by James Duvall
“You don't think the Bright Haven will flourish?”
Sapphire forced a smile at him, then scolded herself for falling into the illusion's snare so readily. It was hard not to. The past few days had been all the hurt of her time as a stowaway without the promise of Dawn's prompt return on the end of her voyage.
“Now you are thinking that you were being optimistic about communicating with the tower through the Arlorian focus.”
“I am,” she admitted.
“Now you are thinking that I will die soon,” he said sadly. Sapphire could see sympathy in his eyes when she looked at him, worry for her. “You are worried that in your haste to come to the laboratory you denied me of my final opportunity to see the Bright Haven.”
“Yes,” Sapphire said, her voice a bare whisper as her ears wilted. She couldn't bring herself to look at him. So they sat, both watching the distant glow.
“The Bright Haven is beautiful, but it is a fool's errand,” Dawn said, admiring it from afar. “Even if our kind builds wonders there, humanity will come and take it from us. If not them, the tintori or the magashi. Every race of tongues has their eyes on Glory. Fact is, luminarians are the least of the Almighty's creations. To be luminarian is to be less. Whatever we accomplish will always be too little. We are too disorganized, too small, too weak, too far behind to ever catch up. Even on his brightest days, Torch understood that.”
“Stop!” Sapphire screeched, covering her ears.
“What?” Dawn asked, his voice calm and even. “Facts cannot be changed.”
“Don't talk like that,” Sapphire scolded.
“You do,” Dawn noted..
“But you do not. It's not... It's not right.”
“Are you saying that out of guilt?” Dawn asked. He looked as though he was about to say something else, then stopped himself mid-thought. “No, that's wrong. It comforts you that I can see good in people where you cannot. Is that about right?”
Sapphire gave him a nod, then sighed. “I'm talking to myself.”
To this, Dawn chuckled. It was good to hear his laugh even if it wasn't him.
“It's the water you drank,” he said. “I know it, so must you. It was laced with mist, somehow broken free of the field without a mistweaver's hand.”
“It was,” Sapphire agreed. It occurred to her that this was tantamount to agreeing with herself, but she could not decide if that was a sign of a healthy mind or just a further contribution to her madness. She gave a faint smile to her illusory husband, who smiled back in sympathy to the emotional side of her bubbling to the surface.
Dawn looked back toward the Bright Haven. “I wonder how long it will last...”
The two sat alone and wondered in silence. When Sapphire awoke in the morning the hallucinatory Dawn was no longer with her. She was also no longer on the roof, though she could not remember coming down. Instead she was curled up tightly inside one of the cabinets with the door shut to avoid easy discovery. First the humans and then the lighthound had made her wary, even in this remote location and, apparently, even in mist-induced delusion.
On the road into Nothnor, Sapphire came upon a merchant cart. His wares smelled of spices and fresh-cooked meat and one last scent that sent chills up her spine. Blood. Luminarian blood. Ears pricked toward him, Sapphire intended to skirt the merchant on the other side of the road, but then she saw them. Dozens of flight feathers hanging from little strings on the back of his cart. They were white with red tips, quills stained dark with dried blood.
Sapphire felt ice in her veins, her heartbeat sounding in her ears like the drums of war, drowning out the whole damnable world. “Ruby...? Ruby!”
Chapter 20
Skalde
Nothnor, Isla Merindi, Pendric Shard
Every student is required one focus and to have arrangements made for a spare in case of emergencies. Students are not allowed a focus of any grade higher than skystone without direct supervision by a professor.
Beronn University Student Handbook, page 5
Timothy Binks studied Donovan Skalde from across the table, sizing him up like a card player while wearing the mask of a gentleman. If Samuel Raimes was any model of the latter, things had not changed much in Cahen since Timothy's last visit. A gentleman only meant a mark with more money in his purse and finer clothes on which to spend it.
“Let me be very clear,” Skalde began. “I was lead to believe that it was Samuel Raimes that had come to Pendric Shard, but it is obvious to me that you are not him. I have not met Samuel, but I knew his father. If you are Tinnus Raimes' son, my mother was Tintori.”
“I am Timothy Binks,” Timothy said, extending his hand. Donovan shook it and they both took their seats. Aebyn stayed loyally close to Timothy's side, his gaze ever scrutinizing the face of Donovan Skalde.
Skalde was a young man, seemingly no more than a year or two older than Timothy himself. He had black hair, well-combed. A neatly trimmed beard covered much of the bottom half of his face. He reminded Timothy of the sort of businessmen that Christopher often brought aboard the Stormbreaker. Skalde had an outwardly friendly face, but behind it Timothy felt he could sense a darker mechanism at play, moving things in the shadows, dangerous things.
“I believe the Raimes family had recently acquired a gryphon. A lighthound, actually,” Skalde observed. He tilted his head as he studied Aebyn. “About your age, if I am not mistaken.”
“I was that gryphon,” Aebyn admitted. “Samuel Raimes abandoned his post aboard the Wild Hawk. I am not beholden to him or his family any longer. He abandoned me.”
“Was that perhaps because you took a habit of speaking out of turn?” Skalde chided.
Aebyn's ears straightened up. Timothy felt his chair move a little as the gryphon started to shift his weight onto his talons and paws.
“I am new to the area,” Timothy offered, intent on defusing the situation before it could get out of hand. Previously he had not considered the possibility that Aebyn's behavior might have been beyond the bounds of etiquette, and Samuel Raimes was certainly not likely to have left a good impression in the young mind as to the manner and value of gentlemanly behavior. “So you'll forgive me for failing to introduce myself more promptly. I only recently learned of your presence on the island.”
“Mmm...” Skalde muttered, stroking his chin. Timothy could sense the man trying to get a bead on him. No doubt he had already seen through the ruse. It was practically the first rule of the grift. Rather, if there were rules of grift Timothy was certain it would have been near the top. Never try to con a man at his own game. Skalde was a bridger and therefore most qualified of any man to identify one of his own, and Timothy Binks knew in his heart of hearts that he was not that.
“I understand you have a dusk tracer in your company,” Timothy said. “Frightening things, I've heard. Surely you have had at least some opportunity to seek his counsel?”
“Aelengy does as he feels he must,” Skalde said, sounding vaguely disinterested. “What brings you here, Mr. Binks? Surely not bridger business. I've been out of Cahen for a while, but I do not think so long that they might have changed the uniform without my knowing. One might say you were dressed the part.”
Timothy shrugged him off. Leaning back in his chair he waved the bartender over and ordered a bottle of the house's finer wine.
“If you must know,” he said as he poured himself and Skald a glass, “you are correct. I am not a bridger. I always fancied the idea though. Never had the knack for magic. I tried out of course, in my younger years, when the university's scouts came through. Nearly every boy my age did. It's the adventure of it that draws me. Still does. I enjoy coming to these exotic places and meeting such fascinating people. You don't get much of that growing up poor.”
“You do not seem poor,” Skalde said, regarding his wine as though he had watched it poured into a dirty glass.
Timothy cleared his throat until Skalde looked up at him. “Why are you here, Mr. Skalde?”
S
kalde arched a brow at him in reproach of his directness, remaining silent.
“I may be new to my social rank, Mr. Skalde, but I know that it is far from the normal for you to seek an audience with me and interrogate me like I am some common criminal without the courtesy of so much as a mention of your business with me. Now you are taking up my time and regarding the glass of wine I offered you as though you think I am out to poison you, so I must insist that you state your business or I believe this discussion is quite concluded.”
Aebyn gave a curt nod of agreement.
Despite Timothy's raised voice, Skalde remained implacable as ever. He looked at Timothy over a lifted glass, tilted it toward him as though in a toast, then took a long drink, draining more than half the sanguine liquid away.
“Samuel Raimes has failed to report to his post, and he was last seen in Beronn, only a few shards away. It would not be so troubling were it not for the fact that you have his gryphon in your possession and many of the dwarves seem to believe you are, in fact, Samuel Raimes.”
Skalde became quiet as the grave, surveying Timothy with the cold, curious eyes of a cat who had cornered a mouse.
“As I said,” Timothy answered evenly, “and as Aebyn attests, Raimes abandoned his duty on the Wild Hawk. Where he went from there is of little interest to us. Aebyn is not his property. If you have any further questions, they can be addressed to my ship. I am moored at the skyport at dock six. If that's quite all...?”
“Samuel Raimes was a clod; a miserable buffoon unworthy of what little shreds of magic he possessed,” Skalde spat, slamming his fist on the table. “For all I care of him you can cut him into pieces and drop him into the ocean. Magic is better off without him and every other wretched half-wit that purchases a lighthound and deigns to call himself a true practitioner.”
“Are you quite finished?” Timothy asked, covering his startled surprise with snide irritation.
In answer, Skalde reached into his jacket. Reflexively Timothy's own hand darted to the pistol tucked into his belt. The smooth grip felt reassuring against his palm. Timothy's heart pounded. A route through the bar and onto the streets formed in his mind. With the element of surprise he might get all the way to the door before anyone in the bar could think to stop him. Unless Skalde had someone waiting in the bar or on the street. For those, Timothy had two more pistols loaded and tucked into holsters sewn into the inside lining of his dark blue jacket. Skalde did not come up with a gun, however. Instead, he tossed Isaac Faralon's journal down on the table.
“I have come about this, Mr. Binks. This,” he said, tapping the worn leather cover. “I found this in the hands of a luminarian of all things. Have you found your way into the company of street dragons, Mr. Binks?”
Aebyn's ears pricked forward at the mention of the luminarian and he stood, drawing Skalde's immediate ire. He produced a gun so quickly that Timothy almost shot the man simply for the startling speed of the action.
“Drop it!” Timothy demanded, his own pistol already pointed at Donovan Skalde's head.
“You have something that belongs to me. You will return it,” Skalde instructed, his gun still pointed at Aebyn. He paused for a moment, looking Timothy in the eyes before lowering his weapon to the table.
“There's no reason we cannot settle this amicably,” Skalde said. “Like gentlemen. We are after all, both gentlemen, are we not?
“Take your piece and get out,” Timothy ordered through gritted teeth.
Donovan Skalde stood slowly from the table and gingerly holstered his weapon. He kept the barrel pointed at the floor all the while. “The luminarian admitted to stealing the book from you. I have been to the alchemy lab. I know you have my Arlorian focus. When you are ready to return it I will be at the lighthouse. Do not make me wait long, Mr. Binks. I am not a patient man.”
The second hand on Timothy's pocket watch circled twice before he snapped it shut and stuffed his pistol into his belt and the newly cracked lockbox into his coat. He stopped at the door, looking out before motioning for Aebyn to follow him. They stopped only at the bar for Timothy to settle up his tab with the bartender. Only the briefest flash of gold caught the light as coins changed hands.
The streets made Timothy all the more wary, keeping him searching the shadows around the tavern for the silhouette of a knife or a hand drawing a pistol. Instead he found Willoughby, pacing in the alleyway and wringing his hands.
“Captain!” he said, lighting up with genuine relief. “How did it go?”
“Badly,” Timothy answered gruffly. He started up the street, leading Willoughby and Aebyn through the quiet murmur of the waning evening crowds. He steered them well abreast of the darker alleyways like the one Samuel Raimes had accosted him in and avoided those less-traveled roads where a man might disappear unseen by anyone keen to tell anyone of authority about it.
As the initial shock of the encounter wore off, the details started to ask Timothy questions. He wondered what an Arlorian focus was and how Skalde knew of the book's origin. He worried his way through Nothnor, feeling his shoulders finally relax at the familiar sight of the skyport with its broad, circular platform and the skydocks rising up to the colorful assortment of airships. The port was in the process of shutting down for the night. The small cafes had all drawn their shutters and a single watchman on patrol circled the perimeter, twirling a nightstick. He nodded to Timothy and his crew as they passed, then ducked into one of the alcoves to smoke a cigarette. The flare of his match briefly illuminated the gloomy stone archway.
Timothy pulled Willoughby into one of the empty alcoves. By then a light rain had begun to fall, painting the paving stones dark as polished onyx. The Stormbreaker loomed over them like a cloud heavy with rain.
“Is everything alright, Captain?” Willoughby asked.
“I need to know if there is anyone on the crew that might have gone to Skalde and told him we had Faralon's journal,” Timothy said in a hushed voice.
Willoughby's eyes turned worried and his brow knit together. “He knew about the book?”
“He had the book!”
Willoughby began to shake his head slowly. “No I can't think of anyone. He must've got it off that dragon.”
“He did mention a dragon,” Timothy observed, rubbing his chin as he tried to remember it.
“Sapphire Nightsong,” Aebyn provided. Both men looked down at him and he held up the little amulet he wore. The bit of topaz at its center was dark and lifeless. “She's the one he was looking for.”
Timothy had almost forgotten the crippled luminarian that sometimes accompanied Aebyn in the streets. The creature had taken to appearing mostly in the evenings and the two would sit and talk. On a few occasions Aebyn had gone so far as to carry the amulet into the city, but the lighthound rarely spoke of these outings with anyone, himself included.
“That's not a good sign for her...” Willoughby observed, voicing Timothy's own thoughts on the matter.
Aebyn's ears drooped a little and he found a little plant growing up through the paving stones to look at. “We mustn't say anything to Dawn until we are certain.”
“If you think that's best,” Timothy said. He did not understand why Aebyn had become so involved in the luminarians' problems but it was not a point worth arguing and so he left it alone for now. When the book had passed from the dragon to the man, the dragon had almost certainly ended up with a bullet in its chest.
“He knew we had it before the dragon,” Timothy said to Willoughby.
“Sapphire,” Aebyn corrected.
“Maybe she told him where she got it?” Willoughby suggested. He frowned a little as he thought. “No one on the crew comes to mind that might've slunk off. Besides, what reason would one of the lads have? There's not a soul on our crew what wants attention from a bridger, myself included.”
“But he's not a bridger...,” Timothy mused. It was the first time he had ever heard someone call Skalde as such and it rang false in his mind. Where was the uniform? The s
ignet ring?
“He's not?” Willoughby asked in a tone of befuddlement. “Surely he's not a mistweaver... People seem to like him well enough in town.”
Every bridger Timothy had occasion to meet had a certain air of authority and good breeding about them. This man, Donovan Skalde, seemed far more confrontational than the bridger culture usually fostered. There was the matter of the name, though. He had heard the name somewhere before but he could not remember where. It was enough to set him ill-at-ease. Fletcher Street, perhaps? There was an organization that could do for a few mages. Regular police weren't suited to picking bone shards out of a tavern wall and identifying what spell might've exploded the poor drunkard.
“No, I don't think that's it either,” said a worried Timothy Binks. “We'll need to be careful around him. He knows more than he should, and that's dangerous. Very dangerous.”
“He must really want whatever's in that box...” Willoughby said, curious eyes falling upon it.
“He must,” Timothy echoed. He knelt so that Aebyn could see. The alcove lit up with a soft emerald light, shining out from the crack of the lid. Something inside had a glow like a brightstone plated with green stained-glass. Timothy shielded his eyes from the radiance and lifted out a crystal that burned like a verdant flame. The moment he took it in hand he felt a power flow into him and the light faded to a pale ember of its former glory. The focus was small enough to fit in the palm of his hand. The edges were smooth despite its raw, rough-hewn appearance. It reminded him of broken wood, well-worn by the touch of many hands.
Willoughby gave a quiet whistle. “So that's an Arlorian focus?”
“What do you know about them?” Timothy asked, looking up at the old sailor.