Aethersmith (Book 2)

by J. S. Morin

  Iridan took up his sword, hardwood covered in padding. He looked at Kolm and Bairn with their bared steel, and thought it unfair. They are better swordsmen than I am. They are both stronger than me. I still ache from yesterday’s training. I have no patience for this nonsense this morning. Iridan had enough troubles weighing on his mind already.

  Kolm struck first, a probing thrust that Iridan batted away as Bairn circled to get around him. It was much like the tactic Jafin and Moln had used against him, but more polished in its execution. Iridan spun to meet the attack he knew would be coming from his flank, parrying it just in time to be struck from behind as Kolm recovered and lunged for him. The attack struck Iridan’s shielding spell, but he felt it.

  Kolm followed up with an overhand chop that caught Iridan in the shoulder before he could get his sword up. The padded blade struck a glancing blow against Kolm’s arm, but did nothing to disrupt the squire as he pressed the attack.

  As Iridan tried to defend himself from Kolm’s onslaught, he saw Bairn in his aether-vision, closing from behind. Iridan dove to the side and rolled, but the maneuver had not surprised his opponents. They pursued quickly and were upon Iridan as soon as he gained his feet.

  At least they are both in front of me for now.

  He tried to mount a counteroffensive, but Bairn handily stopped his two-handed downward hacking attack with just his one-handed blade. Kolm’s blade struck him hard in the chest as Bairn used the momentum of Iridan’s strike to force his blade away from where it could parry the attack.

  “You are not even trying,” Rashan called out from the edge of the yard, where he was seated and talking with a group of sorcerers and nobles. After his admonishment, the warlock turned his attention back to the conversation.

  Rage bubbled up in Iridan. He wasn't even watching when he said that. He's just goading me. Iridan drew in a bit of aether. If he's going to complain no matter what I do, I will at least save myself the beating I will take. Rashan’s rules included never using magic on his practice opponents, but technically he was not going to use it on them.

  Iridan’s muscles surged as he infused them with aether. It was not quite magic, as such, but similar to a surge of adrenaline. As with any aether directed inside a sorcerer’s body, there was risk to it, but if Iridan was to become a warlock, then risk would be his lifelong companion. The next cut of Kolm’s blade hit air and Iridan skipped sideways faster than the squire could anticipate. As Bairn followed with a slash of his own, Iridan’s blade hummed through the air, meeting the steel sword head on and nearly wrenching it from Bairn’s grasp. He launched an attack of his own at Kolm, repeating the same overhand strike he had tried against Bairn, but with the force of an ogre behind it.

  Kolm tried to parry the blow, but had not the strength to divert it. His sword was swept out of the way as the padded practice blade crashed into his collarbone with a crunch. The young squire cried out in agony as he crumpled to the ground.

  Bairn had already recovered and was trying to take Iridan from behind. Iridan whirled and used the advantage of his longer weapon to catch Bairn in the ribs before he could make an attack of his own. So swift had Iridan’s blade been that the squire could not even get his sword in the way in time to slow it. The blow lifted him from his feet, and threw him two body lengths to the side, where he fell unmoving.

  Iridan was panting with exertion and exhilaration. I beat them. Maybe I cheated, but I won. In a real battle, that is all that matters.

  “Much better,” Rashan called out, clapping in appreciation as he excused himself from his guests and walked toward Iridan. “I waited nearly a full season for you to realize that. You did not use a bit of aether on them. Well done.”

  “You are not angry with me?” Iridan asked. “That was cheating.”

  “Your goal was to best them with swords and to learn how to fight. You have seen the futility of fighting purely defensively and took that lesson hard,” Rashan said. “One day soon, we will sort this mess out and have an emperor again. You will serve him. When that day comes, you must understand that results matter, not methods. If you are given a goal and a bunch of rules, worry about the goal. If you cannot achieve it within the rules, break them. There are no punishments for warlocks who take matters into their own hands to get done what needs doing. Emperors will cluck their tongues and tell you to listen better next time, but they will forget such trespasses much more quickly than any failure. They need to know that anything they wish done, they have but to give the order. The ones that learn wisdom find out that sometimes those orders necessitate unpleasant messes. They learn then to limit such orders to true needs, rather than whim. You wish them to think of you as an attack dog, not a caged songbird.”

  Iridan looked pensive as he left the yard, given a reprieve from drawing against Dolvaen, who was acting as his oathkeeper for the wedding. Instead Iridan retired to his chambers to try to relax and refresh himself for the noontime ceremony. It would be the last quiet respite he expected to have for some years hence.

  A soldier was sent to bring aid for the fallen squires, but it was for show. Rashan knew from ages of experience in battle that neither would survive the wounds Iridan had inflicted.

  * * * * * * * *

  “We are going over the ship with polish and cloth now, sir,” Captain Drecker reported. “All else is as ready as we know how to make it, considering this is new to all of us. I expect once we see it in the field, we will have suggestions on how to improve it.”

  The captain was as ambitious and capable a man as Brannis could find in Kadrin’s neglected navy. With islands of ice to their south, Kadrin fleets largely patrolled the waterways for smugglers and ventured out to the waters off the eastern shore mainly as escorts. Fully self-sufficient within its borders, Kadrin played little in the affairs of Veydrus’s naval powers. Their navy was tiny for an empire so vast.

  “Very well,” Brannis said. “There will be men with flags up on the palace roof. When they signal, just loop around a few circuits, let the trumpeters play their fanfare, and head back to port. Exchange those musicians for bowmen and be off as soon as possible thereafter. Avoid flying near the palace as you leave the city, so as not to disrupt the feast.”

  “Aye, sir. We are fine for show, but none want to see us actually working. Is that about the right of it?” Drecker was a plainspoken, direct man.

  “Something like that. Same with me, I suppose, at least for today.” Brannis was clad in fine raiment, befitting his station. He wore black silk under a sleeveless short-coat that bore the Solaran crest, along with grey hose that did little to keep his legs warm. The first day of springtime though it was, Kadris was very far south. “No armor for me today. Too gaudy, the warlock said, and I cannot disagree. I would prefer fewer eyes on me today than I usually draw.”

  “No trouble about that today, I’m thinking, sir,” Drecker replied. “I was just a boy when Emperor Dharus was wed and I do not recall this much fuss.”

  “Well, I think you were probably put on your father’s shoulder to watch the parade and little more. Of course it seemed less than it was. This time you get to be a part of the show—and see how much time we waste on it that could be better spent preparing to fight Megrenn at Munne,” Brannis said.

  “Well, these things seem a bit more frisky than a ship at sea and faster than any vessel that has set in water. We draft nothing but fog now. Unless we run amiss, two days ought to see it in Munne,” Drecker said.

  “On the subject of running amiss … do not fly over the wedding site. Aim wide of it and circle the perimeter. If anything goes wrong, I do not want trumpets, musicians, or—I daresay—ships, falling onto the guests,” Brannis said.

  “Anything you should be telling me about these that I don’t know?” Drecker asked. Brannis could not tell if his suspicion was feigned or if he was masking real concern.

  “No, I think you were already aware that these are the first of their kind, that I drew them up from plans I saw in a dream, an
d that I dropped out of the Academy before learning proper rune theory.” Brannis smiled reassuringly. “What could go wrong?”

  * * * * * * * *

  Rashan was surrounded by a pack of ravenous functionaries, pestering him with last-moment details that "absolutely required his personal attention.” The wine steward did not have enough of the chosen vintage for everyone at the feast—could they switch, or should they have two different ones? The Archons had decided to bring more of their household servants and now outnumbered the Solarans by some fifty guests—should some be seated among the Solarans or would it be best to just leave the sides imbalanced? Some Fifth Circle sorcerer brought news via the speaking stone in Munne that Temble Hill had been taken the previous night—should they relay any new orders? A young knight had been sent to inquire about the circumstances of the deaths of two squires earlier in the morning. The blood-scholars wanted his seal on the wedding documents.

  “Bring up the second vintage. Half the guests could not tell a Tameron vintage from horse piss. … Just let the unaffiliated guests balance the seating. … Marshal Brannis has that situation under control. All is according to his expectations. … It was an accident in training. Please pass my sympathies on to their families, and see that they want for nothing. … I have not seen my personal seal in over a hundred winters. Make do for now; I will not hold up the ceremony for such nonsense.”

  Rashan paused, causing those keeping pace with him to jostle one another in an effort not to walk into the warlock. There was a faint, familiar tingling in the aether. Rashan smiled.

  “You are all dismissed. You may bother me again after the feast tonight.”

  The functionaries knew better than to argue—many had replaced men who had lost their posts for doing so—and hastened to remove themselves from the warlock’s presence.

  The warlock ducked quickly into a nearby vacant room. The tingling sensation grew stronger, and before him appeared a female form—roughly Rashan’s size, with smooth skin the color of a fawn’s fur and tangled green hair that fell to the tops of her plump breasts. From beneath her hair curled two delicate horns, shaped like a ram’s, but thinner. She was clad in a simple, strapless gown of diaphanous white and nothing else; her tiny bare feet hung just above the floor, with the tips of her toes just touching. Her overlarge brown eyes gulped in Rashan’s image and she smiled.

  “I was beginning to think you were not coming, Illiardra,” Rashan said, returning the smile.

  He was always impressed with her command of aether. The thunder of his own transference spell was enough to shake buildings—wasted aether, but impressive to the peasantry who knew no better. Hers took only herself, not a scoop from the world about her, and she could avoid alerting a sleeping dragon should she appear next to one, so subtle was the disruption is caused. Had he not been waiting on her appearance, he might have missed it himself.

  “I considered not coming. You grow arrogant when everything you plan works out as you hope. But I am too curious to meet our son and see what sort of man he has become. It seems amazing that he is grown already,” Illiardra replied. She floated over to a wall as she spoke and felt along it with a thin hand, trying to get a sense of the place in which she found herself.

  “Time passes quickly out here. Blink and you could miss a lifetime. I imagine it to be even worse for your kind. Even your mortals can live ten human lifetimes,” Rashan said, moving closer to her. “It is good to see you. I must say, though, that your appearance is inappropriate for the ceremony. You should alter it before I introduce you.”

  “I am not so ignorant of mortals, you know. I wore this for you. I have missed you, it seems.” Illiardra met Rashan’s gaze from a handspan away.

  “I meant these.” Rashan ran a finger gently along one of her horns, tracing the curve slowly and deliberately. “And these as well.” He brushed aside her mop of hair and revealed ears too long for a human her size, reaching halfway to the top of her head and dropping just slightly. “Iridan does not know.”

  “I will meet our son later. For now, I seek only you,” Illiardra answered, letting her gown puddle quietly upon the floor.

  * * * * * * * *

  A gaggle of servants fussed about Iridan, adjusting things that looked fine by his eye, polishing the metal bits of his warlock attire, and just generally being a nuisance about his person. He reached through the throng to retrieve a decanter of brandy and took a swig straight from it.

  “There will be time enough to drink at the feasting,” Dolvaen chided him from across the small room, where he sat dutifully watching over his charge in the capacity of oathkeeper. He bore no love for the warlock; the favor was to Iridan himself, despite the warlock making the request. Iridan had always been one of his favorites, a shining light among the lowborn at the Academy. Dolvaen had fought the same battles in his youth, having to be twice as good as his blooded peers to achieve even half the respect they got. It was a blow to Dolvaen to discover that his successor as champion of the unblooded sorcerers was of Solaran blood, from a strong branch of the line thought lost in the Battle of the Dead Earth.

  “Well, unless the drinks at the feast will bear magic enough to calm my nerves now, I think this will work best,” Iridan joked, taking a second pull from the decanter before setting it back down again.

  I killed those two boys this morning, Iridan thought. I can’t see how they could have survived those wounds. He knew it … but he was happy. Was he just going to keep finding harder and harder opponents as I improved, until I lost my temper and used magic to win?

  Iridan drew a deep breath, drawing a clucking sound from the very proper little man who was trying to get his tunic straightened.

  So I marry Juliana in an hour or so. A few days and I will be sent off to the battlefields, ready or not. I think I can manage to survive a few days on my own with her. Maybe if I return home a war hero, she will take me seriously.

  Iridan had been of a mind to refuse the arrangement, but Rashan had seemed quite set on it, since Juliana was a more proper match than any unwed girl in the Empire.

  I don’t know that she’ll ever love me, not like she does Brannis, but at least maybe she will learn to respect me. I am a warlock now, by the winds! I should not have to put up with her bullying anymore. I am not eight springtimes old anymore, Iridan told himself, building up anger like a wall, one brick at a time.

  One of the attendants muttered a quiet spell, and ran her fingers through Iridan’s hair, shaping it in a dashing, side-swept style. “The wind might muss it now, and it will go back likewise afterward, Warlock,” she told him. He had not caught her name, but she was dressed in Sixth Circle formal garb.

  And I thought being wardkeeper was trivial work for a sorcerer. I should have counted myself lucky not to have been grooming grooms. Now that I am powerful, I need to remember not to look down on peasants—not even peasant sorcerers.

  * * * * * * * *

  A few doors down the hall, Juliana sat on a small, velvet-cushioned stool and fumed. She had been angry with herself since she had awoken. Spit on you, Soria. Why do you get to sit out this whole fiasco while I have to slog through it? It was less the feeling that Soria had abandoned her, staying awake the night through to keep from watching the wedding, than it was envy that she could not do likewise. There is nothing bad about Iridan, all things considered. I know he has a sense of humor. He is polite and well positioned; I will want for nothing, just as it was growing up, maybe even more so. She tried positive thinking to cheer herself.

  It was the first time that Soria had abandoned her in a long while, not so much as peeking through the veil of worlds to watch her through her own eyes. The last time had been on her last Ranking Day. There had only been four of them left and it had fallen much the way she had expected—just as it had the previous two years. She knew that she either had to throw her match or face Iridan in the final draw. She preferred to come in third-ranked than lose to Iridan, and threw a match before having to draw against him. S
oria had hated that decision, and it was one of the few major disagreements the two of them had. Juliana hated the reminder that they were only mostly the same person and not just the personas she adopted in each world.

  A tugging at her hair snapped her back from her mind’s little momentary escape. Two older servants were weaving her hair through some silly fan-like contraption perched atop her head. I must look like a peacock, she thought sourly. Apparently her mother had worn the same piece at her own wedding, nearly forty springtimes ago. She did not know what her mother had done to deserve such a fate, but she quietly suspected that she had done enough to vex her own mother during her short life to have warranted the ridiculous accessory as a small vengeance.

  After all, the entire day seemed bent on causing her embarrassment. I pictured this day a thousand times as a little girl. It never looked like this. When she had been very young, the groom had been some indistinct prince or knight—they seemed so much more dashing than sorcerers—in her daydreams. She started fixating on particular boys she liked as she matured into considering the actual prospect of marrying someone, and not just “getting married,” finally settling on Brannis as the object of her fantasies.

  She had not been put into her gown yet. Old ladies were still fussing over its fold and making sure there were no blemishes on it. Instead she sat in just a light slip, barefoot and bored. Everything would be dressed onto her, she would have little to do with the process, but stand up, move a limb here or there upon request, and try to keep from mussing anything. In the meantime …

  Juliana reached quietly into the aether, and lifted a wineglass from a small table laid out for the servants to pick from. It was a long morning, and there were to be no breaks for the staff until the ceremony was underway. There was nothing fancy about the vintage they were provided, but Juliana was no snob when it came to fermented grapes. “Some barefoot peasant stomped on these; how refined can it possibly be?” she had once argued to her father after spilling a valuable vintage.