by J. S. Morin
“How could you let—” Harwick began.
“How could I have let anything?” Axterion leapt from his chair and shouted the question, placing his hands on the desk and leaning across at Harwick. “I was at my wits’ end trying to keep up with that boy. I taught him right from wrong. I taught him to love learning. I taught him how to work his spells as best I could. Then Rashan showed up and tore every moral fiber I’d stuffed into that boy to shreds. I’m still holding hope that he’ll come around when he matures, but it’s a flickering hope, and the winds of war blow mighty strong.”
“Maybe if I talked to him?” Harwick asked. “I at least have to see for myself.”
Axterion slumped back into his chair and waved him away. “Fine. I’ve got other matters to attend. Best of luck with that demon you sired. He should be back around dinnertime.”
Harwick felt his face warm, and he was a man unaccustomed to shame. He backed out of the office and let himself out. Just before the door shut behind him, Axterion called out one final thing. “Oh, and it’s nice to see you again, son.”
“That was harsh,” a voice called out a moment after the door shut.
Axterion glanced up and saw his second ghost of the day. “Brannis! You’re here! I scarcely believed that demon woman when she told me you were alive.” Taller than any among the Solarans, Brannis had always stood out. First as a failed sorcerer, then a knight, then again as a sorcerer of untold might. Anyone who had lived in Kadris six winters ago knew that face from parades and feast-day functions. With young eyes, Axterion could finally see his grown grandson as everyone else had.
“I’ve actually found that Illiardra is a poor liar,” Brannis replied. “Strange. You’d think ten thousand summers would give a demon plenty of practice.”
“What happened between you and Rashan? The official story was you betrayed and attacked him, but both of you perished in the struggle.”
“Who made up that load of dung?” Brannis asked. “That paranoid maniac attacked me, and he paid the price for it.”
“But where have you been all this time? We could have used you around here.”
“I took Juliana and we left,” said Brannis. “I can traverse worlds without those machines. But I came here for a reason, and it wasn’t to correct the fictions you’re writing into history. You wanted to see me about Danil?”
“I wouldn’t call him that to his face anymore,” Axterion replied. “It’s Danilaesis … preferably Warlock Danilaesis. And he’s sliding down the path to becoming the next Rashan.”
“I heard he already got his twin killed, by friends no less, for the way he’s acted.”
“That’s the rough size of it,” Axterion replied. “He’s not so far gone that he doesn’t know what others think of him, but he doesn’t seem to care.”
Brannis grinned. “I’ll work on that.”
Danilaesis rubbed his eyes as he stumbled into his bedroom. The room was dark save for a sliver of starlight that peeked between the drawn curtains. He had spent most of his days staring into the viewframe as that clod of a daruu wandered the skies above the Korrish sea, looking in vain for Madlin’s airship. There had been no way to save face after the search had begun; he had to continue on until the day’s end or until they found something. The day had ended. As irksome and repetitive as it had been slaughtering farmers and lighting wheat fields aflame, that had been a festival dance compared to staring out over the trackless waters for hours at a stretch. Of all the bloody annoying traits the daruu had displayed, a stoic patience for menial tasks had proven the most vexing.
Unslinging the sheath of Sleeping Dragon from his back, he tossed the weapon across the arms of a chair. The down-stuffed mattress of his bed called out to him, its draw stronger than the want of food that snarled within his stomach. He collapsed onto his back, letting the softness envelop him.
“You’d think a boy your age would have more energy,” a familiar voice called from a shadowed corner of the room.
In an instant, Danilaesis rolled from the bed and dove for his sword. As he moved, he switched to aether-vision to discover where his foe was hiding. There was no one. The wards around the room glowed in the aether, as did the runeforged blade of Sleeping Dragon. Backing himself against a wall in a crouch, Danilaesis kept the blade out in front of him against whoever might be hiding even in the aether.
“Who’s there?” he demanded of the darkness. All traces of fatigue fled as aether surged within him, ready to be unleashed.
A light flared, drawing Danilaesis’s attention out of the aether. Standing before him was the image of Brannis Solaran. A trick. Brannis was dead.
“It’s me,” the apparition claimed, smiling insouciantly. Whoever had created the illusion had done well, perhaps too well. Brannis looked just like the Brannis of six winters past. He ought to have aged. His hair ought to have edged back from his brow. There should be a grey hair or two by his temples.
Danilaesis looked around the room, ignoring the false Brannis. “Nice try, whoever you are. But I’m no fool to be taken in by your illusions. Show yourself.”
“I wouldn’t believe it if I wasn’t seeing it with my own eyes,” said the false Brannis. “You have completely lost yourself to paranoia.”
Danilaesis loosed a bolt of fire at the apparition, hoping to send it back to raw aether in shreds. It struck a shielding spell instead. His eyes widened. There had been no shield a moment before; he would have seen it clearly in the aether.
The apparition of Brannis approached. “I’ve had about enough of this nonsense, Danil.”
Danilaesis swung two-handed, aiming to remove the arm that reached for him. Moving faster than any human could manage, even with aether-sped muscles, the apparition grabbed the blade—a blade strong enough to bite into stone—mid swing and tore it from Danilaesis’s grasp.
“What are you doing with this sword?” the apparition demanded. “This was Iridan’s. I helped make it for him.”
“If you’re really Brannis, you’d know who empowered it.” Only three other people knew that secret, a blacksmith, the empress, and his dead cousin.
“You did, you little slackwit,” Brannis snapped back at him. “Now, why are you playing at being a warlock instead of finishing up at the Academy.”
“You’re … you can’t be him.”
“They told you Rashan killed me.”
“You killed each other.”
“They guessed. They didn’t know.”
“You’re not dead?”
“Do I look dead to you?”
“Yes.”
“Look closer.”
Danilaesis knew that Brannis meant in the aether. He closed his eyes to the light and looked once more. The shielding spell evaporated as he watched, leaving nothing to protect. There was no Brannis, no Source shining in the aether. Brannis had displayed a Source visible from across town, but this person who claimed his name was as invisible in the aether as … as Rashan had been.
“You’re a demon!” Danilaesis exclaimed, backing away. “What happened to you?”
“Rashan had the fool idea that I wanted to kill him, so he attacked first. In so doing, I was forced to prove him right. But before I finished him—and for selfish reasons I won’t be telling you how I managed that—I forced him to reveal the secret of his immortality.”
“Some good it did him,” Danilaesis muttered.
“Indeed,” said Brannis. “He could have lived out his days, had he resisted the lure of blood, the call to war, the whispers of paranoia. He died because for his own peace of mind, he had to kill me.”
“Sounds like he died because you wanted to be a demon.”
“Listen to yourself. You’re starting to sound just like him. He second-guessed everyone. He killed because it was safer than letting an enemy live, even if he killed a few allies by mistake. He saw everyone aligned against him.”
“I want to be just like him,” Danilaesis countered. “He is the greatest hero the Kadrin Empire ever ha
d.”
“He’s dead.”
“Fine, everything but that.”
“Dead is what being just like Rashan is going to get you. No one can charge headlong and take on the world. Not for long, anyway.”
“I’ve got a war to fight.”
“A war I hear you started,” said Brannis.
“He killed me!” Danilaesis shrieked. How could people not understand that? The call of vengeance for a lover or a father was the stuff of stories. But how could that compare to the desperate need to avenge one’s own death?
Brannis looked at him with pity in his eyes. Pity! How dare he?
“You ran off, you coward,” Danilaesis said. “You’re Kadrin. This is your fight, too. With your help, we can leave Megrenn in ruins, find Anzik Fehr and make him suffer, pay back those Korrish rats for helping him.”
“No.”
Danilaesis clenched his teeth. “You’re worthless, then!”
Brannis took a step forward, and some reasonable part of Danilaesis’s brain dumped ice water on the fires that burned in his heart. “Now wait a minute … I didn’t mean you’re worthless worthless, just that if you leave us during wartime, you’re worthless to the empire.”
“Danil, if I was going to put an end to this war right now, I’d do it by wringing your neck. You’re trampling across the continent, ruining lives, destroying families. You’ve aspired to follow in the footsteps of a madman, and I fear you’ve already followed them too far.”
“Now Brannis—” Danilaesis backpedaled until he bumped against the wall.
“This isn’t my war. I’ve kept the other immortals from interfering, and I won’t play the hypocrite any farther than coming to talk sense into you. All I can promise is that if you continue following Rashan’s path, you’ll meet the same end.”
Brannis picked up Sleeping Dragon and handed it hilt-first to Danilaesis. Then he was gone. Danilaesis was left alone in his bedroom, holding a sword. He waited for some sign that Brannis might return, then slid the blade back into its sheath and returned to bed.
After five attempts to unravel Brannis’s light spell, he gave up and fell asleep beneath a noonday glow.
Though the door was fashioned of polished oak, it might well have been cast in iron with a barred window. Inside waited a monster. Harwick had heard the exchange inside, scarcely able to believe his ears. One voice he only knew as his son’s because the room belonged to Danilaesis, and because the second voice called him Danil. That other voice … he had not expected to hear that voice ever again.
But Harwick had come with a purpose, and it was a purpose that grew no less needful with waiting. The room had gone quiet, and it seemed certain that Brannis had departed. If only Harwick had stopped for a drink before coming, his hands might not have shaken as he reached up and knocked.
“Go away,” came a reply muffled by the door.
A heat rose from Harwick’s chest and spread until it reached his face. That tone—that lazy, disdainful tone—had hardly changed in six winters. That spoiled, arrogant … I’ll show him who isn’t going away. Slipping into aether-vision, Harwick inspected the wards that protected the door. Like any sorcerer of worth, the boy had formed the wards himself. It was sloppy work, with runes looking as if they’d been carved with a weapon rather than a tool. It was a simple pattern, empowered nearly to bursting to make up for the shoddy craftsmanship. Even though he was not the sorcerer that Caladris Solaran had been, Dunston Harwick had more subtlety to his magic than Danilaesis. With an expert application of aether, he collapsed the ward and shoved the door open.
Danilaesis was lying atop the blankets of his bed, but rolled to the floor and grabbed for his sword before Harwick could even pass the threshold. The sword pointed at Harwick drooped as realization dawned in the young warlock’s eyes. “You! How … bloody blazes, I get nothing but dead people visiting me!”
Harwick shut the door behind him. “You loathsome clod, I raised you smarter than this.”
“Grandfather raised me,” Danilaesis shot back. “You were never around.”
“Then I sired you smarter than this,” Harwick replied. “Caladris is dead. I came here from Tellurak.”
“Sure you did, dead man,” Danilaesis replied. The sword tip raised once more, aimed at Harwick’s chest. “I’ve got enemies who could tell me that tale. Prove you’re him. My father never mentioned being twinborn.”
“Do I need to bring your grandfather in here to vouch for me? I’ve already spoken with him since I arrived.”
Danilaesis’s eyes unfocused, a sign that he had switched to aether-vision. After a moment, he returned the sword to its sheath. “You’ve got nowhere near the Source my father had.”
“True enough. From what I hear, your Telluraki twin was the weaker as well.”
A scowl came on like a summer storm, arriving in fury and with no warning. “I wouldn’t bring that up too often, if I were you. I’m no fool. If you’re here, you came through one of the transport gates, which means they got to you. Father or not, you’re with them. What do you want here?”
“They sent me as an ambassador. I’m supposed to trade you the location of that airship of theirs for an end to the war.”
A soft snuffling sound issued from Danilaesis. His shoulders shook, and the corners of his lips curled. The sound grew until it escaped as a burst of helpless laughter. “You can’t be serious. Why would I settle for that? I’ll find the bloody ship myself and burn Megrenn to ash.”
“Sit down, boy, and put that thing away,” Harwick said. “It seems I left them to stuff you full of spite and boiling anger. Spite is a fool’s indulgence, and vengeance is a cold road, best walked by a patient man—the kind of man who can stand barefoot in the snow and study his enemy through a frost-covered window as he sits by the fire.”
“You want me to make peace with Megrenn, and save my vengeance until I’m an old man?” Danilaesis asked with a sneer. “Not likely.”
“Bloody idiot,” Harwick muttered. He pointed to the sword. “Quit thinking with that thing, stow that arse of yours in a chair, and listen to me a moment. Anzik Fehr thinks to bargain the location of the Jennai for peace. That’s an obvious ruse. He’s not stupid enough to think you’d take that offer. The ship’s location has value, but not that much. He’s the one you want dead; the girl was a mere accomplice.”
“Fine, so you’re an ambassador with nothing worth offering,” Danilaesis grumbled, slouching into a chair. The sword dangled from a loose grasp, but he had neither set it aside, nor returned it to its sheath. “Congratulations.”
“Has it not sunk into that …” Harwick sniffed the air, “… wine-soaked brain of yours that my mere presence here is of aid to you? My absence in Acardia won’t go unnoticed, but I was an old man; my time there was going to be short, or grow suspicious. I’ve returned here to stay. Whatever cleverness the Errols possess, it ends with their machines; they’re no good with politics in either the light or shadows. They’ve made a mistake, and they’re going to pay for it.”
“No offense Father—if that’s really you—but you’re not exactly the strongest sorcerer around. I’ve got a dozen better than you.”
“But none of them have worked out the location of the Errols’ airship.”
Danilaesis’s eyes gleamed and he leaned forward in his chair. “Where?”
“All I ask in return is that you wait for the right time,” Harwick replied.
Danilaesis threw his head back until it hit the cushioning of the chair, staring up at the ceiling. “I’m going to start making sacrifices to Eziel if I don’t get my hands on someone soon.”
Harwick waved a dismissive hand. “Forget that dried old rubbish the Korrish dug up. All I need is time to coordinate with an agent of mine. I’ve got a man on the inside.”
Chapter 24
“All that is old will be new again. I think whoever said that meant music and clothing, but apparently it works for people, too.” – Lord Dunston Harwick
Tanner stood at the railing of the Mirror’s Trick, looking down at the countryside far below. Long shadows stretched to the west, as trees and hillsides fought back the dawn’s light. Tanner had never cared for sea travel, despite having spent far too much of his life traveling the waves. But airship travel was growing on him. His twin aboard the Jennai would go on raids through the machine and find the feel of solid ground beneath his feet strange. The engines had a hum to them, heard by the ear and felt by the soles of the feet. It never went away during flight, merely changing in tone, and its absence was louder than its presence.
“Have you stolen a pocketclock?” Stalyart asked. Tanner flinched at the voice, but relaxed immediately. Stalyart was among the few who could still sneak up on him unheard—he supposed it was easier due to the engine noise.
Tanner glanced around, finding the two of them relatively alone. Only a few crew members were topside; most still weren’t accustomed enough to the air to seek the skies for leisure. “Yeah, couple raids ago.”
Stalyart pressed a timekeeping device into his hands. “Well, here is one to go with it. My man has reported back. The time is set. When the small hand reaches eight, it begins.”
“How many of them have you got?” Tanner asked.
“Pardon?”
“Twinborn spies? How many have you got spread around Tellurak and Veydrus.”
“Never enough, it seems,” Stalyart replied. But it wasn’t a true reply. Tanner knew he wouldn’t get a proper number out of the cagey pirate.
“Just feels like I’m getting hung out in the wind on this one.”
“My dear friend,” said Stalyart. “You were a coinblade for many years. This is far from the most danger you have faced. And in return, an airship, a pardon, and vengeance for your friend.”
“You got a drink by any chance?” Tanner asked.