by J. S. Morin
Warlock Rashan had requested a meeting with her, once he had finished his Circle business for the morning. She was not sure what he wanted, but she had plenty of theories. He looked at me strangely after seeing what I had done to Iridan. I have been stared at by men aplenty and his was a stare I cannot place. It was not lechery, plainly. It was not anger, which my new oathfather rarely deigns to hide. He seemed neither amused nor approving. Perhaps it was an appraising stare. Were a ship to be viewed by a prospective captain, would it have seen such a look?
With Iridan gone to his foster parents’ home, and no official business to attend to, Juliana decided to take stock of the wedding gifts they had received. There was a set of matching crystal goblets, chased in gold. Someone had given them a runed candelabra—the sorcerer’s equivalent to handmade pottery. There was a pair of matching saddles with a note saying they were from Iridan’s cousin Aloisha. There was …
… there was a trio of wooden boxes. The largest one, long and narrow, bore Iridan’s name. The two smaller boxes—one stacked atop the other—bore the name Juliana Solaran. It was an odd thing to read. Seeing her own new name there looked out of place.
I always knew that would be my name one day, but not this way.
She opened the first and was surprised to see a dagger within. Black as slate, the blade was not cold to the touch as steel would have been.
Dragon bone. This is one of Jadefire’s teeth!
Juliana picked up the blade and tested it in the air. It had more heft to it than was apparent by looking at it, but did not seem to slow her handling of it. Suspicious, she looked into the aether and was unsurprised to see it aglow. Many of the gifts the couple had received shone in the aether as well; it was a consequence of inviting the entire Imperial Circle to the wedding. Continuing in aether-vision, she saw that the other of her boxes held another dagger, and Iridan’s contained a sword. They stood out from the trinkets and keepsakes that formed the bulk of their gifts for having much stronger concentrations of aether. These were not runed weapons, but true rune-forged blades!
She noticed in the bottom of the box that there was a slip of parchment. It bore a single word: Freedom. Replacing the dagger in its box, she opened the other and found a similar weapon. It was not identical, feeling lighter in her hand, having a slight curve at the tip, but it was no less wondrous or formidable. There was a note in the second box as well. It read Adventure, but she could see more ink showing through from the back side. She turned it over and read:
One day, long ago, I promised you a bridal gift. You thought I would promise you jewels or a horse, or some tangible thing. Instead I promised I would give you a life of freedom and adventure. Despite my failing, I had hoped to make some small amends. I hope they may offer you the protection I no longer can.
Also, think of names for them that you might share with others. Keep their true names for yourself, and do not keep these notes.
The note was unsigned, but she never doubted its origin. She knew what she would name them before she set the notes aflame and scattered their ashes in the fireplace.
* * * * * * * *
She had to poke holes in the ends of her sheathes to fit them, but the two new daggers nestled at her back, tucked beneath her tunic. The weight and size would take getting used to, and she would certainly have to get new sheathes made for their size before she carelessly injured herself on the exposed tips. Juliana had no illusions about how much good they would do her if Rashan was truly angry with her, but their presence was reassuring nonetheless.
As she walked through the palace’s halls, no one greeted her. The ones that visibly took note of her made efforts not to be acknowledged. Side corridors suddenly became preferred routes, conversations became much more engrossing and servants about their tasks grew quite admirably focused upon them.
So none of them are certain where I fall in the warlock’s graces, either. Rumors must be throughout half the Empire by now about my little spat with Iridan. I wonder if they are afraid of me personally, or of incurring Rashan’s anger if they associate with me.
The room she was to meet the warlock in was a storage cellar on the lower level, which was never a good sign in Juliana’s (or Soria’s) experience. Whatever he wanted with her, he wanted it kept private. Rashan preferred most of his work to be veiled from public view, she knew, but rumors of what befell in those clandestine meetings ranged from the bizarre to the ominous. Some believed he had enthralled the minds of half the folk in the palace and several of the nobles. A few maintained that he was plotting to eliminate the rest of the Inner Circle, and take complete control of the Empire. Juliana suspected that he was a suspicious old curmudgeon with more plots afoot than she would ever begin to unravel.
The door was slightly ajar when she reached the appointed room. Like everything on the servants’ level, it was plain and unadorned, though the surrounding walls and floor were still of the same black marble as the rest of the palace architecture. As she pushed it in, she saw that the room was largely empty, save for a few barrels and empty crates piled against one wall. Atop one of the barrels sat Rashan Solaran, his feet dangling well off the floor from his humble perch.
“I am a busy man, so I would hope to keep this brief.” Rashan waved a hand and the door closed behind her.
Juliana whipped around and slipped into aether-vision, seeing that the door was shielded as well. It was not a strong shield; she might be able to break it if she had to run.
“Privacy. Do not worry, I have no intention of harming you, oathdaughter. You may have come within a hairsbreadth of killing your new husband, but that hairsbreadth was crucially important. I saw something that I could not see in the regimented confines of the practice yard. He thought himself safe out there, but not when he angered you,” Rashan said mildly, slipping off the barrel to his feet.
“He hit me first,” Juliana hedged warily.
“Indeed. I cannot imagine he was given any reason to do so,” Rashan joked, giving a half smile. “You have as sharp a tongue as anyone has dared use in my presence. I doubt you kept it in check with just Iridan present. Care to share what you said to provoke him?”
“Not especially, no,” Juliana replied.
There was something odd about Rashan’s manner … something in his stance.
In one swift motion, the warlock drew Heavens Cry and leveled it in Juliana’s direction. Before the blade left its sheath, Juliana had already silently raised a shielding spell, drawn both her new blades, and leapt back a pace.
Rashan laughed, lowering his blade before returning it to its sheath. “That is precisely the reflex that Iridan lacks. He seems to be making fine progress in the practice yard. His Source and draw are fearsome, and he learns new spells quickly. What he cannot do is react surely under pressure, when action needs to precede thought. He aether-burns himself trying half measures, just as he did yester-morn. I have half a mind to train you as a warlock in his place. You have nowhere near the raw strength of aether, but you are a warrior at heart. I hope to find out soon whether Brannis is or not.”
“Brannis? What do you mean by that? He is a warrior. You saw him at Raynesdark and in Kelvie Forest,” Juliana responded, confused as to what Rashan meant. She was breathing heavily, still poised ready to defend herself.
“Actually I met him after his major encounter with the goblins in Kelvie, but that is not the point. Prowess with a blade in the heat of battle is not the same as keeping the calmness of mind to use magic,” Rashan said.
“What are you talking about? Brannis can't use magic and everyone knows it,” Juliana said, exasperated. “If you are still holding some hope of his suddenly developing a Source stronger than a candle, you have a long wait ahead of you.”
“Oh my …” Rashan mused. “No one told you?”
Juliana made sure her puzzled expression made it clear that no one had.
“That quake that shook half of Kadris last night was Brannis,” Rashan said.
Juliana’s
puzzled look grew a perplexed aspect.
“The quake?” Rashan said. “The one last night?”
Rashan seemed to be prodding for some sign of dawning recognition in his oathdaughter’s eyes, but was finding none.
“I sleep soundly.” She shrugged. “What did I miss?”
“A quake shook the palace and half the city felt it. Everyone knows Brannis has been studying old books of magic—the new airships are a testament to that—but he seems to have figured out a way to unleash his Source,” Rashan said.
“Unleash it? You could tie that sorry little thing to a chair leg with a bit of yarn and it would be held fast,” Juliana joked, though she never would have voiced that opinion so flippantly had Brannis actually been present.
“Oh … not anymore,” Rashan said. “I have shielded off his room and a few adjacent ones damaged in the incident, so none has been in to see him yet as he recovers from the ordeal—and, yes, he is worse for wear but will be fine. Once you see for yourself, you may understand what your grandfather predicted all those years ago.”
“Really?” Juliana remained unconvinced. “Brannis? The same Brannis who could not light a firefly’s arse in six winters of trying at the Academy? That Brannis?”
“That one, yes. I have little notion of how much he has retained from his years there and how much he has gleaned from his more recent studies, but I suspect he has just enough knowledge to be terribly dangerous right now. I have the rooms shielded to prevent him bringing down half the palace trying some other fool experiment,” Rashan huffed.
“You are afraid of him?” Juliana wondered aloud, instantly regretting it.
Winds, Juliana! Think before saying things like that!
“No, not afraid.” Rashan waved away the notion dismissively. “I may be the only one not in danger around here, excepting Illiardra, if she has not yet departed. I am concerned that the commander of all Kadrin’s armies may be more a danger to us than Megrenn at the moment.” Rashan paced back and forth as he spoke, clearly bothered by the prospect.
“If he is really that strong, would that not be a good thing? I mean, it is Brannis, after all. He will catch on quick enough,” Juliana said, trying to sound hopeful. The prospect of Brannis being a sorcerer was … complicated.
Now? she thought. He picks now to finally become a sorcerer? Eight forsaken winters after he gets himself kicked out of the Academy and ruins our betrothal? He has some explaining to do.
“Oh, of that there is no doubt. I intend to see what use he can be, and see to what sort of use we can put him. If he can keep the war running smoothly, though, I will satisfy myself with that,” Rashan said.
“Do they ever? Run smoothly, I mean? Wars.” Juliana stumbled over the question, her mind pulling itself in six direction at once. She was worried about Brannis. She was mad at Brannis. She was still wondering what Rashan had planned for her. She worried that she slept too soundly for her own good. She was trying to carry on an intelligent conversation. She was wondering when Iridan would be getting back, and how she was going to face him after their confrontation.
“None has yet, but I still think this one has a chance.” Rashan smiled, breaking the tension a bit. “Now if you will excuse me, there are a great many noblemen I have to go upset.” The warlock unraveled the shielding spell that had sealed them in the room and seemed about to leave when he paused. “Oh, and I know that Brannis had a hand in making those daggers. Did he happen to give them names?”
“Yes,” Juliana answered. “Their names are Duty and Honor.”
One answer, one comment. Both true.
Noting that she still held the blades in hand, she self-consciously returned them to their hidden sheathes.
“That boy thinks too much,” Rashan commented as he departed, chuckling.
* * * * * * * *
“Fo how’f evfeybody beem?” Iridan slurred to his foster mother across the sturdy oak kitchen table of the house he grew up in. The swelling in his face had gone down, but it would take time to regrow new front teeth. Iridan had taken the wagon ride out to the countryside on the seat next to his father, but his mother had ridden in back, bundled up in blankets to keep warm in the early spring air. They had barely had a chance to talk.
“Well, Dabby’ll be married in the fall; you’ll come out for that, war permittin’, I s’pose?” Ma Korian asked. Iridan nodded in reply; it was easier than talking. “Hadon’s joinin’ the army; says that bein’ your brother got him into the regular army ’stead of them conscripts. They’ll train him up a proper soldier. Meren is takin’ over more’n more ’o the farmin’ now that Pa’s back gives him trouble—drives the oxen and ever’thin’. Ailie is expectin’ sometime in the summer; she lives in Pevett now with that man ’o hers. Writes more often’n you do, though.” She gave Iridan a playful glare.
“Fahwee, Ma,” Iridan apologized, frowning at his own inability to speak.
His father saw his dismay. “Aww, ya still talk better’n Hadon, an’ he’s got all his teeth still. Leastwise ya can grow ’em back. Us reg’lar folk hafta just live ’thout ’em if’n we lose ’em,” Pa Korian reassured Iridan. “Them wood swords ain’t toys.”
Iridan had not the heart to tell them it was Juliana who did it to him. He had blamed an accident in the training yard the morning after the wedding. They had left Kadris before the rumors of what really happened began to seep in amidst the lies Rashan put out. The warlock had wanted to deflect signs of strife in the new marriage.
“We’ll have porridge ’stead o’ stew tonight. No tough bits to gnaw through. Sure’n be easier’n chewin’,” Ma promised.
Would I talk like them, had I not gone off to the Academy? Iridan wondered.
The practice of magic required precise diction, at least until a sorcerer reached the point of casting spells with no diction at all. All the students had proper enunciation beaten into their heads, sometimes literally.
If I had just kept quiet about my magical powers as a boy, could I have just lived out here, met some nice shy local lass, and settled in to raising barley and milking cows? It felt so … right sleeping in my own bed last night.
“Aww wight, Ma,” Iridan managed. “Buh I godda go bag affa dinnew. Twaining tomowwow.”
“So soon? That war-looker ain’t much for recup’ratin’ ya, is he?” Ma scolded Iridan in lieu of having Rashan present to chastise. They had only spoken to the warlock briefly, prior to the ceremony.
“Gomma be a wawlog,” Iridan said.
Yes, Iridan thought to himself with a sigh, a wawlog …
* * * * * * * *
Why am I doing this? Juliana asked herself as she headed for the warlock’s chambers. She did not expect to actually find Rashan within, but that was not the cause of her confliction. She has as much reason to be angry with me as Rashan does but that does not mean she has overlooked it as well. Still, if anyone can get me past that thrice-cursed warlock’s wards, it would be her.
Juliana arrived at the door out of breath. She had not been aware of the haste she had been making in her journey across the palace and up three flights of stairs. She took a moment to compose herself and calm her breath. She attempted to knock on the door, but it opened as her knuckles were about to rap against the wood.
Of course she knew I was out here.
“Come in, child,” a lyrical voice beckoned from within, “and do not worry yourself. I am not half the monster Rashan is and he saw fit to leave you alive.”
It was not the most reassuring greeting she had ever received, but she had certainly heard worse. Juliana stepped into the room with her oathmother. Illiardra sat languidly on the sill of one of the room’s massive windows, a hefty tome open in front of her, floating unsupported save by aether.
“I suppose you must want to know how it happened …” Juliana began, attempting to break the ice before asking favors.
“Not really. The details may remain a mystery, though it is plain as to how it generally befell. He is Rashan’s son much
more so than mine. His timidity and meekness are a result of his upbringing—more that dreadful Academy of yours than the hearty peasant folk we fostered him with—but the rage that lies beneath is his father in nascent form. You are here to ask a favor of me. Do not deny it; I have seen this scene played out a thousand times with different actors and different favors to ask. Speak, and when you are done, I will have a favor to ask in return,” Illiardra spoke, not allowing Juliana a word of her own, despite a few halfhearted tries at interruption.
“I want to see Brannis. I heard there was some sort of accident that opened his Source or something like that. Rashan said he would recover, but I want to see him,” she told the ancient demon who looked so like a young maiden. “Can you get me past Rashan’s wards and back out again without him knowing?”
“Yes,” Illiardra answered softly, smiling as if to herself.
Juliana looked around, confused. “What? That is it? What of the favor you wished in return?”
“It is no hurry and I would have asked it whether or not you needed my help. I will tell you afterward. Come here, child, and take my hand,” Illiardra said.
Juliana regarded the wizened old creature in her nubile, youthful form, with green hair and eyes a bit too large.
She is my oathmother now. If I want to see Brannis, I need her help.
Juliana reached out and took Illiardra’s offered hand. It was cool to the touch, like wood or stone rather than flesh, but smooth as a baby’s skin.
* * * * * * * *
Juliana found herself in another room. There was no sensation of movement. She felt nothing in the aether. She was just suddenly somewhere different, standing with her hand still outstretched to where Illiardra had been just the blink of an eye before. Juliana took quick stock of her surroundings. It was still the distinctive black marble of the palace all around her, and what looked to be a bedchamber. A massive hole was scooped out, exposing the adjacent room and two immediately below those; it was an eerie sight to be sure.