Artesans of Albia: 01 - King's Envoy

by Cas Peace

  He closed his eyes, feeling a stray wisp of evening breeze touch the damp hair on his neck. Turning to face it, he welcomed its coolness. When he opened his eyes again he stared at a dark line stretching to his left that could only be trees. He considered it before making up his mind. Even if the forest was as empty as the hills, at least it promised shelter from tomorrow’s heat.

  Hitching his pack higher and gritting his teeth, Taran made for the trees.

  By the time he emerged from the hills, it was nearly dark. The forest had lured him and he had hoped to reach it before nightfall. Now he saw that although the hills ended sooner than he had thought, the distance had been deceptive, for the trees were actually farther away than they seemed. It would be folly to go on in darkness. Much safer to camp in this shrubby little copse, he thought, and make for the forest in daylight.

  Weary, he dropped his pack to the ground. He lit a fire but the surrounding scrub was tinder-dry, so he shielded the meager flame well. Once he had eaten, he stamped it out; he had his blanket and wouldn’t risk a brush fire. Warmly wrapped against the night chill he could already feel, he stretched out on the ground. As he closed his eyes, he accessed his psyche, surrounding himself with power. Bringing Cal’s pattern to mind, he sent his Apprentice a call.

  Cal answered immediately, reassuring Taran with his watchfulness. Not that Taran distrusted him, but the younger man was far less experienced than even Taran, and his strength was being drained by the effort of maintaining the portway.

  Once Taran was satisfied that Cal was in control, he broke the link. Before settling to sleep, he drew power through his psyche once more. Attuning it to the element of Earth, he cast tendrils of power into the ground, trusting them to wake him should he be approached in the night.

  As weariness claimed him, despondency rose. He had the most depressing feeling that this venture was doomed to failure, just like all the rest.

  Andaryon, the Fifth Realm

  The dungeons of Duke Rykan’s palace in Kymer Province

  The cell door crashed against the wall as Sonten flung it open. His nephew jumped and let out a curse. Sonten grinned. The boy should have been expecting him; he’d have to control his reactions better than this. After all, Jaskin would have far worse than his uncle’s wrath to face if their plan failed.

  Impatiently, he waited while Jaskin calmed. The boy’s hands were resting on a strange metal object lying on the table before him. The sight of it made Sonten’s obese frame quiver with tension. His fat fingers gripped the door jamb and his voice rasped in the chilly gloom.

  “Well, boy, have you finally done it? Can you use the damned thing?”

  It galled Sonten that his Artesan powers were so feeble. He hated needing Jaskin’s greater skills to make his plan work. Even this step had taken many secret days to achieve. Thank the gods the boy was still young enough to be manipulated.

  His nephew raised his head and regarded his uncle with an Andaryan’s characteristically pale, slit-pupiled eyes. They gleamed like a cat’s in moonlight.

  “Of course I can. Didn’t I tell you all I needed was privacy and time?”

  His condescending tone irritated Sonten, though he ignored it.

  Yes, you enjoy your little triumphs, he thought, secure in the knowledge that I need you. One day, my boy, when you least expect it, you’ll pay for your arrogance.

  Sonten approached the table, intent on the innocent-looking artifact. Known as the Staff, it belonged to their overlord, Duke Rykan. A slim rod the length of a man’s forearm, its ceramic sheathing glittered metallic green. Or was it blue? The changing hues flickered across it, rippling over its etched surface.

  Beautiful but deadly, thought Sonten, suppressing a shiver. Despite his fear, it fascinated him.

  “Will he notice?” he demanded. “Will he sense what you’ve done?”

  He met Jaskin’s gaze, knowing the boy understood his fear. They were treading a dangerous path and everything was at risk. Should the Duke realize they’d taken the Staff, or—gods forbid—learn they were plotting to overthrow him, their deaths would be lingeringly brutal. Rykan had a fearsome reputation; neither of them wanted to incur such powerful wrath.

  Jaskin leaned back in his chair. “No Uncle, I’ve told you before. I’ve only used my knowledge of his Grace’s psyche. I’ve influenced the Staff, not taken control. I doubt I could do that anyway, my powers aren’t as strong as the Duke’s. But I’ve left no imprint, no clue that I’ve touched it.”

  “What’s next?” asked Sonten, greedily eyeing the Staff.

  Jaskin ran a hand through sweaty hair. “I don’t know about you, but I need a bath.”

  Sonten glared at him; that wasn’t what he’d meant.

  Jaskin rose and picked up the Staff. It flared as he touched it and Sonten flinched. Seeing his nephew grin, he scowled. The Staff was a dangerous instrument and he couldn’t help fearing it. Among other things, it was capable of stealing whatever power its Artesan victim possessed. While Sonten might not have much in the way of power, he did not relish the thought of it being sucked forcibly out of him.

  Carefully, Jaskin placed the Staff in its padded iron chest, which was kept locked in this unused part of the dungeons. Despite his subjects’ fear of him, the Duke wasn’t taking any chances that someone might steal it. The irony of this wasn’t lost on Sonten. The Staff was invaluable—irreplaceable—and like Jaskin, the Duke had labored through many sweaty hours to imbue it with his power. He was waiting for the right time to use it and hadn’t been down here for days. In his position as senior general, Sonten often had legitimate reason to visit the dungeons. Still, he couldn’t help fearing the Duke might suspect what they were up to. So he locked the chest and the door to the cell as usual, placing the keys in the pouch at his waist.

  “I need to conduct an experiment,” said Jaskin, his voice echoing in from the dank corridor outside the cell. “I need to test my control.”

  “His Grace has … ”

  “I can’t use one of the Duke’s wretched prisoners, Uncle. What if it went wrong? How would we explain ourselves?”

  “But … ”

  “Besides, I need someone unsuspecting, someone stronger than those useless peasants. Not one of them is higher than Apprentice and if our plan is to succeed, I need to be sure the Staff can do what his Grace has been told.”

  Sonten stayed silent, watching his nephew think.

  “What we need is a brief trip back to your mansion in Durkos. That would give us time to search out someone suitable.”

  “But that would be even riskier than this,” objected Sonten. “The Albian raids are due to start soon and his Grace wants me to oversee them. How would we explain our absence?”

  Jaskin shrugged. “That’s up to you. Can’t you invent something, some emergency in Durkos needing your personal attention?”

  “It’s too dangerous.”

  “I know it’s dangerous, Uncle, but what choice do we have? Once the raids start, it’ll be too late.”

  Sonten narrowed his eyes. “They’re a waste of time and men, these raids. I can’t see why his Grace is so keen to capture the human witch. Surely we have far more important concerns.”

  “She’s not a witch, Uncle. She’s reputed to be a powerful Artesan. If his Grace can absorb her powers, it’ll help in his bid for the throne. And it wasn’t his idea, remember? It was that Albian Baron’s.”

  Sonten scowled. The Duke’s alliance with the Baron was a sore point and Sonten definitely didn’t approve. Not that the Duke took any notice of Sonten’s opinions.

  “If it makes you feel any better,” said Jaskin, “I think his Grace is using the Baron. Once he’s served his purpose, he’ll be disposed of.”

  “And then he’ll move on the throne,” gloated Sonten.

  Jaskin smiled. “But before that happens, I need to test the Staff. Once I’m sure I can take the Duke, we can choose our time.”

  Sonten nodded, triumphant greed warming the dark corners of
his heart.

  Suddenly, Jaskin froze; his eyes wide with fear. “Was that a horn?”

  Sonten felt the blood leave his face and his knees turned weak. “He can’t be back already, surely?”

  But Jaskin wasn’t listening. He had bolted for the stairs. As Sonten forced his bulk into motion, he heard his nephew racing upward.

  Chapter Three

  Deep in thought, chin-rolls resting on his chest, Sonten fretted as he rode through the early sunlight. He had only managed to get the Duke’s permission to visit Durkos with Jaskin for two days, supposedly to deal with a peasant uprising. It was the best fabrication he could come up with on such short notice and it was a measure of the Duke’s preoccupation that he had fallen for it. Even so, Sonten was under strict instructions to return as soon as possible. The raids ordered by the Duke’s ally, the Baron, were imminent, and the Duke wanted his General to oversee them.

  Sonten scowled. Overseeing the raids was a waste of his time. All his commanders had been thoroughly briefed; they all knew exactly what was required. Still, if his Grace wanted Sonten there, Sonten had to obey. It galled him that his own rise in power was so dependent on the Duke’s patronage, but if his plans succeeded, he would do far more than merely share his overlord’s success.

  As he accompanied Jaskin toward the forests bordering Durkos, Sonten hugged those plans close to his heart.

  He and his nephew were escorted by eight huntsmen from Sonten’s personal retinue. They were hand-picked, trusted men, and they were well aware how vital it was that the Duke didn’t learn of this excursion. Sonten had also brought two of his favorite tangwyrs. The monstrous raptors were hooded and lashed by stout jesses to their wooden perches, which were being carried by horses trained not to spook at their smell.

  Fondly, he watched them. In appearance, they could have been the offspring of a vulture and a giant bat. Their lanceolate beaks and vicious, saw-edged talons were driven by sail-like feathered and leathery wings. They were ferocious predators and efficient scavengers. In the wild, they rode the thermals high over the Andaryan plains and their unnerving red eyes could spot prey on the ground from miles above. In captivity—you could never call them tame—they were useful for intimidating or punishing rebellious peasants.

  Jaskin had objected to Sonten bringing the monsters—he needed his victims alive and preferably unhurt, not lacerated by the claws of a tangwyr. Sonten had assured his nephew they were for show only. He knew how important this venture was.

  The party rode through the hills toward the forest villages where Sonten hoped to find some peasant Artesan, some low-born talent who would never rise above the status fate had dealt him. Sonten’s province had many of these, as he wasn’t given to elevating lowborns, especially not those whose powers were stronger than his.

  The day threatened to be hot; fierce summer temperatures often persisted long into autumn. The horses kicked up dust scorched by the summer sun. As the party descended the final hill and approached a shadowed copse not yet warmed by the early light, the lead huntsman, who had been scouting, rode back to them.

  “There’s a camp ahead, my Lords. One man only, still sleeping. He’s an outlander and by his gear, I’d say he’s Albian.”

  Jaskin shot Sonten a glance. “Did you hear that, Uncle? An Albian trespassing on your land. You know what that means, don’t you?”

  Sonten grinned. Only Artesans possessed the power to travel between the realms and outlanders—especially Albians—were fair game.

  “Looks like luck’s on our side,” he said as he nudged his horse closer. “But how will you know what rank he is? What if he’s more powerful than you?”

  Jaskin snorted. “Don’t worry, I’m not about to wade in without some assurance of safety. I want the first one to be unprepared. Until I know exactly how the Staff works, I don’t want to face a shielded man. Wait here while I see what we’ve got.”

  Jaskin dismounted, removed his green-edged black cloak and followed the scout. Sonten waited impatiently. Within a few moments, the younger man was back, a satisfied grin on his face.

  “Well?”

  “He’s about my age, possibly a year or two older. And he’s either an experienced Apprentice-elite or a very inexperienced Journeyman.”

  “How can you be so sure?” demanded Sonten.

  “He’s laid a mesh of metaforce. Don’t ask me to go into detail. But I was able to approach without waking him, so it’s not very strong. The point is, either rank is perfect.”

  Sonten dismounted and the huntsmen did the same. “So what do you intend?”

  “I’ll challenge him to a duel. I’m quite within my rights, he’s trespassing after all. I want you to stay back while I do this, Uncle, stay out of his sight if you can. It’s highly unlikely he’ll beat me, but if it looks as though he might, I’ll use the Staff. I want the Staff kept out of sight until I need it. He won’t know what it is, but he’s an Artesan, so he might sense its power. You’ll have to hold it until I’m ready to use it.”

  Sonten paled. The thought of holding the thing, with its strangely shimmering colors and mind-stealing potential, terrified him.

  His obvious distaste made Jaskin grin. “It can’t hurt you, Uncle, I’ve told you before. It needs to be activated by an Artesan with stronger powers than yours. Don’t worry, you’re perfectly safe.”

  Gods, but you’ll pay for your smugness, boy, thought Sonten, stung by this reference to his handicap. But as Jaskin held out the Staff, he passed his reins to a huntsman and accepted the dreadful thing. He concealed it beneath the ample folds of his cloak and hung back among his escort.

  They followed as Jaskin walked toward the copse.

  Taran’s metasenses pricked him and he instantly woke, leaping to his feet and snatching his sword. He stopped short, biting back a curse, as he registered the confident stance of the young man standing before him. And he had every reason to be confident, Taran realized, with armed hunters at his back. His failure to sense them sooner made Taran scowl. Apprehensively, he waited for the man to speak.

  “You’re trespassing, Albian.”

  The man’s arrogant manner and rich clothing confirmed Taran’s immediate suspicions—he was an Andaryan noble. Taran’s sleep-muddled mind struggled to frame a reply but he wasn’t given the leisure.

  “The penalty for trespass is death.”

  Taran stared, knowing he was trapped. The huntsmen stood with bows unnocked but he knew how swiftly they could draw and shoot should he make a threatening move. And though the ugly giant birds they had were hooded and leashed, they could be loosed in an instant if he tried to run. His only chance lay in the bargain he hoped to make.

  He opened his mouth to answer but was again interrupted.

  “However, I came out this day for sport. What do you say to a duel, Albian, to determine your fate? If you win, you’re free to leave. If you lose, you submit to my will.”

  The noble’s pale, slit-pupiled eyes were avid and he fingered the hilt of his sword as he spoke. The motion drew Taran’s gaze. Events were moving a little fast for him despite this seemingly favorable turn. He had not expected things to work out like this—according to his father’s notes, he should be the one making the challenge—but in the end, did it matter? And what choice did he have? The noble had him at a severe disadvantage and would be within his rights should he decide to kill Taran out of hand. Even if he wasn’t, there was nothing Taran could do about it. No one would protect him if he could not protect himself.

  He gathered his courage and faced the noble. He looked a little younger than Taran’s twenty-eight years but Taran had faith in his own skills. He was taller than the noble and he was agile and fit, there was no reason to believe he would not win. And the noble was an Artesan, Taran could sense it. He didn’t know what rank but that wasn’t immediately important. His father’s notes indicated that Taran only had to force a draw to win the right to the noble’s aid. If he turned out to be incapable of teaching Taran himself, his d
uty would require him to find someone who could.