“No milord. I will pass this about where appropriate. I will need some brothel passes. I think as far as making things difficult, those will go a long way.” Jayson smiled as he calculated how to torture the new guardsman.
Aorun reached into his desk and found a pouch. He pulled out his personal markers and gave Jayson ten of them. “Let me know if you need more,” he stated.
Jayson slipped them into his pouch. “Will do. Then, with your permission, I will make my own visit and get back to the cave.”
Aorun nodded. “Show yourself out. You know the way.” He leaned back in his chair, no longer really paying attention to the departing guard. He was already so lost in his thoughts that he didn’t hear the door close, furious that the girl was out of his reach again. Aorun couldn’t explain it, but there was something about her, something he had to possess. He wanted to own her, have those eyes beg him for his attention. Mostly, he didn’t want this Alador to have her. He stood and went to wall to look at the map of the isle. It took him some time to find this Smallbrook, but it far too deep into Daezun lands to consider removing Alador’s family. Besides, he’d learned that most half-breeds were outcasts, so it was possible that it was more hurtful to leave them alive.
Aorun tapped the map considering, tracing the borderlands with a finger. His mother had served in the Homeguard. Gifted with the powers of a bronze dragon, she had been fascinating to him. She could touch a rock and turn it into a toy; her ability to shift a stone to any shape she wanted had led to life on the fourth tier. Many thought Aorun was raised in the trenches, but this wasn’t the case, he’d known privilege and luxury. He reached over to a nearby shelf where he’d placed a small stone dragon, which had always reminded him of the ones she would make for him. Aorun ran a finger over the back of it before slowly setting it down.
Not for lack of trying, Aorun had never been able to bring a spark to a testing stone. His mother had tried it many times a year once Aorun was old enough to be considered for training. He’d tried so hard for her, to see that look of approval in her eyes, but he’d always earned a look of love and pity. He knew she’d been disappointed that her son could draw no power from the magics of the bloodstone. He had no innate ability to draw magic.
Aorun didn’t know anything of his father, his mother had only said he was a powerful mage on the fifth tier. He had scrutinized every such mage but could find none that bore a likeness to himself, and she’d never mentioned a name, nor had his parents joined their households. Any time Aorun had asked, his mother would usually change the topic. To this day, his sire remained a mystery. A hated one – he had not stepped forward after her death – but perhaps he had died first, and Aorun was truly an orphan.
His mother had been called to duty near the end of the war. The Daezun, always good at mining, had taken to living underground and building traps beneath the very ground that the Lerdenian army had to cross. Bronze mages were capable of detecting these holdings, traps and tunnels. His mother had promised Aorun that she would return, but she never did.
One day, he had awakened to find all the servants were gone. He remembered that sense of panic searching through the house and finding a man from the High Council waiting for him at the breakfast table. The man explained that Aorun’s mother was dead and that the house was no longer his to live in. He’d tested Aorun, but as usual, Aorun had been unable to bring a spark to the stone, despite the fear he’d felt. The grief had been overwhelming, but even without it Aorun doubted he could have found that spark. He’d tried so many times before that day. He still continued to try with a small bloodstone he’d purchased, but he had never been able to absorb its gifts.
The man had given Aorun a small sack of silver and told him he had four hours to gather what he needed and to move elsewhere. In with another relative, down to the trenches, out of the capital, it didn’t matter to the man. There had been no concern that Aorun was still just a boy. The fact that he had no gifts for magic apparently discounted his worth as a citizen in the official's eyes. Aorun knew of no family and even a rapid search of his mother’s desk and room had revealed no clues to his heritage. Aorun shook his head to let go of his feelings of abandonment, wandering back to his own desk. He had sworn then that he would kill any Daezun that crossed his path and, for a time, had kept that promise. As far as he was concerned, they were the ones that condemned him to a life in the trenches.
Aorun sat down at the desk and grabbed his flask, shaking it angrily as he remembered that he’d just drained it. He sighed and caressed the silver etchings of the sea as he remembered those first few years, entering the trench with nothing more than a pair of backpacks. There were no open homes in the trenches; families protected them viciously. Aorun had found a small indent in the rock wall and claimed it for his own. He hadn’t realized how spoiled and helpless he really was until a group of boys, barely older than he, had beaten him senseless, took everything he’d had, and left him for dead.
That was the day he had met Wieta, a little old woman wizened with too many years, hunched slightly with age. She had taken him to a small cave inside the mines, which had become his home for many years. She had saved him so she could get some help. Wieta had been different, sharp in manner and tone, smart but rarely kind. She had been fair, though. She had taught Aorun how to steal and how to hold a blade. When he was beyond her skills, Wieta found him a tutor. All she asked in return is that he helped her remain fed and fetched her water. It had been more than a fair trade. He’d continued to care for her even after joining the Trench Lord’s men.
One day he’d gone to take her food and found that she’d passed on to the gods. Aorun had seen Wieta properly buried and moved on. He’d never loved her, but he had been grateful; without her, he probably never would have survived the trench.
Aorun threw his flask angrily, wincing as it crashed into a vase on the shelf across from him, both tumbling to the floor as discordant as his stormy emotions. It was not right that someone could be given everything in life just because he could use magic! It discounted all the merit and skill of the man in other areas of his life. Professionally skilled craftsmen were relegated to the second tier if they were limited to only simple magic. If someone had no magic at all, he made his living on the first tier. Many of those that lived in the trenches were allowed out during the day and were hired on for work in those three tiers. Some were even servants in the upper tiers, but they were always forced to return to the trench at night if they had no magic, and if their employer did not allow them to live in the servant’s quarters of their home.
It was a system that Aorun hated, and he’d often found ways to undermine it until he became Trench Lord. The Trench Lord was a part of the system. He had thought, as he worked his way up, that he could change things. Create more equality for the Lerdenian people. But it hadn’t taken him long to realize that he’d had far more power to make changes as a nameless man in the Trench Lord’s service. Now, if any of his men crossed the lines, it was Aorun who paid the price. If any hint of rebellion or subterfuge against the mages were detected, it was Aorun they would hang out before everyone so others would take note of and learn that even a Trench Lord had lines he could not cross.
Aorun got up and stared at the harbor, watching the great masts sway in the gentle moving water. He would gladly sign on as a mere hand if he were not so terrified of the things Wieta had told to him; she’d been something of a fortune teller. Aorun had never been able to figure out if she had a true gift or just got lucky enough to keep others seeking her services. Either way, it was how she earned her meager slips.
Wieta had told him over and over what she’d seen for him, and Aorun had it memorized. He whispered it softly to himself: “The sea shall rise up in a bond of betrayal and rip all that you have gained from your hand. From your blood, dragons will rise up free and hungry. Your death will unite brothers that shall one day seize the thrones of the Gods.” He hadn’t, and didn’t, know what Wieta had meant, but he’d believed h
er. If he kept his feet on solid ground, than the sea could not claim him.
Aorun frowned out at the water. He could not go beyond this isle without risking losing all he had acquired or his very life. He could, however, deny this half-breed what should have been Aorun’s by birth. He was a full Lerdenian. He had risen up by his own hand, brain, and skill. He suddenly hoped Jayson didn’t find a way to arrange an accident. Aorun wanted to kill this Alador himself. He wanted to take him below to the room he used when he needed information and spend a very, very long time with him.
Chapter Twelve
They both sat in silence, absorbing Alador’s revelations. It was Henrick who once again broke the silence with a long, drawn out sigh. “You want to make an ally out of the dragon that you shot?”
“It’s the only dragon that I know of that someone knows how to reach out to and actually speak with. I don’t suppose you know two?” Alador looked at him hopefully. “Like, did he ever introduce you to a friend?”
“No, I do not know two.” Henrick sighed. “You realize he will probably eat you.” He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms.
“Well then, I’ll have to convince him that eating me isn’t in his best interest,” Alador said. “I’m not ready yet. Maybe one or both of us will find another dragon in the meantime, one that might not be quite as irritated with me.” Though Alador’s words shared his hope, the only other dragons he’d ever seen had been a long ways off.
“Yes, because I make it a routine to convince dragons not to eat me,” Henrick shot back with a frown, his voice thick with sarcasm. There was a moment of silence, and he sighed again. “Do you know how lucky I was to walk away from that encounter?”
“Father, I have to find a dragon. Without the dragons as an ally, they might think I mean to hurt their fledglings when I go to close this mine,” Alador said with a frown.
“How are you going to do that? If it was easily done, do you not think that the dragons would have already done it?” Henrick pointed out, disgruntled. “It seems to me that if it were a matter of just attacking it, the issue would have been settled long ago. They are not weak creatures.”
“I don’t know yet. What I do know is that a direct attack obviously doesn’t work, so, however, I do it is going to have to be well-orchestrated.” Alador’s thoughts were racing. “It has to be subtle, or an army will be waiting,” he pointed out. “And it’ll need the cooperation of the dragons.” Alador sat back. “Can you ask your dragon friend a question for me before he decides to hate me?”
Henrick smirked. “I can try. What would you have me ask?”
“I need to know if a blue dragon named Pruatra still lives. If she does, maybe I could reach out to her instead,” Alador mused. “She was Renamaum’s mate.”
“I can ask, but he will want to know why I want to know.” Henrick pointed out, eyeing his son.
Alador hadn’t considered that. After a moment, he answered, “Tell him the truth. The one that harvested Renamaum’s stone is asking for her. Maybe it will make him curious enough to overcome his own hate.”
Henrick nodded. “Brave move. I hope you do not mind, but I think that I will leave out that it is my son for the time being.” Henrick grinned at Alador. “I rather like living,” he stated simply.
Alador laughed at that. “A wise thought, I think.” He grinned over at his father. “I’m going to go write a letter to Mesiande, and then we can go turn me over to this Blackguard. I’ve arranged for uncle to allow me two half-days so I can learn from you both.”
Henrick looked surprised. “How did you manage that one?”
“I learn quickly. He wants something from me. Something specific, I think. As long as he thinks I hold him in confidence, he’s rather accommodating. I’m going to try to use that as long as I can.” Alador rose to his feet. “I know I have much to learn, and I’m willing to learn what I can from him as long as it’s available. Dorien taught me once that there is no better opportunity than to watch your enemy work, for in that is your opportunity to discover how to best him.”
“I have always liked Dorien,” Henrick mused softly. “I will be ready to go when you have your things gathered. I will meet you in the front hall when you are ready.” He did not rise with his son; instead, he stood and stared at the fire.
“I won’t be long,” Alador promised and turned on sharply to head out the door. He found the way back to his own room with minimal difficulty.
Alador wrote out a letter to Mesiande, hoping she would understand his meaning. He rolled it up and placed it in the tube, then laid it under his pillow and concentrated on her for a time. He was swept away as the memories of Mesiande washed over him painfully: her braided hair always threatening to escape its twisted confines, her soft, rounded body pressed closed to him, the sparkle in her eyes as she teased him, and the scolding in her voice when she stood at the archery range, hands on those perfect, small hips, scolding his form. Alador’s heart ached with every tender memory. There was a good chance he would never be able to hold her again. He knew that she would be trained for the circle in another’s arms. All these things melded into the memory that was his Mesiande, his love, his heart. He couldn’t imagine any other taking her place in his soul.
When he could stand it no longer, Alador checked under the pillow: the tube was gone. He caressed the dent where he’d placed it, then sighed softly and left the bed, moving around the room. He stored things he wanted to keep safe and only loaded the backpack with a few changes of clothes, some writing materials, and a handful of slips. He changed into a simple shirt of undyed linen, then eyed the weapons on the wall and took down a sword, testing it. It was weighted well and fit his hand. Alador also saw his bow and smiled, taking it from the rack. Thanks to his father, it hadn’t been lost in the rockslide. He strapped the sword around his waist. The last thing he took was a boot knife, which he slipped into place down the sheath that was prepared on the outside of his right leg. Alador stood before the mirror. He hardly looked formidable, but it would have to do.
He joined Henrick in the hall, hoping he hadn’t kept his father waiting long. Henrick’s hair was slicked back, and he was dressed impressively in a deep red shirt, a black vest, and matching britches. His boots shined a deep and rich black, as well. At his belt was a short sword, and though the handle looked decorative, Alador doubted the blade was. He was learning not to judge his father by how he presented himself.
They didn’t speak as they went through the fifth tier to the stairs down. It had stopped raining and the summer sun was beginning to dry the stone streets. The air was oppressive and close much as the bathing house at home. Silverport’s population increased as they descended. The fourth tier had many mages socializing or busily making their way on errands. Small inns and taverns were irregularly spaced throughout the tier, and there were still a few shops here and there.
One shop had a bloodstone sign in front of it, and Alador stopped grabbing his father’s arm. “Can we go in here for a moment? I want to see something.” Alador nodded to the shop.
Henrick noted the sign and nodded. “Just do not cause a ruckus; we do not have that much grace.”
Alador nodded and stepped inside. The shop had little to recommend it as he entered. There were bloodstone unguents and pouches of powdered bloodstone on the shelves, most likely something herbalists sought, Alador decided as he moved toward the counter. The shopkeeper came bustling forward, eyes darting over their weapons and Henrick’s demeanor and bowed low.
“Good day milords, good day. How may I assist two fine, honored men this day?” His hair was fiery red, his eyes a strange dark jade color. His clothing spoke of money, but it was of simple design. He rubbed his hands together, taking in the men before him.
“I was hoping to see your assortment of bloodstones, maybe five stone weight?” Alador asked. Henrick looked at Alador curiously.
“Yes sir, yes sir. Let me fetch that tray.” The man hurried off and soon came back with a large array
of stones. “This is my finest selection close to that weight.”
Alador went through the small stones carefully. He picked one up, then another and soon was sorting the tray. There were many stones that, while cloudy to show they had not been harvested, were almost pink in color rather than red.
“You know your stones,” the man said, watching Alador with sharp eyes.
“Yes, I have much experience with them,” Alador murmured. “How much are these over here?”
“They are all in the one slip range, sir.” The shopkeeper smiled wide. “Small enough for jewelry enchantments.”
“So you cheat your customers?” Alador eyes narrowed, but he kept his tone casual as he looked the shopkeeper up and down.
The man’s face reddened. “I most certainly do not.” He puffed up with indignation.
Alador waved his hand over the lighter stones. “These are harvested from living dragons and likely to be light on the magic they should hold.” He moved his hand over the dark red ones. “These are from deceased dragons and will hold more of the true power of their magic. You’re lucky that more of your customers don’t know this.” Alador leaned across the board between them. “Some might kill a man for selling them a watered stone as quick as they might kill over watered wine.” His voice was low and cold.
Despite the warning Henrick gave Alador, he stood slightly back from his son with his arms crossed, his smirking smile a testament to his thoughts. He made no move to interfere or interrupt. Meanwhile, Alador’s eyes were locked on the shopkeeper, who swallowed noticeably.
“I buy my stones from one vendor. I assure you sir, I do not know what you mean by watered.” The shopkeeper eyed the lighter stones with concern, and his eyes moved to dart about the shelves, as well.
The Blackguard (Book 2) Page 16