by J. S. Morin
Juliana looked gorgeous, preened to display her beauty, rather than flaunting it as she often did. Brannis understood the difference and obviously so did whoever styled her gown and jewelry. She is trying so hard. That toothy grin is not hers, though. I have seen every smile she has. Brannis wondered what it would have been like in Iridan’s place. It had been on his mind the whole of the ceremony, including the point where he would have drawn his blade to protect Juliana against the would-be assassin. Brannis took another long swallow of his drink. The ale was weak, to keep the feast going longer and to moderate the drunkenness of the guests as the night wore on.
“When will they get their gifts?” Danilaesis asked, seated next to him. He had kept quiet through the wedding, for which Brannis had been thankful, but apparently the reprieve was at an end.
“Not likely until tomorrow. They must have gotten hundreds and the feasting will last all night,” Brannis replied.
“Not all night, Grandfather said. They—” Danilaesis began but Brannis cut him short.
“No! Stop right there. I know and I know you know. I do not need to hear it,” Brannis told him. He glared over the top of Danilaesis’s head at his grandfather. “Did you really need to tell him all that?”
“What? The truth? Of course not. I could lie to him like his father and blather on about babies popping in from the aether. I could tell him women have the same bits as men beneath their robes and that they get married because they love each other. But then he goes and finds out different and thinks us all liars. Well, he shall know his grandfather will tell him true and that is worth something,” Axterion said, not quite facing Brannis as he spoke. The ancient wizard was nearly blind and used aether-vision to get by. With his weak Source, Brannis was hard to see either way.
I sometimes wonder if you enjoy being thought senile, old man. You get away with far more than if more folk realized your wits were mainly intact.
“So you would tell him about torture and rape, necromancy, that sort of stuff, should he just ask?” Brannis tried to make his stubborn old grandfather see where such roads led.
“Nasty stuff, all of it. Wonderful stories, though, if you have a mind for it. Better to be repulsed by it early than build up curiosity for years. Brannis, my boy, you were always good about it, but do not forget that the truth is always the best path. Do not let that seventy-first great uncle of yours, or whatever he is, convince you otherwise,” Axterion said.
Brannis turned his attention back to his meal, tiring of trying to reason with Axterion. The old man had been High Sorcerer before his years caught up to him and left him using all his power to hold onto life, with none left for working magic. He was a veteran of too many arguments to count, and refused defeat even when logic sided against him.
“Pardon me,” Brannis heard a voice in his head. His eyes widened in surprise. He looked furtively up and down the table to see who might have tried to get his attention. “My name is Illiardra, Iridan’s mother. I have not yet had the chance to make your acquaintance. I sense that your Source is not strong enough to reply, so merely listen a moment. When the dancing begins, which ought to be shortly, ask me to dance. I wish to speak with you.”
Brannis looked down to the head of the table again, but not seeking Juliana for once. He saw the strange immortal whom Rashan had brought to the wedding. It was clear she was not human, as least insomuch as Rashan was no longer human. She appeared as she wished, by agency of whatever magic she chose to use.
Brannis waited until the music changed from peaceful melodies for dining to boisterous songs for dancing. As couples made their way to a nearby stone terrace to dance, Brannis approached the warlock’s consort (he realized he had never asked their relationship, or whether Iridan was born a bastard). She seemed otherworldly, much less similar to human than Rashan was. The warlock kept his appearance as it had been in his own youth. Illiardra had been much less bound in her choice of form.
“My lady, I am Sir Brannis Solaran, Grand Marshal of the Imperial Armies. Might I have the pleasure of a dance?” Brannis was glad that many of the folk at the table had already adjourned to the dance floor, including the newly married couple. The guests had not made a fuss over it, considering the circumstances, but the warlock had not yet appeared at the feast. Word had spread about the assassin that had tried to kill Rashan, and everyone seemed to assume he was off somewhere dealing with the matter. Most had a “better him than me” attitude about the whole thing. It was a more jovial atmosphere without Rashan around, anyway. In truth, many were scared of the warlock’s mere presence.
“I would be delighted, Sir Brannis.”
Illiardra extended a hand, and allowed Brannis to help her to her feet. She weighed almost nothing. It felt like he was helping a cloud rise from the seat she had occupied.
She rose from the ground as they danced, lest the vast difference in height make both the steps and the conversation awkward. They drew curious glances, but mostly due to the unfamiliar face in the large clique that was the Imperial Circle and their families. Floating in the air was simple magic, not enough to impress jaded old eyes.
“So tell me about my son,” she asked. She bounded and twirled along with Brannis so expertly that her eyes never left his as she spoke. “Rashan spoke highly of you and said you were the best of Iridan’s friends. Why then were you not his oathkeeper?”
“It is a long story, but I was once betrothed to Juliana Archon. I suppose Rashan wanted to guard against me doing something silly and romantic. Iridan and I have been friends since the Academy. I was there until I was fourteen summers and they gave up on me ever showing any promise. I used to protect him from Juliana when we were all little. She used to beat him.”
Brannis was not sure why he chose to introduce Illiardra to her son that way. Maybe because that seems to sum him up so well. He always needed protecting.
“And now Rashan wishes to make him a warlock. Perhaps he thinks to toughen him by foisting his tormentor upon him as a wife. My, what changes a few seasons can wreak,” she said, then laughed. It was a melodic laugh, with a smile that seemed so much more at ease than Juliana’s fake one.
“Well, that was fourteen winters ago,” Brannis commented.
“A whiff of fragrance from a petal as it falls from a rose. That is the length of fourteen winters,” Illiardra said softly, looking deep into Brannis’s eyes. “Do you have any idea how old I am?”
“By your looks, twenty springtimes and no more, but I know better. You are immortal and choose whatever appearance you wish. By your words, I would guess you are closer to Rashan’s age,” Brannis ventured. Mortal women were so sensitive about age, he did not want to risk angering her by guessing any older than that.
Rather than taking offense, she laughed. “My dear Brannis, you are so tactful. You wish not to offend me, but miss the mark by kingdoms. I was old when Kadrin was founded, a little city-state in the wilderness, carved out in the shadow of the elder woods and brash enough to name itself an empire. I knew Gehlen, whose staff your people seem to have misplaced, and mighty Tallax, two thousand winters dead when Gehlen was born.”
Rashan being two hundred and forty-two summers old was a hard thing to grasp at times. He was a creature of a different age, who lived in a much different Kadrin from the one that now stood. He had no reason to disbelieve Illiardra’s claim, ludicrous though it seemed on its face, but the span of summers defied Brannis’s comprehension.
“Tallax was a real man?” was the best response Brannis could muster out of the information he had just absorbed. “I was taught that he was just a legend.”
“Oh, he was a legend, for certain, but a real man as well. Your ancestors used to claim his blood ran within them. He never unlocked the secret to immortality, but kept alive over seven hundred summers on life extension alone. All that is true,” Illiardra said.
“And his Source?” Brannis asked, his love of history brimming to the surface. “Was it as strong as the stories said?”
&n
bsp; “It is so hard to compare such things, especially across so many years. But men in that age said that his Source hurt to look upon,” Illiardra said. As the music slowed, the couples dancing did as well. Illiardra drifted lower and closer, and rested her head against Brannis’s chest. “Brannis, your obvious love of history is endearing to one who has seen so much of it and finds too many who care not. That reason is why I so seldom visit the mortal world. It seems so foreign and unwelcoming. I had come to visit Rashan, and to meet my son.
“When I look in my son’s eyes, I see disbelief and denial. I saw how he looked to the guests at the wedding. The couple that we sent him to be fostered with were there, and I saw in that look the love a son bears for his mother. I bore Rashan a son, but I did not mother one. Iridan fears me and what I represent: a mother he never knew and a heritage he does not understand. So my son avoids me, and my Rashan has gone off. He used a transference spell shortly after the ceremony, and I could not see far enough to know where he went. Brannis, you are a clever boy. Where might he have gone?”
Brannis could think of only one option when he thought of Rashan: vengeance. “Did he ever tell you of his philosophy, to let none live who have tried to harm him?” Illiardra nodded sadly. “I can only surmise that he found out who sent that assassin, and is laying waste to whatever city they might be in.”
“He can be so thoughtful at times. He was always full of vigor and ideas. He did things. He did not just wonder aloud about them, as so many of our kind fall into the habit of. But he has this killing lust within him as well, that try as he might, he could never overcome. Now, it seems, he has stopped trying entirely, and is giving in to his base need to spill blood. He left without even telling me, leaving me alone among strangers, with a son who denies me in his heart.”
Brannis did not know what to say to that, so he wisely said nothing. He allowed the neglected immortal to spill her sorrows upon his doublet and continue talking as they floated about the terrace in time with the music.
“We have each lost someone today, someone who was already gone, but whom we could not let go. Rashan has no special claim on my heart. I am not his wife nor his concubine. Juliana is now wed to another, no longer seemly to dream of. Let us spend this night in each other’s comfort.” She lifted her head and looked up at him. Her eyes brightened when they met his and she smiled. “I have always preferred younger men.”
* * * * * * * *
The next morning, Brannis strode down the halls from his room to the practice yard, where he expected the warlock to be, if indeed he had seen fit to return from whatever burning city he had likely left in his wake. He was wearing his armor again, a precaution he felt more than justified by the assassin’s attempt on Rashan the previous day. He was far less equipped to defend himself than Rashan. Without his armor, he was ripe to be killed should Megrenn send someone to end his life.
Despite Illiardra’s assurances that Rashan had no hold over her, and that she had no intention of mentioning their liaison, he approached the warlock with some trepidation. Any servant who had seen them could have reported them adjourning to Brannis’s chambers for the night; none would believe that they had talked for hours until Brannis fell asleep from exhaustion (and perhaps just a bit of magic). Rashan always figures out too much for the amount of information he has. Any hint of a tryst and Brannis’s life would hang on whether Rashan was the jealous type. Brannis did not like his odds on that wager.
As he walked along, he saw someone approaching from one of the side corridors. He stopped short, recognizing Juliana’s distinct form—forever etched into his psyche—out of the corner of his eye. Her hair was a disastrous mess, not just uncoiffed, but snarled and tangled. Her black Sixth Circle robes hung loose about her thin frame, not cinched at the waist as she usually wore them, and she had her armed tucked into the opposite sleeves, hugging them close to her body. What really drew Brannis attention was her face: wickedly reddened on one side, with a swollen knot beneath the eye that would surely turn purple with a bit of time.
Juliana backed up a step tentatively as Brannis rushed over to her, her eyes widening as if unsure of what to do.
“What happened?” Brannis demanded, sounding both concerned and angry at once.
“We argued. It just … happened. Everything is fine.” Juliana’s voice trembled. “I was just on my way to ask Rashan if Iridan can skip his training today.”
“Iridan did this to you?” Brannis asked, trying to keep calm so as not to sound like he was blaming her.
“I said something I shouldn’t have,” Juliana protested but Brannis shook his head.
“That is no excuse,” Brannis told her. “Go see someone about that lump.” Brannis strode off in the direction she had just come from, moving at twice the pace and with far less uncertainty than he had felt when preparing to approach the warlock.
* * * * * * * *
“Brannis!” Juliana called after him. “I can look after myself. You do not need to ‘save’ me!” she shouted as he grew too far to converse with at any lower volume. She drew a deep breath and loosed it raggedly.
It is nice to know he still cares. She would have felt a bit better had Brannis not had a hand on Avalanche’s hilt as he rushed off to defend her honor. If my children grow to be tall, strong, and brave like him, I will just have to say they take after my father … (Shador Archon was not so different in frame from Brannis, even if he lacked the muscle) … instead of their own.
She continued on to the practice yard where indeed she found the warlock awaiting Iridan’s arrival. He sat with her new oath-uncle Caladris as the portly sorcerer took his morning feast.
“Iridan will not be coming down for practice this morning,” Juliana interrupted them, startling Caladris with her quiet, timid approach.
“My dear girl, what happened?” Caladris asked.
“Nothing. I am fine,” she answered.
“It was a long while ago, but I got married too—twice you know—and that is not a typical result.” Caladris tried to keep the mood light, but Rashan was intent on darkening it.
“Iridan did that.” Rashan did not even form the observation as a question. He scowled as he inspected Juliana’s injuries.
“I pushed a bit too far. I know I sometimes do not think before saying things that might be hurtful. I started it,” Juliana said, but Rashan was apparently indifferent to her explanation.
“I will have to have a talk with that boy,” he growled. Caladris quietly excused himself in the opposite direction as Rashan made to leave the yard.
“You are just as bad as Brannis,” Juliana muttered beneath her breath, but had not counted on the warlock’s excellent hearing.
“Brannis saw you like that?” Rashan demanded, his eyes widening. The warlock took off at a run.
When he was gone, Juliana quietly pulled her hands out of her sleeves. The knuckles were raw and bloody. Soria, are you watching today? If you are, tell me how you manage not to ruin your knuckles.
* * * * * * * *
Rashan saw the door to Iridan’s chamber wide open, with a pair of the palace guards flanking it. Whatever orders they might have been given, Brannis was authorized to countermand. He rushed past them to find Brannis standing next to a pool of blood.
“What did you do?” he shouted at Brannis, torn as to whether he should chastise the general of his armies or just slay him where he stood.
“It was not me.” Brannis turned to face the warlock, clean of any blood. The warlock came around the side of the bed to see Iridan curled up on his side, a bloody pillow propped under his head and a blanket over him. His face was a gory mess.
“Perhaps I ought to reconsider which of them to train as a warlock,” Rashan commented.
Chapter 12 - Aftermath Examined
The cobblestones were blackened, even melted in places. The charred remains of buildings stood about the edges of the devastation, but toward the middle, only buildings with stone foundations showed any signs of having exist
ed at all. There were signs of recovery, though, for the residents of that particularly downtrodden neighborhood of Marker’s Point. A few ramshackle buildings had been put up, while real work was being done to replace others.
“How far across would you say it is, one side to the other?” Soria asked, her eyes sweeping the scene. She wore her Kheshi persona. In a place like Marker’s Point, looking as if you invited trouble was paradoxically the best way to avoid meeting it. It also saved her the trouble of either hiding or drawing strange looks for her Kheshi accent.
“A hundred paces across, I’d say,” Tanner offered. “Maybe a hundred and fifty.”
“Hmm, closer to two hundred, I think,” Rakashi ventured. “You have a long stride, my friend.”
“Well, I’m not measuring with yours. What sort of fool counts using his guess at someone else’s stride?”
“So, black powder, or aether?” Soria asked. She nodded in the direction of the helm that Zell was carrying. Zell donned the helm and looked about the burned streets.
“Aether,” Zell stated. They had concealed the stolen crown inside the helm, wrapping it in cloth and sewing it to the leather liner that cushioned the wearer’s head. “It all looks … scratched up. I don’t know how else to describe it, but it stands out for certain.”
“So … what, then?” Tanner asked. “We have a warlock running around here, incinerating buildings. I don’t think I care to meet him. If he knows his stuff, what would he want with a bunch like us? We’d be small timers to him. If he can’t control his aether and this is what happens,” he gestured to their general vicinity, “I don’t know that it would be safe traveling with him.”
“I think Tanner’s right, Soria,” Zellisan added, taking the magical helm off and nodding. “This one is too dangerous. We do well enough for ourselves that I don’t see the risk being worth it.”