Aethersmith (Book 2)

by J. S. Morin

  “I have him!” Jinzan shouted. He clawed at magic he could not see, hoping to unravel the aether construct that wrapped the Kadrin sorcerer in invisibility. The arm he held onto struggled; he felt a hand on his own, trying to pry loose his grip.

  The invisibility spell gave way against Jinzan’s efforts … and he saw that he was holding onto none other than Rashan Solaran! The vile demonic warlock stopped struggling, and just grinned at him, a look that promised a death at his own leisure. Jinzan let go and stumbled away, preparing to fight for his life.

  Rashan turned and ran, vanishing again as he passed through the doorway.

  Not the real Rashan …

  Jinzan cursed his gullibility. He was about to give chase when he heard Narsicann’s spell chant. The spymaster pushed past him mid spell, reaching the doorway just as he was finishing.

  “… daxgak sevdu wenlu.” Narsicann pointed down the stairs, and forks of lightning flooded the way down. They caught something in their path just before reaching the foot of the stairway, adding a smell of cooked flesh to the heavy ozone scent that they created. Something invisible slumped to the ground, giving off wisps of visible smoke.

  “Nicely done,” Jinzan commented, nodding in appreciation of Narsicann’s work.

  “I am of a mind to let the place finish burning down. If the accomplice is here somewhere as well, he will either try to escape, or burn.”

  Jinzan worked to unravel yet another invisibility spell as they descended the stairs, finding the true visage of the man who might yet know the location of the Staff of Gehlen. Bereft of illusionary protection, Jinzan could see a living Source still within him.

  “You do good work, Narsicann. He still breathes.”

  “He is going to need that breath soon. I am eager to test out this new theory of yours on restraining captive sorcerers.”

  * * * * * * * *

  The wagon bearing Zellisan and Wendell had parted from the caravan shortly after dawn, having spent the night in the group’s protection. As they headed north into the low mountains, the trees to all sides were decked in vibrant red, orange, and yellow. Zellisan had a look on his face that could have been mistaken for homesickness, had he not been a hardened, black-hearted coinblade—his native Acardia looked much the same in autumn as the leaves turned. Wendell was Acardian born as well, but felt little attachment to his birthland, traveling all his life as he had. If the colored foliage held a place in his memories, the sight still would have been lost on him, his eyes remaining unfocused as he looked out into the woods they drove through.

  Wendell had problems, Faolen’s problems, weighing heavily on him. With problems beyond a certain level of severity, most men need to turn to someone for guidance, support … empathy even. But the wagon driver was an elderly Takalish gentlemen who barely spoke Acardian, and Wendell was far from fluent in Takalish. As for Zellisan …

  Wendell sighed, and stared at the scenery, if only because he preferred to keep his eyes open, and they needed somewhere to face. Closing them, he might fall asleep with the gentle rolling of the wagon, and the pleasant, woodsy smell in the air. What he would see in his sleep was something he did not want to witness right about then.

  He had not been able to eat. The first mouthful of jerky he had swallowed still sat disquieted in his stomach, threatening to come back up at any moment. He had not attempted a second bite.

  The wagon driver whistled amiably as the morning wore on, tunes that struck no familiar chord in Wendell’s mind. He tried to follow the melodies, but the driver was no musician, and the tunes were inconsistent. I must set my mind to rights before we arrive, Wendell chided himself. My mission was crucial before but somehow is much more so now. I can make it all an act if I must but I have to prevail.

  Pious Grove Sanctuary sat nestled among the mountains, rather than far up the side of them. The road wound its way gradually up and through the low-lying foothills, and around the smallest of the mountains in the Sali Peaks range. Around one final bend, the woods overhanging the road parted, revealing an old but well-kept compound of stone buildings, the largest of which was four stories tall with gabled rooftops and creeping vines climbing the walls.

  It was at that largest of buildings that their driver stopped the wagon, and let Zellisan and Wendell disembark. People bustled about the compound at various chores and errands, and the driver set off to find someone whose task was to tend to horses, leaving the two foreigners standing before the large double-doors that led inside the heart of the sanctuary.

  One of the staff noticed them waiting outside, uncertain of what to do with the wide-open doors that would have allowed them free access to a facility they were entirely unfamiliar with. The middle-aged man in humble grey attire told them in slow, clear Takalish—the sort that one uses when speaking to someone they think cannot understand a word of what they are saying—to wait, gesturing with palms held outward to make clear his intent. He then scurried off down one of the side corridors.

  Zellisan turned to Wendell, and shrugged. Wendell stared after the man, his heart quickening in his chest. Relax. There will be no troubles here. These folk are healers, not monsters.

  They did not have long to wait before an elderly woman approached them, their initial greeter in tow. She was bone thin with wrinkled ebony skin hanging loosely about her cheeks and arms, but unbent by age. She had no hair at all, sunlight reflecting off her shiny scalp as she emerged into the daylight. Her pale blue eyes were alert and vibrant, making her broad smile seem warm and inviting.

  “Welcome to Pious Grove, travelers. I am Nephanti,” the old woman greeted them in Takalish.

  “I Wendell. This man Zellisan,” Wendell introduced them, his Takalish something he was less than boastful of.

  “I speak Acardian as well, if it would be easier, Mr. Wendell,” Nephanti said, chuckling softly. “Though I give you credit for trying. Many foreigners come here and babble away until they realize that the person they are talking to cannot understand a word of Acardian, or Kheshi, or whatever language they brought here from far away.”

  “Are you the translator, then?” Wendell asked, feeling much more at ease now that he would not be having to perform his act speaking in Takalish.

  “It is one of my many tasks here. Mostly I oversee what everyone else does, though,” Nephanti replied. Realization dawned on Wendell, but Zellisan recovered more quickly.

  “I am sorry, my lady. We did not know,” Zell said, hastily smoothing down his unruly hair.

  “Nonsense, I am no ‘lady.’ I am no more important than any other here, just busier than most. I am too old to spend all day in the gardens or the woods, too weak to tend horses or the adult patients who cannot lift themselves from bed. So I spend days making sure folk remember their tasks, write letters to beg donations from men who have money to spare, and need their conscience cleansed; I help tend to the children when time allows, and I greet guests, whom we receive far too infrequently. You and your friend look in fine health generally, though you might do with some food by the look of you, Mr. Wendell.”

  “Thank you, Sister Nephanti.” Wendell figured that was the best translation of her title into Acardian. “I am sure that having as few visitors as you do, you must be wondering as to the reason for our being here.”

  “I had supposed you would come to it in time. I am a busy woman, but not so busy that I need to badger our guests with questions upon their arrival,” Nephanti responded.

  “Well, professionally, I call myself Wendell the Wizard. I am a traveling magician,” Wendell said.

  “Oh, how delightful!” Nephanti said, her smile broadening. “We have not had an entertainer pass through in years.”

  “I would like to perform for your residents. Also, I find myself in search of a young boy who I believe may be here.”

  “Oh, what boy?” Nephanti asked, eyes narrowing a little, not giving the appearance of suspicion so much as a shrewd curiosity.

  “I do not know yet myself,” Wendell admitt
ed, smiling in what he hoped was a self-deprecating manner. His stomach twisted itself in knots. “But I will know him if I see him.”

  “Some relation of yours, perhaps?”

  “Nothing so straightforward as that. You see, I am advancing in my years, and I begin to realize that I only have so much time left to properly pass along my trade to the next generation. I seek an apprentice,” Wendell stated, painting an earnest grin on his face to distract from his sweating.

  “This seems an unlikely place to find one, but I will not begrudge you looking. We take care of the children as best we can, but learning proper trades is something we struggle to provide. They learn enough to earn their keep, and a few of the staff here grew up as orphans in our care. Most leave when they come of age, to make what they can from what fortune provides. Can you say, though, that yours is a proper trade, sir?”

  “Proper as any that takes on orphan apprentices, I would say. No boy born of unknown parents is likely to be taken on by a barrister or a physician, but I would lay my stake upon mine being as good a life as any baker or cobbler can offer. A boy would have a roof over his head each night, though they may be many different roofs; but that is because he would also get to see the world. A butcher’s boy might know a dozen men as brothers, but I know a thousand as friends. A boy apprenticed to a carpenter will learn to make chairs and tables, but I will show him how to make smiles appear on unfriendly faces.” Wendell had rehearsed what he would say, but none of that came out. He spoke instead from the heart.

  “How will you know the right boy when you see him?” Nephanti asked.

  “Why … using my magic, of course.”

  That afternoon, in a dining hall where the wooden tables and long benches had been pushed aside to leave a floor-level stage, Wendell was allowed to perform his act for the residents of the Pious Grove Sanctuary. It was filled with a bedraggled assemblage of discarded humans, orphans, and the very sickly. They wore homespun clothes that appeared threadbare, but well cared for. Patches were sewn in here and there; all had the look of being washed regularly for many years. Zellisan sat well off to the side, with Nephanti and the staff who could be spared for an afternoon’s diversion. Wendell scanned the crowd, looking for a boy who might be Anzik’s twin. There were too many faces, though, packed too close together. Wendell’s eyesight was not so keen as it had been in his younger years, either.

  Nephanti gave the crowd a brief introduction of the act, sparing Wendell the need to converse in Takalish. His Acardian would have been understood by many, at least; the residents of Pious Grove, unlike the staff, were a diverse bunch. A majority were still native Takalish, understandable since orphans are not the most well-traveled lot, but there were lighter-skinned peoples mixed among them as well. Takalia was renowned for their acceptance of foreigners in their charitable homes, and Pious Grove Sanctuary was among the best-known across the seas.

  Wendell began his act as normal, with simple tricks using coins and cards. He pulled scarves from his sleeves, and had them dance about. He placed his hat on his head, and walked about, leaving the hat hanging in the air until he stopped beneath it once more. The crowd laughed and applauded.

  As the show drew to a close, he performed one last trick, one that he’d had in mind since learning that Anzik Fehr was twinborn. He began his juggling doves trick, a variant of the one he had worked in Marker’s Point. Doves rose and fell like cloth balls as he tossed them about, until they rebelled, and began flying about the room, still returning to his hands occasionally to be launched anew.

  “If you would translate, please,” said Wendell as he turned to Nephanti, who was enchanted with the whimsical display.

  She nodded her agreement.

  “If there is one among you who would like to learn magic, as my apprentice, first catch a dove,” Wendell spoke loud enough for the whole room to hear him. Nephanti echoed his words in Takalish.

  Wendell had used nonsensical magical gibberish amid his spells throughout the show, but he switched to Megrenn, which only one in the audience ought to have been able to understand: “If you are Anzik, you must catch a dove,” Wendell said.

  As if in response to a magical incantation, the doves broke off their pattern of flight. As a flock, they flew across the room just over the heads of the crowd. Boys, girls, men, and women all laughed as they jumped and grabbed, save for a few too sickly to make the attempt. There were jokes and teasing and cries of dismay as everyone failed to grab hold of one; they were mere illusion, and hands passed through them. One bird, however, bigger and slower than the rest, flew lazily over the crowd. It had a bit of substance to it. It was also invisible, but in the aether would stand out from the rest as a brighter bird among the paltry magics that formed the others.

  It was a difficult spell for Wendell. It stretched him to the limits of his magic, but with the stakes as high as they were, he pushed himself to that limit. Wendell waited and watched, directing the invisible bird in a careful circuit of every part of the crowd amid the general chaos of the flapping flock.

  “I got one!” exclaimed a thin, childish voice, speaking Megrenn. Wendell let the rest of the imaginary birds flutter up into the rafters and disappear. The invisible bird turned visible in the hands of a willowy stick of a boy, the very image of Anzik if he would have eaten like a mouse.

  Everyone turned to see the bird nestled in the boy’s hands. His fellows pushed and prodded, herding him to the front of the crowd.

  “What is your name, boy?” Wendell asked in Acardian.

  “His name is Jadon,” Nephanti answered in the boy’s place.

  “Hello, Jadon. Do you know who I am?” Wendell asked.

  Jadon frowned for a moment. Then his eyes lit up, and he nodded vigorously.

  “Would you like to be my apprentice, Jadon?” Wendell asked.

  “Yes,” Jadon replied in Megrenn.

  “Jadon, if you want to be a magician, you are going to have to remember to speak a real language, like Acardian or Takalish, not ones you hear in your head. Can you do that?”

  Jadon looked puzzled, lost. With a moment to gather his thoughts, he replied, “Yes.” This time, he spoke Acardian.

  “How did you do that?” Nephanti asked. “He rarely deigns to speak anything other than gibberish, and we have had experts in many languages try to talk to him.”

  “I was afflicted much the same as a boy,” Wendell said. “I was lost in the musings within my own head. It seemed more real than the world around me. Dreams can be more interesting than being awake, and he chooses to live in the dream world when awake as well as asleep. He knows this world is here, but ignores it. Magic helps, because it brings a sense of wonderment to the real world that can make it seem worth seeing. In time, he will learn to properly separate the real world from his imagined one. My master did the same for me, many long years past. I would like to do the same for Jadon.”

  It was highly irregular, but Nephanti apparently had seen such a change in Jadon that she could not in conscience deny him Wendell’s help. There were forms to sign, and contracts promising that he would take proper care of the boy, but by the evening, Jadon sat in the same wagon that Wendell and Zellisan had ridden in on, prepared to depart for a new life. Wendell sat beside him, handing the boy a spare cloak to use against the evening breeze.

  Zellisan paused just within the entryway. Wendell watched him turn to look back inside the main building. Zell started to take a step, then retracted it. He reached into his coinpurse, and pulled something out. Wendell saw his hand go somewhere out of sight behind the door; he had seen a donation box there when they had entered.

  “Does your conscience feel cleaner?” Wendell asked once Zell had climbed into the wagon.

  “S’pose it does,” Zell said with a grunt, not looking right at him.

  I wish my own felt a bit cleaner.

  Chapter 29 - Ascension

  Steel clanged against stone as Kyrus’s sword bounced to a stop against the wall of his bedchamber, missing
a bookshelf by a mere handsbreadth. He winced at the sound, reflexively bringing his hands—one of them smarting from where the sword was bashed free of his grasp—to cover his ears. Once the noise stopped, he hung his head and went to retrieve it.

  “We have time for another go of it,” Kyrus said, flexing and clenching his fingers to work the sting out of them.

  “Suit yourself. I’ve got nothing to do today but show up to the coronation, and that’s not till sunset,” Tanner retorted, grinning.

  The Veydran incarnation of the Tanner whom Brannis had met in Tellurak was, if possible, a smugger, cockier, less disciplined version than the one who led the free and easy life of a coinblade. He had a slouch about him, not of the hunched and self-conscious type, but rather the casual, relaxed posture of someone who does not feel the need to make any effort in order to excel. He could lean against a wall from the middle of a room.

  “Might have picked a later hour for it,” Varnus called out from Kyrus’s desk chair, which creaked under the bulk of the giant guard captain as he leaned it back on two legs, watching the two men spar. “My stomach’s craving dawn feast, but I couldn’t very well miss this spectacle.”

  Kyrus brought his sword up to guard position, locking gazes with Tanner, or at least attempting to. Tanner’s gaze wandered the room, his sword bared but resting across his shoulder in a loose grip.

  “Whenever you’re ready, boss,” Tanner said, covering a yawn with his off hand.

  Kyrus launched a probing thrust, but Tanner stepped aside and back, well out of reach. A follow-up thrust got Tanner to take the sword off his shoulder and the more expertly wielded blade picked off the attack with contemptuous ease. Three more attempts at attack were met with increasing levels of defense, until the parries themselves were putting Kyrus on the defensive, pulling his blade back to guard himself against a counterattack he knew would come as soon as Tanner grew bored of defense.

  “You could at least make it look like you are trying,” Kyrus complained, feeling the burning in the muscles of his arms that alerted him that his sword was slowing.