by Carol A Park
“You have questions, I see,” Mezzo said. “And yet fear to ask them. No doubt the work of your Conclave.” The last word he spoke as though it were rotten in his mouth.
“What do you have against the Conclave in particular?” Driskell asked. The question popped out before he could stop it.
“They have taken your ancient gods—with whom we share affinity—and defiled them and their places of worship.”
Driskell swallowed. No more on this subject. This was a dangerous conversation.
Mezzo, however, had no such reservations. “You are clearly a learned man, Dal Driskell.” He spoke the latter syllable of Driskell’s name with an odd scratchy noise in the back of his throat. “I would not think someone like you, at the least, would accept so readily the suppression of knowledge.”
“Don’t be like the Conclave—so xenophobic,” Nahua had said. “This is an opportunity you’re not likely to have again. Don’t waste it.”
He knew now what she had meant, but had she meant even more by it than he had considered? He hesitated, and then forged on. “You don’t Sedate Banebringers in Xambria,” he said. “I know that much.”
Mezzo sniffed. “What a waste. Why would we neutralize our greatest weapons? The Godtouched have positions of great honor in battle—at the front.”
Driskell blinked again. Godtouched. That was a new one. Once again, his fingers twitched on a phantom pencil in his hand. “That’s a great honor?”
“Of course it is. Many Xambrians fight long years in the arena to win the honor of being the first to shed blood when the muster is called. Godtouched win it simply by virtue of being touched.”
Driskell’s head was spinning. Arena? “Uh…I’m no war leader, but I’m pretty sure we just throw our most useless soldiers in the front as fodder.”
“I will never understand the amount of waste you Setanans tolerate.”
“But doesn’t having Bane—um—Godtouched at the front mean they might die and spawn bloodbane?”
“Certainly. Both a risk and an advantage, if one knows how to use it properly.”
Xambrians—and the Yunqi and the southern nomads, to name a couple more—didn’t have the same way of dealing with their Banebringers that Setanans did. But this sounded less like “dealing” with them and more like honoring them. At least in Xambrian culture.
But Xambrians worshipped the heretic gods. Wasn’t that what Mezzo had implied? So of course they wouldn’t see Banebringers as profane. Even the name he had used—“Godtouched”—seemed to imply that Banebringers were rather highly regarded.
His thoughts turned to Yaotel. What was Nahua waiting for?
A shout rang from the watch tower farther down the wall, and a moment later, a bell rang three times—one long followed by two short chimes—and then a Watchman clattered down the stairs and out of sight.
“Ah,” Mezzo said, his eyes on the plains below. “There seems to be an important matter at hand.”
Driskell followed his gaze. A single horseman pounded across the plains; the speed at which he rode suggested that his mission was urgent.
“I should get back,” Driskell said.
“Of course.” Mezzo bowed low again. “Until next time, Dal Driskell.”
Driskell hurried through the civic hall toward the conference room, where he guessed he would find Nahua and the Ri.
A servant stopped him on the way to inform him Nahua was looking for him, and he could find her in the conference room, which confirmed his guess.
Heated voices rose from behind the doors. The fact that Driskell could even hear them through the thick wood spoke to how heated.
He hesitated only a moment before slipping into the room. Nahua was looking for him. Nahua was in this room; therefore, he could be in the room as well.
No one paid one bit of attention to him.
Ri Tanuac sat at the head of the table in his usual spot, silent while the four Gan stood at the table shouting at one another.
His instinct was to pull out his notebook, but Nahua was in the back of the room pouring herself a glass of wine and gestured for Driskell to join her.
She answered the question that was on the tip of his tongue before he could ask.
“A messenger just arrived with some disheartening news,” she said. “The Conclave has heard of Ambassador Mezzo’s presence here and is insisting that we eject him immediately or face the consequences.”
Driskell’s eyes widened. “And have they spelled out those consequences?”
She gave him a side-eye. “No. But there’s a contingent of about six thousand troops headed toward the Donian border.”
Driskell took a deep breath. This was bad. This was really bad. “This seems like a bit of an overreaction. I assume we’ve made no reply yet.”
Nahua glanced over at the arguing Gan. “We haven’t, but the Conclave isn’t stupid,” she said. “They know their hold on the outer regions is tenuous. Their best weapon is fear; for us to have openly welcomed the Xambrian ambassador shows that perhaps our fear of them isn’t what it ought to be.”
Driskell let that sink in. Fear. And now, for the first time since the Conclave had staged their little coup, they were throwing their weight toward Donia. To see what they would do. To see if they would once again bow.
“What about Venetia? Fuilyn? Why us?” Driskell asked.
Nahua shook her head. “Neither of them have, as far as we know, openly acknowledged their ambassadors like we have.” She cast a look toward the Ri, whose face was now deeply etched in a frown as he watched his advisors argue. “And, frankly…we already bowed once without a fight. Perhaps they see us as the easiest target.”
Driskell found himself indignant at the thought. Just because their ancestors had decided the best answer to the Setanan problem was to give up before a single sword had been drawn didn’t mean that, hundreds of years later, they would do the same. “Will they really attack us, or is it a bluff?”
Nahua shook her head. “I don’t know.” She paused. “Did you learn anything interesting from our friend Mezzo today?”
“They call their Banebringers ‘Godtouched,’” Driskell said, “and honor them by placing them on the front lines in battle.”
Nahua stared off into nothing for a moment, swishing the wine around her glass. “Interesting. So if it came to battle against the Xambrians instead of…”
“Enough.” Tanuac’s voice boomed out.
The room fell silent.
“I’ve had enough of all of you,” Tanuac said. “You’re dismissed. Be back here tomorrow morning, same time, and come prepared with solutions, not bickering.”
The four Gan filed out of the room, their expressions ranging from morose to infuriated.
Nahua set her glass down. “I have a task for you,” she said quietly. “Retrieve Dal Yaotel and bring him here. You can brief him on the way.”
Driskell turned to her, his mouth open. “Here? Now? But—”
“No more questions, Driskell. Just go.”
He bit his tongue. “Yes, my lady. Going.”
Chapter Nine
Blood and Magic
Driskell took a deep breath as he stopped in front of the room in the consulate Nahua had given over to Yaotel’s house arrest. He had questioned why Nahua had ignored Yaotel for so long; now that it had come to releasing him, he found himself suddenly nervous.
This had the potential to cause a multitude of problems.
Driskell unfolded a release form he had grabbed from his office and held it and a pencil out to the guard on duty. “Lady Nahua is releasing the prisoner into my care.”
The guard nodded, signed the form, and unlocked the door.
Driskell tucked the form in his pocket and stepped in. The room was well-appointed. It had a real bed, a soft rug, and artwork adorning the walls. Dal Yaotel had not been mistreated. He was sitting on the bed at present, cross-legged, his head leaned back against the wall.
“Dal,” Driskell said. “Lady Nahua re
quests your presence.”
Yaotel shoved himself off the bed and stood in front of Driskell. He said nothing.
“Do you need me, Dal?” the guard asked as Driskell led Yaotel out into the hall.
“No,” Driskell said. “I can handle it from here.” I hope.
After they had stepped through the door of his room and into the hall, Driskell turned to Yaotel. “I can trust you not to try to escape, right?”
Yaotel inclined his head.
Driskell took another deep breath and blew it out slowly. “All right. Then let’s go.”
Yaotel walked alongside him, and Driskell began to summarize what was happening. “I’m taking you to the main conference room to see Lady Nahua and possibly the Ri himself. To my knowledge, Lady Nahua hasn’t told him about”—Driskell glanced around to make sure they were still alone—“your…condition yet.”
“It isn’t a disease, Dal,” Yaotel said quietly.
Driskell eyed him. The conversation he had had with Ambassador Mezzo was still on his mind. “Did you know the Xambrians call you people ‘Godtouched’?” he blurted out.
A smile slid over Yaotel’s lips and then faded. “I did know that. I also know they have a higher proportion of beastbloods, which is what I am.”
“Beastblood?”
“I think I’ll wait to explain until I hear what Nahua has to say.”
“Yes. About that.” He explained the situation further to Yaotel—the arrival of the Xambrian Ambassador, his offer, the pending arrival of the Conclave army on their northern border. When Driskell had finished, Yaotel asked no questions.
Driskell was torn between wanting to ask his own questions and being afraid to, so they walked the rest of the way in silence.
They turned down the hall that led to the conference room and stopped in front of the door. Driskell hefted the door open and held it for Yaotel. “After you, Dal.”
Tanuac was still in the conference room, along with Nahua, both standing rather than sitting at the table.
They turned to face Driskell and Yaotel as they entered, giving Driskell the impression that they had been talking and had fallen silent.
Tanuac’s eyes swept over Yaotel critically. Yaotel’s jaw jumped, and his eyes, likewise, swept over Tanuac.
Driskell glanced at Nahua.
She made a gesture with her hand at her thigh, her palm parallel to the ground, like a quick horizontal chop.
She did it to indicate silently to him to wait: say nothing, do nothing, don’t even move.
At last, Tanuac broke the standoff. He gestured toward the table. “Dal Yaotel. Please. Have a seat.”
Nahua made a circle with her hand to indicate Driskell could go back to business as usual.
Yaotel settled himself into a chair at the end of the table. Nahua did the same, and Driskell sat next to her, pulling out his notebook and pencil.
Tanuac remained standing. He glanced once at Yaotel and then paced back and forth a few times. Finally, he came to a halt at the head of the table and gripped the back of the chair. “Nahua has just informed me of your condition.”
Not a disease, Driskell thought, glancing at Yaotel, but the Banebringer didn’t correct Tanuac.
Instead, he folded his hands in front of him on the table. “Has she also informed you of my offer?”
“Yes,” Tanuac answered. “And, Temoth help me, I…would like to learn more. Nahua said you can demonstrate some of what you’re offering?”
“I can,” Yaotel said. “But I’ll need my belongings back in order to do so.”
Tanuac gave a tight nod to Nahua.
She strode over to the door, pulled it open, and had a brief conversation with one of the guards standing outside. Then she closed the door and returned to her former position.
“While we wait, Dal,” Tanuac said, “tell me: Why here? Why not one of the other outer regions?”
Yaotel nodded. “First, because Ferehar, while perhaps the most open-minded regarding my kind amongst the general populace, is politically an untenable option. Fuilyn is too conservative when dealing with Setana; they prefer to mind their own business and hope Setana leaves well enough alone. And out of Venetia and Donia, Donia is the most practical.” He trailed off and looked out of the window, which afforded a grand view of the city and plains beyond. “It was also my home, once upon a time.”
“And second?” Tanuac prompted.
A satisfied smile flitted across Yaotel’s lips. “Second, a so-called Banebringer is already within the upper echelons of your government. I have heard rumors. Talk. Hopes.”
Driskell’s hand jerked in shock, and a drop of ink spattered onto the table. He hurriedly wiped it up, hoping no one had seen, while his mind spun, wondering who it could be.
Tanuac exchanged a look with Nahua, and his knuckles whitened on the chair. “You’ve planted someone?”
Yaotel settled back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. “I haven’t planted anyone, Your Excellency. Someone already in a position of relative confidence became a Banebringer and subsequently learned about the Ichtaca.” He raised an eyebrow. “You thought they would confide in you, perhaps?”
One of the Gan? Anwell? One of the Ri’s personal guard? While only the Gan knew the specifics of their recent councils, any of the above would know enough to pass on rumors.
Tanuac frowned. “I could order blood tests of my entire staff.”
“You could,” Yaotel said. “But you won’t. Because I happen to know you have expressed a distaste for the Conclave’s invasive methods. Or is that distaste only valid as long as the threat is vague and impersonal?”
Nahua’s eyebrow quirked up at her father, and Tanuac’s frown deepened, but he made no reply.
“Don’t worry. The person in question is only tangentially connected to the Ichtaca. I simply know enough that I was willing to take this chance, along with the other reasons I mentioned.”
And yet he felt the need to inform the Ri of the Banebringer in his midst. Driskell felt that was somehow important, so he wrote it down.
There was a knock on the door, and one of the Ri’s guards poked his head in. He set two bags on the floor next to the door. “Dal Yaotel’s belongings, Your Excellency,” he said.
“Thank you, Arato,” Tanuac said, his eyes on the guard.
Driskell could almost hear his thoughts. Was it this guard? Had he overheard something?
“Please see that we are undisturbed,” Tanuac said.
The guard inclined his head and returned to his post.
Yaotel waited until the door had fully closed, and then he stood and walked over to the bags. He opened the smaller of the two and removed an even smaller bag from it, and then brought that bag back to his chair and sat down once again. Opening the bag, he removed two items: a small, compact-sized mirror, and a long, leather case.
Yaotel looked up at Tanuac and Nahua. “May I?” he asked.
Tanuac nodded.
Yaotel unwound the string from the smaller leather case and opened the flap. Sewn along the inside was a series of small pockets. Each had a raised symbol embroidered on the outside of the pocket. Yaotel opened the first two and removed fingernail-sized scraps of silver from both.
Hardened aether.
Driskell found himself rising from his chair to take a closer look, his fascination overcoming any fear.
Nahua cleared her throat and looked meaningfully at his notebook.
Oops. Notes. Right. He settled back down and drew a sketch of the pouch, right down to the symbols on the pockets.
“Dal Driskell, was it?” Yaotel asked.
Driskell’s head jerked back up. “Yes, Dal.”
“May I borrow a sheet of your paper and the lantern from the wall behind you?”
“Uh…” He glanced at Tanuac, who nodded, so Driskell procured both items and pushed them across the table toward Tanuac.
Yaotel nodded his thanks. “I want to spare you a lecture right now, but some basics are in o
rder. First, among the Ichtaca, we call ourselves Gifted, not Banebringers. We do not now and have never summoned bloodbane; the fact that they appear in our world is completely out of our control—as is, in fact, our own existence. But we’ll save further education on those points for another day. For now, suffice it to say that I will, from now on, use our preferred terminology.” He raised an eyebrow at Tanuac. “Lest you think the term is arrogant, it is, in fact, a term we resurrected from the not-too-distant past. It’s what my kind used to be called before the Conclave.”
Driskell leaned forward. Really? A dozen more questions popped into his head, but he held his tongue.
Tanuac jerked his head in acknowledgment.
“Second,” Yaotel went on, “Gifted have magic; you are aware of this. But there are different types of Gifted, with different abilities. We can’t, in and of ourselves, do anything other than the abilities we personally have. We can, however, use each other’s aether to reproduce the abilities, to a greater or lesser degree, of that type of Gifted.” He held up the first sliver of aether. “This is aether from what we call a fireblood.”
He crushed it between his fingers and then touched the wick of the unlit lantern. It flared to life.
Driskell blinked. Had he lit that with his fingers?
He then touched the paper, but nothing happened. “The lantern lights because the aether knows it as something that harnesses fire. The aether itself acts as a sort of flint, in this case. We call that a focus. However, if you touch it to anything else, it won’t light up. Paper is not an effective focus. I can, however, directly manipulate a fire that already exists.” He pointed at the flame and a piece of it tore off and hovered over Yaotel’s palm. He then tossed it onto the paper, which, of course, caught on fire. “Harnessing, manipulating, and”—he gestured to the lantern—“in limited applications, even creating fire is one of the more dramatic abilities that our Gifted—those called firebloods—have. You can see immediately the usefulness in a combat setting.” He quirked an eyebrow up at Tanuac, who nodded slowly. “Using the aether, I can do some of these things. But our most powerful firebloods can do even more, including creating fire out of nothing.”