
and you will be better in no time. I went through the same thing. I know you
can do it,” Wendell told the boy, persisting in using Acardian when he did not
urgently need the boy to understand him. The sooner they weaned him off of
Veydran languages, the better.

* * * * * * * *

Evening was setting in by the time they had settled into
their rooms at The Little Manor. A turkey-and-capers dinner in the inn’s
renowned common room filled Brannis’s stomach with familiar foods, even if they
tasted somewhat different from how Kyrus had remembered them. Kyrus had been so
long in Kadris that the differences between his tastes and Brannis’s had been
thoroughly explored. Brannis had been regularly exposed to foods that Kyrus
found unfamiliar—even the fare on Denku Appa to an extent—and the return to
Kyrus’s hometown was turning over that packed soil.

Back in their rooms after their meal, signed under the names
of Erund and Soria Hinterdale, Brannis and Soria relaxed, and began to plan
their tasks for Brannis’s homecoming trip. He had deftly avoided managing to
commit to specifics during their passage from Takalia. Soria, as it turned out,
could easily be distracted from boring conversations when need be.

“So what do we need to take care of while we are here? Once
we take care of the business, I intend to have you show me around the city. I
want to see where Kyrus grew up. See? I even remembered your name from here,”
Soria proclaimed proudly, clasping her hands behind her back, and rising up on
her tiptoes. Brannis could not help wondering where she got all her energy,
whether from some aspect of her Tezuan training or just a quirk of her nature.

“Well, I shall want to collect any personal effects from the
shop that I can. That might involve sneaking around the place—actually it
almost certainly will—and it may involve finding where the sheriff and
magistrates keep evidence,” Brannis said, sitting down on the edge of the bed.
It squished with the telltale softness of down stuffing.

“If you let me know of any particulars you are interested
in, it might be best for me to go off, and take care of that. After nightfall,
I am far less conspicuous than you. What else?”

“I would like to check in on the well-being of some friends
of mine. I do not know whether any of them may have taken partial blame in my
escape. There was some … unpleasantness involved,” Brannis said, choosing his
words with care.

“We know. How do you think we found you? We tracked you from
the point you escaped. They put you in cahoots with Denrik Zayne. His
involvement overshadowed any thought that locals might have been done up in the
whole affair,” Soria explained.

“Oh,” Brannis replied. Soria watched him, waiting for him to
continue. “Well, I should still like to check, all the same.”

“Anyone in particular?” Soria asked, raising her eyebrows
expectantly. A tiny smile curled the corner of her lip.

“Well, there is my friend Greuder—”

“The baker? Good sort. Seemed inclined to think you were
innocent, from what Zell told us. Didn’t hear a bad word about his bakery, so
it doesn’t seem he was in any difficulty due to your ordeal. By all means,
though, check up on him. Who else?” Soria smiled as she waited for an answer.
Brannis felt like a calf being led to slaughter. He began to see where she was
goading him.

“Then there is …”—Brannis cleared his throat—“… Expert
Davin, my old employer. He lives—”

“Over in Golis. We can head there once we are done in Scar
Harbor. I rather look forward to meeting him. Who else?”

“I suppose I should also go see—”

“Abbiley Tillman?” Soria asked, folding her arms across her
chest, and watching with a smug look as Brannis felt his face flush.

“I … um … well, you know when … you see it was not me …”

Soria began chuckling, saving Brannis from further
embarrassing himself.

“You are
so
new at this. And that’s why I don’t
mind,” Soria said. Brannis cocked his head to the side, not sure he had heard
her correctly. It certainly
seemed
like the sort of thing he would have
expected her to mind. “Go see her tomorrow, if you feel like you need to. She
was Kyrus’s first love, wasn’t she … before you realized Kyrus was even real?”

“Yes.”

“Well then, what should it matter to me? You can check in
for Kyrus’s sake, then later on, I can remind you how much better you have it
now.” Soria’s eyes gleamed lasciviously. “Now, is there any other business you
have here in Scar Harbor that needs attending to?”