A Clatter of Chains

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A Clatter of Chains Page 40

by A Van Wyck


  The general growled into the distance.

  “The information I have on the subject is sadly lacking,” the arcanist continued. “But I know that the Heli Temple has successfully combated necromancy in centuries past. I was hoping the keeper might have some suggestion on how we might defend against it?”

  His mentor returned the arcanist’s wry smile.

  “I fear I am even less qualified to speak of this, High Arcanist. Though it is true that we have warred with necromancy, ours has always been a war of extermination. We sought to eradicate, not comprehend. Death magicks and unholy witchery have been stamped out inside our borders for generations and all texts, paraphernalia and – I’m ashamed to admit – practitioners of the art burned.” The priest cocked his head. “Our Inquisitors were once adept at such extermination. They may know more of this but to request such information from them would entail relating at least the bare bones of this incident, which I will not do without your leave.”

  The arcanist nodded as if he’d expected no less.

  “Which leaves us with the question,” the general interrupted, “of how your boy here managed to see it…” the lopsided look was more accusatory than he felt was polite.

  “That would be most helpful to know,” Lorant put in, grip tightening on the cane. “Do you carry a charm or pendant, perhaps, young one? Some token or blessing?”

  The full attention of the three powerful men centered on him.

  “Not that I’m aware of,” he managed to squeak.

  “We have discussed this, your majesty,” the keeper rescued him, “and I have given it a great deal of thought. I’m afraid we do not know for certain how Marco was able to see, and interact with, the assassin’s spell.”

  It was the arcanist who nodded.

  “May I inspect you, young Marco?” the mage requested, extending a liver spotted hand. He felt his stomach twist into a hard knot.

  The king looked at the keeper, who nodded, and motioned for the arcanist to proceed.

  Peril Lorant shuffled up to him, cane punctuating every step. A wrinkled hand came to hover a hand’s breadth short of touching him but stopped short. Bushy eyebrows were raised in enquiry, despite the keeper and the king’s sanction.

  Steeling himself, he nodded his permission.

  “Try to relax.”

  He tried not to flinch at the warm hand that settled atop his head. The arcanist’s eyes drifted closed, though it was difficult to tell with all the wrinkles.

  The bent old man began to hum.

  The single, solid note was surprisingly strong and deep, coming from such a feeble looking chest. It echoed strangely, bouncing and refracting from surfaces that didn’t exist, gaining strength. Sustained, it went on and on, losing volume, gaining pitch… and then he was no longer certain that he could hear it. Not with his ears at least. The air felt charged with the memory of it, setting his skin to tingling.

  “Hmm,” the arcanist mused to himself while the sound went on unbroken. The old man’s hand shifted to settle over his breastbone, concentration deepening already deep wrinkles.

  Without meaning to, he held his breath.

  Finally, the old mage let the questing hand drop and stepped away. The strange note dwindled into nothingness.

  He exhaled in a huff.

  “Apologies, sire,” the arcanist turned to address the king. “I found nothing that would explain the boy’s uncanny ability.”

  “No need to apologize, old friend,” the king smiled, warm voice overshadowed by the downturned brow.

  The arcanist retreated to the throne, hobbling to take up the earlier position.

  The king sighed, one hand pinching the bridge of the royal nose.

  “It seems,” the monarch pronounced, “that I must ask a favor of you.”

  The ruler of the realm’s regard fell heavily, first on him then on the keeper. “I understand I am not your liege. You owe me no service, no loyalty. I cannot command this of you. But please, before you answer, I ask that you consider: I am an old man. My wife’s spirit has already sailed across the dark waters to the distant shores. She was a strong woman. She asked only that I look after our children.” The king sank slightly into the throne. “And now I find that, even with all the resources of a kingdom at my command… I stand powerless to protect my heirs.”

  The king’s dark gaze sought and held his own. He fidgeted, fighting the reflex to bow.

  “I ask you,” the monarch rumbled, “one man to another: help me keep my promise. Help me protect my family.”

  He stared at the king, struggling to breathe beneath the weight of the implications. His thoughts seemed to move at a crawl. Finally, he understood. As far as anyone knew, he was the only one who could detect the assassin’s magic. Should there be a second attempt... The king was asking that he be the ward! A bodyguard. A lookout for the royals...

  “Will you do me this service?” the king asked the both of them.

  The keeper turned to him, indicating it was his choice. He stared into the face of his mentor, seeking a sign, a hint of what to do. But the keeper was his serene self, open expression unreadable.

  “What say you, Master dei Toriam?” the king prompted. “Will you stand between my family and danger in my stead?”

  He remembered the assassin. Fear – primal and immediate – infused him. Fear for himself. Fear for the princess. What if he couldn’t save her no matter what he did? What if he wasn’t enough? He didn’t think he could survive another failure…

  His sudden spiral into self doubt hit something sharp and solid inside him. What had the keeper said? A true child of Helia. Selfless and self-sacrificing. After such high praise, there was no way he could disappoint his mentor. Making some effort to square his shaking shoulders, he stepped forward.

  “I will, your majesty.” His voice was not as strong as he would have preferred.

  The king’s grip on the arms of the throne loosened. An almost imperceptible sigh escaped the large man and the circleted head bowed.

  “You have an old man’s thanks,” the king said in a quiet voice.

  “Sire,” the general spoke up angrily. “I must protest! I–”

  “Your objection,” the king silenced the scarred officer, “has been noted, general. But you must concede: if the assassin could gain entry to my children’s apartments, he could as easily have gained entrance to mine. I was not the target. I agree with Master dei Toriam’s assessment. The assassin was after the princess Dailill. He will be assigned to protect her. Not me.”

  The general looked ready to argue further.

  “Now, if you please,” the king forestalled.

  Teeth audibly grinding, the general turned sharply to march to where stood a chest high table, bearing an engraved wooden box as long as a man’s forearm from fingertips to elbow. The general brought it stiffly to him, glaring over his head with the box cradled it in the crook of an arm. A vein throbbed angrily beneath the military man’s scar.

  “Marco dei Toriam,” the king intoned, drawing his attention, “now receive a king’s thanks.”

  On cue, the general knelt on one knee before him and proffered the opened box. Inside, nestled among shining silks, lay an orin.

  He stifled a gasp. The little shortsword, unmistakably Imperial in origin, glistened in the lamplight. The orin, companion sword to a full sized weirin, must have come to the Kingdom as a trophy off one of the many battlefields punctuating their centuries of history. The dark sheath shimmered like mother-of-pearl. A rainbow patina played over the glossy finish. He extended his hands reverently, waiting for the king’s nod before lifting it from its bed of silks. His hands were shaking. He did not need to unsheathe it to know this blade would sheen with a honeycomb pattern. This was one of the heirin’masha no rii. Sacred weapons forged for the holy warriors who’d once conquered a continent and heralded an Empire. There were no more than a dozen like this in all the world. All were thought locked in the Primus Sanctori behind impenetrable crystal casin
gs. There, they kept company with the sarcophagi of the four warrior saints – the Primes of the Heli Empire.

  Overcome, he clutched the shortsword to his chest and bowed deeply.

  * * *

  “Outrageous! Preposterous!” The ambassador had been ranting for a full quarter of a bell. Justin was impressed by the volume of adjectives at the ambassador’s disposal. Not to mention sheer noise volume. The high lord would wind down eventually, he knew from experience. And be more tractable in the wake of the ridiculous rant.

  Once again he shared a glance with Adrio Bulgaron. The chapter master sat with his back to the wall with all possible entrances in view. Long legs were arranged for ease of access to an absent sword. The man exuded patience. And faint undertones of disgust.

  He found it hard not to echo the emotion.

  The truest measure of a man lay not in how he treated his equals, after all. Once more, he thanked Helia he wasn’t subject to the ambassador’s whims. He added a silent prayer for those who were, trying to withhold judgement. A quote from the scriptures offered itself for consideration: ‘I will take your measure by the stick you have measured others.’ Jordanji, speaking to the Militites during the conversion of Mellum.

  “…absolutely ludicrous…” the ambassador’s voice intruded on his calming mantra.

  I could put a measuring stick to some good use right about now…

  He banished the unworthy thought. Some sins you had to live with. And some sinners too.

  “…an oversight of monumental proportions… ”

  The ambassador wasn’t upset that the king had basically conscripted Marco into Renali military service. If asked, the ambassador would probably be hard pressed to put a name to Justin’s ward. No, Malconte felt slighted at not being privy to the clandestine meeting of the previous evening. For such a short man, the high lord was obsessed with social stature.

  The chapter master seemed more concerned that the orin the king had gifted Marco be handed over to the Chapter of Metalworkers as their right. A dubious claim the man wasn’t intending to press immediately, to everyone’s relief. It would be quite a coup for the Chapter to lay claim to the orin. Besides being priceless to the Empire’s history and heritage it was also, quite simply, worth a fortune. Several fortunes, in fact. The secrets of creating hiss’orda – eversteel – had been lost since time immemorial. Discovering the means of its manufacture would elevate the Chapter to a force in the Empire.

  It was also a holy relic and, as such, Imperial Law made it Temple property. That law had effectively denied the Chapters access to many wonders of the ages past.

  And poor Marco was stuck in the middle.

  “Done is done,” the chapter master interrupted, sensing the ambassador’s tirade winding to a close. “We must decide on how to proceed.”

  “Yes, yes,” the ambassador mused distractedly, still pacing up and down in agitation, silks singing to the rhythm of short steps.

  “I, for one,” the chapter master declared, “am relieved to have the keeper’s ward absolved of any wrongdoing. It puts us in the clear. His being asked to perform a personal service to the throne is a boon to our cause.”

  “A valid point,” the ambassador conceded, tones clipped in the aftermath of histrionics. “We must find how best to use this situation to our advantage.” Fingering a hairless chin, the ambassador slowly sank into a chair, toes dangling a finger off the ground. “There will be a renewed reason to have the summit succeed. After all, we might decide to leave if we did not get what we came for. And take our little assassin-detector with us. Hmm.”

  Justin directed his gaze out the window to hide his disapproval. As political maneuverings went, it was undeniably a good one. That didn’t mean he had to like it.

  “There are other implications to consider,” Adrio put in.

  He gave the chapter master his attention and even the ambassador turned an ear.

  “In the event,” the old soldier continued, “there is another attempt on the princess’s life. A successful one. Where does that leave us?”

  He had already considered this but it was obviously a new direction of thought for the ambassador.

  “We might be apportioned blame,” the round man shot upright again to resume pacing, a frown doing its valiant best to crease those pudgy features. “Unless…”

  He didn’t care for the calculating cast to the man’s thoughts.

  “Unless the boy dies in the attempt. Yes!” Malconte continued, liking the sound of his own idea. “If the boy succumbs heroically, trying to rescue the Renali spawn, that would reflect well on us! You must speak to the boy,” the ambassador commanded him, as if expecting that he run and relay the instruction right that moment. “Make him understand, priest, that if anything should happen to the princess, he is to ensure he does not survive.”

  He treated the man to a deadpan expression, awaiting a return to rationality... But the round man continued to stare at him expectantly.

  “Lord Malconte…” he began, but was interrupted by a knock at the door.

  “Message for the keeper,” came the muffled announcement.

  For a moment, he expected to see Marco skip into the room to get the door but realized with a start the boy wasn’t here anymore. After agreeing to the king’s proposal last night, the boy’s things had been taken to new accommodation in the royal apartments. He’d returned to an empty room.

  “Come,” he called.

  A page entered, bearing a folded and unsealed square of vellum. The young man stopped short, obviously intimidated by the heavy atmosphere in the room. Spooked eyes evaluated the nearby side table as a possible recipient of the missive.

  He denied the young man’s impulse to flee, crooking a finger for the message. The brightly clad page approached, handing over the note as though sticking his hand into a bear trap. Not waiting to see whether there was a reply, the boy beat a hasty retreat.

  He was grateful for any distraction. He already knew the ambassador would opt for the usual, proven strategy: do nothing and wait. He glanced at the note. It was rare for any message to travel the palace unsealed. The attendants were notoriously nosy and would sell what they knew for coin. He saw why a seal was unnecessary as he’d unfolded the little scrap of vellum. He scanned the single line of script twice, frowning.

  “Gentlemen,” he said without looking up, aware that he’d interrupted a low voiced conversation. “I fear I will have to step out for a moment.” He could have added a ‘Please continue without me,’ but knew they wouldn’t anyway. Without another look, he strode through the door, leaving the ambassador feeling slighted and the chapter master’s patience unshaken.

  The walk down to the lower north-west atrium gave him plenty of time to think, even walking fast as he was. He entered the enclosed garden and had to blink against the bright glare. The palace’ designers had carefully considered the movement of the sun before apportioning the many private solars. They’d left open avenues for the light to touch down in these, at specific times of day.

  Suddenly recalling the concern of Cyrus’s friend Willion, and also quite suddenly aware he’d effectively surrendered his bodyguard just the night before, his steps slowed. He took his time, wandering down the curving footpath. Outwardly, he studied the foreign columns and water-dials decorating the little haven. In truth, he was using the time to let his senses spin out around him, hunting any deadly intent.

  Vines climbed the surrounding walls and most of the carved pillars. They were awash in unfamiliar, trumpet-shaped blooms. Their sweet scent saturated the garden. He cupped one delicate blossom in his hand.

  “Lovely, aren’t they?” a familiar voice wheezed.

  He concentrated desperately on not crushing the brave bloom in his surprise.

  That, at least, answered the question as to who’d known enough to send a message only he could read. It didn’t explain how the Renali High Arcanist was fluent in eleventh-century Temple script. It was an all but dead language, even among
Temple historians.

  Moving slowly, he turned to the sound of the arcanist’s voice.

  The old man sat on one of the granite benches, enjoying the sun. A wreath of flowers overhead partially shaded his face and his cane lounged between his knees.

  From the man Justin could sense… absolutely nothing.

  Even as he watched, his sense of the old man strengthened and he felt the amusement that matched the kindly face grow clearer.

  “You surprised me,” he said mildly.

  And that’s an understatement.

  “Apologies,” the arcanist chuckled, “I was meditating.”

  He sensed no malice from the royal mage, only… satisfaction. He cautioned himself to be wary. It was too easy to forget the harmless looking man was one of the most powerful in the Renali court. The arcanist would have a coterie of spies just like any other noble.

  He had known his empathic ability wouldn’t remain a secret from everyone. Most assuredly the king knew. Maybe a handful of others including, it seemed, the high arcanist. It had been a test, he realized. And the crafty old man had just confirmed one way to circumvent his sixth sense. Sudden inspiration struck.

  “You’re that P. Lorant, aren’t you? Author of The Re-emergence of Magic.” Although it was phrased as a question, he was already sure.

  “The same,” the arcanist confirmed.

  He considered.

  “Your work has been a great help to a friend of mine,” he informed the arcanist. “He extrapolated that the ambient magic in the world was continually rising and falling like waves. And that the phenomenon was increasing in frequency and potency.”

  “Quite correct,” the arcanist nodded a shaggy head. “A fact I once thought to exploit. Like so many other ill-considered ideas of youth, it taught harsh but valuable lessons.”

  “How so?”

  At length, the arcanist gave up chewing a whiskered lip and treated him to a piercing stare.

  “Waves you said. A good analogy. Tellar is a port city, is it not? Tell me, Keeper, have you ever seen a tidal wave come ashore?”

 

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