Sourcethief (Book 3)

by J. S. Morin

  Lady Skaal leapt to her feet, knocking over her chair. She seethed through bared teeth. She barked an order in Kheshi, but Brannis understood it well enough. He dodged aside, and heard a crackling thunder of uncounted muskets firing; the shots pelted him like hailstones.

  “Kanethio mandraxae,” Lady Skaal shouted, words Brannis understood all too well. From Lady Skaal's crossed palms, a bolt of aether lanced out, strong enough to take Brannis from his feet.

  Brannis scrambled across the floor, gouging crevices with Avalanche in his careless haste. As he fled into the corridor, he held the blade to his side, allowing it to drag through the great chamber's wall. Down the halls he ran, trailing rock wall the whole way. The keep shook. Brannis was no architect, but he could only surmise that those walls were integral to the keep's integrity. Soria's map floated in his thoughts: the kitchens, the servants' quarters, the rearmost towers—anything but those.

  He heard crashes behind him as sections of the upper floors shifted and gave way. He rounded a corner, taking another side of the grand chamber to ruin. The floor beneath his feet rocked, some great portion of the keep having fallen, causing the whole of it to shudder. Brannis took Avalanche from the wall. It was no use leveling the keep while he was still within.

  He had come around to the rear of the building. There was an exit there. It was time to discover if he had bought Soria and Rakashi enough time for their missions.

  * * * * * * * *

  Soria felt the keep shake in earnest, and knew that Brannis was done with parlay. With only her own safety to worry about, she hopped away from the wall and released the rope. Soria hit the ground with the force of a lighting sparrow, a pace or two from Abbiley's body. Tomas was already rushing over.

  "Abbiley! Abbiley!" he shouted, heedless of the accepted decorum of diversion-based escapes, his own safety, and the bit of magic that had just been worked in front of his oblivious eyes.

  Abbiley moaned. She lives! Soria was shocked. She pushed Tomas back as he arrived. The well-meaning ministrations of an overzealous lover were more likely to further harm the girl than help her. Soria knelt over the peasant girl and felt at the back of her neck for broken bones, then felt around her head for blood. All she noticed though was a thin, wispy line of smoke trailing up from the jade dragon pendant she wore. The poor little dear was scorched, its fire burnt out, the one magic it held expended.

  "What happened?" Soria asked, turning to Tomas.

  "There was a flash of green all around, just before she hit the ground," Tomas said.

  "You must have imagined—"

  "No, it was magic," Tomas insisted. "My father told me about it, showed me a bit himself. He must have given Abbiley that pendant for this sort of emergency."

  Soria knew better. She also now knew that Abbiley had never told Tomas who had really given her the pendant.

  The ground shook once more. Soria took a look back to the keep; its years of patient service to Khesh—and whatever land came before it—seemed at an end. She saw Rakashi emerge from around a corner, his half-blade sheathed at his back and a large bundle slung over one shoulder.

  "What happened?" Rakashi shouted as he approached.

  "Where's Brannis?" Soria yelled back.

  "Still inside. Can you not hear him?" Rakashi lowered his voice as he drew near. "Now what happened to the girl?"

  Abbiley stirred. "She fell. Couldn't hold on while I carried her," Soria said. She backed away and took the bundle from Rakashi. The Takalish warrior scholar was far more knowledgeable about anatomy and medicine. Beyond telling that the girl had not broken her neck or split her skull, Soria was unsure of the extent of her injuries.

  Rakashi bent low to examine Abbiley. He put two fingers to the side of her throat, and held them there a moment. With his thumb, he pushed her right eyelid back, looking into her eye. Then he took a shoulder and turned her just a bit. He reached beneath her and felt along the backs of her ribs. He repeated the process for the other side, and then checked her arms and legs for breaks.

  "Hey!" Brannis's voice shouted. He was running from the direction Rakashi had come. "We're all out. Get clear."

  Rakashi nodded to Soria then turned to Tomas. "Help me carry her. Be gentle." The two men hoisted Abbiley and carried her away from the keep. Soria brought the bundle and followed.

  She watched as Brannis approached the corner of one tower. He steadied himself as for a footrace, blade held to the side. At a run, he slid the sword along the walls of the keep at shoulder height. He traced the entire length of one side, slicing the building like a sack, rock spilling out in place of grain. He sprinted out of the way as the keep collapsed, walls caving in, and towers toppling.

  "None of the survivors should be too interested in pursuing us now, after seeing that," Brannis remarked. As the wind carried off the dust from the devastation, less than half the keep remained standing. It was a sudden ruin, desolate under the pale moonlight.

  "Let's get out of here," Soria said.

  Brannis took Abbiley, cradled in his arms. He had not asked about her injuries, simply accepting that she needed to be carried. When he looked down at her, Soria knew he could not help but notice the pendant. But of all the looks she saw there on his face, she never saw the look he saved for her.

  For Soria, that made the whole of their expedition worth the effort.

  Chapter 29 - The Fate of an Empire

  The music was raucous. Fiddlers hacked away at their instruments like woodsmen, pipers warbled out melodies in counterpoint, and a lone drummer sought little more than to be heard over the whole of it. The dancers were the wealthy children of the Kadrin nobles, brought in by horse, ship, and airship from across the empire, with a mix of beautiful—but less high-bred—companions of both sexes.

  Kyrus picked his way along the outskirts of the debauchery past servants carrying trays of sweets and wine goblets, past casual trysts, and past older men ogling and envying. It was a study in hedonism, and it was perhaps the only thing that kept Emperor Sommick sufficiently amused to ignore the men and woman who were the clockwork behind the face of the empire.

  Kyrus smirked to himself at that last realization. There was no clockwork anywhere on Veydrus, so far as he had seen. In his idle moments, once the war ran itself out of breath, he meant to remedy that—and so many more things. He would become an inventor, he decided. There were feats of metallurgy that the empire could certainly do well by, as well as oil lamps for the peasantry, modern ship hulls for the aerial fleet, and a civilized form of cooking, using proper spices. There were books to be rewritten. There were houses to be built that kept out wind and rain—with glass windows and all. He could put to rest the squinting of old men like Fenris with proper spectacles. He could do it all from things that he knew, and that Brannis could ask and read about.

  He could picture it all: he would fashion a flying house for himself and Juliana—a workshop of wonders. They would travel the world together, spreading the wonders of Tellurak and his magical hybrid creations. Juliana would have her adventures, and he would have a lifetime of study to fill his brain, even if that lifetime lasted two hundred summers.

  The pleasant thoughts blanketed Kyrus's mind and insulated him from the moral horrors he navigated. He needed little attention to his path; he was known well enough, even by drunkards, to clear a pocket ahead of him in any direction he cared to move.

  "Ah, Sir Brannis, welcome," Emperor Sommick sang, clearly deep within his cups. His breath stank of wine—excellent wine, Kyrus had little doubt—and his eyes had a glassy sheen over their blue.

  "You wished to see me, Your Highness?" Kyrus bowed his head. He did nothing to hide his ennui, trusting in the wine to hide it for him.

  "Brannis, Brannis, my good friend and loyal caretaker of my empire, what do we do to you all day to vex you so? Do you carry a mountain upon those stooped shoulders? Has some cruel vixen driven a spigot into your loins and drained your vitality?" Sommick asked, waving his hands in Kyrus's direction as
he spoke. His voice carried across half the chamber, despite the music.

  "I assure you, I am well, Emperor Sommick," Kyrus replied.

  "Nonsense, nonsense," Sommick replied, brushing away Kyrus's assurance with his non-drinking hand. "Brave face is all that is. I command you, sip wine and join in the merriment. I shall not have two grim sentinels circling about my reign, and the other defies me."

  "I really had best not drink, Your Highness. It is not safe," said Kyrus. He gave a small smile, meant to reassure. It elicited a frown instead.

  "None of that, now. I have two of the Inner Circle out there among the revelers," Emperor Sommick claimed. Kyrus looked about and confirmed that there were sorcerers among the courtiers, but not any that were actually Inner Circle. Kyrus chose not to contradict the emperor on that point.

  "Your Highness, if they get roaring drunk there is no chance of them reducing the whole palace to molten rock," Kyrus pointed out.

  "Full on yourself, are you? That's the objection you choose?" Sommick asked.

  "It should suffice, I think," Kyrus replied.

  "Good!" Sommick replied, screwing one of his inimitable self-satisfied grins onto his drunken face. "Pick any lady out there that you like. You need not drink with us, but you shall dance."

  Kyrus glared at Emperor Sommick, worrying that he would envision him aflame, and see it happen. He could be gone in an instant. One tiny moment's loss of control, Kyrus realized, was all that separated the empire from once again being without an emperor.

  "Of course, Your Highness," Kyrus responded. He turned and made his way toward the center of the dance floor, all the while able to watch Sommick in his aether vision. As he watched, the emperor yawned. It was the elaborate yawn of a man whose every shift in mood was announced by proclamation. One of the attentive servants scooped the goblet from Sommick's drooping hand.

  Kyrus caught lewd, inviting glances from many who had heard his exchange with the emperor. Others were more coy, but no more welcome. Kyrus kept his course, shutting out his vision of the light as he pointedly ignored all attention. He waited until he was sure that Sommick had drifted off to sleep in his throne, then continued walking straight out the doors.

  The last thing Sommick saw before his magically induced nap was Sir Brannis Solaran, dutifully obeying his command.

  * * * * * * * *

  The Chess Room was a quiet place to think, even while in the midst of a game, even while an opponent sat across the board from you. Kyrus looked at his pieces, and at Rashan's. Since his revelation that Rashan was playing an Acardian style of chess, Kyrus felt much more secure in his assessment of the positions he took against the demon. Still, he weighed carefully each move he made.

  "You know, if this game is not decided before word comes of Jinzan Fehr's attack, I will be the one to go," Rashan said, breaking a silence which had been long enough for Kyrus to have eaten a meal—which he had.

  Kyrus looked up, then back at the board.

  The demon's presence focused his thoughts, made his musings less an abstract thing. Rashan was so simple to dismiss as a monster—a demon, in the storybook sense—when he was not around. In the flesh, he was personable, witty, challenging, and a wellspring of information when he chose to share it.

  A twitch from one of his knights drew Kyrus's attention. The little carved marble piece turned its head to look up at him, blinking baleful eyes. The edge of one of his pawns rose and fell in rhythm, while the rest of the base lay flat on the board. Was it tapping its foot?

  "You know I can see you doing that," Kyrus scolded his opponent. Kyrus relented, and moved his bishop. It was a move he had decided on some time ago. It was also a move that was subtly flawed. It was meant to provoke an exchange of attacks, rather than attack and defense, but that was not the flaw; the flaw was that it would fall one move short of victory, if Rashan countered properly. Kyrus had carefully assured himself that he was choosing a play that was consistent with his style, but not the best move he could find.

  "Something is on your mind besides this game?" Rashan noted. "Is it that spat you had with Sommick this afternoon?"

  "I suppose I ought not to ask how you knew about that. It just vexes me to think that we are subject to the whims of that fop. I had to remove myself from his presence before I killed him. Do you realize how close we came to needing to scrounge the dung pits for another heir?" Kyrus asked. "It dawned on me how easy it would be, without even meaning to; just a moment's loss of poise, and poof!" Kyrus closed his hand and sprang it open, pantomiming an explosion.

  "And thus did the young sorcerer know the pains of a crazy old demon, eh?" Rashan replied. The warlock scoffed. "I get that feeling constantly. There are so few competent ... well competent anythings around here. I am vexed on all sides by ignorance, stupidity, and duplicity. Thank the winds that rarely does the latter come without an ample serving of the former two. You worry about Sommick; for me, nearly everyone dangles over a pit of knives."

  "Should I worry?" Kyrus asked. He tried to keep the question lighthearted.

  "You?" Rashan shook his head. "I spend much of my free time alone with my thoughts. I seek you out because you try my patience with less vigor than most, and occasionally provide some insight I lacked. I also weigh the thought that you would be more than a trifling fancy to kill." The warlock reached across the table, and gave Kyrus a swift, backhanded slap to the shoulder. Kyrus's shielding spell shrugged the blow off.

  Rashan moved his rook out of the path Kyrus had just threatened with his bishop. The game was slipping down the path to Rashan's victory, and another day of avoiding the "honor" of confronting Jinzan Fehr.

  * * * * * * * *

  "I just want to hear it again once. Is that so much to ask?" Juliana shouted. She had spent the day in the captain's harness, and was in no mood for willfulness. They sat in the sparse galley of the Starlit Marauder, floating above the clouds, sharing a late meal.

  "I gave my word once, it shall suffice," Tiiba replied, an uncustomary anger in his tone. "I am not some street-corner piper to be bluffed and bullied into changing his story. My honor and my blade, they are the only claims I have to this world, or the other."

  "You just keep getting this look in your good eye, whenever I see you looking at him," Juliana pressed.

  "You see that look because you imagine it there," Tiiba replied. "I am holding to my part of the bargain. You should listen to the screaming inside your heart. It is the call of your conscience, should you let my people fall once more under the blade and spells of that ... creature. You have to convince him to confront Rashan. By every account I hear, he is the embodiment of destruction when he chooses to be. Let him choose a noble cause."

  "It's hard to argue that every day he spends preparing makes him a bit more likely to prevail. The worst thing that can happen is that he fails," Juliana argued.

  "The worst thing?" Tiiba asked. "For you, perhaps. For Safschan, I think, not trying at all is worse."

  "Brannis ... thinks he might be able to tame Rashan. He thinks he might just need to have someone who can tell him 'no' when he oversteps reason," Juliana said, her voice fading. "He's starting to worry that he might slide down the same dark path that took Rashan, or Tallax, or who knows how many other sorcerers who stood mightiest in their day."

  "So that is your true worry," Tiiba said. "You worry both that he might lose, and that he might win."

  "Goodnight, Tiiba," Juliana said. She left the remains of her dinner cold, and retired to her cabin.

  Chapter 30 - To Keep From Harm

  Three horses picked their way through the trackless forest, sharing five riders among them. Abbiley rode slumped against Rakashi’s back, secured with a rope that wound about both their chests. She had awakened from her injuries in the night with an aching head and had fallen victim to spells of dizziness. Her eyes could not bear the brightness of the sun, so she wore Soria's cloak with the hood pulled low.

  Brannis watched them ride, wondering why he felt no
twinge of jealousy. Rakashi's horse took the lead, setting an easy pace for his patient's comfort, allowing Brannis a view of them, as well as the horse carrying Soria and Tomas. The latter pair did not bother him either.

  Soria had agreed—with no small reluctance—to share her horse with Lord Harwick's son. The keep's stables had been emptied, leaving them just the three horses they had brought, and Rakashi insisted on looking after Abbiley. Soria could not deny it made the greatest sense, especially given the opinions she had occasionally voiced regarding the girl. To put a second rider with Brannis would have done the animal a disservice. As it stood, either of the other two horses only carried slightly more weight with two riders each. Tomas sat behind Soria, balanced just forward of the horse's rump, a veritable study in not quite touching a woman. She wore her armor lest there be any confusion about where his hands belonged—or did not.

  Brannis felt a strange emptiness, a lack of urgency that cast his thoughts adrift. Abbiley and Tomas were no longer in any danger; their journey back was a mere formality. He had never felt so free of responsibility or of purpose. Brannis's life had been laid out before him. Before the Academy, his memories were vague, like stories he had been told. The Academy had guided his studies, his activities; there was always some next thing beyond what he was doing. The School of Arms had been even more regimented, dictating the hour he rose, the hours he slept, and all the hours between. The knighthood, and his service to the army, had given him duty. He was far freer to set his daily actions, especially once he had gained a command of his own, but there were always orders to follow and missions to complete. His time since meeting with Rashan had been a whirlwind of plots, strategy, and logistics.