Aethersmith (Book 2)

by J. S. Morin

  “Best interests? He has but one true skill, and he is not using it at all. Munne has fallen to Megrenn, and he sat in Kadris bartering favors to get his pick of emperors. In a tenday or less, we will put a crown on some jumped-up bastard of his favorite emperor from the good old days when he razed cities for amusement and enraged all of Koriah—by the winds, half of Veydrus would have declared a holiday had Loramar killed every last one of us.”

  “He worries that if he leaves to go fight the war, like he did in Raynesdark, that the conspiracy will take further control over the Empire. He already thinks those days he spent fighting off the goblin army and dealing with the aftermath cost him support, and allowed dissent to solidify behind his turned back,” Kyrus said. Paranoia was always easier to justify after the fact, once you had rooted out all the secret plots against you. It seemed that Rashan was no fool in that regard.

  “Do not mistake me. I do not call him a fool. A madman, a megalomaniac, a liar, and a usurper I will call him—but not a fool,” Dolvaen replied.

  Kyrus was starting to enjoy the exchange; it was falling into a free-form debate. He was matching wits with one of the best sorcerers in the Kadrin Empire, and it appeared that the stakes were to be: “I see, you have convinced me, sir.”

  I see it now, why I am defending him. I drew the short lot. I started out on Rashan’s side by default, since I owe him my position. If I concede Dolvaen’s points, I concede the argument.

  “Whom has he usurped?” Kyrus asked. If he was to lose in the end, as he now suspected he must, since many of Rashan’s actions were inexcusable, at least he would play out his side of the debate. “There was no emperor at the time. As warlock, he was highest rank in the Empire.”

  “A warlock who abandoned the Empire for a hundred winters. He lost all claim to any position of authority when he left Kadrin to our fate. I admit there was no true emperor, but the Empire had been prospering under our guidance. Magocracy is so much more stable a system than consolidating power in one man chosen by birthright, and possessing no qualification beyond the pedigree of the seed that begot him,” Dolvaen said, having gotten to his feet and begun pacing as he spoke.

  “Tradition?” Kyrus answered meekly in reply.

  “So you have been playing at this, have you? You know as well as I that the Empire would be better off run by the Inner Circle than entrusted to the whim of that ennobled rapscallion Rashan plucked from the dung heap. There is no royal line anymore. If you want tradition, tradition would say that there needs to be a new dynasty. This time, though, that dynasty will be the Imperial Circle.”

  “Why come to me now? Why should I not just tell Rashan? Better yet, why not kill you myself as a traitor?” Kyrus carefully kept his tone neutral, posing the question as a hypothetical, rather than a bald threat.

  “The same reason you can even ask that question today. Had some puffed up knight from a sorcerous bloodline made veiled threats against me like that, they would be finding charred bits of him from here to Zorren. But rumors spread, Brannis. Your little escape from the sorcerer cells in the dungeon and your altercation with the esteemed warlock in the Sanctum yesterday—even the minor cataclysm that accompanied the discovery of your newfound power—all show that you have more power than any of us have seen before,” Dolvaen said solemnly. “It may well come to the point where the future of the Kadrin Empire rests on your conscience. Whether you become a monster like Rashan and take his place, or throw him down and let reason govern the Empire.”

  “Both those scenarios involve me confronting Rashan,” Kyrus observed, pointing out what appeared to be an obvious flaw in Dolvaen’s logic.

  “I suppose the third option ought to be mentioned: he kills you,” Dolvaen added. “You admit he is paranoid. You know he kills when he is uncertain of his course. How long can you expect to work by his side, growing in power each day as you learn to control that monstrous Source of yours?” Dolvaen asked.

  “But …” But Kyrus had nothing to follow that “but.” Kyrus could not disagree with Dolvaen’s logic.

  “I think we have talked too long already,” Dolvaen said. “If anyone noticed your absence, it may seem suspicious. However, one last thing before you leave …”

  * * * * * * * *

  Kyrus spent the remainder of the afternoon working on sketches for new airships, based on an idea he had. Brannis had made good use of the stone folk’s dragon-working techniques to make weapons. He wanted to see if the same principles could be applied to making armored ships. They would look like hideous monstrosities of steel, armored like knights but in the shape of a ship, impossible to float upon water. If he could fold runes into those plates, though …

  It warranted thought—and lots of planning and figuring. The rune structures would be vast, covering not only the surfaces of the airship, but layers beneath those surfaces as well. Old, sea-kissed wood could hold a rune, but nowhere near so well as steel. The new ships would bear wards strong enough to turn aside cannonballs, if he could only find someone with a Source strong enough to ignite a rune structure so large and intricate. Kyrus grinned. About time I saw some use of this Source of mine, beyond playing at Rashan’s tests. There were other uses he could put it to, but he wanted to bury Dolvaen’s warnings deep in his mind. With the shielding spell Dolvaen showed me, I should be safe enough from Rashan, at least while I am vigilant.

  The thought of Rashan reminded Kyrus that he had been invited to the warlock’s offices in the Tower of Contemplation. It was unusual for Rashan to make any sort of social plans, but it had certainly sounded like one when he suggested it. Most often if the warlock wanted Kyrus (or Brannis), he would send word by messenger, and the implication was that the timeframe was “now.”

  All along the walk to the tower, Kyrus wondered what sort of mood he would find the warlock in. Rashan’s moods were as shifting as the Katamic: never quite calm but ranging from “pleasant enough” to “evacuate to higher ground,” often with little notice or time to react.

  The door was open, and waiting for him when he arrived, which in and of itself was unusual for Rashan’s doors. He was the sort who seemed to think that doors ought to be closed when not being actively traversed.

  “Come in, Brannis.” The warlock’s voice sounded a bit different than normal as Kyrus heard him call out as he hesitated briefly outside.

  Kyrus stepped carefully into the office, wondering what was amiss but unable to quite grab hold in his thoughts as to what it was. The chalice in Rashan’s hand gave him a clue.

  “Are you drunk?” Kyrus wondered aloud, arching an eyebrow.

  “A touch, perhaps. Just a touch. Please come in, have a seat.” Rashan motioned to a comfortable-looking chair that had not been there Kyrus when had last seen the office. In fact, Kyrus noted, a fair bit of remodeling had been done, including the repair of the holes through its walls.

  As Kyrus took the offered seat, the door swung shut behind him and the usual wards sprang to life. “I did not think that would be possible for a demon,” Kyrus noted, prodding Rashan for an explanation.

  “Takes more effort, I suppose, letting alcohol take its course upon me, but I needed a bit of respite. Too many things happening, even for me to deal with all at once, I think,” Rashan explained. He seemed more human than he ever had before. “But never mind about that. I think it is about time we got to know one another, not-Brannis.”

  “You … want me to have a drink with you, then?” Kyrus asked.

  Rashan laughed. “Not hardly!” The warlock stood and, going against what he had just said, took up a matching chalice for Kyrus. He picked up a decanter, and poured a white liquid into it.

  “You just said you did not want me to drink with you,” Kyrus protested as the beverage was pressed into his hands with slightly less crispness and efficiency of motion than Rashan was wont to display. Kyrus lifted the chalice to his nose and sniffed.

  “Sweetmilk,” Rashan said, then smiled at him. “Last thing the Tower needs is more holes
in it, am I right?”

  Sweetmilk was a treat given to good children at bedtime. It was warmed goat’s milk sweetened with honey. Kyrus had never tasted it himself, but Brannis had loved it as a boy—as had near to every child in the Empire whose parents could afford to waste honey on bedtime treats.

  “It is delicious,” Kyrus commented upon tasting it. “Thank you.”

  “One of the many pleasures of Veydrus that I thought you might enjoy, Brannis. There was no equivalent in Acardia, last I was there,” the warlock spoke quietly, the first explicit admission Kyrus had heard from him regarding Tellurak.

  “So you were from Acardia, then?” Kyrus asked, wondering how far Rashan would be willing to open up to him.

  “Indeed. Born in Udur, did business out of Golis largely, traveled the world until I got too old for that sort of nonsense. I had a thought for a bit of fun tonight, Brannis. I have come to understand that I will not have you as an underling for very much longer. It is time we became partners in this endeavor. I have found myself thrust unwittingly into the role of being the brains and wisdom behind the Empire; I was always the muscle, so to speak. You … You are the sort whom I could leave behind to run things while I go out to play at war. But … ahead of myself.” Rashan shook his head. “The fun part …”

  “Yes?” Kyrus asked. Rashan might have been drunk, or he might have been faking it, but his words were a far cry from the scenarios that Dolvaen had painted.

  “I would like to get to know you, and I will tell you a bit about myself in return. Where in Acardia is it that you were from?” Rashan asked, smiling mischievously.

  “I was born on a farm outside Scar Harbor a bit. I apprenticed there and inherited my master’s shop. I guess that is as good an answer as I have got,” Kyrus replied, seeing no harm in it.

  Rashan set his chalice down on the desk and stood, walking carefully to the middle of the office.

  “Huaxti janidu deldore wanetexu elu mulaftu sekedori puc’anzu margek lotok junubi,” the warlock said as he painted the air with his fingers. Brannis had once seen Rashan work a spell out loud to show him how it was done. This time, a pair of illusory, ghostly hands remained in the air where Rashan had held them when he began the spell. From each finger, a colored line trailed in the wake of Rashan’s own fingers as he motioned through the spell. When he finished, a tangle of lines floated in the air.

  Off to the side of the room, a scene appeared in the air. Kyrus saw cobblestone streets and horse-carriages. He recognized the Society of Learned Men and the courthouse where his trial had been held. The view flowed, as if they were viewing the scene through a lens, and Kyrus saw houses and shops with unfamiliar signs outside, though he noticed that Dremmer's Pub was still there in Rashan’s memory. The scene meandered about the city for a time, with Kyrus lost in a sense of wonder that he had thought simple magic had ceased to be capable of for him.

  “Your turn,” Rashan spoke softly from behind Kyrus, snapping him from his reverie as the illusion faded. The glowing diagram of the spell hung in the air, awaiting him. “Do you remember the words?”

  Kyrus shook his head, and the runes spelling it out appeared in the air just above the snarl of colors he would have to trace. It took him five tries, but Kyrus finally managed the spell for himself. He laid out a vista of his own for Rashan, showing the view of Scar Harbor as he remembered it. He pointed out his shop, Greuder’s Pastries, the Brown Elk Tavern, and a dozen other places, including the wharf he had burned down.

  The two stayed up into the late hours trading scenes from their memories. Kyrus showed Marker’s Point and Denku Appa to Rashan. He even managed to work in a bit from the mines of Raynesdark as best he could from Brannis’s memories. In return, Rashan showed him the Battle of the Dead Earth, attending the birth of Liead the Only, and the draw where he had killed his grandfather.

  “I am sorry about yesterday,” Kyrus apologized, feeling like he had taken undue satisfaction in his injuring of Rashan.

  “It was my own fault underestimating you. Although, technically that was cheating,” Rashan commented.

  “How do you mean? I just hurled fire, like you told me to,” Kyrus responded, confused.

  “Well, that is why I take much of the blame. What you threw at me was not fire but dragonfire,” Rashan explained. Kyrus’s eyes widened. “Hurled fire mixed with raw aether. You expelled it faster than it could ignite. I have no idea how you managed it without the physiology to back it up, but it was the same stuff dragons breathe. I could have wound up just like my grandfather: killed in a thoughtless, youthful show of power.

  “Worthless, stupid kid, I was,” Rashan said. “My grandfather was not a good man but he was not so bad as to deserve an end like that, either. Had I been unlucky in emperors, I might have been killed that day for what I had done. Instead …” He gestured to himself as if to say “Everything else happened.”

  “I did not expect regrets from you, of all people,” Kyrus mused, smiling companionably at the warlock.

  “Regrets? I can show you regrets.” The warlock chuckled without mirth. An image appeared in the air between them, a vision of loveliness with honey-blonde ringlets and soft brown eyes. She might have been eighteen summers—or years, depending which world she was from—old.

  “She is very pretty. Who was she?” Kyrus asked, assuming that as a regret, she probably qualified for the past tense.

  “A girl I loved, a long time ago. The first one where I could finally tell the difference between love and simple lust. Everything seems like love until you really, truly find it; after that, you can see all your other silly dalliances for what they were.”

  “What became of her?” Kyrus asked.

  “Age. Eventually it gets them all.” Rashan sighed. “How about you? Did you have a girl back in Scar Harbor, before you got swept up in your little adventure?”

  Kyrus just smiled in reply, and began his own illusion. As it took shape, he was pleased that he could still recall Abbiley’s face clearly enough to paint it for Rashan. He had worried that the time they spent apart would have dulled his memory, left it somehow less vivid.

  Rashan smiled, and nodded sagely. The warlock then took another pull on the decanter, having abandoned the pretense of using a chalice some time ago. “What was her name?”

  “Well, I have no reason to believe she is anything other than still ‘is,’ but her name is Abbiley,” Kyrus stated, but he was surprised to see Rashan perk up.

  “What was that you said?” the warlock asked, still clearly inebriated.

  “Abbiley. That is the girl’s name. Why do you ask?” Kyrus inquired, wondering what possibly could have prompted such a reaction.

  “Try mentioning that name to Celia sometime.” Rashan chuckled. “But you cannot tell her I was the one to mention it.”

  As Kyrus walked back to his room shortly afterward, he could barely keep his eyelids up. Sweetmilk was wonderful at helping children sleep. In larger quantities, it worked as well on adults. I have to remember to ask Celia in the morning, Kyrus thought, fighting to keep the task in his head as his thoughts became heavy. Of course, if Juliana is in my room waiting when I get there, I give it a coin flip at best that I do not recall it.

  * * * * * * * *

  Iridan stood at the prow of the ship, wind whipping past them at a rate that was alarming most of the crew. The sails were stretched taut, and the captain had been forced to ask him to ease his wind spell lest he tear the ship apart.

  I will never be a real warlock practicing with wooden swords in the palace courtyard or contesting draw after draw with old men. I will go out and make myself a warlock … or die. The thought sobered him some, acknowledging the very real possibility that his rash action would lead to an early death. There would be no Brannis to look after him, no Faolen to hide him, no Rashan to train him. He would be on his own.

  The realization that not only was Brannis now a sorcerer, but stronger than him by leaps and bounds galled him. Brannis had been his friend
since they were boys, but he had grown up in Brannis’s shadow. Brannis had been taller, stronger, more popular, from a better family (or so he had believed at the time). When Iridan came into his own magically, he had found some measure of equality with Brannis, a way he could be the strong one, the important one.

  If I do not act soon, Brannis will take my place. Rashan is already acting as if Brannis will become a warlock as well, even though he showed all the finesse and skill of an ogre with a needle and thread.

  “We are coming upon Munne soon, Warlock Iridan,” the captain informed him, shouting above the wind. “What are your orders?” The man might not have liked his orders, but Iridan at least appreciated that they were followed.

  He had begun to forget that he outranked nearly everyone, having his company predominated by Rashan and Juliana. She at least ought to have obeyed his orders, but feeling along his newly grown teeth with his tongue reminded him of the reality of that dynamic. I would pay dearly for Brannis to teach me whatever trick he uses to keep her in check, he thought sourly. Perhaps motherhood will temper her disposition. Iridan had thought to see about getting her with child before he departed, but he found himself acting out of anger at Brannis instead. Brannis might have had everything he ever wanted, but Iridan still had Juliana.

  “Go higher, well above the clouds. I do not want a repeat of what happened to the Thunderstorm, Captain,” Iridan ordered. He reached behind him, to the hilt of Dragon’s Whisper, sheathed at his back. It should have given him comfort, a wedding gift from his best friend, but he could not find it. You can just do everything now, can’t you, Brannis? The blade had been given the name “Sleeping Dragon” when he received it, but Iridan thought it might have been a subtle jab at his as-yet untapped depths of skill as a warlock. He had chosen the new name by the quiet swishing it made as it sliced through air … or wood, stone, or steel.

  The crew were puzzled by Warlock Iridan’s order, but obeyed. The ship’s assigned sorcerer, whom Iridan was unfamiliar with, and whose name he had not bothered to ask, guided the ship higher as they neared the city. The cold night air grew frigid, and breath came shorter as the air thinned in the higher altitude, but Iridan was not concerned. It will only be for a little while.