by J. S. Morin
"This makes you happy?" Kyrus asked, pointing to the little fire. He hoped that his tone came across curious, rather than accusatory; there was little point antagonizing the warlock.
"No, of course not. It makes me right, which is ... well, all right, fine, maybe a bit," Rashan replied. He made an effort to suppress his smile, but gave it up. He grinned like a drunken wine steward.
"So why are you still here, then?" Kyrus asked. "I would have thought you'd have set out at once, and have Jinzan Fehr's head in hand when I saw you next."
"Where would I go? Even speeded by the aether, this bird might have been a day, two days, half a tenday in flight," Rashan said, lifting his palms overhead and letting them fall. "We need to decide where to head him off."
"Depends on the speed of the bird," Kyrus said. "Sharefield, Dolok, Garsley ... any could have been sacked by now, or under siege as we speak."
"Seems that way. What say we each pick a city and go see for ourselves?" Rashan suggested.
"Did you not say that chasing behind him was a fool's game?" Kyrus asked in reply.
"Perhaps, perhaps. But where would you pick, if you had your wager?"
"Garsley," Kyrus stated. His red line tracing the route from Lon Mai through Reaver's Crossing and into the heart of the empire wavered and squirmed. From Reaver's Crossing it diverted northwest to Weiselton, then swerved south to Garsley.
"Is this to vex me?" Rashan snapped. "Clearly he has turned his attentions westward. Why would he change course again?"
"A few reasons that I can think of: he could be sweeping up all our northern cities to build his forces, he could be practicing his craft before confronting real opposition, or maybe he is just trying to match wits with you, and guess where you would not," Kyrus said, then turned away from Rashan and shrugged. "Or, for all I know, he ventured into the ogrelands to field an army of the brutes."
"That might be entertaining. I never bothered much with ogres. I cannot say I ever had cause to fight one, dead or alive," Rashan mused.
"Fine for you, maybe, but I had my fill," said Kyrus, turning to face Rashan again. "My last assignment before Kelvie Forest was pushing the ogres back deeper into their territory. They had been raiding Weiselton, Donnel's Fort, and the surrounding countryside. I would sooner not face them again."
"You are not the Brannis you used to be. I doubt they are much of a threat to you now," Rashan observed. "Or had you forgotten? Does this feel so much like home now?"
Kyrus drew a quick breath and looked around to be certain no one was near. It was a reflexive action, his dual aether-vision had already told him as much. As his conscious mind caught up and realized no one was around to hear, he nodded.
"I imagine it was much the same for Agga, long ago," Kyrus replied.
The demon's eyes shot wide and stared. Kyrus replied with a knowing smile.
"You enjoy killing, and you like toying with minds," Kyrus said. "My hobbies have always been books and studying. I have grown quite good at digging up old facts."
"Well played, Brannis, well played," Rashan said, regaining himself. The warlock nodded in acknowledgement. "There is not a man alive who knew Agga, save for me. I know not what scrap of moldering paper put that name and mine together for you, but I will not insult you by denying it."
"Birth records," Kyrus lied. "Whatever you did to keep yourself a secret, you left that much behind. It got me a small list that I referenced against Acardian documents from the time period of your disappearance. Agga might well have been your own great, great grandsire for all anyone knew, and still have been just a relic with the same name. No one lives to one hundred forty—except Agga."
"I suppose I told you too much of myself to expect you not to solve that little riddle," Rashan said. "I suppose we can wait another day on the necromancer hunt. I have sent birds off to warn the cities along Jinzan Fehr's path, except for Munne and Whitefield. I have been in touch with those by speaking stone. I despise waiting, but you may be right. That is why I keep you around: to be right." Rashan looked down, as if lost in thought, pondering Koriah's expanse.
"Even when you dislike the answers?" Kyrus asked.
Rashan's head popped up, a shrewd look in his eye. "Especially when I dislike the answers."
* * * * * * * *
"It wasn't what I was expecting, that's all," Kyrus said. He was slouched across a chair opposite Axterion's desk. "I let slip a detail I had been withholding from him, and he seemed to congratulate me for it."
"Mind yourself with Rashan," Axterion replied. "He's the sort who'd bring a knife along to a battle of wits, in case he needed to even the odds."
"He seemed to welcome it. I almost begin to wonder whether I can check his impulses, make him more use to the empire than a detriment," Kyrus mused aloud, looking off into some convenient corner of the library for his eyes to settle.
"Rethinking your vengeance?" Axterion inquired. "You wouldn't be the first, of course, but it's usually age that gets it out of most folk, and you haven't got any."
"I could. Life extension is as easy as walking or speaking. Now that I know it, it seems silly not to know how," Kyrus replied. "I think I might even be able to get him to confide the secret of immortality one day."
"And Iridan? Brush those peas under the edge of your plate, and forget them there?"
"Have I been unfair to him about that?" Kyrus asked. "He pushed Iridan—between he and Juliana, pushed him to his death—but Iridan met his end at Megrenn hands, not Rashan's. I'm beginning to think I may even know who was wielding the blade that slew him. It would be unjust to focus my anger at Rashan, in light of that, wouldn't it?"
"Vengeance isn't about justice; it's about feeling better after losing someone. Gives you something to do, even when there's really nothing you can do. Only works until you get it, a better journey than a destination," said Axterion. "Oh, and brush that immortality rubbish right out of your empty skull. Didn't you read that book about Tallax?" Kyrus nodded. "Well, think on that a while, before you spend a few hundred winters driving yourself mad."
But my hobbies really are just old books and studying. I have grown quite good at digging up old facts, and that sounds like a really wonderful one to know, even if I never use the knowledge. Kyrus tried to tell himself that he could resist the urge if he did know. Rashan must have a weakness, and knowing how he was made might also tell how he could be unmade. Yes, that was the line of argument he would use against himself.
Chapter 28 - The Raynesdark Diversion
The day passed with the haste and ease of an Academy exam. Brannis, Soria, and Rakashi retreated deeper into the forest in case woodsmen from the village happened to venture out their way. They had run out their supply of food, and ate only some wild blueberries that they found; nothing else in their vicinity seemed edible. Brannis passed the day with Lord Harwick's notes spread out on the forest floor, held down by rocks to protect them from mischievous breezes.
"We're raiding the larder," Soria said after an hour's silence. She sat slumped against a rock that was the size of a pig and nearly as clean, craned her neck back with a horse blanket beneath her head, and stared up into the cloud-spattered sky.
"I can go check for fish again," Rakashi replied. He had sat cross-legged in the sun for hours without moving, eyes closed.
"No, it's nearly sundown," Soria answered. "I don't want to do this on a full stomach."
"I'd eat," Brannis said, not looking up from his studies. "At this point I'd fight my way in there with Avalanche in one hand and a turkey leg in the other."
"Very well," Rakashi said. He rose stiffly, stretched his limbs, and left in the direction of the stream where they had filled their skins that morning.
"Brannis, there were no fish in that stream this morning, and there were no fish when we looked again a few hours ago," Soria said once Rakashi was out of earshot.
"Probably not," Brannis admitted, "but I wanted to talk to you a moment without Rakashi around."
Soria
sat up and cast a suspicious look at Brannis. "Oh?"
"Where did you find Rakashi's twin?" Brannis asked.
"I told you that story," Soria replied. "He was friends with Zell already when I joined up with them."
"No, in Veydrus. You two were together aboard the Starlit Marauder. Where did you pick him up?"
"I'm no cartographer, we were somewhere over northern Kadrin, somewhere in the low hills." She looked away, keeping Brannis just in the edge of her vision.
Brannis tossed one of the cases of notes in her direction. She caught it without turning.
"Something odd is going on. Humor me and learn the spells in that one," Brannis told her. "This chicken stew smells like fish." Brannis immediately regretted the food analogy, reminding himself how good either a fish or a chicken stew would fill his stomach.
"What are they?" Soria asked. She was already prying open the end of the cylinder.
"The best of the war spells I found. Just in case fists and daggers aren't enough."
"Why send Rakashi away for that?" she asked, and stopped trying to retrieve the notes. "Besides, I don't go in for that sort of thing. Last thing I need is to be thought a witch and hunted down by half the twinborn in Tellurak, or shunned by every one-worlder who finds out."
"This isn't going to be a quiet sneak-and-run, Soria. There are going to be folks who see magic tonight and live to tell," Brannis said.
"You did the Rashan thing," Soria chided him. "Stop that." Brannis cocked his head. "You just answered one half of what I said, and pretended I didn't say the other half."
"Sorry," said Brannis. "It's getting to be a habit I suppose."
Soria set her jaw and crossed her arms.
"Fine, fine, I know, I just did it again. Why didn't I want Rakashi here. I've been starting to wonder about him—"
"Not this again, Brannis—"
"Hear me out. We all know he's Safschan, a part of the Megrenn alliance. I think he might have been there in Munne. He might know who killed Iridan—maybe it was even him. Have you noticed his penchant for beheading his opponents? It might just be part of the blade-priest philosophy of fighting."
"Can't say I've notice it, really," Soria said.
"Come now, on the docks in Scar Harbor, he must have beheaded four of those thugs," Brannis pressed.
"Fine, maybe he did, but I've fought with him for years and never noticed. It's not like he's a headsman in his free time. Maybe it was just something about the way those vermin fought that put the idea in him."
"Ask him."
"Ask him what? 'Rakashi, Brannis thinks you killed my husband. Did you?' No way," Soria replied. "And if you get any ideas about asking him, save them until we're back in Scar Harbor, safe with those two noble whelps."
"Tomas is several years older than either of us," Brannis retorted.
Soria opened her mouth, but closed it again. She took a few breaths and in that time seemed to have decided not to follow Brannis down the game trail he had just wandered onto.
"I'll study these if you can keep your curiosity in your head until we're back in Scar Harbor," Soria offered.
"Vengeance only works until you get it," right grandfather?
"Deal."
* * * * * * * *
Rakashi's fish were the stuff of legends. He could have painted such a picture in your mind that you started to imagine you had seen them yourself—except they had never existed. The stream was as devoid of fish as it had been all of the other times they had checked. By nightfall, despite having blueberry-stained teeth, they hungered still.
They left the horses tethered before they departed. Were they to fail or flee by some other route, the beasts would be at the mercy of forest wanderers to save them. The horses accepted their fate with either an admirable, stoic devotion, or an utter lack of comprehension.
Their map had been drawn in the dirt with a dagger. Soria had drawn the locations where Abbiley and Tomas were being kept, as well as the layout of the corridors and the rooms of the lower floors. It even showed—for his own benefit, Brannis knew—the location of the servants' quarters.
They waited near the edge of the tree line for darkness to deepen about them. The sky held clouds enough to aid their efforts, but the wind played pranks with the moon like a street-grifter, shuffling the clouds about to hide and reveal it in turns. It was Soria's word on which they waited, hers being the definitive opinion on matters of skullduggery.
"Now!" she whispered.
She had judged that the cloud cover would last long enough for their harrowed run from the trees to the shadows at the base of the keep's walls, and took off like a startled hare, aether making her gait fast and effortless. Rakashi followed behind, his boots crunching softly in the grassy field. Behind him, Brannis clattered like a discordant wind chime in heavy plate armor. The blanket thrown about his shoulders to muffle the sound was insufficient.
The guards heard them, but without sufficient light to see by, neither arrow nor musket shot sought them out. A common cry arose from the battlements, echoed across the keep. Brannis learned the Kheshi word for "intruder" by their shouts.
* * * * * * * *
Soria knew that Rakashi and Brannis had fallen far behind, but it did not matter; her destination differed from theirs, as did her mission. It felt odd rushing off to a battle in her skulking garb, but it was not a battle she intended to partake in. She made a line for one of the square towers off to the right where she knew that the Acardians were being housed, if not outright held prisoner.
The ground was uneven, an untamed pasture dotted with gopher holes and rabbit warrens. It was all Soria could manage to keep her footing as she made her approach. While Brannis and Rakashi tromped along like a pair of monohorns drawing the attention of the whole keep, she heard no sign that she had been spotted.
The tower jutted from the keep like a wart, leaving an interior corner that promised to make her ascent a simple matter. Old stonework presented a ladder of handholds, ancient rock worn away by wind and rain to crumble just enough at joints to fit a slender hand or boot toe. Up, up she climbed, managing to keep her grip as the structure shook. She panicked that the whole of the tower might tumble, but it had stood hundreds of years and seemed determined to hold on for at least one more night.
Soria paused at the window to check the aether. She peered into the room before her to see one form inside, another form in what should have been the next room over, and a half dozen gathered outside. Abbiley, Tomas, and a knot of guards. Workable.
Soria pulled herself up onto the window ledge, thankful that it was open on the warm, breezy night. There were candles lit within, revealing a room that hinted at captives who led pampered lives: silk bedspreads, a rug like a tapestry, multiple wardrobes, and a dressing table with a mirror. Fortunately, that mirror also had no one looking at it from within the room.
Tomas Harwick sat on the edge his bed, staring at the door with his hands worrying at one another. He was dressed in a nightshirt and cap, neither of which was much as far as travel gear.
Soria dropped into the room with a feather's impact. The fine rug devoured what little sound she might otherwise have made. She kept low, taking herself from the mirror's domain, lest her oblivious target decided to develop a proper sense of self preservation on a whim. She flopped down onto the bed behind Tomas, one hand taking him by the throat, the other covering nose and mouth. She pulled him down backward onto the bed.
"Shut up!" her lips brushed his ear as she whispered. She smelled the perfumed oils from his hair as it brushed her nose. "This is Lady Soria. Your father sent us to rescue you. The Kheshi are using you as a pawn. Quit struggling and I'll let you breathe."
Tomas's initial panic might not have faded—she could still feel him trembling—but he calmed himself enough to convince her to uncover at least his nose. He drew quick, sucking breaths, craning his head back to look at her. She pulled back and let him. He had fish eyes, wide, lidless, and lacking recognition.
"We're leaving," she said, leaning close once more. "You need to dress as quiet as you can. Not a word, not a sound. Don't bother bringing trinkets or trifles. If you cry out for help thinking that I'm the one you should be fearful of, rest assured I will cut your tongue out and leave it behind. Do you understand?"
She took his tiny, spasmodic shakes as a nod of assent, and released him. The first thing he did upon sitting up was to point to the adjoining wall. Soria rolled her eyes then nodded. No, we came all this way to leave her behind because you are just so important. If Brannis wasn't still half twisted for that little she-cow you proposed to, I think we'd have all given your father condolences instead of chasing after you.
She leaned close to his ear once more. "I need you to put pants and tunic on, find some shoes, and climb down a rope for me. I'm not moving on to get the girl until you've done all that, so if you want her out of danger, then move!" Yelling in a whisper was such a frustrating state of affairs. She wanted to shout her lungs bloody to wake the sodden noodle of a noble son from his daze.
While Tomas struggled into his previous day's garments with the grace of a first-night thespian, Soria set about securing the "escape" portion of the escape. The coil of rope she kept looped around her shoulder pooled to the floor at her feet. She took one of her daggers and lined it up with a joint in the masonry below the window. Pausing, she closed her eyes and blocked out the distraction of a half-clad Tomas, struggling to dress himself in haste. In one smooth motion she struck the pommel of the dagger with the heel of her hand, driving it in between the stone blocks. One end of the rope was already prepared, tied in a miniature noose. She looped it about the hilt of her dagger and dropped the other end out the window.
She turned to watch Tomas dressing, receiving nervous, self-conscious looks for her troubles. Soria also caught a good look at herself in the mirror and realized it might not have been solely her gender that was causing him difficulty. She reached up under her hood and untied it, pulled it back, and smiled at him. He nodded, appearing reassured in some measure, and finished pulling on breeches over his hose.