Aethersmith (Book 2)

by J. S. Morin

  * * * * * * * *

  Kyrus’s senses snapped into reality accompanied by a sensation of falling. The sand beneath his feet gave way. He had just enough time for a brief, startled yelp before hitting the ground, slamming down onto his back on the fortuitously soft sand he had brought along with him.

  Huh?

  Kyrus looked up and saw neither sun, nor stars, nor any bit of Denku Appa he had recognized. He was in a softly lit room of green and black stone, looking up through a transference-spell-sized hole into the room above it.

  He checked himself for injuries, giving the world an unobserved moment to discretely sort itself out, and start making sense. He had landed awkwardly, twisting a knee and wrist in the fall, but nothing at all serious; his ward must have been drained in transit. He patted at his head, feeling for lumps and checking his fingers to see if they came away bloody, but his body seemed largely intact. Kyrus’s mind was about done, though. It had clearly had enough. Kyrus lost consciousness.

  * * * * * * * *

  “Welcome to Kadris.” A strange but familiar voice above him roused Kyrus from his slumber. “I have warded us in. You are safe here for now, so we can talk.”

  “What? Where?” Kyrus tried to formulate questions as his eyes fought to focus. A few blinks brought Rashan Solaran’s face into view hovering over him.

  “First, two rules: you will have to go by ‘Brannis’ for however long you are here, and you will have to speak Kadrin. I cannot have you wandering about speaking Acardian,” Rashan informed Kyrus.

  Daring to turn his attention back to his surroundings, Kyrus pushed himself up onto his elbows, and looked around the room. The accommodations were entirely familiar to him, though he suspected that those in the room from which he had fallen would have been even more so …

  The spell had taken out parts of four rooms: the one he had actually centered the transference spell on, along with a chunk of the adjoining room, as well as the two rooms below those.

  “How did I get here?” Kyrus asked in Kadrin, the familiar sounds tripping up his novice tongue.

  “That was awful. Practice losing the accent before you give yourself away. Try whispering if you must talk to anyone else in the meantime; it will make the accent less obvious. As for an answer to your question: the transference spell that Brannis has been practicing at night, combined with reckless idiocy, the luck of Fate’s own children, and a Source and draw that would shame a dragon,” Rashan commented. “For all it is worth, I am rather astonished myself. I had not thought it possible to breach the veil of worlds like that.” The demon looked Kyrus over appraisingly.

  “This really is Kadris?” Kyrus asked.

  “Oh, you had best not be a simpleton! We started with that. Yes, you are in Kadris, in the Kadrin Empire, on the world of Veydrus. Brannis is one of the smartest lads I have ever met, and I am going to be needing you to be just as clever. You certainly did not manage to come all this way on muscle power.” Rashan took hold of Kyrus’s scrawny arm in one hand, then let it flop back down to make his point.

  “How far did I travel?” Kyrus asked, managing an original question.

  “Measured how? In miles, leagues, fathoms, yards, cubits, furlongs? I have not the slightest notion. I doubt very much that any such terms even apply. I have no concept of how far Tellurak is from here, or which direction it would be,” Rashan said, appearing flustered in a way that Kyrus could not recall Brannis ever seeing him.

  “I found my way here by feel. Give me the night to recover and I will set things right tomorrow,” Kyrus promised, feeling distinctly in the wrong.

  I am trespassing in the Imperial Palace, which I have also damaged. I have also essentially kidnapped their grand marshal.

  “No. I shall have none of that. Count yourself lucky to be alive. Until a more thoughtful, rational means of controlling this power of yours presents itself, you will be staying here and taking Brannis’s place,” Rashan said.

  “But … I am not Brannis. I look nothing like him!” Kyrus protested.

  “Nonsense. You are as good as a twin brother to him if we make allowances for your obviously less vigorous lifestyle. You will take to bed, exhausted after an ordeal of an experiment you conducted, through which you finally unlocked your Source’s true potential. It has sapped your strength and vitality, but you have finally achieved what Gravis Archon predicted at your birth,” Rashan said, apparently thinking through his plan aloud.

  “It seems a bit premature, I think. I doubt anyone would call his prediction true, just based on having a useable Source now. He predicted Brannis would be some great sorcerer of his age,” Kyrus said.

  “As much as I hate having to make Gravis Archon look prescient, everyone will think it is true,” Rashan told him. “Do you really have no concept of how strong a Source you have?”

  “The one person who commented on it mentioned that it was stronger than average,” Kyrus offered. During his time with Denrik Zayne, the pirate captain had looked at him using aether-vision and said as much.

  “Well, someone either has a gift for understatement or is nearly blind in the aether. They said that the ancient sorcerer Tallax had a Source that shone with the fury of the desert sun, that it hurt just to look upon him in the aether. As we have been talking, I have been looking at you only in the light—something I hardly ever do—because I was getting a headache looking at your Source,” Rashan said.

  Kyrus said nothing. He did not know a proper response.

  “Oh, but I did notice something before you awakened.” The warlock poked Kyrus in the shoulder where the tattooed ward was inscribed. “It clearly identifies you as a fortified wall, though I suspect that there is some taxonomic error at work here. In any event, Brannis does not have a tattoo and neither should you. It has been strengthening itself off your Source since you got here. Draw the aether back out of it and I will remove the ink.”

  “I have been meaning to ask someone about that. Is it harmful to have wards placed directly onto the skin like that? I was told it was ill advised, but I seem none the worse for it, and it has been very useful.” Kyrus hoped to finally get a definitive answer to that nagging question.

  “Yesterday I would have said so. It would be like covering your flesh in ticks, or leeches. Seeing it on you, though, it is like a tick on a monohorn. I doubt you would notice it, though in some small way you will be better off without it. Once I remove it, I will want you to shave as soon as possible. I will keep folk away from you until you have acclimated a bit, but you need to be Brannis. Brannis was clean shaven as of last night.”

  “Do I really look that much like him otherwise?” Kyrus was dubious.

  “Of course you do. It just works that way. Now I have many other matters to attend to, and I will have thoughts of what to do with you distracting me through all of them. If I do not see to them, rumors will escape reasonable control, and may start a panic. Among other matters, I am sure many residents of Kadris thought we came under Megrenn attack. Your spell shook the city.”

  Rashan took a surprised Kyrus under the arms, and lifted him up to the room above.

  “One last question, then, before you remove this ward. You know about both worlds. Does that mean you have a counterpart in Tellurak as well?” Kyrus asked.

  “Brannis,” Rashan emphasized the name, “I am two hundred forty-two summers old. If I ever had a counterpart like you, who from your world has ever lived remotely so long?”

  Chapter 14 - A Lack of Success

  Rashan sat silently in his seat at the head of the Inner Circle. The guards in the Tower of Contemplation had been instructed to inform the rest of the Inner Circle that Warlock Rashan would explain matters just once, when all had arrived. Eight of his colleagues sat in matching silence, awaiting the stragglers in awkward fellowship.

  Warlock Rashan did not drum his fingers, or stir in his seat. He did not look about or even blink. He thought, and he had much to think about.

  It would be useful having Branni
s around. His plans for the war seem sound. His airships have great promise. I did not even ask his twin’s name—but then, I cannot slip and call him by it if I do not know it. But if his twin has the sort of mind he does, I will take the one with a Source such as I have never seen. So much potential … So much danger …

  If he can “accidentally” breach the aether and cross between worlds, what other havoc could he cause? I need to teach him some proper spells and train him as a sorcerer before all Kadrin finds out.

  The eleventh member of the Inner Circle to arrive stirred Rashan from his reveries.

  “We are all here but Iridan. Where is your son?” Dolvaen asked. He had taken on the role of speaker for the rest of the Circle in dealing with the warlock.

  “He will not be joining this session. He escorted his foster parents home, and I gave him leave to spend a day or so with them. I felt it best if he had time to gather himself,” Rashan informed them.

  “Very well then. Start by explaining what happened in the palace last night.” Dolvaen rarely stood on formalities. Despite the fact Rashan was fairly certain the man hated him, Rashan found himself liking the peasant-born sorcerer.

  “Since you are intent on bluntness, I will match it. It was Brannis. He finally unlocked his Source,” Rashan said.

  “What?” Aloisha Solaran gasped, merely the first to put voice to her surprise.

  “I know not the details of how he managed it, but the quake that shook the city last night originated in his bedchambers. He opened some sort of rift into the aether. His room and the ones adjacent are missing some wall and ceiling. The desk he was working at is gone, as well as his sword and armor, which he was wearing at the time. As best I can tell, he was sucked in as well, but managed to escape,” Rashan explained, having given the lie a bit of thought before the Inner Circle convened.

  “That is ghastly,” Caladris exclaimed. “Is the boy all right?”

  “He is the worse for wear, but seems not to be permanently damaged. I think time may have passed strangely within the void. He seemed wasted as if famished by long illness, but he could not have been gone more than a few moments as time passed here. He has little recollection of the rift itself,” Rashan said.

  “Is this rift a danger still?” Dolvaen asked, ever practical.

  “So long as I can convince Brannis not to try whatever trick he used to create it in the first place, I believe we are safe. I found no trace of the rift as I left him.”

  “Hmph, no curiosity anymore, eh? Concerned for your own hide?” Fenris needled Dolvaen, a friend he had always considered overly cautious. “Did it work?” Fenris grinned. The old sorcerer had asked after Brannis for years while he was at the Academy, wishing to see a truly powerful sorcerer in the Empire before he died.

  “One might safely venture that opinion,” Rashan said. “I have yet to witness him work any magic, but his Source is impressive, putting it mildly. Once he has rested up a bit, I intend to see what he can do with it. It is what the lad has wanted all his life. It would be a shame not to put him to the test.” Rashan grinned.

  “Got something in mind for him, then?” Caladris asked. “You look to be ruminating on something wicked. Tell us.”

  “Oh, I think I will save a surprise for later, presuming all goes well with Marshal Brannis’s recovery. But I think time has come to attend to the real business we had planned for this morning. Shall we?” A stack of parchment sheets flew from Rashan’s desk, and whisked themselves across the Sanctum, one to each in attendance.

  Rashan gave them a moment to peruse the contents. He watched faces to see reactions and was not disappointed.

  “Admirable that you have it down to three, but is this truly the best of the lot?” Caladris asked, holding up the list he had just read.

  “Agreed. I had hoped for something people could gladly support. After that coronation of a wedding two days past, I half expected Iridan’s name to top the list, but these are scant better,” Dolvaen scoffed, waving a hand at his copy dismissively.

  “It might in fact be true that there is a closer heir within the Empire,” Rashan allowed. “Some poor, scared lad out there may wish to have nothing to do with succession and the plots and intrigues of court life. His folk may have sheltered him and humored him and we will hear naught of him ever. It could also happen that some poor, slovenly seneschal has misplaced enough of his lord’s documents that a rightful claim was unable to be verified. But, good sirs, I would like to remind you that there was a conspiracy amongst this very assemblage here,” Rashan swept his arms wide to indicate those present, “who actively sought out and culled the imperial line. I worked with what was left over, and these three are the best of them.”

  “This first one here, it seems out of place,” Fenris commented, and several heads bent back to review their copies. “He is illegitimate. It even says so on your list. Explain that.”

  “The other two are legitimate, but their claims both branch back to Escelon the Fourth. Sommick Highwater was a bastard of Liead’s line and two emperors less removed from Dharus. We lose Liead’s blood, and Tameron’s, if we skip back past them to a branch from Escelon,” Rashan pointed out.

  “Well, that is all fine on its own, but an illegitimate heir carries all manner of problems,” Dolvaen said. “The people will not like the scurrilous break in lineage. In addition, you always have questions about the legitimacy of even an illegitimate claim. Once you break with officially kept records of noble births, who is to say what may have been forged?”

  “Sommick Highwater swore to the veracity of the documents. I would accept the word of one descended of Liead’s blood,” Rashan countered.

  “Bah, you beg the question. You cannot run us around by the ear like ink-fingered schoolboys with your tricks of logic. If Sommick Highwater is not royally descended, what would his word be worth?” Dolvaen snapped back, irritated that Rashan would try such a meat-fisted word play to convince them.

  “I see it in his face, in his build. Five generations have not bred Liead’s manner out of the line. I see little enough of Escelon when I look at Marnus Tollfury and none when I look at Brennen Hawkfield. I wish to re-establish the imperial line, not just continue it. We need the best and strongest of royal blood, not the cleanest,” Rashan argued. There were few times when the cynical warlock showed genuine fervor for anything but bloodletting, but his service to the emperor’s line was one of the exceptions.

  “So you think that Sommick Highwater would be a better emperor than the other two, then?” Fenris asked. “Seems a good enough thought, if all other factors weight the same.”

  “No. Mistake me not, all three are vapid, spoiled slackwits. We might have made a proper emperor of any of them if they were younger, but none were brought up to handle the burdens and responsibilities. No, whomever we anoint will almost certainly be a disastrous emperor, and it will be our penance for allowing it to get to this point, just having to deal with him. You all allowed this to happen, knowingly or not, and I left the Empire to its own ends for far too long. It will take at least a generation to stabilize the dynasty, but we must begin soon, and from the best stock available,” Rashan said.

  “It is an interesting thought, this talk of dynasties. When this search began, I had higher hopes for an heir,” Sonnin Tenruvin commented. He was quiet among the Inner Circle, and spoke seldom. When he did, it drew attention. “What if we were to install a new dynasty?”

  “It would cause open rebellion!” Caladris exclaimed. “Even the lengthy search had a few noblemen gnashing their teeth and loosening swords in their sheaths. Appearances aside, we all know there are divided opinions among the Circle and even amongst ourselves. Who is to say we would not get dragged into a civil war even with Megrenn practically standing before the city gates?”

  “I agree it is a poor idea, though I doubt it would be as bad as you describe,” Rashan answered. “The Empire is vast enough that many do not yet see the Megrenn as threats. They expect the problem to be deal
t with at the expense of marching a few troops off to join the cause. Civil war would bring death to their own homes, and few would act without a preponderance of support from the Inner Circle.”

  “And if some enterprising nobleman sided with Megrenn? A favorable peace with the promise of a new, more accommodating dynasty?” Dolvaen pondered. “I would support the bastard claim before ever agreeing to a new dynasty. The ‘why’ might be justifiable, but the ‘who’ would lead us to ruin.”

  “Aye. Whom would we choose, if it came to it?” Caladris wondered aloud.

  “No! Do not even put a name to that thought,” Dolvaen warned, leaping to his feet. “If word leaves this chamber of a favorite, we could well start a war as surely as if we had named an emperor to start that new dynasty. It would be the same sides, but a different man in power until it was ended.”

  “Please, settle down. No more talk of dynasty change. We ought to decide from among the three candidates,” Rashan said as he attempted to rein in the meeting. “Once we have a name, I can have the court popinjays arrange a coronation ceremony. It will be good for the Empire, for the peasants and nobles alike, to see the matter of succession resolved.”

  “And you would step down as regent?” Dolvaen asked, arching an eyebrow skeptically.

  “Assuming that is the wish of the new emperor, of course,” Rashan replied with a shrug. “You think I enjoy the nonsense I must deal with running the Empire myself? Not a one of you would trade places with me, and you know it. I have a war to fight, and a child running it. Brilliant though Brannis may be, I will need to take a more personal interest once the real slaughter begins.”

  When the Inner Circle took a vote on the matter of the best claim, it split three ways almost equally. With four votes each for Sommick Highwater and Brennen Hawkfield, Warlock Rashan’s vote carried the victory for Liead’s bastard thrice-great grandson.

  * * * * * * * *

  Juliana sleepwalked through her morning routine. She had taken her morning feast when the servants bringing it awakened her. She dressed in everyday garb: a half-robe over a tunic and breeches, with comfortable boots fit for riding or long walks and the harness for her dagger sheaths. It was a departure from the finery she was being prodded to wear now that she was respectably married, but she supposed that she was just not feeling that respectable.