Firehurler (Twinborn Trilogy)

by J. S. Morin

  “Aww, no hidin’, Mister Witch,” the bailiff told him in his gutter accent. He seemed the sort who chose a life of thuggery in the service of law as a career option favorable to a life of thuggery outside it—and only because the pay was steady. “They wants to see ya, so they gets to see ya.”

  Kyrus hung his head and tried to block out the jeers and calls for his immolation, but there was only so little room inside one’s own head in which to hide, and Kyrus was beset on all sides. The ride to the courthouse was a short one, as it was located convenient to the jail, but it seemed an eternity to Kyrus, whose confidence in the rationality of Acardians was severely shaken. He could not understand how the citizens could be convinced so quickly when he had only been arrested hours earlier, and no charges had yet been lodged against him officially.

  * * * * * * * *

  Across town, at a certain shop whose sign bore no picture, another crowd had gathered. This one was less angry and more curious, but still very excited. Constables had formed a loose ring around it and were keeping folks back from it. Inside, some of the more senior members of the sheriff’s staff were rummaging through papers and books, gathering evidence. They had already found Kyrus’s notes, both those written in plain language and those that were written in an indecipherable and otherworldly script.

  The crowd was uninterested in the investigation of the shop. They had all gathered to catch a glimpse of the otherworldly light that shone out the door that had been left ajar. A light that had no visible origin, yet just kept glowing …

  * * * * * * * *

  “Expert Kyrus Hinterdale, how do you answer these charges?” Lord Kenrick Lionsvaen asked.

  Kyrus had formally been charged with the practice of witchcraft and attacking officers of the peace. Two men with crossbows aimed at his back stood just behind him as he sat in the dock, where he had just finished listening to the preliminaries of the case presented against him. He had been given to understand that if they heard anything that sounded like it might be magical in nature, he would be shot, but at least they had removed the gag from his mouth.

  “I have done nothing wrong, Your Lordship,” was all Kyrus could manage.

  He was terrified and disoriented. The shouting of the crowd had done little good for his still-aching head, and he had never had much interest in court cases, so he was unfamiliar with how things were to be handled.

  “Sheriff Marsemal, please present the evidence,” the judge intoned.

  The judge was an elderly man with a regal bearing. He wore the traditional black robes of a jurist, which hung loosely off his gaunt frame, and skull cap to match. His wrinkled face was pale and ashen as someone who had worked a lifetime indoors. His hooked nose supported a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles that caught the light strangely and obscured his eyes, making it seem as if he was not seeing what took place around him and giving him a detached air.

  “Your Lordship.” The sheriff of Scar Harbor bowed slightly to the magistrate as he arose. “I have five men who were witnesses to the sights in Mr. Hinterdale’s shop last evening, three of whom can attest to having seen actual witchcraft performed in front of their very eyes; seen it, heard it, and had detritus from about the shop flung at them by means of it.

  “Also, Your Lordship, we have the accused’s own notes, describing the methods and means of his dark art, written plainly in Acardian. We also have a number of pages containing notes in an unknown language. I took the liberty of awakening the esteemed Professor Wittingham of the university’s department of language and foreign studies, who could not so much as identify the characters or symbols being used.

  “If these were not enough, Your Lordship, there is still, as of the last of my hearing, a light of inexplicable and unknowable origin shining from within the main work area of Mr. Hinterdale’s shop.

  “Your Lordship, I am not a superstitious man, and a week ago, I would have thought it impossible. Today I stand before you and ask how this can be anything else but witchcraft,” the sheriff concluded.

  Kyrus could not help but be impressed at the man’s oratory ability, despite his predicament. Sheriff Marsemal could have been a thespian, or perhaps a city councilor, but instead stayed on year after year as the sheriff in Scar Harbor. Kyrus wondered if he kept the job because he had grown to like having everyone hang on his words as he made such speeches in court.

  “Again, Expert Hinterdale, I would ask you to respond to this evidence,” Lord Lionsvaen instructed Kyrus.

  Kyrus’s mouth was dry, but somehow managed to get even drier. “I … hurt no one,” he croaked. He cleared his throat, fearing that the nervous crossbowmen would fire quarrels into his back, but needing to make a case for himself. “It is all harmless. Parlor tricks and such. This is all being taken much too far.”

  There was a general murmuring of dozens of conversations that began in the gallery at the first hearing of Kyrus’s defense. Many who had never met him just heard this “witch” speak for the first time, and he was hardly a threatening specimen. Kyrus had barely been aware of the spectators within the courtroom until they started making noise. After the crowd outside and their calls for his gruesome demise, the relatively civil citizens in attendance had barely registered themselves in his consciousness—his consciousness being somewhat tenuous at the moment itself; he was feeling faint.

  “Quiet now!” Lord Lionsvaen shouted, and the audience composed themselves once more. “Mr. Hinterdale,” he continued in a more professional tone, “you admit to these acts?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And I have seen for myself, as Sheriff Marsemal took me by your shop this morning, that there is indeed an unhallowed sort of light that comes from nothingness.”

  “Well, you see—”

  “Stop interrupting me, child, or it shall go badly for you,” Lord Lionsvaen said. “And the lawmen you assaulted are rather upstanding and honest men, whose accounts I believe in spite of the fantastical nature of its description.”

  “Your Lordship, I think that this is an instance where we might justifiably request an exemption from the prohibition on executions,” Sheriff Marsemal said.

  At that mention of execution, Kyrus heart began to race even quicker. He felt his breath coming shallow and rapidly.

  “I am not a fearful man,” the sheriff said, “but the existence of one such as this disturbs me to the core. I think …”

  And that was the last that Kyrus heard before he lost consciousness, having passed out.

  * * * * * * * *

  Brannis woke with a start. It was the middle of the night, but there was no denying how he felt. His head hurt for no reason he could rationalize—other than that Kyrus’s head hurt, and that he had just been there in it, watching. He was not so debilitated by it as Kyrus had been, but he could feel the spot where Kyrus had hit his head on the cobblestones of the streets of Scar Harbor behind his shop.

  Have I gone mad?

  The question hung in Brannis’s mind as he lay in bed, staring up at a ceiling that was too dark to see. The shock of his dream was enough to bring him fully awake, though he was still slightly disoriented. Acardia felt too real for Kadrin to have fully sunk in just yet.

  That is the real question, is it not? If I have lost my faculties, then this is all really just a dream, and I can ignore it—perhaps even find a way to rid myself of the dreams entirely. Surely there are potions, or magic to cure me, or even just taking to strong drink at night to sleep in oblivion.

  Brannis thought more about it for a few seconds.

  I could hide it, I think, never speaking of it to anyone. If I am strong enough, they will never catch on. I would have to be careful never to let slip anything I know that does not belong to the waking world. If I am lucky, I could take the secret to my grave never having breathed a word of it. I have just been given the chance of a lifetime; I cannot risk losing it. Can I?

  Brannis thought of all the wonderful things he had seen and felt in his dreams. Kyrus was not well-travele
d, but had experienced friends and a budding romance, and even felt the rush of the aether. It was the latter that tugged particularly at Brannis’s conscience. He knew that he had never imagined how it could feel to actually draw aether. He doubted his mind could have conjured such a euphoric feeling. Had it given the same joy as lovemaking, he could have accused his dreams of plagiarism, but the drawing of aether was entirely different. It was like standing in a hurricane untouched, as the wind blew through you, cleaning out the mind and body and leaving it feeling pure.

  It has to be real. If it is real, Kyrus needs me. If I am to help, all I can give is knowledge. The only knowledge that might save him is magic.

  Brannis threw off the bedclothes and stumbled in darkness over to the window. He drew open the heavy, velvet curtains that had so effectively cloaked the bedchamber in darkness. Pale moonlight wafted into the room, giving everything a ghostly quality, nearly devoid of color.

  Brannis’s eyes adjusted to the light, and he could make out the clothing he had worn the previous day. Though they smelled of stale sweat, they would serve his purposes, and Brannis quickly dressed. As he finished pulling on his boots, he walked swiftly for the door, then hesitated. He considered for a moment whether he ought to bring his sword but then dismissed the idea. He was not going far—not even leaving the estate.

  Brannis walked down the heavy-carpeted halls of Solaran Estate in thankful silence. Had his family been less indentured to comfort and luxury, he might have had to walk down a hall of bare stone, and would have needed to pad his steps if he wished to avoid causing commotion. The thick, red Safschan carpets, hundreds of summers old and preserved by magic, cushioned even his booted steps and muffled them to a whisper. A soft glow lit every hallway of the building at night, lest anyone seeking a late-evening snack—or just arriving late to bed—need to carry illumination of their own.

  He made his way to the family library, which his father had, until quite recently of course, taken custody of as his personal study. Doors within the estate were never locked, and Brannis opened the rightmost of the double doors and quietly entered. The heavy, ornately carved wooden door made not the slightest sound as it swung. Unlike the halls, the library was dark. Brannis felt his way across the dark room by only the scant light that came in from the hall. When he reached the window, he drew it open the curtains to cast enough light, hopefully, to read by.

  It was difficult to find a light source anywhere in the estate. Even his cousin Danil was enough of a sorcerer to light up anyplace he chose. Brannis was so rarely at home that he did not keep a lamp or magical light device about for his own use. It was fortunate that the moon was high and mostly full that night, and that the clouds were too thin and wispy to block much light, else Brannis would have been unable to find anything at all. As it was, he could only read the titles of volumes whose spines faced the window.

  Brannis scanned the ones he could see: Trontor’s Alchemy. Native Species of Tuermon. The Hurac Dynasty: A Sorcerer’s Perspective. The Warlock Prophecies. The Life of Fexil Solaran. Artifacts of the Early Imperial Era. Then a title written in a language Brannis could not read. Then, Geography and the Flow of Aether. And then, My Journal: Telemuron Solaran.

  Brannis thought the last sounded promising and pulled it from its shelf. Brannis scanned the first few pages. They were yellowed with age but bore the distinctively smooth feel of magical preservation.

  Talking about his early life … Goes on a sea voyage … Meets foreigners and shows them magic … More sea voyage … Drat, he was naught but an explorer. Nothing about how to do any magic.

  Brannis shoved the volume back into place with somewhat less care and respect normally due a four-hundred-odd summer-old book. He picked up where he left off.

  Predatory Avians. Geology as Pertains to Underground Structures. Collected Maps of the Ocean Currents. Coins. Sighing in annoyance with himself, Brannis could not help but wonder from the scant title what that one contained. He quickly pulled it off the shelf and looked inside. There was page after page of coins from various kingdoms and eras, sketched in fine detail by someone with ample free time. He angrily slammed it back into place and looked at the last two volumes on that shelf. Corporo Kannis: Merchant King. Ways of the Old Gods.

  Brannis moved to the next shelf down and continued: Dark Tales for the Fireside. Adventures of Boppy the Rabbit. Seram’s Children’s Stories. Brannis quickly browsed the rest of the shelf—nothing but children’s books. Maruk may have taken the library for his study, but it was still the family’s library.

  He continued scanning title after title. There were scholarly works, biographies, and storybooks, but he had yet to find anything that he could use. He needed instructions, notes, something substantive that Kyrus would be able to remember and make use of. He started taking books from the darkened shelves on the other side of the room and bringing them over to the window to read the titles.

  He discovered more of the same, perhaps with a few more personal journals of his ancestors. He was finding it difficult to believe that in a household of perhaps the most influential bloodline of sorcerers in the Empire, that there were no books on how to perform magic. Brannis admittedly had not looked at every book in the library, but he was getting the sense that if there were books in there of the type he was after, he ought to have found at least one so far.

  Brannis moved to his father’s desk and gave it a quick check as well. It did not take long to decide that it was devoid of helpful writings as well. His father had either kept it very tidy, or some ambitious relatives had already absconded with anything of value.

  He must have kept everything in his offices in the Tower of Contemplation, Brannis decided.

  That presented problems of its own, but not insurmountable ones. Brannis had already committed himself this far; he was prepared to do whatever it took now and deal with the consequences later.

  Brannis hurriedly drew the curtains closed again and made his way in the semi-darkness back out of the library. He considered his options. He could simply awaken someone and beg their assistance. Any number of sorcerers in the house could find him spells to escape from Kyrus’s situation; there was a reason the palace had warded cells for magic-capable prisoners. He could also ask either Iridan or Rashan for assistance. However, Iridan had already dismissed the dreams as nothing to worry about, and Rashan … Well, Rashan was not someone he was hoping to seek help from just then.

  He could sneak back into the Academy, but there were so many ways that could be misinterpreted that he shuddered to think how it would be seen if he were to be caught. He bore little love for the instructors and the feeling was mutual. Rummaging through their libraries might even be portrayed as some form of vengeful vandalism.

  The Tower of Contemplation seemed most promising. His father’s office had been there, and if it had not yet been cleared of his personal effects, then his notes and reference materials ought still to be there. Plus, if he was unable to find anything useful in his father’s office, there were other libraries in the Tower as well.

  Kyrus headed down the hall toward the main stairs but then paused a moment. Backtracking, he jogged down to his room and retrieved Avalanche. Poking around his family’s home was one thing. Snooping around in the headquarters of the Imperial Circle was a different matter. If questioned, he had plausible enough excuses to offer for being there so late, but it felt better to prepare for the worst.

  * * * * * * * *

  Brannis had decided to go on foot, rather than alert the stable hands on both ends of his journey. Taking the same route he had taken just the previous night coming back from the Bygones Day preparations, he set off for the palace at a jog.

  He found the usual rather lax security at the Tower of Contemplation and let himself in. He wondered idly if he ought to mention increasing the guard contingent of the Tower to someone. No thief in his right mind would break into the Tower, but that did not prevent the insane thieves from becoming wealthy if they dared to try it and
got lucky. Brannis counted himself among the latter for the night, and though it was not wealth he sought, he was certainly hoping for a bit of luck.

  * * * * * * * *

  He found the door to his father’s office warded, and having no means to open it short of using Avalanche to stave it in, he had slumped against it as he considered his next plan of action. Sighing, he banged his head lightly against the door, wincing at the expected pain that did not actually materialize.

  At least I seem to have gotten past that headache. I hope that means Kyrus is doing better.

  He needed to think of something quickly, before it was too late to help. He tried to remember all the special assignments that Rashan had given out to the rest of his surviving men from the Kelvie expedition. The warlock had wanted to keep them close by to prevent silly rumors from spreading about the time before he arrived back in Kadrin. He had neither seen nor heard from Sir Lugren since they had arrived, and the common soldiers had been given various assignments in and around the palace and Tower.

  That works! Brannis realized. Tod and Jodoul are guards for one of the Tower libraries. If I cannot get in past those two scholars, I am hopeless.

  Brannis pulled himself to his feet and headed back downstairs three floors to where he was fairly sure the North Library was located. It was, unsurprisingly, on the north side of the Tower, if only he had managed to get the floor correct.

  Brannis wended his way through the corridors until he saw them and confirmed that he had chosen correctly. There were Tod and Jodoul, fancied up in their pristine new red-and-white Circle Guard uniforms. They were leaning on their halberds and carrying on a conversation as he neared them.

  “Well, I know first thing I plan to get is a place of me own,” Tod commented, not even looking down the hall where Brannis approached from.

  “A woman for me, I thinks,” Jodoul replied, matter-of-factly.