Tyrcamber frowned as something he had never wondered before came to his thoughts. “What is the sky fire?”
“The Malison,” said Rilmael.
Tyrcamber gave the sky fire a wary glance. “The Dragon Curse…it comes from the sky fire?”
“In a way,” said Rilmael. “The sky fire exists because our world, this world, is so innately magical. The forces of magic are far more powerful here than they are on most other worlds, which is why every human born here can wield magic.”
Tyrcamber nodded. “Hence the Seven Spells.”
“Aye,” said Rilmael. His expression was distant, and Tyrcamber had the impression that the ancient Guardian recalled things that had happened centuries ago. “But the magical power of this world was never meant to be wielded by anyone. The Dragon Curse, in a way, is not a curse, but a natural property of the magic of this world.”
“What do you mean?” said Tyrcamber.
“Hold a burning coal in your hand for too long,” said Rilmael. “What will happen?”
“Your fingers will be burned,” said Tyrcamber.
“The coal doesn’t carry a curse,” said Rilmael. “It is not malicious or malevolent. It is simply its nature to burn. So it is with the magic of this world. No one was meant to wield the power here. And just as a hot coal held in an unprotected hand will burn, so will overuse of magic result in the transformation to a dragon. We simply call it the Malison.”
“How do you know this?” said Tyrcamber. “The nature of the Malison, I mean.”
“Because it is my duty as Guardian to know,” said Rilmael.
Tyrcamber thought about this for a moment. Rilmael waited. He seemed content to let Tyrcamber think it through.
“You told me about your duty as Guardian,” said Tyrcamber. “You said there was a door beneath Cathair Kaldran, a door that must never be opened.” Rilmael inclined his head. “Does that door have something to do with the Malison?”
“That door is the source of the Malison, the sky fire,” Rilmael waved a hand at the sky, “indeed, the source of this world’s magic.”
Tyrcamber considered this.
“That is a secret, is it not?” said Tyrcamber. “A secret known only to you and the Emperor and a few others?”
“The Emperor,” said Rilmael, “and the lords of Cathair Kaldran. It is why the Valedictor and the dark elves want to destroy your Empire. The Valedictor and the dark elves know of that door, and they want to claim it for themselves. But if they open that door, they will destroy the world.”
“Why are you telling me this?” said Tyrcamber. “I am not the Emperor. I am not a Duke or the Master of one of the Imperial Orders. I’m not even a preceptor. I’m just a knight of the Order, a soldier.”
“A knight of the Order of Embers,” said Rilmael, “who stopped the Dragon Cult from handing over the town of Tongur to the Valedictor, and who slew a Dragonmaeloch.”
“I had help,” said Tyrcamber, thinking of Sir Corswain, of the many men who had died in Tamisa. “Both times.”
“Aye,” said Rilmael, “but that does not change the fact that if you were not there, Sir Tyrcamber, Tongur would have been conquered and a Dragonmaeloch would have destroyed Tamisa. The Sight can show me possible futures with varying degrees of certainty, but it can show me potential pasts with far greater ease.”
“Potential pasts?” said Tyrcamber.
“What could have happened,” said Rilmael, “if things had gone differently. And if you had not been at Tongur, your father’s entire duchy would have fallen to the Valedictor by now, and Dietrich Normand would have destroyed Tamisa, conquered Mourdrech, and the resultant war would have let the Valedictor overrun the Empire with ease.”
“Are you sure of that?” said Tyrcamber, chilled.
“Entirely,” said Rilmael. “The future is a shifting shadow, but the past is written in stone. And it is far easier to read with the Sight.”
“The past is done,” said Tyrcamber. The chilled feeling would not leave him. “What do you see in the future?”
“Another crisis is coming,” said Rilmael. “Here in Falconberg, and soon. The events here will decide the future of the Empire.”
“Damn it,” said Tyrcamber.
“And you will stand at the center of it,” said Rilmael.
“Damn it, damn it, damn it,” said Tyrcamber. He let out a long breath. “What manner of crisis?”
“I do not know,” said Rilmael. “The future is unclear. But we can reasonably guess that the Dragon Cult, the umbral elves, and the weapon of dragon bone will be involved.”
Tyrcamber sighed again. “I suppose that is why you are here, after all.”
“It is,” said Rilmael. He smiled. “When we first met, you said that you wanted to defend the Empire and serve as a knight of the Order of Embers. Well, you’re about to have the chance.” He considered for a moment. “Again.”
Tyrcamber snorted. “Are you about to tell me to be careful what I wish for?”
“Why bother?” said Rilmael. “Clearly you have come to the conclusion on your own.”
Tyrcamber blinked, and then laughed, and Rilmael laughed, too. It helped ease the tension in his gut.
Though it didn’t go away. He knew it wouldn’t. He had been in too many battles for that.
“Do you wish assistance now?” said Tyrcamber.
“Not yet,” said Rilmael. “I want to have a look around Falconberg. I will remain unnoticed for now.” That dry note entered his voice. “If a Dragon Cultist sees a Knight of the Order of Embers approaching, he might try to hide.”
“Whereas if the Guardian of Cathair Kaldran is wrapped in a concealment spell,” said Tyrcamber, “you might discover something.”
“Aye,” said Rilmael. “Perhaps we shall be able to stop this plot before it begins.”
Tyrcamber looked at the rippling blue light of the sky fire and remembered the night the Dragon Cult had tried to hand Tongur to the Valedictor’s armies.
“There’s a first time for everything,” he said.
***
Chapter 4: Umbral
Two days later Tyrcamber stood with Sir Angaric in the Market of St. Mark, listening with half an ear to the older knight’s opinion on Falconberg and its various amenities for the weary traveler.
Tyrcamber wore chain mail and a crimson surcoat, his belt wrapped around his waist and his sword of dark elven steel hanging at his left hip. His boots had been polished to a shine, and the chapterhouse’s barber had shaved his face and trimmed his hair. He had even bathed in a wooden tub in the barracks. Fortunately, serving as a Knight of the Order of Embers meant that obtaining hot water was a trivial task. The hard part was not accidentally boiling oneself.
“These burghers,” pronounced Angaric with a disapproving shake of his head. “They are far too full of themselves.”
“How so?” said Tyrcamber.
He glanced around the Market, which was quite full. The aldermen had gathered in their crimson robes, stark and forbidding. They ought to have looked stern, but most of them were so fat that Tyrcamber could not help but think of a row of apples lined up on a kitchen table. Militia soldiers in the green and gold tabards of Falconberg lined the square, spears in their right hands and shields upon their left arms. Count Radobertus stood in the center of the square, one of his squires holding a lance with the Emperor’s banner. Master Ruire waited with him, accompanied by a guard of serjeants of the Order of Embers. Rudolf commanded the serjeants, stern in his armor and tabard, and Tyrcamber supposed that any serjeant who did not have his armor cleaned and his tabard washed would have gotten the rough side of the serjeant-captain’s tongue.
“All this pomp and ceremony,” said Angaric. He stood with Tyrcamber several yards behind Radobertus and Ruire, as part of the guard of knights escorting the Lord Chancellor. “They’re commoners, for God’s sake, but they’re dressing up in their finery as if they were nobles.”
“They are still part of the Empire,” said Tyrcamb
er. “The Emperor is their liege lord, and they want to put their best foot forward for his representatives. And they will have to uphold the honor of the Empire. It would not do to insult the First by greeting her while clad in rags.”
“You are, at times, irritatingly reasonable,” said Angaric.
“Someone has to be,” said Tyrcamber.
“I did have time to visit the brothel last night,” said Angaric, and a satisfied smile went over his face. “You should have come with me.”
“I didn’t want to show up with a hangover this morning,” said Tyrcamber.
Angaric’s smile widened. “Oh, I didn’t drink either. Wouldn’t have wanted to dull my capabilities, you see. There was this one woman with red hair and legs and hips as strong as an iron chain, and she…”
“The Master’s coming,” said Tyrcamber, and Angaric shut up. The Master wasn’t, in fact. Ruire had turned to the side and was speaking with Rudolf. But Angaric was smart enough not to boast of his exploits in front of Master Ruire, who did not approve and would discipline Angaric for it.
“Sir Tyrcamber?”
Tyrcamber turned his head. A boy of about ten years hurried towards him, clad in the green and gold livery of Falconberg. The sons of the aldermen and the chief merchants served as pages in Falcon Hall, carrying messages for the city’s magnates. Tyrcamber wondered if the boys had been trained to act as spies and decided that it was likely.
“Aye, lad?” said Tyrcamber. A memory flashed through his head of his time as a page in the Imperial court in Sinderost, running messages for the Emperor’s courtiers.
“The Shield wishes to speak with you,” said the boy.
“With me?” said Tyrcamber. He glanced to where Karl Rincimar stood with the aldermen. Unlike the crimson-robed aldermen, Rincimar wore armor and a green cloak, his only mark of rank the golden falcon brooch that pinned his cloak. The contrast between Rincimar and the aldermen was stark, and he looked like a wolf standing among a flock of plump sheep. Sigurd waited near him, striking and lovely in a gold-trimmed green gown. The Shield’s attention was on the aldermen, but Sigurd seemed to sense Tyrcamber’s gaze, and she smiled briefly in his direction before her expression returned to demure calm.
“Yes, Sir Tyrcamber,” said the boy. “The Shield wishes to talk with you.”
Angaric shrugged. “Maybe he wants to know why you were talking to his niece at the banquet.”
“I was talking to his niece because he sent her to bring me to the dais,” said Tyrcamber. He looked at the boy. “Very well, lead the way.”
Tyrcamber followed the page across the market to the aldermen. Some of the aldermen glanced in his direction as he approached, and Tyrcamber spotted Heinrich Vordin and Philip Quentin standing next to each other, talking in low voices. They glanced in Tyrcamber’s direction, and then looked away. The Shield turned as Tyrcamber approached, and Sigurd kept her eyes downcast, that demure expression still on her face. She wore the mask of the shy maiden very well.
He started to wonder if she actually was a maiden and pushed that distraction from her thoughts.
“Sir Tyrcamber,” said Rincimar.
“Shield,” said Tyrcamber. “You wished to speak with me.”
“I do,” said Rincimar. “Let us step to the side and speak privily.”
He took a few steps away from the aldermen, and Tyrcamber followed. He wondered what the point was. Anyone who wanted to listen in would have no trouble overhearing them. Rincimar gestured, silver light flashing around his hand, and cast the Shield spell. A rippling haze of distorted air appeared between them and the aldermen, and an irritating buzzing noise came from the spell. Tyrcamber blinked in surprise and cast the Sense spell as Rincimar watched him. He detected the flow of power Rincimar was using to maintain the Shield spell. It was too weak to block another spell or a physical blow, and the spell was misaligned…
“Ah,” said Tyrcamber as understanding came. “You miscast the Shield spell on purpose. No one can overhear us so long as it makes that buzzing noise.”
A hard smile flashed over Rincimar’s face. “It is also useful for blocking magical observation. There is a spell of air magic that allows the caster to overhear conversations from a long distance away. I am entirely certain that some of the aldermen and master merchants use the spell regularly.”
“Then you wish to tell me something you don’t want overheard,” said Tyrcamber.
“Yes, obviously,” said Rincimar, a flicker of irritation going over his face. His icy eyes narrowed. “My niece tells me you know how I came to power in Falconberg.”
“She mentioned it, yes,” said Tyrcamber.
“I killed as many of the Dragon Cultists as I could when I took the office of Shield,” said Rincimar, “but I know I did not get them all. Some rats always scurry into their holes and continue their plots.”
“We discussed this the night of the feast, lord Shield,” said Tyrcamber.
Rincimar met his gaze. “Very well, I shall be blunt. I think that Heinrich Vordin and Philip Quentin are members of the Dragon Cult, or at least sympathetic to them. I want you to convey that message to your Master.”
Tyrcamber did not turn his head, but his eyes flicked to Vordin and Quentin. The gaunt Vordin was talking in a low, urgent voice to the stout Quentin, who nodded every so often. They could have been plotting evil. They could have been discussing the weather, which was admittedly quite pleasant. Or they could have been following Angaric’s example and discussing the brothels of the city.
“How do you know this?” said Tyrcamber.
“That is not your concern,” said Rincimar. “Simply convey that message to Master Ruire.”
“Membership in the Dragon Cult is a serious crime, lord Shield,” said Tyrcamber. “Which means it is an equally serious accusation. The Master will not act on it without proof.”
Rincimar scowled. “Do you want to wait until the First of Sygalynon is assassinated, and the umbral elves have sided with the Valedictor? I know those two fools are part of the cult. I have suspected it for some time, but now I am certain of it. Vordin and Quentin are both masters of the wine merchants’ guild, and someone has been stealing from the guild’s coffers. They likely used the funds to hire Gantier to obtain the buried weapon.”
“They could just be thieves and embezzlers,” said Tyrcamber.
“They are thieves and embezzlers,” said Rincimar, “but they are also members of the Dragon Cult, I am sure of it.”
Tyrcamber considered that. It was possible that Rincimar was right. It was also possible that Rincimar himself was part of the Cult and was offering up Vordin and Quentin to throw suspicion off himself. Another possibility was that neither Rincimar nor Vordin nor Quentin were part of the cult, but Rincimar was using this opportunity to rid himself of two aldermen whom he clearly hated.
But Master Ruire would not act on mere accusation alone. The Dragon Cult was a threat to the Empire, but on occasion, baseless accusations and hysteria had done more damage than the Cult itself had ever managed. Ruire could assign men to watch the two aldermen, perhaps under the pretext of protecting them from assassins, but he would not arrest them and subject them to an interrogation.
Not yet, anyway. Not unless the situation grew more dangerous.
Another thought occurred to Tyrcamber. Ruire would not act without more proof…but the Guardian Rilmael might. Tyrcamber had spoken to Rilmael twice since their conversation in the chapterhouse, but the Guardian had been unable to find any trace of the Cult inside Falconberg. But with his concealing spell, the Guardian could enter the mansions of the two aldermen and look around without anyone being the wiser. And if Rilmael found proof, then Ruire would have a freer hand to act.
Or maybe Rincimar would just execute any members of the Dragon Cult that he found.
“Lord Shield,” said Tyrcamber. “I will pass your message to the Master.” And to the Guardian, though Rincimar didn’t need to know that Rilmael was in Falconberg.
“Ve
ry good,” said Rincimar. “You will do as you think best, no doubt. But I tell you that Vordin and Quentin are part of the Dragon Cult, and they plot treachery against the Empire. I can smell it on them.”
With that, Rincimar dismissed his buzzing spell and strode back to his previous position near the aldermen. Tyrcamber let out a long breath, turned, and walked back to Angaric.
“What was all that about?” said Angaric. “Was he trying to gain the favor of your father?”
Tyrcamber barked a laugh. “Chalons is on the other side of the Empire, and the merchants of Falconberg are too prickly proud to seek my father’s help. No, the Shield wanted to warn me to keep watch for Michael Gantier and his men. Rincimar fears they might try to make trouble.”
That wasn’t what they had discussed, but both the Master and the Guardian had commanded secrecy upon Tyrcamber. Besides, they did need to keep watch for Gantier. If the renegade really had been working for the Dragon Cult, he might try to make trouble at this meeting.
“That’s good advice,” said Angaric. He snorted. “And it looks like two of the aldermen wish for you to repeat that advice to them.”
Tyrcamber turned his head and saw Heinrich Vordin and Philip Quentin approaching. He felt a wave of irritated exasperation but kept it from his face. Tyrcamber had not joined the Order of Embers to take part in political intrigue, but it seemed that he couldn’t escape from it.
“Sir Tyrcamber Rigamond, I assume?” said Vordin.
“Aye, alderman,” said Tyrcamber. He gestured at Angaric. “This is Sir Angaric Medraut.”
“Aldermen,” said Angaric with a curt nod.
“Medraut?” said Quentin. “You are from…the duchy of Tournis, are you not? A relative of the Count of Castle Medraut?”
“That is correct,” said Angaric. “You are very well-informed, sirs.”
Vordin waved a bony hand. “It behooves us mere common merchants to remain knowledgeable about our lords and betters, sir.” There was just a hint of sardonic mockery in his tone, not enough for Tyrcamber to confront him over it. “It seems you have caught the eye of our illustrious Shield.”
Malison: Dragon Umbra Page 7