by J. S. Morin
* * * * * * * *
As the two guards hauled him down the height of the tower and toward the palace dungeons, Rashan fought to control himself. There was one tenet that had kept him alive for over two centuries, and he had to convince himself that he was not violating it now, despite the fact that it certainly felt like he was. That tenet was: “Suffer no enemy to live once they have offered violence.”
The trident points poised at his neck were no real threat to him, but the guards did not realize that. They were just loyal men of the Empire, following orders that were just and proper. It was he who was playing at games, Rashan reminded himself. He was risking their lives against his own lack of control.
As they walked down the corridors that ran beneath the palace, Rashan could envision the walls painted red with their blood, and their bones and flesh in a sloppy pile below. He could easily destroy them with his bare hands, or with a quick blast of lightning, or—
Stop it! he interrupted his own train of thought. This is why I was exiled. Killing is too easy—my solution to too many problems.
He let himself be led the rest of the way to a special section of the dungeons. The guards alerted a Third Circle sorcerer, whose job it was to help with such matters, that they needed a cell opened in the warded area.
There was no proper door where the sorcerer laid his hand, fingers tracing runes in a purposeful order from among the hundreds that adorned the wall. When he finished, a section of the wall opened, and the sorcerer stepped back quickly. The guards shoved Rashan inside, none too gently, and quickly released the grasp they had around Rashan’s neck. A touch to the wall outside of the cell closed it quickly.
The room was utterly dark. Neither window, nor lamp, nor construct of aether was left to the unfortunate prisoner in the warded cell. Rashan was untroubled by the lack of light. He was so accustomed to aether-sight that he preferred it anyway, and his aether-sight could see plenty well.
The walls and ceiling were of basalt, covered in runes that were inlaid with silver. The center of the room was the only spot left bare. It was where the prisoner belonged. The runes were a nasty framework for an aether construct that drew aether out of the room. There was a constant pull even against the prisoner’s Source, stronger the closer he got to the walls. The only relatively safe spot was the very center of the room, on the floor, for the ceiling bore such runes as well. Tiny holes disguised among the runes allowed in enough air to keep the prisoner alive, but little else. The cell was meant to feel like a water-filled chamber with just a small pocket of air to breath. It was a cell for keeping sorcerers helpless. Drawing aether against the runes’ pull was nearly pointless; they were too strong and would just draw it back anyway if it was not used immediately. There was no stray aether floating about, so any spells cast would have to draw from the prisoner’s own Source, a dangerous endeavor.
It was devious and possibly a little extreme, but Rashan was proud of it. The Empire had used them for ages, but he had made the most recent modifications. He could still see his own handiwork in the crafting. It was not his best work, he admitted, but it had been such a long time ago. The aether construct upon it had been rebuilt since he had left the Empire, but that was no surprise; such things wore down over time, how quickly depending on how well they were formed in the first place.
But Rashan’s Source was sealed against such mild influence as the draw of the runes, and his small demon body used only a fraction of the aether his Source produced. He was constantly working small magics just to burn off the excess. He waited an hour or so for things outside to have quieted down and then proceeded to let himself out of the cell.
Rashan’s aether snaked through the wall to the same runes the Third Circle sorcerer had used to open it the first time. The cell tried to draw the aether apart and pull it away from him, but Rashan’s control was too finely honed. There was no fraying edge of a spell for the wall’s magic to grasp hold of and unravel it by.
He smirked as the door opened. The cell would hold just about anyone, from an Academy novice to a high sorcerer, or even a warlock, but a demon—especially one who had created it—was too much for it.
As he stepped out of the cell, casually touching the wall to close it behind him, he looked up and down the corridor. The dungeon was cheerier than he had remembered it. Whoever had last renewed the lights had not much of a flair for the macabre. Dungeons were not intended to be pleasant places; half their function was to demoralize prisoners. Rashan reached out and dimmed the lights just a little and reddened them a bit, making it more like torchlight.
He felt as if he had arrived home after a long holiday to find out the caretakers of his estate had redecorated in his absence. It was all so familiar, but the trappings had changed. Rashan allowed the tiniest bit of doubt to steal into his heart.
Can I have everything back, as if I had never left?
He picked a direction and strode down the corridor, heading out of the dungeons. He had a lot to do.
* * * * * * * *
As they rode through the city streets, the soldiers’ mood lightened. Per Rashan’s orders, they were being treated as important guests of the Empire. The guards who had originally expected to be dragging them before their superiors to answer a lot of uncomfortable questions were instead escorting them to one of the oldest and most respected inns in the city. Along the way, they were headed to the market. Jodoul had the idea shortly after leaving the city gates that they were on free horses, which had become theirs fair and square through being at the right place at the right time when Rashan killed their previous owners. Thus they were going to sell them.
As they entered the marketplace, even those who had never been to Kadrin found it unusually crowded. The tailors, clothiers, and food stands of all kinds were doing the heaviest business. It did not take them long to realize that they had arrived back to Kadrin just in time for the Bygones Festival. It was the traditional day to dress up as someone you spent most of the cycle of seasons at odds with and get drunk together.
The Bygones Festival was held just after the harvest ended. Harvest time mattered little to the urban residents of the capital, but the festival dated back centuries. Back then—and even in modern times in the farmlands—it was a time just after the hardest work of the season had been finished, when tempers were just cooling after a lot of people with differing agendas and needs all just finished their wrangling over prices, transporting goods to market, and other business dealings. It gave everyone a chance to literally see themselves as others saw them and to diffuse feuds with humor and drink before everyone was stuck indoors all winter together.
Sir Lugren had taken his leave of them once he was free to do so, parting just after the gates. The rest of them made their way to the market, sold their mounts, and, for the first time in their lives, were considering a proper Bygones Festival celebration. None of the conscripts had a valuable trade or any family wealth—otherwise they would not have been conscripted—so it was a new experience shopping for costumes. They had horse money filling their pockets!
The stalls and carts that clogged the marketplace offered choices aplenty. There were merchants from Safschan selling black silk that could be made into a fine likeness of the Imperial Circle robes, a popular costume among the army. Traders from Gar-Danel sold polished wooden swords that many a sorcerer would wear sheathed on his hip come nightfall. Many professions had traditional rivals, whether through daily conflict throughout the season or through a history of excellent salesmanship levering a rivalry into place where none seemed quite to fit—the shepherds and fishermen were something of a stretch, for example. For the Bygones Festival, the merchants made sure they had something to sell to practically everyone.
“Figure this fella! Thinks I’m gonna give him two lions for this here little rag of a robe,” Jodoul complained to the marketplace in general, turning his back to a man who had tried to sell him a sorcerer costume.
“It’s silk, what’d you expect?” Tod retorte
d, seemingly less interested in shopping than in getting to their fancy accommodations and having a good long rest. “Just pick out something simple and be done with it.”
“My wife made mine out of wool, dyed black. Sewed it all herself. Fits me like my own shadow,” commented one of the guards escorting them. Being ordered to treat someone like an “honored guest” gave them considerable latitude in catering to their requests. An hour or two poking about in the markets with their charges was a better way to spend the afternoon than at their post, so the guards were in no rush to get to the inn.
“Well, I never had a proper costume before, so I wanted something, you know, maybe a bit nice,” Jodoul replied. “I ain’t had this sort of money before. Are you gonna get something a little stylish, Tod?”
“Prob’ly not, my horse had got bad teeth they said. Only gave me three lions, five hawks for the beast. I don’t want to dunk it all on a Bygones costume. I did not get seven lions, like you did. Hey now! That reminds me, you still owe me from our dice game,” Tod said.
“Wow. In all the confusion out there, it had escaped my head entirely. I can’t say I even remember how we’d left off.” Jodoul chuckled. He glanced sidelong at Tod to see if he was going to get any leeway with this tactic.
“Four lions, three hawks,” Tod answered dryly, raising an eyebrow to glare back.
* * * * * * * *
Brannis and Iridan went their separate ways leaving the Tower of Contemplation. Brannis headed for his family’s estate on the outskirts of the city, and Iridan to his own rooms, in a boarders’ house near the city’s western gate. Brannis wanted to change and wash before reporting to his superiors; Iridan just wanted some rest. While Iridan had been attached to Brannis’s command for the excursion, he was not part of the army’s chain of command and had only to answer to the Circle. If the generals wanted answers from Iridan, they would have to ask Gravis Archon.
The roads around the palace were usually busy, but with the upcoming Bygones Night party the palace held each autumn about to begin a few hours hence, there was a heavy flow of people and foodstuffs heading toward the palace as he tried to leave. As Brannis eased his horse through the wagonloads of wine barrels, carts of fresh fruits, and various other conveyances filled with delicacies, he was glad of the direction he was headed. In a few short hours, the palace would be filled with revelry and merriment of a sort Brannis wanted no part.
As a knight from a respected family, he would have been welcomed at the palace celebration. For most holidays, Brannis was more than happy to accept an invitation to the royal celebrations, but the Bygones Festival was his least favorite time of the cycle of seasons. He loved the colorful displays of magic that lighted the night skies on Founding Day, the elaborate banquets that were served at the Summer Equinox, and the drunken revels of Promise Day, but the costumed puffery of the Bygones Festival he wanted no part in. Tradition would have him dress as a sorcerer for the night, just as all the sorcerers at the palace would be dressed as knights. Brannis had spent nearly his whole youth pretending he was a sorcerer, and it was a time in his life he was glad to put behind him.
As he made his way clear of the worst of the crush of bodies trying to get to the palace, he urged his horse to a trot and made good time through the side streets. Kadrin was a large city and the seat of government, with guards and knights and sorcerers in abundance, but still had dangerous areas that decent folk avoided, especially after dark. Brannis did not need to worry about being accosted as he took the shortest route home through areas where a drunken merchant had a coin flip’s chance to make it through with his purse. It was hours yet until sundown, and Brannis was hardly the sort to invite trouble at any hour. Mounted and armored, carrying an ornate sword and wearing the adornments of both the army and House Solaran, no sane criminal would risk impeding him.
The ride home was not a long one, less than half the time it would have been had he followed the main roads. He rode onto the grounds of Solaran Estate and took a short gallop over to the stables. Situated on the southern bank of Dragon Lake—so named for the small island that nearly cut it in half running north-south, giving it the look of a reptilian iris—the home of one of the most respected families in the Empire was extravagant. The main building covered acres and was of construction as fine as the palace—understandable, since it was constructed around the same time period by many of the same sorcerers. Towers and parapets rose to heights carefully kept just shorter than those the emperor’s home boasted. The grounds were manicured green grasses, with gardens, topiaries, and orchards of exotic fruit trees imported from all over the world. The estate also included stables, a number of outbuildings to house the servants, a boathouse, docks, and fountains. There was also an area of flat black marble that was inscribed with numerous runed circles, glyphs, and other magical devices of general purpose for aiding in certain spells.
Brannis ignored the commonplace wonders of his familial home. He had been seeing them all his life, and while he was aware of how spectacular the sights were, he was jaded to them. His current goal was a simple one: get cleaned up and report to General Sir Hurald Chadreisson on the Kelvie mission.
He left his horse at the stables and jogged up to the entrance and opened the door. The wards on the door knew him as a member of the Solaran family, so he did not need someone else to allow him entry. It was good enough security that no servant manned the door unless guests were expected. That served Brannis’s needs just fine, as he was in a rush and preferred not to get the whole “Welcome home, how was your little adventure?” treatment from some servant who had known him since childhood—and at Brannis’s still-tender age of twenty-two, there were a fair number who had.
For once, Bygones Night was kind to Brannis, as much of the household staff was let off work early to prepare for their own celebrations. The family was nearly all invited to the palace for the evening, so the servants were not needed around the house that night. Brannis made his way up to his room without incident.
The room had been kept immaculate in his absence, in a way that it could never be when he was regularly at home. The bed linens were all cleaned and tucked tightly and there were no clothes or weapons or armor left about. The wardrobe was closed—Brannis never bothered closing it—which meant it was likely filled with his cleaned clothes.
Brannis closed the door behind him and began stripping off his road-worn, battle-stained uniform. He struggled some getting out of his armor without help, but with some trouble was able to manage, leaving the discarded plates at the foot of the bed. He tossed Massacre on the bed in its sheath. While it was perfectly acceptable to visit army headquarters armed, even when speaking to a general, most in the army and the knighthood were uncomfortable around that sword. While Brannis was far from the only knight with an enchanted blade, his was a particularly nasty piece of work, and those who knew its powers were leery of being too close to it. He studied the workmanship of the hilt and wondered again why something so fierce was adorned so whimsically. The sculpted dragon made it uncomfortable to wield in his bare hand; the maker obviously had been less concerned about utility than aesthetics when it he forged it.
Brannis pulled on fresh pants from the wardrobe and made his way bare-chested over to the wash basin. The servants had kept it filled, but the water was tepid. Any other adult in the family would have heated it with aether without a second thought, but with no servant handy to get him hot water for it, Brannis was forced to wash up with cold water.
After toweling off, he put on a clean uniform, emblazoned with the Solaran family crest. It had taken some research for Brannis to discover the crest when he had been knighted. Traditionally sorcerers wore no family coat of arms, so despite their prominence in the Empire, none of the family had known what their centuries-old crest had looked like. Brannis had eventually found a rendering in an old book on the families of the Kadrin Empire and had a seamstress embroider one from the picture to have on his tabard.
Suitably attired for pol
ite company, Brannis headed back down to the stables to retrieve a fresh horse and to answer for the loss of his unit. He just hoped Sir Hurald was not already dressed for Bygones Night. Being dressed down by a man in sorcerer’s robes was the last thing he needed.
Chapter 17 - For Lost Time
Rashan walked casually through the halls of the palace, not even pausing as he enspelled the guards to ignore him. He had come up from the dungeons and proceeded directly to the residential portions of the palace. The building was ancient, and there had been no significant remodeling done in the hundred winters he had been gone. The decor had changed somewhat, a combination of evolving fashions and the personal taste of the current emperor, Dharus, of whom Rashan knew little.
Emperor Dharus was a recluse by all accounts, preferring solitude and holding court infrequently, letting his advisers run the day-to-day dealings of the Empire. He would appear at his balcony to make proclamations and speeches, then retreat to his quarters, or more frequently his country estates. Rashan was guessing that he would make at least a token appearance at the Bygones Night festivities, however.
Rashan had been focused when he arrived in Kadris, but not so much so that he had overlooked the obvious celebratory preparations going on in the city. Times changed, but Bygones Festival was still one of the favorite holidays in the Empire. Tradition held that the emperor had no rival, no adversary to placate once an autumn, thus he attended any function of Bygones Festival in his normal royal garb. In some ways, it isolated a man in an already lonely position at the highest level of power in the Empire, to not truly take part in the revels that his subjects enjoyed so much. However, it was too much to pass up the sight of so many of the important personages of the Empire making asses of themselves impersonating one another.
Rashan had every intention of crashing the party that was to be held in the palace that evening. The building thrummed with excited energy as the main ballroom was decorated for the occasion. Food and drink from the finest merchants in Kadrin were brought in and set out in buffets. Coming up through the dungeons was easy enough, but in the upper levels of the palace, the bustle of so many people made staying unnoticed difficult. He had to quickly hide the shabby clothes he wore before he drew attention. He transformed them into a messenger’s outfit much the same way he had made them look like a warlock’s ensemble earlier at the Tower of Contemplation. A messenger who walked purposefully and looked like he knew where he was going was seldom interrupted.