The Blood Wars Trilogy Omnibus: Volumes 1 - 3

by T. A. Miles

  “Were they friends?”

  “I have no idea,” Irslan replied. “I’d never met the man myself before visiting here.”

  Korsten nodded and began to voice acknowledgment when Vlas appeared behind the both of them.

  “I missed something important,” the blonde presumed.

  “The arrest of a traitor,” Irslan supplied, which seemed to greatly satisfy Vlas.

  “Excellent. Who was it?”

  While the white-dressed mage’s eyes searched the room, perhaps for whomever was missing, Irslan said. “The physician Emalrik.”

  “I didn’t suspect him,” Vlas answered, his tone both matter-of-fact and mildly disappointed, perhaps in his own deduction skills.

  “I thought you suspected everyone,” another man said, drawing Korsten’s gaze to the individual who had been in the presence of Sethaniel when Korsten had left earlier.

  “You’ve known me so long, have you, Master Mortannis?” was Vlas’ return quip, but it fell immediately away from Korsten’s care as his thoughts hung on the man’s name.

  Korsten looked again at this individual, who was already looking at Korsten with a glint in dark eyes that should not have been overlooked. “Oh,” Korsten said, though that in no way articulated what he meant to say.

  Firard grinned and in so doing washed away enough years from his face for Korsten to see the young noble who had aided Korsten so many years ago in an endeavor of youth and foolishness.

  “You’ve changed little,” Firard said, and Korsten felt it unlikely that the man was speaking only of his appearances as he recalled vividly the expression of displeased shock he had been making when a then young Master Mortannis found him alone in the woods. Korsten had abandoned a hunt, deliberately, and the youth that would become his first lover had followed, just as deliberately.

  And regardless of all of that, Korsten found the awkwardness short-lived. It had been outlived, perhaps, by all that had happened since childhood. “I’ve changed a lot, I’m afraid.”

  “I feel that you’re not afraid,” Firard contradicted at once. “And that you never were.”

  That inspired the smallest of smiles from Korsten, behind which was a sensation of gratitude for the fact that his memories of Firard seemed to have remained true. And that led him to more recent memory. “Wasn’t your arm injured when I was here last?”

  “Yes, it was,” Firard answered, rubbing his hand over muscle that apparently was no longer sore or damaged. “Lerissa performed a spell upon it. And now it’s healed as if it had never taken injury.”

  “I’m glad,” Korsten said.

  “As am I,” Vlas inserted, and then he pressed himself between Korsten and Irslan on his way toward Cayri and the others. “We need all the able, uninjured bodies this city has to offer.”

  “Excuse me,” Korsten said to both Firard and Irslan, taking Vlas’ path back toward the table, though he branched away toward the end Sethaniel had claimed.

  “We’ve word on the situation at the wall and along the cliffs,” Vlas informed the governor and his officers. “It’s been decided that we can lay another trap at the wall involving the arbalests. Lerissa and Captain Gairel have already begun setting this plot into motion. I intend to return and further assist. Master Mortannis, now that his arm has been recovered by Healing spell, holds interest in assisting on the siege side of this affair.”

  Deitir was listening, eyes that reminded Korsten of Sethaniel’s moving from Vlas to Firard, then back again. “I’m not opposed to any of that,” he said. His gaze went next to Korsten, perhaps because he had not anticipated seeing him return so soon, considering that he had gone to the front with Sharlotte not long before.

  “An unexpected circumstance routed me back here,” Korsten explained, then gestured toward Dacia. “It’s important that she stay in the presence of her cousin, Master Treir.”

  Irslan gave a half smile of acknowledgment when his name was mentioned.

  Deitir might have wondered why Dacia was of any specific interest in this situation, but did not ask for the time present. Instead he put forward another question. “Will you be returning to the front?”

  “I mean to, yes,” Korsten answered.

  “Then would you take Firard along as well?”

  Before Korsten could reply, Sethaniel grumbled, “You’re not as young as the rest of them, Firard.”

  Stepping forward, Firard glared familiarly at the elder and said, “In truth I’m precisely as young as at least one of them, old man.”

  Well, that was true. Granted, that was not what Sethaniel meant. Korsten knew that and he suspected so did Firard, but the point was still given and Sethaniel denied its offering with the disgruntled silence of an ancient who was awake beyond his typical hour for rest.

  “Let’s be off, then,” Korsten decided, walking toward Firard. “With the sounds of Morenne’s weapons drawing nearer, I’d like to locate Sharlotte.”

  “Take care,” the lady of the house said to them.

  “We will, Ilayna,” Firard said, again with familiarity, letting Korsten on to the fact that life in Cenily had indeed carried on without him present. Relationships had formed and grown, and in unexpected ways. There was a time when Korsten would have believed that Sethaniel would not have allowed Firard Mortannis into his house, let alone into his family, but perhaps even that most reckless and foolish of acts, performed by children, had not been so ill received as Korsten had once believed. He doubted that either of their fathers had responded well, tainted memories or no, but it now seemed possible that Sethaniel might have written the deed off to youth and duress. Firard and his family might have as well, and it might only have been Korsten who spent years embarrassed and bitter over the affair, but that seemed to be the way of things for him since leaving Cenily.

  He focused now on leaving the office of Indhovan’s governor. Rather than seek Sharlotte in casting the spell, he sought the area he had last seen her. When he stepped onto the scarred street from the overly polished stone floor of the manor, a part of him expected to see it separated again and facing him and Firard with a gaping pit.

  But the street was as any street should have been under the circumstances.

  “That spell is among the more peculiar experiences I’ve had,” Firard said of the Reach.

  Korsten regarded the statement with only a glance while he searched the area for any signs of Vadryn, soldiers, or his extended awareness encroaching. The structures surrounding them were quiet, barring a small fire in the pit of one that had been reduced to rubble. The glow of greater fires and the sound of soldiers clashing was ahead of them, perhaps not far from where they had been before.

  “When you join the fray, take care in any opponents whose aggression appears more beastly than man,” Korsten advised while he and Firard walked.

  “Yes, I heard this from Vlas and Lerissa,” Firard answered. “Before having their traits described to me, I had felt the presence, or at least the wake of their presence in the past.”

  “Have you been soldiering all of this time?” Korsten asked.

  “I have been. Initially, it was part of my father’s sentence for the indiscretions of my youth.”

  Korsten suspected he knew at least one of those indiscretions that were being referenced. He wondered what the rest of Firard’s ‘sentence’ might have entailed, but decided not to ask. Undoubtedly, it was as political in tone and as undesirable at the time as Korsten’s being sent to Haddowyn. They both had been very spoiled young men, at the very least.

  That was so long ago. It’s so far away from us now.

  “Admittedly, I have not been fighting as frequently in recent years,” Firard continued. “I and others have been working to collect information regarding the enemy. A group of us was on the water when the wave arrived.”

  “That’s how you acquired your injury,” Korsten gu
essed.

  “Yes, and if not for the talent of mages, I might still be nursing the wound in the governor’s house. I’d much rather be active.”

  “That’s understandable,” Korsten replied, recognizing with Firard’s words and attitude that they both had matured considerably since their young encounter as associated political families so many years ago. He was glad of that. He was glad that Firard was not the same arrogant and entitled young man who would demonstrate poor judgment in seeking pleasure and he was glad that his memory of Sethaniel had quite simply been wrong. He was finished with his ill relationship with jealousy, bitterness, resent, and distrust over a lie. Or over anything. It was not worth the years of mental anguish. There was no satisfaction in despising one’s own family, nor in believing that one’s own family despised them. It justified nothing and drained one of everything.

  I’ve been such a fool. The thought concluded the matter for now.

  “There’s been heavy talk of mages in recent years,” Firard mentioned.

  Korsten didn’t have to ask to know that not all of that talk had been fond or favorable. The reintroduction of the people of Edrinor to mages had been strained to say the least.

  “I would not have presumed that anyone I knew would take such a path,” Firard continued. “Though somehow it does not surprise me to see that you have, Korsten. I’d always found you to be unique. You probably believe I’m referring to your appearances, but it was something else. Your sensitivities, perhaps.”

  Korsten glanced over at Firard while the man shrugged, as if he were uncommitted to the task of finding the precise words to fit what it was he meant. All the topic did was remind Korsten of the conversation he’d had with his father aboard the Song of the Coast.

  Firard forced a short-lived smile, indicating that he was beginning to feel pressured beneath the weight of the subject he had chosen. Korsten was drawing up words to safely, or diplomatically summarize the Seminary and his career among mages so that they might move away from it.

  And then Firard said, “Vassenleigh’s Lord Ashwin….”

  Korsten looked at Firard more directly, any words he had been forming discarded. He waited only a moment for the friend of his youth to find the rest of his words, and when Firard didn’t, Korsten prompted him with, “What of Ashwin?”

  Firard slowed his steps somewhat. “His is the only name that anyone who hasn’t had any acquaintance with a mage directly seems to know or mention.”

  “He’s in a position of great importance,” Korsten said.

  Firard hesitated, perhaps in case Korsten had more to say.

  Korsten felt that he did and that he did not at the same time.

  Firard continued. “There are stories of….”

  Korsten looked ahead, frowning helplessly. He found himself less patient with the subject than he might have anticipated, and then he recalled the way a soldier at Lilende had spoken of Ashwin. It struck Korsten then how much a mystery Ashwin was to the people of Edrinor, how much a mystery the Seminary itself had become, and how Ashwin was the name—the persona—people must have put onto it, perhaps to make it more tangible or comprehensible to them.

  “Is he one of the gods?” Firard finally asked.

  Korsten looked into his onetime lover’s eyes for a lengthy span. He saw age and experience that had tempered arrogance and paved a pathway for humility. He also saw someone distanced from himself by time, by leagues that had only been travelled now by circumstance, and by experience.

  Finally, Korsten said in response to Firard’s question, “No.” It seemed the proper answer just in that moment.

  Firard accepted that. Mostly. “Is he a messenger of the gods?”

  For some reason that made Korsten smile. Perhaps because he had considered Ashwin very similarly himself on more than one occasion. “In his way,” he said.

  Firard mirrored the expression, but briefly. He asked next, after a small pause, “Are you now as well?”

  Korsten would accept no lofty roles, not even from past admirers. “I think we all are, in our own ways.”

  Firard seemed unconvinced, though he did smile somewhat. “I must have forgotten the message they meant for me to deliver.”

  “Courage perhaps.”

  “Perhaps.”

  Korsten let their conversation fall away at that and continued with Firard to the point where the battle could be felt. The friction in the air was as heavy as the smoke and the stench.

  Korsten walked them alongside a building facing the harbor, noting the heavy orange glow in the sky, hanging low overhead as the smoke absorbed it and held it closer to the ground. The shapes of many individuals knotted together in a mass of struggle shifted erratically beneath that glow.

  Firard came to a stop beside him at the corner of the building. “There’s nothing more for me to do save join them,” he said with a note of determination struck alongside resignation.

  “Take care,” Korsten advised.

  Firard nodded. “You as well, Korsten.”

  And then he left. Korsten watched him for several steps, during which Firard drew a sword from his belt and made his way in to the clashing mob. Korsten lingered where he was, searching for any evidence of Sharlotte.

  It wasn’t long before Analee made her own presence better known, fluttering into Korsten’s line of sight and then proceeding ahead of him. Korsten never questioned the soul-keeper’s intuition, understanding that it was deliberately in tune with his own, though free of the inhibitions that frequently inspired men to question and doubt. He followed the butterfly with confidence that she would lead him to his fellow mage without the risk of spell.

  Korsten’s path via Analee led him on a route that stayed near to the battle, but never crossed over it. He wound up in an alcove between building facades, where Analee clung to the wall, waiting. Evidently, she had gone as far as she meant to. That her destination was to do with Sharlotte was confirmed when, for the second time, Korsten caught sight of his fellow Adept’s soul-keeper. The vividly brown moth glided into the crimson glow of the smaller butterfly and stuck to the wall as if a leaf pressed there by a wind. He had no idea what Sharlotte called the creature, but the time to ask would be later, when both of them had survived the siege on Indhovan, preferably without the city falling.

  “Did you find anything?” came the stark and immediately insistent voice of his colleague. She emerged from shadow, trailed by her braided hair. Her green eyes appeared mildly lit in the uneven darkness.

  “Yes,” Korsten answered her, wondering if she were even aware of the fact that he’d left the battle altogether for a time, though he supposed there was no reason for her to be aware of it. “It’s nothing that pertains importantly to this situation, though.”

  Sharlotte seemed mildly vexed by that, as she seemed to be about everything when in Korsten’s presence. Her next words lent her state far more legitimacy than Korsten’s assessment. “They’ve moved their weapons on land. No amount of soldiers is going to make any difference if they’re able to continue tossing the Hells onto whatever structures or groups of men they choose.”

  “Of course, not,” Korsten replied as he imagined the amount of destruction just a few of their weapons could create with such freedom. Morenne had already done more than enough damage from the ships alone. “So, they have to be found and destroyed.”

  Sharlotte watched him unreadably, then said, “Yes.”

  It was unreadable in that she felt as riled and challenging to whatever threatened her as she ever had been. If there was any shift in her motivation or intention, it was nothing that Korsten could decipher.

  “Do you know where they are?” Korsten asked her.

  Again, she nodded, only this time she also looked over her shoulder. “One of them for certain,” she said.

  She began to walk away, and Korsten followed suit. This may have been a situa
tion where she realized she needed assistance, and given the nature of it, she was opposed to no one in terms of where that assistance came from.

  They moved through buildings rendered derelict by circumstances. Without the sounds of the fighting in the ever-near distance, it would have been reminiscent of the curfew that had hushed large sections of the city during Korsten and Merran’s investigation. That seemed much longer ago than it actually was and Korsten knew that some exhaustion was finally settling. Doubtless Sharlotte was feeling similar strain herself, though she gave no indication, leading them up a short flight of stairs that brought them to the rooftop of a structure with a prominent vantage over the waterfront.

  “It’s there,” she said, pointing toward an area only a street away from their location. The subject was scarcely in view; Korsten could only see a length of some manner of metal shaft and otherwise the beginnings of a wheel. Undoubtedly their contraption was being carted. What it was exactly, Korsten could not say.

  “What is it?” he wondered anyway.

  “The death of this city,” Sharlotte answered. “Have you any useful assault spells at your disposal?”

  Had she remained as one of his trainers thirty years ago, she might have known that he had enlisted several such spells.

  Before he felt the need to list them, she concluded the matter for herself. “I’m supposing so, as you’re a hunter.”

  “What did you have in mind?” he decided to ask. He would become too exhausted, too quickly if he dignified her petulance any more than he already had.

  “I know that it can be disabled by Blast,” she said, and he suspected hers was far more potent than his capabilities, based upon what he’d witnessed before. “But I want to be certain I strike it squarely.”

  “And for that you require a better vantage,” Korsten presumed.

  “Yes, and assurance that I won’t be detected before I can perform the spell.”

  “How long does it take them to use the weapon?”

  “Not long, if it’s ready, but preparation takes several moments. It’s not that I’m worried about.”