The Challenge: Circle of Conspiracy Trilogy (Artesans Series Book 4)

by Cas Peace

  Puzzled, he compared the two. “Don’t play games with me, Brynne,” he pleaded. “I know I’m not as strong as you, I don’t understand—”

  She almost screamed in her distress, shocking him. “Taran, this is the trace I found in the substrate!”

  He looked again. “But… that’s your pattern… isn’t it?”

  She nodded slowly, her body trembling, tears welling in fearful eyes.

  *****

  Baron Reen was feeling nauseous. The jolting of the carriage, the earlier efforts of concentrating on a three-way conversation, and the heady triumph flooding his righteous soul all conspired to unbalance him. Taking a huge swallow of laced fellan and choking on the fiery liquor, he lay back against the velvet seat, sweat beading his swarthy face.

  He had done it. He could scarcely believe it, but he had done it. It was sooner than he had anticipated, but that didn’t matter. The arrangements had been in place for some time. Now, thanks to Blaine’s comfortable carriage and indefatigable escort, he was only about two hours from Port Loxton and the Queen.

  Grinning through his discomfort, he imagined Sofira’s face. How delighted she would be at this news! And how interested to learn that their enemies were no nearer to discovering the truth, no matter their suspicions. He hoped he hadn’t released Ozella too soon from his thrall, but he had been spooked by some of their suggestions and had feared discovery.

  He smiled smugly. Let Captain Parren think that he alone controlled Ozella. Although, he mused, Parren had probably already outlived his usefulness, thanks to this latest success.

  Let Colonel Sullyan try her vaunted diplomatic skills on this one! he thought, savagely. War was surely inevitable now. She would be kept fully occupied by her military and ambassadorial duties, and he would be free to fulfill his lifelong ambition: putting an end to the blasphemous traffic with outlanders.

  Should Elias die fighting the war, that would work in Reen’s favor too. With Sofira as Regent for Prince Eadan, he, Hezra Reen, would be more necessary than ever as her chief advisor. Lord Levant, Elias’s First Minster, supported far too many of the King’s liberal ideas. Reen knew Levant would be powerless to resist should the Queen decide to pension him off, and they would ensure he got a sizeable fortune and a manor somewhere suitably obscure in recognition of his long and loyal service.

  By now the brandy-laced fellan was doing its job and the Baron’s unruly stomach calmed. He stared out of the carriage windows, realizing they were not far from Loxton Forest. It had been an uneventful journey, and he smiled at the memory of Elias’s concern. As if he was in any danger! Those responsible for the attack on the King were being paid well to do his bidding. The fact that they were pagan outlanders troubled Reen’s conscience not at all. He saw nothing remotely hypocritical in using the instruments of evil against evil itself. In fact, he considered it justified, highly appropriate, and profoundly satisfying.

  Well pleased, anticipating a warm bath and a hearty, if late, breakfast, Reen allowed his eyes to close. The carriage continued on its journey, carrying him toward the admiration of his Queen.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Sullyan was quiet and withdrawn as Taran followed her back to Haligan Forest. She sat Drum easily, moving to the motion of his paces, her face closed and her eyes distant. Taran still didn’t fully understand what had upset her so, but he didn’t want to distress her by asking questions.

  She held her peace until a stiffening of her spine and the dilation of her eyes told him she was communing with someone.

  “Bulldog says they have found the two lords’ sons,” she reported once the link was broken. “Both are unconscious but otherwise unharmed.”

  “And Prince Aeyron?” he asked gently.

  “There was no sign.” She turned hard eyes on him. “Taran, I would appreciate it if you do not speak of what I told you on the tor.”

  He nodded. “Whatever you command, Colonel.”

  They rode on into the Forest, Sullyan using Bull’s psyche as a beacon, and soon came upon the Hierarch’s party returning to the Citadel with the two unconscious boys. Sullyan nodded to Bull and Ozella before falling in beside Pharikian. Taran thought the elderly ruler looked decidedly ill.

  “Thank you for your assistance in recovering Rand and Kethro,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “Their fathers will be most grateful. Fortunately, neither has sustained serious harm and Deshan will help them revive.”

  “Perhaps they will have news of Prince Aeyron, Majesty,” she replied, laying a hand on his arm.

  “Perhaps.”

  Taran wasn’t surprised to see tears in the old man’s eyes, and felt a pang of sympathy. Sullyan glanced at Anjer, who rode like a brooding thundercloud on Pharikian’s other side.

  “Were there no clues as to where the Prince has been taken, my Lord?” she asked.

  The massive man shook his head curtly.

  The Hierarch spoke, hopelessness in his tone. “You found no trace of him in the substrate, Brynne? I felt you using the circle.”

  Sullyan ducked her head. “No, Majesty, only that he was also wearing spellsilver.”

  Pharikian nodded wearily, and Taran surmised he had done the same search with the same results. Only he obviously hadn’t seen what Sullyan had.

  They rode back to the Citadel in silence, flanked by Barrin and the Velletian Guard. The Commander kept casting hostile glances at the four Albians, and Taran grew increasingly uncomfortable. Barrin was plainly furious and would have sent the four of them packing had he been able.

  On passing through the Citadel gates most of the Guard returned to their duties, and a reduced party rode up to the palace. The townspeople lined the streets to show their support. Taran heard ugly mutterings about human raiders and saw many an angry glance directed at him and his friends. Yet no one dared voice their anger before Pharikian. His people both loved and revered him and felt the same for his son. There was a deep sense of distress and sympathy about the crowd.

  Once in the palace courtyard, two older men rushed up to the Guards carrying Rand and Kethro. The lords had been prevented from joining the search party in case raiders were still in the area. Frantic with relief, Tikhal and Corbyn now took charge of their respective sons.

  Tikhal, the Lord of the North, was known to the Albians. Sullyan had met him when he had escorted Aeyron home after the war with Rykan. But none of them knew Lord Corbyn or the two sons, and Taran saw Sullyan watching Corbyn closely as he examined Kethro.

  Corbyn was tall and wiry with sunken cheeks and pale blue eyes. His hair was jet black and fell in an unruly fashion into his eyes. He had a condescending manner and kept flashing the Albians mistrustful looks. Tikhal, however, seemed less judgmental and even gave Sullyan a wan smile as she moved toward him.

  “The boys will be well, my Lords, once they have rested and the effects of the spellsilver have worn off,” she said. “As soon as they have recovered we will see what they can tell us about Prince Aeyron.”

  “You can forget about speaking to my son,” snapped Corbyn. “You’re not coming anywhere near him!”

  “Lord Corbyn, it was Colonel Sullyan who found your son,” said Pharikian, dismounting wearily from his yellow mare, “so this anger is gravely misplaced. You owe her your thanks. The boys’ imprints were muffled by spellsilver. Without her skill in reading the substrate, we might still be searching.”

  Far from being cowed by Pharikian’s rebuke, Corbyn seemed angrier than ever. He came closer, and both Taran and Bull moved to Sullyan’s side.

  “Is it true that you are well acquainted with the effects of spellsilver, Colonel?” asked Corbyn, a hint of contempt in his voice.

  “What do you mean by that, Corbyn?” demanded Anjer.

  Corbyn’s reply was sullen. “Only that I have heard she is able to thwart its numbing effects. She found our lads easily, wouldn’t you say? It was very convenient.”

  Taran and Bull both gasped at Corbyn’s nasty implication. Luckily, Anjer fo
und it as distasteful as they did. He advanced on Corbyn, who retreated. Not many men were capable of facing Anjer down.

  “My Lord, you are understandably distressed by what has happened,” he snapped, sounding not at all sympathetic. “I suggest you take Kethro to the healer halls and allow Deshan to give you something to counter the shock. I am sure the Colonel will forgive your rashness in the light of your… condition.”

  Anjer’s black eyes were fierce and his mouth a thin line. Corbyn swallowed, not wanting to back down yet having no choice. To avoid being forced to apologize, he turned on his heel and stalked away. Anjer sighed irritably.

  Tikhal approached him. “You must forgive him, Majesty, Lord General. I am sure he meant no real offense. His lands have suffered badly at the hands of raiding Albians, and he is determined to have satisfaction.” He turned to Sullyan. “Colonel, we are both very distressed at this dreadful occurrence. Allow me to tender our thanks for your assistance today. My son, for one, will show his gratitude when he wakes.”

  Sullyan smiled gently. “There is no need for gratitude, my Lord. I only wish I could have done more.” She glanced at Pharikian, who was pale and trembling.

  “Majesty,” said Tikhal, “you ought to go and rest. I am sure Prince Aeyron will not be harmed. He is too valuable for that. We will do everything we can to recover him safely.”

  Pharikian nodded, although there was no comfort in Tikhal’s words.

  “Go with your son, my Lord,” advised Sullyan quietly. “We will care for the Hierarch.”

  As Tikhal left with the unconscious Rand, Taran felt Sullyan touch Pharikian’s flagging psyche to bolster his strength. He was alarmed by the monarch’s frailty, as was she. “Lord General, we should get him inside,” she urged. Anjer took Pharikian’s unresisting arm and led him to the palace doors.

  They had nearly reached his private chambers when they heard a commotion behind them. Princess Idrimar came running toward them and flung herself sobbing into her father’s arms. He buried his face in her hair and they wept together. Embarrassed, Taran, Bull, and Ozella stood a little way off.

  “They need privacy, Anjer,” murmured Sullyan, and the Lord General steered the royal pair into the Hierarch’s chambers. “Tell Timar I am at his command should he need me.”

  Anjer nodded as the door of the suite closed behind him.

  *****

  Making their way to her rooms, the men followed Sullyan inside. She collapsed onto one of the settles, worried and puzzled. She noticed Taran looking concerned, and remembered her panic on the hill. He would be wondering which of the two recent shocks had affected her most.

  “So, what do you make of that?” rumbled Bull, crossing to the fire and automatically setting water for fellan. She didn’t immediately answer and he glanced over sharply.

  “We must wait for the boys to recover their senses,” she eventually said. “I will not speculate until then. Is that fellan ready yet?”

  They were on their second cup when a tap at the door heralded the arrival of Baron Gaslek, the Hierarch’s secretary. Taran opened the door and ushered the little man in. Bull offered the Baron fellan, which he accepted, and Ozella made room for him on the couch.

  Gaslek was carrying a thick and ancient-looking book. Seating himself, he placed the book on the table and took a few appreciative sips of Bull’s evilly strong fellan. “Bad business this,” he said.

  Sullyan nodded. “Have you heard whether Rand or Kethro have recovered consciousness yet, my Lord?”

  Gaslek shook his head. “I’ve been in the archives all morning. I only heard the news as I was coming to see you. I gather it was you who found them?”

  “I was able to locate them, yes,” she replied, not wanting to dwell on the morning’s events. “Did you find anything of interest in the archives?”

  “Perhaps.” Gaslek’s tone was cautious as he placed his cup on the table. “His Majesty asked me to look this out for you.”

  He passed her the book, which was a loosely bound collection of manuscripts, all written in differing hands. It recorded the lives of various long-dead Artesans, including their rank and the characteristics of their power. Sullyan stared at it, captivated.

  “How old is this, Baron?” She turned the old and brittle pages carefully.

  “Centuries. It’s the only one of its kind, to my knowledge. The parchment you want is nearer the front.” He put out a hand and turned the pages, finally tapping one with his forefinger.

  She bent her head and read aloud: “Liyan Tamilane, Supreme Master, Hierarch of Andaryon, 7002-7080.” She raised her head. “Baron, that is well over three hundred years ago!”

  The secretary nodded. “There has not been another to our knowledge since Tamilane died. He was the last.”

  “I wonder why?” she mused, continuing to read.

  She was fascinated to learn that the achievement which most distinguished the Supreme Master from her own rank was the ability to influence the so-called fifth element of Spirit. She knew there were those who denied the existence of Spirit as a tangible element, consigning it to the realms of the hypothetical. Personally, she had always suspected that it did, in fact, exist and could be manipulated. Interesting though her speculations were, there was nothing particularly enlightening about Tamilane’s talents recorded in the parchment. The text did mention, however, that a Supreme Master was able to conceal his imprint within the substrate so that only another Supreme Master could detect his working. She didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed that there was no mention of him being able to communicate with non-gifted minds or intercept private conversations without the knowledge of those concerned.

  She glanced up at Gaslek. “Is that all?”

  He shook his head. “If you turn to the very last of the manuscripts, you will find records of two natural sports, the most recent of which occurred only thirty years ago.”

  She found the much newer parchments where he indicated, and her eyes widened as she read them through. Both sports, one of Master rank, the other Master-elite, had the ability to tap into elemental forces directly and instinctively, without recourse to the substrate. Neither had needed any training, and because the substrate was unaffected, no other Artesan had been able to detect their working. They could also, apparently, read the thoughts of those close to them, gifted or ungifted, and it was by this means that the sport who was of Master rank was finally discovered.

  He was six years old before his parents became suspicious. Before that they merely thought him accident prone, and he was certainly subject to tantrums. But the instances of minor earth tremors and violent storms which occurred whenever he was upset soon aroused their fears.

  His father, an Artesan of Adept rank, had probed his son at the appropriate times for emerging Artesan talent, with no success. The father’s remarks were recorded, the case being so unusual.

  My probing left me with a sense of disquiet, although I could not at the time have said why. Instead of the slowly-developing pattern of the fledgling Artesan or the barren but naturally shielded mind of the ungifted, all I sensed from my son was blankness, as if a void of darkness lived in his soul. It was most unnatural and I shied from it. After my first probe, the experience was so imprinted on my mind that I was reluctant to conduct the next test. When I finally did so in his sixth year and found the same disturbing vacuity, I resolved never to probe him again.

  Sullyan had been reading the parchment aloud so they could all hear, but when she reached this point she raised her head and fell silent, her eyes unfocused. The words struck a chord in her mind, but try as she might she could not pin it down.

  “What happened to him?” asked Taran.

  She came back to herself with a shake and scanned the parchment. Her expression grew sad. “He was killed.”

  The others were shocked. “Why?” demanded Taran. “He was only six years old!”

  She nodded. “Yes, but imagine the damage a six-year-old child could do with a Master’s p
owers. How many young children do you know who have any concept of how easily people can be hurt? And if he was prone to tantrums….”

  “But couldn’t he be controlled?” protested the Adept. “Couldn’t his parents—”

  “They tried, Taran,” she murmured. “His mother tried.”

  “What happened?” he asked, clearly sensing it wasn’t successful.

  “He killed her. He read her intentions, threw a tantrum, and collapsed a ceiling on top of her. She was crushed instantly.”

  Taran fell silent.

  When no one else seemed willing to speak, Bull asked, “So, how did they deal with him?”

  “They waited until he was asleep so he would not detect their thoughts, and ran him through.” Her tone was dispassionate. “They could not risk him harming anyone else. It was fortunate he had not killed before. Or maybe he had and they did not realize.”

  Gaslek cleared his throat, gathering the book to his chest. “Does this information help you at all, Lady?”

  Coming out of her sad reflections, Sullyan gave him a grateful smile. “I thank you for your trouble, Baron. You must have spent many long hours searching those parchments out.”

  “No, not really. I know most of what’s in the archives. It didn’t take me long to find these.”

  He stood up, pausing when they heard another tap at the door. When Taran answered it, Norkis was standing there. The young page looked pale and frightened.

  “What is it, Norkis?” asked Sullyan.

  His voice hoarse with weeping, the lad said, “The Hierarch bade me tell you that the young lords Rand and Kethro have regained consciousness, Lady. His Majesty awaits you in the infirmary, if you will come.”

  “Of course we will come,” she replied, laying a soothing hand on his shoulder. “Do not weep, Norkis. We will find the Heir.”

  He smiled wanly as they followed him. When they reached the healers’ wing, he showed them to the room where the two young lords lay.