by J. S. Morin
Juliana stirred a bit, stretching and arching her back, working the sleep out of her muscles. Her eyes opened sleepily, drawing a smile from Kyrus, which she matched. She planted a kiss on his chest, then another, working her way up to his lips one kiss at a time. She wrapped her arms around him. When she rolled over, Kyrus found himself pulled atop her. He was helpless to resist.
I can stop this any time I want to, he told himself.
He could not want to.
* * * * * * * *
Rashan paced the hall, fuming. No Iridan. No Juliana. No Brannis. Iridan’s absence at morning practice had been his first annoyance. The boy had been furious at Brannis after being released from the sorcerer cells in the dungeon. Hearing that Juliana had managed all of her escape save for leaving the cell had stung. Seeing the blatant destruction Brannis had wrought upon the cells and surrounding dungeon had both awed and shamed him. He knew that Brannis had thrown their draw. How could he have not, if he was capable of outdrawing the wards in those cells?
It had taken all his persuasion to keep Iridan from running off to confront Brannis about his deception. Once word got around Kadris of Brannis’s feat of power in the dungeons, everyone else would know that Iridan had won their draw by sheer force of pity. Eventually Juliana had promised to see to calming him and they had retired to their chambers. I hope she did not kill him and dump his body in the sea, Rashan mused darkly. Iridan had warded their door too well for him to spy on them within. That same ward made him think that Iridan must have released it to leave; Juliana was strong, to be sure, but not to the point of breaking Iridan’s wards—Unless perhaps she used that dagger again to destroy them physically, Rashan muttered in his head.
Rashan waited. He stared at the door to Brannis’s chambers, impatient but preferring to wait, and see who emerged—and in what state—rather than barge in and betray his presence (or worse, attempt to barge in and fail).
Worry crept into the warlock’s thoughts, winning a long battle of attrition against his anger and annoyance. What if something has gone terribly wrong in there? Could Iridan and Brannis’s imposter have dueled within? Did Brannis try to enact his escape with another attempt at a transference spell? The explanations seemed implausible. Iridan was angry with Brannis, but should have held no illusions about trying to fight him. Had Brannis tried to get back to Tellurak, Rashan would have felt even a failed attempt reverberating in the aether.
Rashan waited. Paranoia crept into his mind once more. This could be a trap, a ruse, a diversion. What if the wards were sealed from the outside? What if no one has seen them by some other coincidence or trick, and the room was left for me to puzzle over while they hatched some plan or other?
Stop it, the warlock ordered himself. This is the path to madness! Rashan stalked down to one of the disused sitting rooms on the floor, and procured for himself an easy chair. Setting it up just outside Brannis’s door, he flopped down into it to wait out whoever might be inside.
“Warlock Rashan!” a call came from the far end of the corridor. A thin stick of a young man in a messenger’s uniform approached him, handing him a rolled sheet of parchment tied with a ribbon. Had it been a matter of true import or secrecy, it would have been sealed with wax or in a case. Rashan was bored, though, and welcomed whatever mild diversion the missive would supply.
Airships 5 and 6 are confirmed functional. All runes tested. New designations: Starflower, Eagle Wing. Flying crews have been assigned. Awaiting orders and supplemental personnel.
Sorcerer Uthgern Fernwall, Fourth Circle
Rashan read it over thrice, brief as it was, before it hit him. “Where is the fourth airship? Why is it not mentioned?”
“Your pardon, Warlock, but the Aether Hammer set sail—if that is the term—this morning, first light,” the messenger replied stiffly, uncomfortable with the warlock’s attention fixed on him. Little did the lad know that Rashan would as soon harm him as smash a dish because he disliked a meal; it would have been a childish response, mindless destruction perpetrated on one undeserving of blame.
“By whose order?” Rashan asked. He had guesses, but wished to hear confirmation.
“I was not told, Warlock,” the messenger replied, cringing but not backing away.
I really, really must do something about this reputation of mine.
“Understood. Carry on,” Rashan said, then dismissed the relieved young man.
There is at least one answer I will be pleased with, one I will care little for, and one that someone just may have to die for.
* * * * * * * *
Later, too much later by Rashan’s reckoning, the wards relaxed and the door peeked open. Before it could slam shut again, Rashan thrust it open with his magic.
“Well, oathdaughter, how good of you to freshen up before rejoining the day. I hope the marshal of all Kadrin’s armies has not kept you from any important business this morning.” Rashan’s words dripped venom as he strode into Brannis’s chambers. He saw the fresh-scrubbed skin, and smelled the masculine scent of the bath salts the palace staff kept stocked in the rooms of the male residents.
“Not at all, but it seems we kept the Imperial Regent from his charge of running the Empire,” Kyrus butted in, protecting Juliana from the warlock’s direct attention. He was still straightening his tunic, and buckling on his sword belt, decorative though he considered the weapon.
“Oh, you had best have a good explanation for this, Brannis,” Rashan growled. “I spent half the morning awaiting your presence.”
“Sounds like something you could have delegated. I had no appointment this morning. You like direct answers, despite rarely being one to give them. You want my explanation, there she is.” Kyrus pointed to Juliana. “Simplest explanation works the best at times. Perhaps you saw the little note I made in your book?”
Juliana looked puzzled, not aware of Kyrus’s petty vandalism.
“What have you done with Iridan?” Rashan glared at one, then the other of them.
“He is your problem each morning,” Juliana put in. “I have him at night, and the rest of the day is his to do with as he pleases. He was gone when I woke this morning, so I had assumed he was at practice.”
Rashan took pause a moment. “One of the new airships is missing, the Aether Hammer. What do you know of this?”
“It was expected to be ready at any time. I did not order it away. The Aether Hammer, Starflower, and Eagle Wing were going to be ordered to perform reconnaissance around Munne to check for Megrenn’s next move,” Kyrus replied, more curious now than irritated at the warlock’s rude entrance. Somehow, after the prior day’s encounter, he could not bring himself to feel quite the same note of unease in Rashan’s presence.
“My suspicion, naturally, is that Iridan is aboard. What was his demeanor when last you saw him?” the warlock asked, forgetting to make clear to whom he spoke.
“A bit nervous. You were about to throw him in a cell,” Kyrus answered innocently, not willing, in some obstinate portion of his mind, to realize that Juliana ought to have seen him much later than that.
“Exhausted,” Juliana answered. “I think he took his anger, and found that fine line between being afraid of me, and trying to …” she trailed off. She did not turn to look at Kyrus, her eyes losing their focus aimed off somewhere roughly in the direction of Rashan. She did not blush often but must have realized she was turning red.
“I find myself realizing that I have no idea what you do to occupy your days,” Rashan commented, sparing her the awkward silence she had dropped in their midst. “Whatever is it, go off and see to it.”
Juliana did not have to be told twice. She left quickly, not looking back at either of them.
They waited in silence for a moment after she left. With a slight gesture, Rashan pulled the door closed. “It is you she should be ashamed of, not Iridan,” Rashan commented mildly. Kyrus could not tell if it was accusation, wistfulness, or resignation; perhaps it was a combination of the three.
&
nbsp; “Well, I mean, that is to say, he is her husband now, after all,” Kyrus said. “Certain things … were bound to happen, I suppose. I had not really, I mean I did not—”
“Shut up,” Rashan interrupted. Kyrus ceased his babbling. “I cannot abide idiocy, and I know you are better than this. If you have something to say for yourself, then say it.”
“She was always supposed to be mine,” Kyrus said calmly, collecting himself.
“Your betrothal was terminated. She was promised to Iridan and wed. It is too late to change that now,” Rashan replied, as if lecturing.
“Wrongly. She was meant to be mine! You waited and waited for Brannis to turn out to be some great sorcerer, for his promised talent to manifest itself. You were waiting for him to turn into me! I am here now, and your impatience has taken her from me. It was never supposed to have been Brannis; it was supposed to be me. I do not know what merit Gravis Archon’s prediction may have had, but I was there, lost in the wrong world. I was dragon-walking among the tortoises, never seeing my own reflection to tell the difference between me and them. I belonged here. I belong with her.” Kyrus was out of breath at the end of his rant, and could feel a bit of aether built up inside him; he had not even realized he was drawing it.
“But you were not here. We—I had no way of knowing you would come. There is a war to be fought, an emperor to crown, an empire to put to rights. I had no time to waste. Iridan needs to be fighting to truly be a warlock. Unprepared as he is, he must leave the nest, and I must throw him out if needs be; though it looks as if he had taken that step on his own. If there is to be a wedding, there needs to be an heir. If a warlock goes off to war, there is some urgency involved in begetting that heir. If you must feel anger, direct it my way; I am used to unjust anger. Neither of them has done anything wrong in this, excepting what you and Juliana have just done. See that this was a one-time occurrence, and pray that her first child is not tall as a tree with brown hair,” Rashan warned. “Then we can put this behind us, and continue our machinations. I still have great plans for you, Brannis.”
“Shador is my size and coloring,” Kyrus muttered under his breath, knowing full well that Rashan would hear him. He got no response save for a warning glare.
“Come by my office tonight. I have much to attend to this day, and no further time for nonsense.” Rashan turned and left the room, with Kyrus unable to think of a pithy reply to send him off with.
“You would not think it was nonsense if she was yours.” Yes, that would have done nicely, just a moment ago, Kyrus thought in the direction of the closed door.
* * * * * * * *
Kyrus had taken a few meetings with his generals, read some reports and written others. He had given new orders to the garrisons defending the border cities of Dolok, Sharefield, Weiselton, and Thinbrooke, in the event that one of them was the next target of the Megrenn main host. He had taken a few more books from the Tower of Contemplation libraries to read in the evening. He had considered seeking out Juliana to smooth things over with her—he was not upset with her at all—but thought better of it. Brannis and Soria can talk it over in the morning, he reasoned.
Atop his mount, Kyrus was on his way to see about the preparations on the two remaining airships that had not yet left the harbor, when he was approached by a messenger. Unlike most of the messengers he received, this one was neither one of his own men from the army, nor part of the palace staff. He wore green and blue, chased in gold trim; it was not garb he recognized, to his chagrin. I ought to know every one of the houses in the Empire, both noble and sorcerous. Brannis did not devote enough effort to studying such things. I should try to do better.
“Marshal Brannis.” The man reined his horse to a stop just to the side of Kyrus’s path. “A moment, if you would.”
Kyrus took hold of his own horse’s reins, and pulled up gently. Cursed thing, he swore to himself when the animal did not slow as quickly as he had wished. Brannis had a much better feel for these beasts. My thighs will ache from merely riding across town—worse should I have to stop suddenly again.
“Yes, who are you?” Kyrus demanded, setting the man aback.
Ooh, I guess should have recognized the livery, he chided himself.
“Klarmont Dryrock, sir, of House Lurien,” the man informed him formally. “Sorcerer Dolvaen would like to meet with you.”
Kyrus was more intrigued than worried by the offer. Sorcerer Dolvaen had been nothing but polite to Brannis, and Kyrus had noticed no difference when he met the man himself for the first time—as Kyrus, that is.
The sorcerer kept a modest estate in Kadris. His was only called a “House” at all because of his personal standing. His own blood descendants were not fit for Rashan’s little book of matchmaking for the Imperial Circle; it took at least four generations telling true with sorcerous blood to gain that privilege. Dolvaen had grandchildren at the Imperial Academy, but it would be their children who would win the distinction for “House” Lurien.
The estate itself was tidy and well cared for. The sorcerer had great wealth of his own, by virtue of his standing in the Inner Circle, sufficient to maintain the thirty or so rooms Kyrus judged it to have by the look it presented to the street. Kyrus—or rather Brannis—had only met the sorcerer’s wife in passing. She had taken on his name upon their marriage, and he could not recall what it had been before; certainly it was some lower family. Chaura Lurien had always seemed pleasant enough, though, and did nothing to dispel that impression when she greeted Kyrus at the door. She looked older than the sorcerer, though he suspected that it was just a lesser talent for life extension that he was noticing. She had the look of a woman in her late fifties, with hair gone nearly all to grey and a light ashen tone to her skin. She seemed to make no attempt to disguise her age, unless she was using some trick Kyrus could not see in his split aether-light vision.
“Marshal Brannis. Thank you for taking this meeting on such short notice. Please, do come in.” She ushered Kyrus through the white marble archway and through the foyer. They climbed the open stair to the mezzanine level, where she brought him to a double door. “My husband is waiting for you inside. I will send one of the servants along in a bit with some refreshments.”
“Thank you,” Kyrus replied. He had considered asking what the meeting was about, but then thought better of it. Had Dolvaen wanted him to know from someone else, he would have left an order to that effect.
Kyrus briefly studied the wards on the doors. They were as well crafted as any he had seen in Kadrin, which admittedly was a small sampling, since Brannis had largely seen them as background decoration, and not taken much note of them. He could not see inside, which was a good sign, since everyone seemed rather taken with all his raw magical talents; he had no reason to guess his aether-vision was less than superlative.
“Come in, Brannis. Do not just stand there gawking at my wards,” came a voice from within. Kyrus smiled sheepishly, and pulled at the door handle, which obliged him.
The study was large but looked functional. While many wealthy men kept studies for entertaining or show as much as real work, Dolvaen’s was ill kept and cluttered. A panoramic vista of the estate’s back garden was obscured by a chalkboard on a wooden stand, a cloak rack, and bookshelf that looked to be a late addition to the room’s design. The desk behind which Dolvaen sat was strewn with papers and books inter-stacked with each other. Piles of books cluttered nearly every surface of the room, from the little tables that were meant to display decorative artwork or sculptures, or merely set a drink upon, to all the chairs and the low chaise. As Kyrus took in the scene, the stack that rested on one chair nearest the desk rose, and cleared a spot for Kyrus to seat himself.
“Have a seat, my boy. There is much to discuss and little enough time,” Dolvaen began crisply, his manner suggestive of a freight master trying to get a ship loaded before the tide went against him. Kyrus took the offered seat.
“What is this about? You do not normally have me here for mee
tings.” Kyrus left the implied question hanging in the air beyond the actual one.
“Frankness it is, then. Firstly, if anyone asks, I wanted to personally report that Iridan stole—no, make that commandeered, since I suppose he was within his rights—the Aether Hammer shortly before dawn this morning. The ship’s assigned sorcerer, Jaines Hiessens, remained aboard, as did the crew that had already been picked for it.” Kyrus noted that Dolvaen did not refer to ships as female, like so many of the nautical sorts were wont to. “We do not know the destination or intent of Sorcerer Iridan, nor, as near as I can gather, was he acting under any authority but his own.”
“I can vouch for the latter. Neither I nor Warlock Rashan gave any such order. The warlock was rather put out this morning in looking for Iridan, in fact,” Kyrus said.
“I never doubted such. That is just the story that you must remember should anyone ask you later what we discussed. I wished to speak to you personally—and privately—due to the sensitive nature of who was involved. Understood?” Dolvaen asked. He seemed to be in a great hurry for something.
“Thus far, yes. What is it that we will really be discussing, then?”
“Rashan Solaran’s regency of the Empire,” Dolvaen stated.
Kyrus’s blood ran cold.
Rashan knows he has enemies within the Empire working against him. Dolvaen must be one of them. No … if he is involved, he must be leading them.
“To what end?” Kyrus asked in a forced monotone.
“Brannis, you see him as much as anyone. You know he is unstable. Can you deny it?” Dolvaen asked, staring down Kyrus in what appeared to be an attempt to force an affirmative.
“Volatile, perhaps, but predictable. He consistently works for the best interest of the Empire.” Kyrus found himself defending Rashan, even though he questioned the warlock’s actions constantly. He could not understand why he did so reflexively.