Firehurler (Twinborn Trilogy) (82 page)

“He will grow out of that. He has been looked down on
for too long. I shall just have to show him the sort of power he really
possesses,” Rashan said.

The warlock took a sip of the cider and remembered
days that had passed centuries ago. Tradition meant more to those who had more
remote times to remember. Rashan had sat upon the same terrace during the reign
of Escelon the Fourth, and had drunk cider that tasted much the same as that
which he held in his hand.

“You do not even see him out playing at yalter. Boy
his age ought to enjoy his vigor while he has it. Too young to be getting
caught up in this warlock business,” Axterion said. He was good at complaining;
one of the few benefits he saw of his extreme old age was that he could
complain about nearly anything with authority.

“I was warlock much younger than him,” Rashan
observed, grinning at his great nephew Axterion.

“Bah, and look what that got you! Off to war before
you knew a woman. Caught up in bloodthirst and plots of war. Made enemies of
well near everyone but the emperors and a few apprentices. You even left a
grand mess to clean up when you ran off after the Dead Earth,” Axterion ranted,
growing crotchety and loud as he went.

“That is not how—”

“I was not done! You got too much power and
responsibility at a young age, and got arrogant for it. It turned you into a
liar, a warmonger, and a bully. You thought you were the best at everything,
and you were not.”

“Wait a moment—”

“No, I think I will not wait. You turned the Kadrin
Empire into a pariah among all the nations of Koriah. Folk would not trade with
us, and our folk would turn up dead when they traveled widely. Spent a good
many winters trying to prevent them allying together to come crush us after you
disappeared. You may have been a good general, but you were a lousy diplomat, a
bad father, and a worse author,” Axterion harrumphed.

The old man was breathing heavily after his tirade,
and many of the family were surreptitiously listening in to hear the warlock
torn down a bit by someone who had little to fear from retribution.

“Are you quite finished?” Rashan asked.

“I think so, yes. Been meaning to yell at you since I
heard you were back. First good chance I got. Colossally large mess of yours I
had to clear up,” Axterion replied civilly. The fire had gone out of him after
he had given his grievances a proper airing.

“I understand the rest, but what was that about being
a bad author?” Rashan suspected he had just discovered a key piece of a puzzle
he had been curious about since he had found that his room at the palace had
been violated.

The old man paused for a moment before answering, as a
cheer went up from the yalter field. Someone had just scored for the servants.
It seemed that Brannis’s presence was not enough on its own to swing the
balance to the family’s favor.

“That book of prophecy you wrote. Pure drivel. Glad
you only gave it the one go and stuck with—”

“It was
you
that broke into my room!” Rashan
said. He did not sound quite angry but had rather just found the answer to a
question that had dogged him since learning of the book’s disappearance.

“Well … yes. You were thought dead. I was your
replacement as High Sorcerer, and I felt it my duty to get into your quarters
and see if anything was amiss,” Axterion stated. “You always had an overblown
opinion of your rune-carving skills. Those wards were good, but I was better.”

“How did you break through? I found nothing amiss
after a century away when I checked on them.”

Rashan was more curious than angry. The old man was
entitled to his bragging if he had truly been the one to break into his
quarters. Gravis Archon had seemed to think it an impossible task.

“I set up wards all around it, on floors above and
below even, diverting aether away from the area. Your ward relied on having a
draw of its own. I denied it aether until it weakened, and broke it,” Axterion
said. “Then after making a search of the room, I took your book of prophecy and
sealed it back up. That ward you saw was my copy of yours.”

A row erupted on the children’s field, as one of the
Solaran children was caught using magic on the field of play. Axterion did not
have to look to know that it was Danilaesis that was at fault. The boy was too
full of his own skills to abide by the simplest of rules. Being among the
youngest of the players allowed onto the field, he was too immature to cope
with being physically outmatched. He was too short to pass the yalt over his
opponents’ heads, and his hands were too small to catch it well. He had settled
for spending his time chasing after it and had now started sneaking spells in to
disrupt the servants’ children. He was being escorted from the field by his
father Caladris, who was overseeing the children’s game.

“Of all the treasures in that room, all you took was
that worthless book?” Rashan was incredulous. “After all that work, you found
nothing else to your liking?”

“I had no designs of becoming the next warlock. I had
no need of your finery or that sword of yours that Brannis now carries.” The
old sorcerer nodded in the direction of where Brannis had left Avalanche to go
play yalter. “I wanted something distinctive, such that anyone who challenged
me could see that I had really been inside. But alas, not one but you ever
seemed interested.”

“So where is it? What have you done with it? That sort
of thing is dangerous in the wrong hands,” Rashan said, but Axterion waved away
his concerns.

“I taught out of it at the Academy for a time, but I
have kept it in the family library ever since.”

“You
taught
from it? You old fool, what kind of
troubles have you caused with that nonsense?” Rashan seemed genuinely annoyed
with the old man.

“Pshaw. I taught from it, surely. I did not represent
what you had written as true prophecy, though. I do not believe there is aether
strong enough to pierce the mists of time, but I see the benefits of crafting
prophecy to manipulate events. Many prophecies have altered the course of
events, but for the knowing of them, not because some pompous fool actually saw
it coming. Knowledge of the future, even false knowledge—no,
especially
false knowledge—is powerful stuff,” the wily old sorcerer said. “Your book was
a good example of bland, generic prophecy, written with no talent for it. I
used it as an example of prophecy written to sow discord rather than actually
predict anything.”

“The others say that your wits are failing you in your
dotage, Axterion. I begin to suspect you have them all fooled,” Rashan said,
and Axterion just smiled. “So you have not tried to act on any of the
prophecies written within? There is one in particular I would worry to have in
general knowledge.”

“The one about the Empire being consumed in fire in …
oh, about seventy winters from now?” Axterion asked.

Rashan had written that one after a particularly bad
day, promising volcanoes and wildfires consuming the Empire in a great blaze
from which none would escape.

“No, not that one. There was another, about a monster
in the form of a sorcerer …” Rashan did not wish to relate the rest of it with
others possibly around to hear.

“Oh, that one. Boring. Never had much use for it.
Worried folk might think you predicted your own impersonator, demon?” Axterion
hinted. “I would give you more credit than you deserve if you had actually
managed that trick. If a demon in your form was undone and discovered by this
‘prophecy’ of yours, it would be the first use for it I have ever found. You
are too much of Rashan Solaran to be an imposter.”

Another cheer went up from the yalter field, as the
Solarans had scored. With the early twilight approaching, the game would be
ending soon, and the Solarans had barely scored all match. Iridan had decided
to join in for a while but had wearied of it quickly and excused himself with a
vaguely explained injury.

“I should like the book back, in any event,” Rashan
told the old sorcerer.

Axterion shrugged by way of reply. “Very well. It is
yours after all, I suppose. I shall fetch it this evening.”

“Good. The less people see of prophecy the better I
shall like it.”

Rashan did not state it, but there were other things
within those pages that he did not want seen or spoken about. They had been the
idle ramblings of his poorest moods, but many of the “prophecies” had laid bare
secret fears and fearful secrets. Of all in the Empire, he most feared Brannis
reading what lay within its pages. The boy was too clever by far. Prophecy or
no, there was knowledge to be gleaned from those pages, more than Rashan had
even realized at the time he wrote them. He would feel safer once he had it
safely back in his possession.

*
* * * * * * *

The feast had been festive enough, but Brannis’s thoughts
were elsewhere. As he retired to his rooms, he did not intend to sleep. He had
been to the libraries of the Tower of Contemplation on his way back home and
had selected a number of volumes to take back with him for study.

War with Megrenn was a foregone conclusion. Despite
the devastation visited upon the goblin army, the Megrenn had lost nothing in
the assault and had gained for themselves the Staff of Gehlen. It was an object
so old that none Brannis had spoken to had any idea of its powers, save for how
it had been used in Raynesdark to keep the volcano dormant. While the winter
cold bought Kadrin time, Megrenn would be certain to begin a campaign against
them when the weather warmed. With much of their cavalry comprising exotic
beasts purchased from across the northern seas, they fought best in hotter
climates. It was not an ideal composition for an army, but Megrenn was playing
to their strength as great traders and buying what they could not scavenge from
their resource-poor lands. With less magical strength than Kadrin, at least for
a period stretching from mid springtime to early autumn, they would have the
advantage in strength of arms.

But Brannis would have time to devise strategies
against the Megrenn before the season turned. Winter had not even begun in
earnest to sink its icy talons into Kadris, and the whole of winter would pass
before any serious threat from Megrenn could be mounted. Kyrus, on the other
hand, could use his help much more immediately. While his twin was stranded on
a remote island, he seemed to be in little actual danger. Still, Brannis felt
he owed much to his counterpart, both for the help he had been against Jinzan
Fehr and for the richness he added to the sleeping portion of his life. In a
strange and mildly uncomfortable way, he yearned for Abbiley as well and wanted
to see Kyrus returned to her.

And so, for Kyrus, he read.

Aetherial Navigation
was a treatise on the use of the aether as a means of finding one’s
way over long distances.
The Greatest of Ptakk’s Works
explained how to
form permanent structures out of materials at hand, with particular emphasis on
how to build them to last.
Spirit Magic
was of questionable use, but it
explored the view of aether as a spiritual medium and many of the beliefs that
sprung from that view. The one that Brannis felt held the most promise was
To
Anywhere
, a volume that held the transference spell that Rashan had used to
cross half of Koriah to reach Raynesdark. With any luck, Kyrus would be able to
use it one day to return home. The spell was much more complex than any Kyrus
had learned previously, and there were many warnings of the dire consequences
of mistakes in its use, but it seemed the best option.

Brannis settled in to his bed with the stack of
borrowed books at his bedside table.

No fear, Kyrus. I will find a way to rescue you, or at
least to find you a way to rescue yourself.

Chapter 39 - Letter Home

Dearest
Abbiley,

I barely know where to begin my tale. The events of
the last few months deny description, though I must try. Understand that half
of what you have heard about me is indeed true, while the other half are
exaggerations and falsehoods, borne of fear and misunderstanding.

I have discovered that magic does exist in our world,
not relegated to the bedtime tales we heard as children. I have been blessed
with a glimpse into another world, one of magic and wonder, where fantastical
things are possible. I have learned from what I have seen there and have put it
to practice. I made a record of my studies, after the manner of Sir Waldon,
Lord Candelwright, or Professor Hawkweave, seeking to use the methods of
science to find reason where there is naught but mysticism. I admit that my
scholarly endeavors were led astray by something rather embarrassing: I had fun
with it.

I can only imagine the joy you feel seeing your
paintings leap into life upon the canvas as your brush transforms bits of
sticky multicolored pastes into visions of reality or fancy as you choose them.
I have not the eye to be an artist. Neither do I have the voice to sing or ear
to compose. I have not the heart nor arm to be a warrior, and I lack the slick
tongue to enter politics. I lack all the faculties that allow a man to change
the world, save for a new one that I have discovered.

I find before me the choice of how to use the gift I
have discovered. What was not so long ago a barely understood trick of trial
and error, I now find under some nascent degree of real control. Had I learned
such mastery before my unfortunate encounter with the fearful custodians of law
in Scar Harbor, I might have held them at bay long enough to make them see
reason. Alas, the hordes of fear and superstition fell upon me and sought to
claim my life for their peace of mind. At the time you last saw me, I was
frightened and uncertain, wondering if some aspect of my newly found ability
might secure my freedom.

The events after that night bear much explanation, for
as fanciful as my tale so far has been, it grows stranger still. The notorious
pirate, Denrik Zayne, had escaped from his exile and was lurking about in Scar
Harbor when he heard of my plight. Not one for pity, he believed in magic and
knew some paltry amount of it himself. Seeing in me a potential ally, scorned
alike by the authorities of Acardia, he effected my escape from the prison, and
took me on as a part of his crew when he stole the
Harbinger from its berth.

I admit my mistake now, seeing it with the benefit of
hindsight. Though I knew not how to harness my power, I could have stayed and
defended myself until such time as I could make men see reason, that I was not
a threat, and that my magics were harmless—nay, beneficial even—to the
community at large. Instead I took the coward’s path and allowed whatever
rumors might flourish after my escape to run unchecked, no doubt growing to
monstrous proportions.

As my short time among the pirates passed, it became
clear that I would never fit in with them and that I was not the sort of man
they wished to keep among them. As what they claimed was a small kindness, they
have stranded me upon a remote isle, inhabited by an inoffensive native people
who have, I must say, treated me well enough.

I am in good health and sound of mind. It is only my
heart that aches. For whatever kindness is visited upon me by my gracious
hosts, they cannot provide the only desire I find myself lacking: the pleasure
of your company. There has not been a day to pass that I have not wished to be
with you, either to be back home with you in Acardia to escape the distasteful
sights I have seen among the squalor of a pirate’s life, or to have you with me
to see the wonders of the world beyond the horizon from all you have known.

Ships are a rarity here, with merchants having little
reasons to travel here, to this place called Denku Appa. I find myself discontent
with waiting upon the next lucky vessel to come my way to take me from here and
back to the civilized lands where I might book passage home. Instead I look to
my own studies, for in magic, should not all be possible? If by chance some
errant vessel may pass, I shall leap upon it, with a farewell to my hosts upon
my lips and a song in my heart, but I will not sit idly by and count upon such
fortune.

One way, though I know not how as yet, I will make my
way back to see you again. You may have my solemn word upon it.

With
All My Heart,

Kyrus
Hinterdale

When all the words had arranged themselves, Kyrus
ceased his spell and let the rest of the ink from Denrik Zayne’s message pour
into the inkwell. Once the ink on the letter dried, Kyrus carefully folded and
rolled up the only paper upon the island of Denku Appa, then bound it around
the leg of the parrot he had enspelled. The colorful bird watched him curiously
as he worked but offered no comment, nor objected to bearing the message it was
being given.

“Find your way, little friend,” Kyrus told the parrot,
lifting it to the air to help it take flight.

The bird headed off to the north and west, a long
journey ahead of it, and with just a few mental images from Kyrus to guide its
way.

“Find your way to Abbiley, so that I might one day
follow.”

*
* * * * * * *

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