by Cas Peace
The elderly ruler waved a hand to indicate his understanding. “I appreciate Elias’s offer and his sympathies, child, but you may tell him compensation is not required. I did not believe for one moment he was in any way connected with these raids, although there are those in my forces who do not share my confidence.”
“Centuries of prejudice and mistrust are not put aside overnight, no matter what our rulers decree.”
Pharikian inclined his head. “Indeed. But what concerns me more was the report that Elias himself has been the subject of hostile action.”
Sullyan spent some time explaining what had happened both at Port Loxton and on the journey to the Manor. Pharikian listened gravely and was distressed to hear of the death of the Sinnian bard, Fiann.
“I knew Lord Fiann well,” he said. “He was my welcome guest on many occasions. I regret I never heard the two of you sing together.”
Taran spoke up, surprising Sullyan. “It was an unforgettable experience, Majesty.”
Pharikian’s slit pupils settled with penetrating perception on the Adept’s face. “Yes,” he said softly, “I imagine it was.”
Taran shifted uncomfortably, looking as if he had unknowingly given something away. Just as he began to redden under the Hierarch’s scrutiny, he was released as Pharikian’s attention returned to Sullyan.
“Do you have any suspicions as to who was behind the attacks?” he asked.
She vaguely registered Ozella stirring in his chair. “We do,” she replied. She laced her fingers around her cup and tucked her legs beneath her. “But our only real suspect cannot be solely responsible, for he has no Artesan talent. Whoever caused the Earth-shift beneath the King’s horse and tampered with the storm before the attack has consummate and exquisite skills. He also has access to allies from Andaryon. Timar, do you know whether Ty Marik found any records concerning the Staff when he destroyed Rykan’s palace?”
From the corner of her eye she saw Ozella bring his hands to his head, as if it pained him. He had his eyes closed.
“I believe not. I asked him to look most carefully, and I am sure he did. You would have been informed had he discovered anything of interest.”
“And what of Lord Sonten’s holdings? Who has the lordship of Durkos? It may be that Sonten and his nephew were more involved with the Staff’s creators than we supposed.”
“Marik gave Sonten’s lands to Nazir, with my blessing. Sonten’s poor wife fled the place when she learned his fate, and no one knows what became of her. They had no children, as you know, which was why Sonten championed his nephew in the first place. So that trail is cold.”
Sullyan frowned. “What of Rykan’s lesser nobles? Has anyone questioned them? Sonten ranked the highest, but there were other vassals. I know for a fact that there were two Artesans in Sonten’s party before he invaded Albia. One was Commander Heron, who perished with Sonten when the tunnel collapsed. But there was at least one other.”
Pharikian shook his head again. “You would have to speak with Marik on that score. Rykan was a private and secretive man. He never discussed his affairs with me. He was always a rival even before he had any hope of gaining sufficient power to challenge me.”
“He was a ready and willing co-conspirator then,” she mused. “I wonder how he was recruited? Our suspect is a violently prejudiced bigot and I cannot imagine him entering into relations with an outlander, not even to foment unrest. This is our dilemma, Timar. Although the existence of the Staff gave us clues to the purpose behind Rykan’s involvement, challenging your rule was clearly not our adversary’s ultimate goal. If it was, the troubles would have ended with Rykan’s death. We have no reason to suspect the existence of another Staff, which was my original fear, so its creation was also not the culmination of their plan. Rykan’s death, or the Staff’s destruction, must have been a grievous blow, but they obviously still have a goal in mind as these latest hostilities prove. What, then, do they ultimately hope to achieve?”
Deshan regarded her over his cup. “Can you not apprehend this suspect of yours and question him?”
Once again, Sullyan was distracted as Ozella shifted on his chair. She glanced at him. His face looked gray and his eyes were unfocused, as if he felt nauseous. She gave Bull a pointed look, and the big man nodded. He would keep an eye on Ozella. She could not have the young Beraxian disrupting these talks.
Irritated, she transferred her gaze to the physician. “The situation is… delicate, Deshan.” Bull gave a snort, which earned him a sharp glance. “He has allies in high places, and we cannot afford to antagonize them. Also, as we know that he has at least one associate with Artesan powers, we cannot afford to alert them to our suspicions too soon. This brings me to a question I would ask you, Timar.”
Pharikian cocked his head. Her unspoken hint about their enemy having backers in Elias’s court had not passed him by, and he was frowning. Behind him, watched by Bull, Ozella shook his head as if trying to dispel an irritating buzz in his skull.
Sullyan continued. “You know much more of Artesan history than I do. Do you remember the last time there was a Supreme Master living?”
Pharikian appeared surprised, and Taran gave her a startled look. She knew that he had not known such a rank existed until recently.
Pharikian turned thoughtful and did not directly answer. “Do you suspect a renegade Supreme Master, Brynne?”
She shrugged. “In truth, I do not know what I suspect. All I do know is that on both the occasions when I sensed our adversary working, I could not find his pattern in the substrate. Taran and I did a thorough investigation after the Earth-shift, yet found no evidence of tampering. Admittedly, a good hour had passed before we conducted our search. But the storm that was used to cover the ambush was being manipulated right over our heads, and still we could sense nothing. Am I right that the ability to conceal one’s signature is a characteristic of the Supreme Master?”
Pharikian nodded. “It is one characteristic, yes. There are others, of course. In answer to your earlier question, I was a very young lad when I last heard anyone speak of a Supreme Master, and he died a couple of hundred years before I was born. The knowledge of what the rank bestowed will be recorded in our archives, though. If you wish, I will ask Gaslek to search it out. He is a great scholar of our ancient records and knows what they contain better than anyone.”
“That would be helpful, Timar. And there is something else. I have been concerned as to whether our substrate communications are still secure. Do you know whether a Supreme Master would be able to overhear Artesans speaking privately without their knowledge?”
The Hierarch frowned in alarm. “Do you suspect this has happened?”
She fixed her gaze on her cup. “I do not know. During the horse race, when the first attack occurred, there was no one nearby, and certainly no one in line of sight, with any Artesan powers, except for Taran and myself. Our chief suspect was there but, as I have already said, he has no talent. Yet that Earth-shift was placed precisely and timed to perfection, although whether its target was Elias or me remains unclear. I would swear no one was invading my thoughts at that time, but I was concentrating on the race.
“And then, on our journey to the Manor, the storm concealing our attackers came directly for us. Once again, the raid was exquisitely timed. Yet neither Taran nor I felt any kind of surge whatsoever. None of the raiders was an Artesan, yet someone afforded them passage through the Veils, both before and after the attack. The entire ambush was orchestrated as if our enemy was standing among us. I have the most horrible suspicion that we are being watched. Watched in a way we cannot detect.”
An uncomfortable silence fell. Sullyan regarded the Hierarch while he considered her words. Deshan also studied him worriedly. Sullyan spared a glance for Ozella, whose face had changed from pale to flushed. He must surely be coming down with a fever. She was about to ask Bull to take him back to his room when she sensed Pharikian’s aura of concern. She cocked her head. “What is it, Timar?
What do you know?”
He gazed at her. “Nothing for certain. But if your suspicions are well-founded, what is to stop your… our adversary from listening to us now?”
Bull gasped and Taran turned pale. But Sullyan had already considered this. “Nothing. But if he is, he will give himself away sooner or later. Especially now we are alerted to the possibility.”
She heard a small sound and turned to see Ozella slump down in his chair. Whatever fever was afflicting him, he had finally succumbed to it and fallen asleep. At least now he would disturb them no more.
Pharikian raised his brows at her and she shrugged. He ignored the Beraxian and answered her point. “You may be right, Brynne, and I will certainly ask Gaslek to search out details of the Supreme Master’s abilities. But there is one other possibility which you might not be aware of. You might be dealing with a sport.”
“A sport?” said Taran. “What on earth’s that?”
“Lay-talent,” murmured Sullyan, gazing at Pharikian. “A natural Artesan, one who has no need of training, who instinctively knows what to do and how to use his powers.”
“Is there such a thing?” asked Taran. “I’ve never heard of it.”
Sullyan turned to him. “Ah, but you have, although only recently. Do you not recall me telling you about Lord Fiann?”
Understanding flooded Taran’s face. “Oh yes, you told me Sinnians are born able to control their own metaforce.”
“Exactly, up to the level of Adept. They are a unique race in that they are all lay-talents, or ‘sports,’ as Timar puts it. But in other races the phenomenon is extremely rare.”
“So, if the person behind these attacks is a sport, he must be a Sinnian, is that right?”
“No, that is not possible. No Sinnian has ever attained higher rank than Adept-elite, and our adversary is far stronger than that. Rare though it is, lay-talent could potentially occur in any of the races that produce Artesans, and I am more than convinced that our enemy, whoever he is, is Albian.”
Pharikian stirred, drawing Sullyan’s gaze once more.
“I might have a plausible explanation for how your chief suspect is managing these attacks.” Her eyes glittered sharply. “You say he was present during both attacks?” She nodded. “And you are absolutely certain he has no Artesan talent?”
“None that has ever been trained, or even identified,” she said. “I suppose it is just possible he could be a latent, although I have never felt as much as a glimmer of power from him. But he is so vehemently opposed to our kind that I am sure he is not.”
Pharikian nodded. No Artesan, not even a Supreme Master, would be able to conceal himself from the determined scrutiny of a Senior Master without betraying trained shielding.
“There is another trait peculiar to some sports which I ought to make you aware of,” Pharikian continued. “This is unconfirmed until Gaslek can find the reference but I am fairly sure that they can sometimes hear the thoughts, and I mean directly from the person’s mind without needing access to their metaforce, of anyone they know well. Even the ungifted.”
There were gasps of incredulity and sudden understanding. Sullyan felt her face drain with shock. This was something she had never even considered. Her heart labored with despair as she fought to collect herself.
“It all fits.” Her voice was full of hopelessness. “And if it is the case, then we are all in worse danger than I ever thought. We have no clue to the identity of our Artesan adversary, be he Supreme Master or sport, and now we might never find out. For if they can communicate in this way, then he need never show his face. He can completely conceal his pattern, so even if we were alert while they were communing, we would still not identify him.
“Without proof of conspiracy or wrong-doing, Elias cannot remove our suspect from either his court or his presence. If he did, it would alert the man’s allies, and that would be disastrous. Elias would be irreparably discredited. We cannot afford that. He is the only monarch in Albia’s history to be sympathetic to our kind. All we can do is to try to ensure that any plans or discussions are conducted out of our suspect’s knowledge, and that will be nigh-on impossible.”
Her voice broke on a note of despair. “Timar, I cannot see a way out of this. I cannot see how to stop them gaining their objective, whatever it is. They have already nearly succeeded in taking Elias’s life, both times right under my nose, and that hurts, I can tell you, and they could strike anywhere, at any time, without alerting us to their presence. How can we proceed?”
Pharikian watched her with sympathy. She could not conceal her distress, both for her King, to whom she was fiercely loyal, and for her fellow Artesans, all of whom, including herself, were now in serious danger of their lives. And from an unknown enemy.
She knew how to handle the sort of danger she had faced from Rykan, both the poison and the duel. Direct actions, whether using the sword or her Artesan powers, were familiar and she knew how to employ her talents to best effect. But invisible strikes from an unknown enemy, one whose goal was clouded in mystery but was obviously on a world-changing level, was like fighting mist.
The elderly ruler reached out and took her hand. He clasped it warmly, trying to convey some comfort.
“It’s getting late, child, and we’re all tired. Deshan tells me you’re not quite yourself at the moment. All this worry is wearing you down, I think.”
Sullyan shot Deshan a less-than-friendly look, but the physician grinned back, unrepentant. He knew her too well, she reflected. Her part-demon blood gave him a greater insight into her state of health than even Rienne had.
“We all need some rest,” Pharikian continued. “We have talked enough for one night. Your young companion might need some attention, I think. I will speak to Gaslek before retiring and get him started on those archives. Maybe he will turn up something useful. If anyone can do it, he can. Tomorrow we will meet with Tikhal and Corbyn and see what they have to say. But I have to warn you, Brynne,” his eyes turned hard, “they will take no prisoners. Corbyn in particular is far from happy. Perhaps a good night’s rest will refresh us and we can come at the problem with renewed vigor.”
They parted then, Pharikian walking Sullyan to the door with a fatherly arm across her shoulders. Deshan gave her a small bottle as she left the room, instructing her to drink its contents before sleeping and informing her blandly that he would be able to tell if she did not. He ignored her intimidating stare.
Bull had to rouse the sleeping Ozella by poking him sharply in the ribs. He rolled his eyes at Taran as the Beraxian startled awake. “These young lads,” he grumbled, “they’ve no stamina. Come on, Ozella. You wanted to know how to conduct a tricky diplomatic situation, but you’ve just missed the best example you’re ever likely to see. You’ll have to do better than this if you want to serve your country!”
*****
Confused and disoriented, Ozella stumbled after Bull. He shook his head, trying to clear it, wondering where the last hour had gone. All he could remember was a peculiar, nauseating buzzing in his mind. A cold sweat broke out on his skin as he realized he could recall almost nothing of the entire evening’s conversation.
Trying to hold back tears as he imagined what Parren would say to his lack of information, and dreading to think what the consequences would be for his sisters, he hurried after the others.
Chapter Twenty-One
Sullyan woke an hour after dawn, having experienced her best night’s sleep in weeks. Half afraid that Deshan’s potion would prove too strong, she had nearly braved his and Pharikian’s displeasure by not taking it. She had been feeling unusually tired and low, though, so had eventually taken the Master Physician’s advice. Now, far from feeling heavy-headed as she had feared, she was enjoying an almost luxurious sense of wellbeing.
Unfortunately, it didn’t last.
A sudden commotion in the corridor outside shocked her to full awareness. She heard running feet, slamming doors, shouts and screams. With a dreadful sense of forebod
ing she leaped from the bed, only just remembering to throw on a robe. Wrenching open the door, she stepped into the hallway.
There were people everywhere; servants running and yelling, guards barking conflicting commands. Thoroughly alarmed yet unable to get a sensible reply to her questions, Sullyan turned toward Pharikian’s chambers. She was about to contact him via the substrate when she saw Norkis pelting toward her. He hadn’t seen her, his eyes were wild and full of tears, and she had to catch his arm to stop him rushing past.
“Norkis,” she snapped, “what has happened?”
He gulped, his throat too constricted for speech. Sullyan used her metaforce to calm his terror. Seeing some of the panic fade, she asked her question again.
He heaved a breath and gasped, “It’s the Heir, Lady!”
“What about the Heir?”
“He was attacked,” the young page blurted. “The whole party was attacked. One of the Velletian Guard managed to get away and has only just reached the Citadel. Oh, Lady, Prince Aeyron has disappeared. He’s been abducted!”
Sullyan wasted no more time. Leaving the sobbing page, she dashed to her rooms and threw on her combat leathers, sending a sharp mental command to Taran and Bull. Fortunately, they had also heard the commotion and weren’t far behind her. As they all emerged from their rooms, Sullyan saw Lord General Anjer and the Hierarch striding toward them. Pharikian’s face was lined and gray. He looked older and frailer than she had ever seen him.
With a swift salute for Anjer, she asked, “Where did it happen, my Lord?”
“In the Haligan Forest,” replied Anjer tersely. “We don’t know the full story yet. The swordsman who made it back was weak from blood-loss and very nearly incoherent. Barrin has taken a company to investigate. We’re following now.”
“We will aid Barrin, Majesty.” Sullyan barely waited for his nod before sprinting down the corridor. Bull and Taran fell in behind and Ozella, frightened and confused, trailed them.