Maledictus Aether (16 page)

Your father, Cephas Kennedy
Watkins.

I kneel in silence once my eyes run over the last word, my
hands grip
ping the parchment
so tightly I am leaving indents, and I do not say a word. I do not
move, I do not breathe, and I do not feel anything but a hollow
pain that reminds me,
confirms
, that my
father is well and truly gone.

Carefully, pale hands unclench
my fingers from the pages and place them onto the table, a
comforting hand on my shoulder that rubs soothing circles over the
scarred skin of my back. I swallow thickly, my eyes burning
something fierce.

I look up to the dirt
ceiling.

“
It i
s raining,” I
whisper, and Lucian looks at me. His confusion is written all over
his expression.

“
But we’re
underground,” he says softly, and I shake my head. His eyes widen
slightly, mouth slightly agape, before he closes it and nods.
“You’re right; it’s raining.”

The Irishman doesn’t say anything
else to that; he simply smoothes his hand over my
upper back, up and down my spine, and allows me to silently mourn
my father.

I take comfort in his presence,
and my trust of this man is not misplaced. I know this for a
fact.

Once I reign in my emotions I stand, folding the parchment
and slipping it back into the envelope. Lucian
watche
s me from the ground,
but I do not spare a glance to the man; instead, I walk over to the
blade sitting over a strip of red cloth that seems to serve as the
belt of the blade, tied carefully to the sheath.

Placing the letter on the
table, I pick up the sheath and hold it firmly in my grasp, the
weight of the weapon reminding me of some old, lost friend. The
sheath is black and the pommel of the silver hilt sticking from the
end showcases an impressive ruby embedded into it. The grip itself
is wrapped in a cloth that ties off onto the pommel of the blade,
which curves before the guard and rises up the side to meet the
steel just shy of the ruby.

I hold the grip firmly, pulling
the blade out of the sheath and making the metal sing. The silver
blade shines in the artificial light as I hold it out at arm’s
length, swinging it back and forth to get a feel for the
weapon.

I was mi
staken when I
said it was a sabre. This is nothing short of a long sword, the
kind of weapon befit a knight himself.

Placing the sheath on the
table, I level the blade to my eye with my free hand and inspect
the metal. Lucian watches me do all this without a word, and I
whistle lowly at the sight.

“
This blade must be worth a small fortune,” I muse quietly,
swinging it a few more ti
mes.
“It is perfectly balanced and has seen the battlefield, yet shows
little sign of wear and tear. Your great-grandfather was a master
in the art, Lucian.”

I look over my shoulder to the
Irishman, smiling at him and watching his gaze shift from the
weapon in my hands to me, where he seems startled a moment.
Composing himself, he holds out his hand in a questioning manner,
and after tossing the sword up and catching it by the blade, I
offer him the weapon.

He carefully takes it from me,
giving it a few experimental swings as well and nodding
appreciatively.

“
I’ve never
seen anything like it,” he admits, pausing mid-stance and glancing
my way. “It’s a tad heavy for a one-handed blade, though, but I
suppose it was tailored to your father’s fighting style.” The man
offers it to me, and after I take it back I sheathe it, holding it
firmly in my hands and smiling at it. “Will you be able to use
it?”

“
I wi
ll grow into it,”
I counter, making the man laugh and clap me lightly on the
shoulder.

“
So, what
shall we do with your impressive heritage?” He questions, gesturing
to the loot sprawled all around us. I follow the arc of his hand,
frowning and chewing idly on my lower lip as I think that
through.

As my eyes land on the crates
of gold, I cock my head slightly to the side and feel my lips tug
into a smile – the beginnings of an idea coming to me.

“
Something stupid,” I reply, gesturing to the works of art
and other valuables. “These are too big to tak
e back for the moment, and they have survived
this long here – we will leave these here for now, but I will
eventually return for them. As for the gold...”

He blinks, making a face as he
recognizes my expression.

“
I don’t like
that face you’ve got there, Kennedy,” he tells me, and I laugh,
pulling away from the hand still on my shoulder and gesture for him
to follow me.

“
Let u
s get this crate
back up and cover the hatch again. We are going back to
Aeon.”

• X – Looking for the Legend
  

We reach Aeon in record time, roughly two weeks given the
fact that we haul in a bit more than we left with. During that time
I take the opportunity to scale the hull of the ship during flight,
held to it by a lead tied around my waist connected to the
rop
e stretching over the
Aether. I mm in the middle of fixing a tear in the fabric when I
look towards the horizon and notice the land mass we are quickly
approaching.

Slipping down as quickly as I
can to the outer walkway, I clip the rope and poke my head into the
ship, holding the door ajar and using the knob and the frame to
hold my weight as I lean against both, on my toes.

“We a
re almost
there!” I shout over the howl, my slightly dishevelled hair
slapping me across the face but avoiding my eyes thanks to the
goggles stretched over them. I actually need to trim the edges a
bit, the length a bit too long for my tastes. “I want Lucian up at
the helm in ten!”

The nearest sailor shouts back his affirmation of the
command, sprinting off down the copper and wooden pathway that
stretches along the belly of the beast we stand in. Pulling the
door shut against the force of the wind, I tie the rope back around
my waist and pull myself back up, all the way to the top hatch and
bypassing the helm altogether. The men and women
at the helm see me pass and do not
comment, accustomed to my antics by now no doubt, and simply wave
at me as I pull myself up onto the head of the beast, no longer
attached to the guides tied along the Aether to facilitate
repairs.

Grabbing the tall metal rod affixed to the ceiling, I
shield my eyes from the sun with my left hand and grin into the
crisp morning air, the outline of the city coming into focus with
every klick we bypass. The smoke that rises form the buildings and
the slight shine they have, layered with the
Aether that helps it remain afloat. Our journey
back was a lot smoother than our journey to Asius, and we've made
great time, all things considered.

The reassuring weight of my
father's blade on my left hip reminds me of the prices that have
been paid, and the tasks that lie ahead. The hatch to my back opens
with a heavy thud, and feet carefully make their way onto the metal
surface, carrying their owner to stand by me and grab the lightning
rod with both hands for balance. The hands are covered with white
gloves, and his tailcoat snaps in the wind as we speed towards
Aeon.

“You are possibly the craziest man I have ever met,” Lucian
comments idly, and I turn to look at him. His blue eyes are hidden
by the muted, discolo
ured
glass of his own aviator goggles pulled over them, and his hair
snaps away with the wind, much like mine is. “Why is
that?”

We practically have to shout
over the sound of the howling wind, but still I reply.

“A boy grows up quickly when he does not have a father to
teach him,” I shoot back, looking to the
Skyland we are rapidly approaching. Perhaps half an
hour, maybe less, and we will throw the lines. “Of course, that is
not the
full
story, but it makes up a significant
aspect in my upbringing.”

He looks at me curiously, and I
offer him a wry smile.

“Come; this is no
t
exactly the best place to hold a conversation, and there is a
matter I want to discuss with you before we dock. In private would
be best,” I add, and the Quarter Master nods, gesturing with his
head to the hatch. “You left him with the Sailing
Master?”

The Irishman offers an affirmation just as I slip down the
ladder to the helm, and the moment my feet touch
t
he ground the lizard that
does not really enjoy following me outside – opting to remain with
Lucian within the ship itself when my adventures take me beyond the
safety of the ship's interior – clambers down from the thin pipes
stretching above our heads and onto my shoulder, where he settles
himself comfortably. Patting his head slightly, Lucian follows me
as I leave the sailing master to oversee the docking, slipping down
the ladder and walking along the hallway stretching along the third
deck, to the back of the ship and into my quarters. After he
follows me I slip the door shut, Orin climbing off my shoulder with
my assistance to begin scurrying along the walls and ceiling as if
he was a spider.

After pouring the man a drink, I take a glass of gin and
walk over to the large window set into the farthest wall, allowing
me a view of the sky we leave behind, the clouds stretching all
around us. Holding the glass in my right hand, I rest my left on
the pommel of my blade and watch the clouds; the Irishman leans
against the desk l
ittered
with papers and books I have poured into, research for my latest
project.

I see him idly push papers
around on the desk in the reflection on the glass, looking at their
contents with a sort of saddened expression on his lips, and with a
sigh I pull my father's old goggles from my head and place them on
the oak surface. He looks up at me, his fingers over a parchment
filled with useless information.

“It i
s strange,” I
begin quietly, a small laugh tacked to the phrase that holds no
humour, “but when I was still in school, before the army, I would
always hear about how another boy's father brought them all out to
the Thames, how another's father was honoured in church for being a
righteous man. I would sit in the pews with my mother, and
sometimes I would hear the whispers.”

The numbers and letters on the
papers remind me of the limit, and I set my glass on the table,
untouched.

“I was a charity case – the lad without a father. In the
schoolyard, I fought so hard to defend my father's memory, the
pictures my mother painted in my mind as bedtime stories, of his
exploits and his adventures, but no one ever believed he served the
Fleet.” He's looking at me, his entire focus trained on me, and I
look back to the sky stretching around us, remembering that child.
“I used to dream at night, look up to the stars, press my hands
together and pray to the stars, to God, to whoever was listening,
that I could make my father proud. That I might one day find him,
and prove them all wrong. I have that dream now, I worked at
studying my father's journals, notes an
d books since I was five, and I have never wanted
anything more than I have ever wanted to fly, to captain my own
ship.”

Lucian does no
t say a
word, but simply allows me to speak; and I silently thank him for
it, because if he would, I doubt I could finish this
story.

“That i
s why I need
your help,” I admit, finally catching his gaze. He idly rolls down
the sleeves of his button-down, his coat hanging off the back of
the couch, and never looks away. Not once. “I just do not
understand how this
works
, and I only
have a few days before we go find Tier – I cannot wait until after
that. It will be too late.”

Sighing, he finally tears his eyes away and looks to the
ground his heels rest on, his han
ds pressing against the wood he is partially sitting
on.

“You're asking for something...
well, it's a very difficult thing for me to say yes to,” he admits,
scuffing his heel on the wooden surface with a frown. “If anything
goes wrong...”

“I only trust you to do this for me,” I inform him, and his
eyes snap up. Orin loses his footing on the ceiling and falls onto
the couch, where he curls up on the soft surface and sleeps as if
he meant to do that all along. I swear, that creature has a very
human-li
ke personality at
times. “I cannot do this myself, and there is no one else on this
planet who I would give that kind of power to.”

We stare at one-another for a
while, he in astonishment and I in a silent plea. Finally, the
elder man breaks his gaze away and sighs, looking to the ground
again.

“When?”

Echoing his breath, I look to
the sky we leave behind, a feeling of dread, anxiety, fear and
gratefulness washing over me.

“Tonight. Meet me in the
maintenance wing once the sun has set.”

I a
m in the middle of
screwing in a screw when I hear the door slip shut quietly,
admitting him into the room. The sounds of Aeon seem distant with
the walls separating it from us, and the yawning workspace filled
with tools, metal and wood has never felt so small.

He does no
t move,
does not walk any closer; I can see him with his back pressed to
the door, watching me cautiously. As I put down the object in my
hand with tender care, I turn in my stool to look to the design
plans stretched on the table that I have followed to the
letter.