Prodigal Steelwielder (Seals of the Duelists Book 3) (25 page)

“If you would please come with me, duelists.” The scruffy Elemental Duelist, no more than five years older than they, barely met Taban’s eye and avoided looking at Tarin altogether. Instead, he seemed to address his request to the floor at their feet. “The emperor has need of your skills.”

Tarin and Taban exchanged a wry glance. “I suppose we are the closest hexmages, aye?” Taban murmured. It was the only reason the emperor would seek them out after what had happened to Bayan.

Might as well see what the curly-haired man wants.

When the duelist led him and Tarin deep underground into the wine cellar where the emperor had set up temporary command, it took Taban a moment to make sense of the loud chaos around him. Literally hundreds of wine bottles lay shattered on the floor, their wine draining into improvised open holes shot straight through the floor by impatient Earth magic. Empty racks lay as discarded wreckage in the corners of the room, and new Earthcasting had created alcoves that were crammed with scribes and occasionally illuminated by the white rings of singers’ portals. Since he could see over the top of her head, Taban let Tarin go first as they followed behind the duelist. He led them down the broad wooden stairs, between two separate groups of arguing nobility—some of whom still bore wounds or bloody clothing from the battle—and into the center of the room, where the emperor sat on a makeshift throne formed from extruded granite flagstones.

Emperor Jaap paused in his furious contemplation, complete with a white-knuckled grip on the arms of his chair, and stood, wearing his bland, official expression. “I have a special task for you. We have every reason to believe that the Duelist Academy will be the Corona’s next target, if it isn’t already. I’m putting Singer Tala Salunga at your disposal. She will portal you to retrieve something for me, then transport it to the Academy to aid in its defense. I suggest you gather whomever you need to guard it, and do so quickly. We have less than no time to lose, and the empire’s entire defensive force is at stake.”

Tarin tipped her head in what Taban recognized as her Irrationally Curious Expression. “And what is it you want us to be retrieving, then?”

The emperor stepped down from the small dais surrounding his chair and leaned close. “Not what. Who. The one man who loved the empire so much that he wanted to make it better by taking my place. Misguided, perhaps insane, but no less loyal for all that.”

Taban’s heart paused for a moment of sheer terror then thumped heavily to catch up. “Sire, you canna be serious. You want us to let him out, de-potioneer him, and hope he attacks the Corona casters instead of us? You are aware, Sire, that I was one of the duelists who battled him in that underground dome. I canna say he’ll be anywhere near pleased to see me again.”

The emperor’s dark eyes snapped to Taban’s, and for a moment, despite all the magic at his disposal, Taban was mesmerized by the vast power those eyes commanded. “I have no one else to send. It must be you.” He gave an imperious flick of his fingers, and Tala trotted over from a nearby alcove. “Take these duelists to Ignaas witten Oost. Follow their instructions. When you have delivered them to the Duelist Academy, return to the Temple of Ten Thousand Harmonies and bring to campus as many singers as you can. We’ll make our stand at the Academy, because if we lose our duelists, we lose our empire. And I will not let that happen.” His iron gaze shifted back to Taban. “I will use everything at my disposal—
everything
, mind you—to protect this empire from foreign onslaught. Now go. The latest reports haven’t yet spotted any invaders, but they could arrive at any moment. It seems they have portal magic and can attack from anywhere.”

“Aye, Sire.”

The emperor turned away to address waiting nobles’ concerns, and Taban found Tala looking at him expectantly. “Are you ready?” she asked.

“Nae, but let’s go anyway.”

Tala began to sing right there next to the emperor’s makeshift throne. Her portal snapped open, and on the far side waited a dismal gray stone corridor. Taban looked at Tarin, who shrugged and popped a small flame into place near the ceiling.

Tarin stepped through first. Tala gestured for Taban to pass ahead of her, then she followed. She closed the portal with a clasp of her crystals, leaving them in a chilly, uncomfortable location. Taban wasn’t sure how far underground he was, but it was definitely too far. He fought the urge to drill a few air holes upward with his Earth and Wind hexlings, just to be on the safe side.

Tarin started down the corridor, and her light went with her, so Taban quick-stepped to catch up. “I don’t see any doors. Where is he?” she asked.

To cover his discomfort, Taban replied, “You have Lifeseeker. Find him yourself.”

Tarin flashed him a dark look but apparently did just that. Her arm flicked out, pointing to Taban’s right. “He’s inside this wall.” Her red eyebrows rose in amused surprise. “You think they did that to him for what he did to Kiwani?”

Taban smirked. “I could get behind that idea. Let’s find out.” He peeled back the stone wall in even, scrolling curls, revealing a low, wide hollow in the rock. When Tarin brought her flame down, its warm light flickered across dozens of bright metal planes and angles.

Taban squatted, frowning. A soft popping noise caught his ears, and he adjusted his angle of vision, spotting and finally recognizing an open mouth surrounded by plates of bright steel, which encased the rest of the prisoner’s body in some kind of metal suit. The man’s mouth remained open, silently waiting.

Sints preserve me. He’s waiting to be fed like a helpless baby bird.
Taban jerked backward in revulsion. The emperor had tortured his would-be successor into silent submission. None were left to defend him, to speak for him in public, because the First Singer’s spell of forgetting had wiped him from the memories of almost all of the empire citizens who had known him. Only a handful remained who remembered the man—Taban amongst them—and many of them dared not speak for fear of implicating themselves.
But this?
Taban felt his stomach turn.

Apparently, Tarin had no such scruples. “Well, now, look who I found in a forgotten hole. Hello, Iggy.” Tarin tapped the man’s metal-coated forehead. “Looks like you might be hungry. Sorry, I dinna bring any food with me. You’ll just have to work on an empty stomach.”

“Tarin…”

His denmate shot him a hard look. “What?”

“I used to know this man. I used to respect him. Aye, sure, his ‘glorious future’ was all a pack of lies, and I’m nae above a bit of distinct payback when it’s called for, but this… What if he’s not home in his skull anymore? What if he’s so far gone he canna remember has magic? He’ll be no use to the emperor then.”

Ignaas’s mouth remained open. Tala leaned over Tarin’s shoulder, eyeing the nearly catatonic Ignaas. “Are you sure the emperor really needs this man? I mean, the Academy is full of powerful duelists, more than it’s had for centuries. Is there really a chance they won’t be powerful enough to defeat the Corona’s casters?”

Tarin snorted. “Those students are all theory and no practice. Even if we trained them in forced savantism every day for the next ten years, no one knows how they’ll react when they find themselves in the middle of a war. I havena any idea how even I’ll react.”

Taban nodded and addressed Tala. “Even Tarin and I have only done duel battles, aside from those times we were saving the empire and all. They’re young, and their training is incomplete. They may be more help to the enemy than to us.”

Tarin flicked open the heavy visor on the metal hood that covered Ignaas’s face except for his mouth. “This man may be the most experienced duelist in the empire. Even with our hexmagic and the potioneers who’re learning of the old ways, Ignaas witten Oost is probably still the most versatile caster. He spent decades training himself to simultaneously use miniscule movements in various parts of his body so he could control all his avatars at once. He spent longer training with unfocused magic than all the Hexmates, possibly put together. Unfortunately, the emperor is right. He’s the best defense we have.”

It was Taban’s turn to glare. “Then let’s all hold hands and hope that the emperor’s punishment hasn’t driven him mad.” He looked into Ignaas’s eyes, which stared blankly. “Ignaas, can you understand me?”

Ignaas blinked. His mouth finally closed. “Dark. So dark.”

“Is he blind?” worried Tala.

“Inside.” Ignaas’s voice was faint as a prayer.

Taban leaned closer. “Ignaas, the enemy is coming. We need your help to defend the Academy. Do you hear me? They’re going to attack your campus and destroy everyone. Will you help us?”

The prisoner’s eyes shifted, finally making contact with Taban’s gaze. “My empire. Did I say that?”

Tarin leaned in from above, invading Taban’s tenuous link with Ignaas. “Not happening today, traitor. You come with us to the campus, and we take off all this steel so you can hurl everything you have at the Corona casters. Then we lock you down here again. Is that clear?”

“Corona? Corona has magic? What kind?”

Tarin shook her head at Taban, but he answered anyway. “It’s elemental, like duelism, but more powerful. Their spells affect wider areas than ours, and one caster can apparently take over another’s spell and maintain it. Their breed of magic falls somewhere between songwork and duelism.”

Ignaas was silent so long that Taban worried he had fallen asleep, died with his eyes open, or simply retreated into silent madness. Then a tear escaped his eye and ran down the pale, puffy edge of his cheek. “I will serve. I will serve.”

“Do you want to leave him in the steel coffin until you reach the Academy?” Tala asked.

Tarin stood. “Easier if he can move around. He’s still potioneered anyway. Let’s take him out now.”

Taban backed up a step. “What do you want to do about the extra security the emperor mentioned? He may not be able to do magic, but he can still run for it at an unguarded moment.”

“If I may,” Tala said, “there’s a large contingent of caravan guards with nowhere to go at the moment. They were Imee’s, led by Dakila. He survived the battle, but… she didn’t. Last I saw of them, Dakila was using them to ferry emergency foodstuffs down to the emperor’s underground bunker, for lack of anything else to do.”

“How many of them are there?” Tarin asked.

“More than fifty, doing the work a singer could manage in half the time. Shall I sing us a portal to them?”

Tarin nodded. “As soon as we pry this fine fellow out of his steel pajamas.”

Taban let her do the honors. She elevated the steel coffin and popped its rivets apart with a series of loud thumps. The noise echoed painfully in the narrow corridor, and Taban winced. Tarin wafted away the top half of the steel coffin with its movable visor, and let it clatter to the floor. She scooped Ignaas out of the bottom half of like an oyster from its shell. Beneath his threadbare tunic, Ignaas’s body was an emaciated mess of saggy, pale flesh, under which his muscles had atrophied so far that Taban couldn’t tell he’d ever had any.

“We canna move him in this condition,” he blurted. “He’s a living skeleton.”

Tala stepped forward. Though her eyes were wide with alarm at Ignaas’s physical condition, her voice was steady. “I can heal him. Give me a few moments. I haven’t sung this song in some while.”

Tarin laid Ignaas on the floor, where he trembled like a newborn calf, all rickety limbs and tattered clothes. Tala began to sing, using both her crystals, and before Taban’s eyes, Ignaas’s body fleshed out. The process didn’t seem particularly comfortable. Ignaas’s spine arched and his limbs shook like palm trees in a hurricane. It wasn’t particularly short either. Taban wasn’t sure if that was because Ignaas needed so much healing or if Tala’s songs were all the same length.
That’s a good question for another time, perhaps. Provided we survive long enough.

Finally, the healing ended, and Ignaas lay gasping and drenched in sweat on the cold stone floor.

Tarin bent over him. “All right, then,” she said in a hard voice, “You can walk now. You’re welcome. Get up, and come with us, or I’ll put you back in your coffin.”

It took Ignaas two tries to gain his feet, and though his body had been restored, he didn’t seem entirely sure how to use it. His hands patted at his bearded face, his hair, and his chest and arms. Still breathless, his eyes fell on Tala. “Thank you,” he muttered. “The steel in my back?”

“We will take it out only if battle is imminent. You are still a prisoner of the empire.” Tarin grabbed his arm just above the elbow and tugged. “Tala, the portal.”

Tala sang a portal open, and Taban stepped through first, magic at the ready. He spotted a few dozen men engaged in the laborious process of winching large sacks of wheat through an opening in the flagstones of the courtyard. A few red torches burned amongst the pillars that edged the courtyard. Tala closed the portal behind her then sought out the man directing the winch.

“Which of you is Dakila?”

A man loading a bag of wheat into a sling dusted off his hands and stepped forward. While he and Tala held a brief conversation, Taban studied Tarin. She had gotten pretty dark with Ignaas. Even now, she seemed neither forgiving nor sympathetic for his plight.

Tala returned. “Dakila and his men have agreed to accompany us to the Academy in exchange for a singer taking over their duties. I just portaled to Ingerika; she’ll get the food taken care of. I think it would be best if we keep Ignaas’s presence on campus a secret until absolutely necessary. Do you know a place where we can keep him?”