A Charm for Draius: A Novel of the Broken Kaskea (The Broken Kaskea Series Book 1)

by REEVE, LAURA E.

  “Do you know otherwise?” My employer’s voice was sharp.

  “I suggest we wait for the news from our contacts in Chikirmo. If the lodestone is lost, we’ve got a bigger problem.”

  My employer rubbed the side of his head. “I hate to do nothing but take the defensive.”

  “We can always talk to the Groygan. We can confront him with his bribery, and warn him that no one can yet control the lodestone.”

  “Humph.” My employer obviously couldn’t admit this might be our only option.

  There was a muffled yelp and the scuffling of boot heels on the floor. I leaned sideways, around him, to see one of his men roughly forcing my apprentice out the door.

  “What’s happening?” I moved to interfere, but my employer blocked me. Being large and brawny, he can easily best me.

  “He’s outlived his usefulness.”

  “But he’s my apprentice. You’re not allowed to touch him.”

  “Not allowed?” His bushy eyebrows arched higher. “You gave me permission the moment you involved him in our rites of power.”

  You mean my rites. You have done nothing but issue orders, which weren’t even obeyed. With effort, I held my tongue. It would be undignified to struggle with my employer over a pubescent pimpled boy, so I tried reason. “I need him in the shop. I can’t afford to train another, not at this time.”

  “He’s too young, too much of a risk—believe me, he does better service as a floater, blamed on Haversar. We need a diversion for the City Guard’s investigation. If you need help preparing the rite, I’ve learned enough to assist you.”

  I winced, for several reasons: I now knew how my apprentice would die, and I never like to hear that name. Everyone knew that someone ran the darker side of this city, someone who commanded the criminals, the disaffected, and any nunetton who might not yet qualify as one of the former. His name shouldn’t be uttered, not out loud and not near the wharves.

  The boy struggled, but he wasn’t strong enough to prevent the men from binding his arms behind his back and lowering a hood over his head. Before I turned away, the hope died in his eyes. I grappled for control, reached for the cold protection of dispassion that I’ve cultivated in my heart. I concentrated on my employer’s last sentence. “Are you mad? Suggesting we do another rite, so soon? You’ve already cautioned us about the new Officer of Investigation.”

  “This Sareenian went to underwriters and may have said too much about the cargo. More purging is necessary to remove the stench of betrayal. Why aren’t you, of all people, champing at the bit to do more? Didn’t you say you needed more magic for working charms?”

  “Yes, but we risk death if the Guard connects us to these rites. Not a quick death, but death by the rack.”

  “I’m aware of the price.” His enigmatic answer was the end of our conversation as we quit the dockside office where we’d left bloody havoc.

  Now, in the bright morning light of Markday, I look about my empty shop and I can’t bear to open it. I leave it shuttered and go back to bed. I lost my apprentice in order to divert the new OIC of Investigation. Meran-Kolme Erik’s replacement won’t be as easy to sidetrack, according to my employer.

  I can convince myself I’m not emotionally affected. I can run the shop without the boy—but the morning doesn’t feel right when he’s not clattering about and breaking my precious glassware. I close my eyes to will away the memories.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The Meran-Viisi Household

  As Erin Three starts, the Rauta-Nelja attempt to contract our King in marriage, and we wonder why he tarries. The Pettaja-Kolme bookseller near the square will offer Avo Cabaran’s “To Have and Hold Power,” which is banned in every Sareenian City-State. The bookseller cautions that copies are limited. Disagreements between the Meran-Kolme and the Vakuutis-Nelja continue, regarding debts incurred by Meran-Kolme Erik, who has quietly left for lineal holdings in the plains. Meran-Kolme Erik is replaced by Serasa-Kolme Draius—can she direct our lumbering City Guard in finding the murderer of Councilman Reggis? And, while his seat remains empty, the King’s Council addresses yet another tax for financing new naval ships.

  —News Around and About the Sister Cities, The Horn & Herald, First Markday, Erin Three, T.Y. 1471

  Draius would rather have given the report by herself. Visiting Betarr Serin and seeing familiar places and faces, including her cousin, might be painful. She didn’t want a stranger along. Unfortunately, the order stated that all officers working this case should present their findings to the King.

  “Much too nice a morning to deal with murder,” Lornis said as they crossed Bridge Square, empty of traffic this early in the day. His voice held underlying chirps of joy.

  She frowned to discourage any more chatter. Her mood didn’t improve, but a glance about proved Lornis correct. Markday was living up to its name for starting a new eight-day. The sky was clear, crisp, and clean, with no echo of the previous eight-day’s weather.

  They trotted their horses across the Whitewater, where bridge and river marked the edge of Betarr Serasa. Stopping momentarily, they both looked up toward Betarr Serin, sitting at the top of a winding road with switchbacks crawling up the plateau.

  The steep grade was hard for the horses, so they slowed to a firm walk halfway up the trail. Lornis rode with stolid horsemanship, while her seat was more elegant, gracefully teaming with Chisel. She reminded herself that few others had the benefit of her teachers and tutors. Her father had spared no expense getting her the best education and training.

  At the top, they dismounted and led the horses. Two King’s Guard, fitted in flashing silver and green, nodded to them as they passed through the gate to Betarr Serin. She glanced up at the cannon stationed on the walls. No projectile heavy enough to harm the walls could reach them from sea level, even using modern powder. However, those cannon could accurately sight the harbor below, where ships looked like toys and the docks seemed to team with ants.

  They turned onto the main thoroughfare, walking on white marble, smoothly rippled from many years of use. Grey stone residences were walled off from the streets, their courtyard gardens spilling over the walls in waves of spring-flowering vines such as fuchsia and white chaste-flowers. Sweet scents wafted through open gates, which exposed fountains shaded by spring greenery, tempting the pedestrian out of the sunshine.

  Past those gates were the long-established lineages of Tyrra, maintained by the schemes of matriarchs who planned each marriage and named each child. Someone had to develop the next generation, and the responsibility fell to the same women who controlled the lineal assets, investments, and legacies.

  They met hardly any traffic and walked up the sloping stone street in silence. Draius glanced into the Serasa-Kolme courtyard as they passed, eyeing the residence, stable, and carriage house occupied by Jan’s sister. The plantings weren’t well maintained and no doubt Taru would hear about that from Lady Anja. The estate continued beyond the house. Accessible from the street, the Serasa-Kolme reliquary rose beyond the other buildings. The seven-hundred-year-old structure was made of meticulous Serasa-Kolme stonework, with ornamental scrolls carved on the lintels and above the pillars, distinguishing it as architecture of the Fourth Era.

  As Draius and Lornis crossed the street that ran in front of the Groygan Embassy, they both studied the gate that dripped with red and yellow streamers. The bright silk ribbons floated in the breeze. Groygan guards stood at the courtyard entrance and above them flew the Groygan flag, displaying a red, cat-like creature that most Tyrrans had never seen. Ambassador Velenare Be Glotta, had been in place almost six years, longer than any other Groygan ambassador. Intelligence collected by the King’s Guard was contradictory: the extensive post might indicate Glotta was out of favor with the Council of Lords (since Groygans considered living in Tyrra a hardship), or he might be extremely favored (from gathering better intelligence than previous ambassadors).

  Lornis hesitated, but Draius kept walking. “No time to
trade taunts with the Groygans,” she said, speaking of one of the rites of passage into the Guard.

  Two blocks later the sound of children’s laughter came from a side street. A clear voice rose above the others, singing an old rhyme.

  “Era, Erins,

  Mark the fifth season,

  Even as the Phrenii reason.

  Ashen, Ashes,

  Count the five portals,

  Men may rest as they are mortals.”

  It was a meaningless verse every Tyrran child learned. The sound of the children combined with a high tinkling vibration that couldn’t be reproduced by man-made instruments. Scholars named this “ringing” and said it was caused by the life-light magic within the Phrenii. To adults, the ringing stood as warning. Stand back. Draius and Lornis hastily drew their horses to the side and backed against the wall.

  One of the Phrenii turned onto the street toward them, dancing on cloven feet. Its spiral horn sparkled in the clear spring sunlight. Children ranging from three to twelve years of age surrounded the creature. They skipped beside the mottled and translucent being, twining their fingers in its mane and petting its coat. A small girl, no more than four years old, ran out from a gate across the street and skittered in front of the creature. She squealed and held her arms up, stopping the Phrenii. A head larger than half the size of her body, with jaws that could snap her bones, lowered to her level. She threw her arms around the creature’s neck, avoiding the razor-sharp spirals of the horn.

  Draius smiled at the girl’s enraptured expression. She was safer than any child could be at the moment. No Tyrran adult would break her fantasy and delight; it would be broken soon enough when she reached adulthood and left her innocence behind.

  If Draius reached toward the creature, she knew that guilt, from her smallest transgression to her largest trespass, would crash down upon her. She’d relive her worst moments, her hand would drip with blood, and Groygan eyes would fade and become dull with dust. It didn’t matter that she’d been ambushed and had protected herself—her actions were not compatible with the Phrenii.

  Adults never talked about the shameful moments they experienced, over and over again, when the creatures came near. Along the path to adulthood, everyone gave up the joyous feeling of touching the creatures, but she didn’t know the exact moment it happened. By the time she was arguing with her father about the merits of a boy with whom she was enamored, she’d drifted into puberty and the Phrenii were making her uncomfortable.

  Of course, anyone foolish enough to raise a weapon against the Phrenii would become a gibbering maniac. The “phrenic madness” protected these creatures from adults—or vice versa.

  Staring at the creature’s translucent body, she saw whirling clouds that seemed to pull at her. Suddenly dizzy, she averted her gaze before the Phrenii’s attention could fall on her. The scent of a sea breeze wafted past. The sound of hooves stopped. She looked up to see faceted blue eyes directed toward Lornis while children circled and skipped about.

  “Welcome to the sister cities, Lornis, where you belong.” The words from the creature hung in the air accompanied by a tone. Draius caught her breath. This element of the Phrenii, named Jhari, represented air and prescience.

  Lornis coughed and bowed. Jhari appeared to take this as a response; it turned away and led the children right at the next intersection. The voices and ringing faded. Lornis avoided making eye contact with Draius as they continued up the slow incline of the main street.

  “This is the second time I’ve encountered Jhari.” His voice seemed bitter. His shoulders slumped, a tiny movement that only she might have noticed.

  “Sounds like you have a phrenic prophecy hanging over your head.”

  Lornis shrugged and opened his mouth.

  “No.” She stopped him. “Don’t tell me anything. I’d rather stay oblivious, if you don’t mind.”

  “That was my opinion, too. No one but my grandmother knows.”

  She said nothing more. Poor soul—a reading from the Phrenii placed some sort of destiny upon him. Most Tyrrans resisted asking the Phrenii for a reading, only resorting to phrenic prescience when absolutely necessary. Their readings rarely satisfied the questioner and caused a lifetime of fear. “Better to believe you’re at the helm and living free, than with the dagger of destiny at one’s back,” went the Tyrran saying.

  After several more intersections, they arrived at their destination near the northern edge of the plateau. Here the street ended, leaving them facing the Meran-Viisi reliquary, the oldest in all of Tyrra. To their left was a residence with the address of Number One Betarr Serin. It stretched to the cliff face on the west and the Dahn Serin Falls in the far northwest corner of the city. The gates were heavy and wooden, without decoration.

  Draius’s critical eye saw the flecks of rust on one of the hinges. The gates were shabby, even shameful, for the House of the Meran-Viisi. It was the King’s residence, and the place where herown mother grew up. The wide marble stairs to the grandiose building across the street overshadowed the entrance to Number One.

  She glanced up the stone staircase to her right, overwhelmed with memories, having a vivid sense of climbing the stairs beside her father. After the Fevers, she was ten and he had been too lost in his own pain to pay attention to the funeral of a king, the crowning of another, or his own grieving daughter. Eight years later, she had helped her ailing father up those steps so he could officiate as her younger cousin Perinon was quickly installed as King.

  The stairs led to the Palace of Stars, in which the Tyrran government functioned. It held reception halls, offices for the King’s Guard, and chambers for the King’s Council. One elected and one appointed member represented each borough on the council. Reggis had been an elected member.

  “Ser?” Lornis caught her attention. “Where are we to be received?”

  She shook her head to clear it. Stepping to the entrance to the grounds, she pulled on the bell and it jingled inside the courtyard. They heard someone approaching the gate.

  “At least this should be quick,” Lornis said.

  “Why?”

  “Well, you being Meran-Viisi, his cousin and all—” He stopped at her expression.

  Her mouth and tongue felt like they’d been deadened. “You’ve been looking into my background?”

  “Yes, ser.” Color flared and disappeared on his sharp cheekbones. “As a deputy, I should know my commanding officer.”

  “Well, I’m not Meran-Viisi any more. I won’t be getting any special treatment. Of that, I’m sure.” She pressed her lips together to bring sensation back. No need to educate Lornis in lineal politics, or the fact her father had withdrawn from his family-by-contract after her mother died.

  Of all the King’s Guard to be on personal duty to the King, it had to be Henri who opened the gate. His eyebrows went up as he looked them over. “Yes?”

  “The City Guard Officer of Investigation and her deputy, to report to the King,” Draius said stiffly.

  “Of course, Lieutenant Commander.” Henri smirked and motioned for a stable hand.

  After being admitted to a tidy square that contained a fountain, their horses were taken aside and they were shown into a room that opened onto a terrace. The terrace faced the Dahn Serin Falls where the waters fell from the mountains and then flowed off the plateau.

  Then they waited.

  •••

  When Perinon reached the door to the small east parlor, he paused and sighed. He was King of Tyrra, Bearer of the Kaskea, Holder of the Phrenii’s Promise, High Commander of the King’s Guard, Starlight Wielder for the Meran-Viisi, and yet he quailed at entering the parlor late for his Markday breakfast with his aunt.

  Lady Aracia, matriarch of the Meran-Viisi, looked up from pouring her tea when he opened the door. She didn’t stand as he entered, perhaps to remind Perinon that he remained her nephew and she controlled all the Meran-Viisi assets.

  “Did you oversleep?” Her tone was pleasant.

 
All the same, he bristled. “No. Instead of getting a full night’s sleep, I had to speak with the Phrenii.” Mahri had awakened him early to give him a history lesson.

  “What about? Anything of relevance?” She poured Perinon some tea.

  “Not yet.” The lecture would be relevant someday. Unfortunately, phrenic prescience wasn’t useful. Compounding the frustrating ambiguity of their readings, they would often merge the future with the past, forgetting their place in the present day.

  The steward dished up his breakfast and he dug into the eggs and potatoes. The morning service of china and silver was neatly arranged, shining in the light coming through watery panes of glass. The Horn & Herald and The Recorder lay to one side on a platter.

  “By the way, Lady Rauta-Nelja wishes to present her favored grandchild to you today.”

  He was too tired to handle her blindsiding attack. His jaw hardened and he pointedly laid his hand on the table, the one that carried the ring that held the Kaskea shard. The ladies were always favored grandchildren, always beautiful, and always very young. The Rauta-Nelja were an offshoot of the Meran-Nelja, rising to a four star constellation about two hundred years ago. He supposed this might be a suitable contract but, as usual, he wouldn’t have anything in common with this young lady.

  Aracia set her mouth into a thin line. “Rapport with the Phrenii shouldn’t prevent the King from doing his duty.”

  Duty meant fathering children, the primary function matriarchs expected from males. She made no secret of her opinions: he avoided his responsibilities to the Meran-Viisi and his people. Of course, she couldn’t understand the burden of the Kaskea.

  Perinon became King at the age of sixteen, when his brother Valos died in the currents of the Whitewater north of the sister cities. Very few had been bound to the Kaskea at such a young age. There were legends of the effects of being in rapport with the Phrenii—not without historical support, because rapport could cause madness. Personal quirks exhibited by a king were often attributed to the Kaskea.