by J. S. Morin
“Faolen. Faolen Sarmon, Fourth Circle, personal agent of Warlock Rashan Solaran. We crossed draws briefly at Raynesdark, though you did not know it at the time. That is sort of my specialty, or was until you carved runes into me like that staff you want back so badly.” Faolen picked up the bowl of stew, seeming surprised to find a wooden spoon in it. He began eating, poking at the steaming food before he took a bite.
“What deal do you propose then, Faolen Sarmon?”
“My life for the Staff of Gehlen.”
“I thought you did not know where it was,” Jinzan retorted, having caught Faolen in a lie.
“I do not. I have access to Anzik’s twin, though. I can get messages through to Anzik. I can get you back both your son and the staff,” Faolen replied.
“Were you not tasked with finding and retrieving the staff yourself?” Jinzan asked. “Would that not be a betrayal of your mission?”
“I would buy my own life with it, if I could. Had I not been caught, I would most certainly have taken the staff back. But I have my priorities.”
“What of the other boy? If I find the staff on my own, what becomes of him?”
“I plan no harm to that boy in either case. He is to be my apprentice. Of course, I could not say what might happen if I were to die here, or go mad. But I intend no harm.”
“Very well, have Anzik bring me the staff, and you may have your life, Kadrin traitor.”
* * * * * * * *
Rashan was gone. The Ironspar had borne him aloft with a crew of sailors from the navy and the ship’s sea captain. Kyrus gave even odds of anyone besides the warlock surviving the trials he was sure to put them all through.
With the warlock gone, Kyrus was in charge of the top-level affairs of the Empire. Or rather, Brannis was in charge of those, and Kyrus was tasked with being Brannis. It was getting more complicated the more he thought about it. Without a complete picture of the state of the Empire, he took Rashan’s final bit of advice, and sought out Brannis’s uncle Caladris.
The Tower of Contemplation seemed deserted compared with the energy abounding in the days leading up to the coronation. Kyrus passed several junior sorcerers along the stairs, the sort who got their assignments and carried them out; no one who had a choice seemed to be about. The murders. The Circle are more in tune to the politics of those killings than I had realized. He exchanged perfunctory greetings with a few who recognized him, but the acquaintances were not mutual.
As he neared the top of the tower, he could hear voices. It sounded as if the Inner Circle were having a heated debate. It seemed like meeting with Caladris separately would have to wait. As he summited the mountainous stairway, he gave a salutatory nod to the two guards flanking the entrance, their trident-like weapons held at the ready. The guards returned the nod of the army’s commander, though their own chain of command ran parallel to his, up through to the Inner Circle. Kyrus stood, and contented himself to wait out of the session, ready to take Caladris aside immediately afterward.
The conversation within involved too many people talking over one another for him to make out more than occasional words. All at once, it broke off.
“What ho! Sir Brannis, that Source of yours gives you away. Get in here!” he heard Caladris’s voice bellow from within the Sanctum.
One of the guards held out an arm in the direction of the Inner Circle’s meeting chamber, formally showing Kyrus the way. Kyrus met the man’s amused expression with a wry smile of his own. Done in by my own Source. I wonder which of them keeps an eye to the aether to have noticed me.
Kyrus walked the few paces to the stairs that led up into the supplicants’ floor of the Sanctum, the center of the Imperial Circle’s power. He had been there before, but the last time he had attended a full (or as full as available sorcerers allowed) session, Gravis Archon had been High Sorcerer. The seating arrangements had moved since then, placing Caladris to one side of the vacant High Sorcerer’s seat, and Dolvaen to the other.
“Brannis, my boy, come in, come in,” Caladris beckoned.
Kyrus entered the chamber, and stood near to the center. It was far less intimidating than it had once been. With his aether-vision, he could see the sorcerers behind him, taking away from the feeling of being surrounded. He could also tell who were the powers among the Inner Circle, and he knew them much better than he had his last time before them all.
“We were just discussing you, Sir Brannis,” Fenris added. The old man to Dolvaen’s other side had a shrewd look to him that morning.
“What about? I take it that you have received Emperor Sommick’s proclamation, then?” Kyrus ventured a guess. There was little else about him worth discussing, at least in an open council section.
“Yes, indeed. Are we to believe this document is legitimate?” Dolvaen asked, cutting to the quick. “I find it hard to believe the emperor would hand control of the Empire to you so shortly after having gained it back from Rashan.”
“The emperor was under no compulsion. He read the proclamation over prior to signing it, and I witnessed the signing myself. My own signature below his is also authentic,” Kyrus replied.
I ought to have expected them to raise a fuss over this.
“What threat did Warlock Rashan use to obtain this signature?” Fenris asked. “I do not doubt that it was the emperor’s hand, but I wonder at his motivation for doing so.”
“Warlock Rashan is quite persuasive. He made the emperor see reason behind appointing another to take on the daily duties of administering the Empire. The emperor still has ultimate authority, but he chooses not to be bothered by the intricacies of rulership. He will drink, and feast, and go about selecting an empress. He strikes me as well qualified for all three tasks.”
“You are an admirable wordsmith, Sir Brannis, but you well admit that Rashan convinced him to leave you in charge of the Empire,” Dolvaen said. “I would propose that you cede that authority to the Inner Circle. It is well established that we have kept the Empire operating smoothly for longer than anyone had realized until a season ago. In light of the likely coercion at hand, it would be prudent to know that the Empire is in experienced hands.”
“As acting High Sorcerer, that would leave the Empire in yours, presumably?” Kyrus asked, directing his question solely at Dolvaen.
“In the Inner Circle’s hands, yes. I merely lead them. Warlock Rashan hinted that he might forgo the title of High Sorcerer, which would leave me in that position.”
“I thought that Rashan disliked using seniority as the means to promotion,” Kyrus replied innocently. He knew the ages of the Inner Circle members well enough to know better.
“Indeed he had made clear as much,” Dolvaen replied. “But as much as you may credit my life extension both Fenris and Caladris are my elders. I suppose I ought to take it as complimentary, though. But no, I am in line for High Sorcerer because of my strength of magic.”
“Ahh, I see. Well, I think I have a solution that would satisfy both sides. We can allow the emperor’s edict to stand, yet still allow the Inner Circle to retain charge of Kadrin affairs,” Kyrus said, trying to keep a smirk from his features.
“You would write an edict of your own, further ceding power down to us?” Dolvaen asked.
“No.”
“No?”
“Dolvaen Lurien, I challenge you to a draw, for the position of High Sorcerer, or acting High Sorcerer … whatever post it is you hold. That will settle both issues to my satisfaction,” Kyrus proclaimed.
So much for keeping out of politics. I suppose that document precluded that, though.
There was a stunned silence in the chamber.
“Brannis, what are you doing? You lost to Iridan,” Aloisha broke the silence first.
“Anyone who did not see that he threw that match was not paying attention,” Caladris shot back.
Fenris nodded his agreement with the sentiment.
“I am not Iridan, either,” Dolvaen said softly.
Caladris tried from
Dolvaen’s peripheral vision to signal him to back down. Eye movements, head shaking, hand gestures, all failed to draw Dolvaen’s attention from his would-be challenger.
“Dammit, man, snap out of it,” Caladris relented, breaking with decorum. “I know you worked your way to the top with no help from a blooded house. Admirable. Do not let pride get in the way of sense. Look at that Source. It is not a matter of training or technique or trying hard—”
“It was a challenge. If I would still call myself High Sorcerer, I have to accept. That is how it was meant to be, sorcerers ruling sorcerers by acknowledgement of might.”
“I could withdraw the challenge, formally, if you agree to abide Emperor Sommick’s decree,” Kyrus offered. “I came here to seek counsel from my uncle, not to take control of the Imperial Circle. Carry on as you had, and you will have no quarrel with me.”
“You would rethink your challenge, then?” Dolvaen caught hold of the thread he was offered, gave it a tug.
“My apologies, Sorcerer Dolvaen. I had meant the challenge as a figure of speech, a debate tactic, if you will. I regret if I led anyone to believe otherwise,” Kyrus conceded.
“Well, you posed your point eloquently. I see no reason why we should contest the emperor’s transfer of authority to Sir Brannis,” Dolvaen stated. He eyed Kyrus dangerously, but no hint of that crept into his voice.
“If, as I have surmised, this session was called for the primary purpose of discussing Emperor Sommick’s dispensation of authority, would that mean that this meeting might now be adjourned? I do have business to discuss with my uncle.”
* * * * * * * *
“Brannis, my boy, you have a knack for twisting words. I am glad to have you free of so much time in the warlock’s company. You are honing that craft against a master of it,” Caladris joked. They had adjourned to Caladris Solaran’s office just beneath the Sanctum.
“He was like that before, near as I have gathered,” Celia Mistfield commented. They had found her waiting there for her superior’s return. She was busily making copies of the edict to distribute to the far-flung cities of the Empire. “After he got his Source freed up, though, he has been more bold about whose words he is willing to twist. Trust me, he twisted mine often enough when he was just a knight who had been promoted above his station.”
“I prevented the subversion of Emperor Sommick’s orders, and averted an embarrassing draw with Dolvaen Lurien. What is wrong with that?” Kyrus asked.
“Nothing on the surface of it. It is when those words twist a way I do not like. That is what I worry about: not being able to twist them back in my favor,” Caladris replied, slumping down into his padded, high-backed chair. He tipped it back until it leaned against a bookcase. “What had you needed to speak to me about?”
“Well, for all that bluster in the Sanctum, I was left holding the reins of an empire with no idea how to ride one,” Kyrus stated.
“You could always just do as Rashan does: put me in charge of anything you do not wish to deal with. He has already given me purview over his pet thieves and all the night-stabbing activities—which used to be more of a figurative term,” Caladris said. He reached for a drawer that was just within arm’s reach of his reclined position. He pulled out a pipe and a box, from which he took a pinch of crushed darweed. He stuffed the bowl of the pipe with the foul-scented herb, and set it alight, puffing to create little gouts of smoke.
“What do I do about the murders?” Kyrus asked. “Can Dolvaen be trusted to follow through on an investigation?”
“Why would he not be?” Celia asked.
Kyrus looked in her direction as she spoke, then quickly turned his attention back to Caladris.
“Brannis, you can drive yourself mad with such things. If you like, leave dealing with the murders and Dolvaen’s investigation to me. You were already seeing to the army, now add the nobles and court matters to that, and consider yourself sufficiently burdened. It would take me half a season to get you caught up on all the conspiracies of every make and size that are going on among the Circle. It was Rashan’s style to deal with every detail, but he is a demon. You need sleep. Learn to lean on folk whom you can trust.”
“Can I trust you?” Kyrus asked.
“Brannis!” Celia chided, her tone indignant.
“It is all right, my dear. Brannis is showing wisdom, if not tact. We ward these rooms so that frank conversations are possible. I know that there are sides being drawn up. I have been drawing up one side of them. Warlock Rashan had little time to align supporters in his favor. I did all that work on his behalf. If you would align yourself with Rashan, you align yourself with me. Thus far, both sides have seen you as a wild card, Brannis. You think too independently to be thought of in Rashan’s coinpurse, despite all that you owe him. I do not find that a fault; I feel confident you will see which side is right, not just follow along blindly.”
“I should still be made aware of these conspiracies, even if I allow you to manage them,” Kyrus said.
“Fair enough. Celia, if you would be so good, take a few evenings and give Brannis an understanding of what goes on when you peel back the layers of this rotten onion of an empire.”
“Of course, Caladris,” Celia said, perhaps a bit too eagerly.
Kyrus kept himself from objecting. He felt like he ought to, but really did not wish to. It was the opportunity he had arranged for himself, after all.
“Now you have other duties to attend,” Caladris said to Celia. “Be about them, my dear, and leave Brannis and me to discuss some family matters.”
Celia straightened up the papers she was working on, and stood to leave. Kyrus stepped aside to let her by.
“I will stop by your room this evening, around sunset,” Celia whispered to him as she passed by. Kyrus nodded in reply. She opened the door, stepped halfway through, then leaned back. “See you tonight, then … Kyrus.” She disappeared as the door closed between them.
“Now, Brannis …” Caladris continued to talk, but nothing registered with Kyrus. He babbled through replies. His brain needed time to recover as he sorted through the possibilities conveyed by that one spoken name.
* * * * * * * *
A blackened timber held up a loose blanket of rubble in one corner of the basement of what had once been a store peddling imported goods. Burned wood, shattered pottery, various dented and fire-blackened metal curios had settled into a cooling, mushy mess within the foundation, like layers of sedimentary rock: basement, first floor, loft—all compressed to a knee-high refuse pile that scavengers would mine for treasures once it seemed safe enough.
Hidden beneath that lonely beam, sheltering under it like a lean-to, was Aelon Beff. When the Megrenn sorcerers burned their shop to the ground, he and Faolen reacted very differently. The illusionist had attempted a diversion and escape—and failed. Aelon had trusted to something different: dragonflesh.
Aelon Beff and Sanbin Colvern had caught Warlock Rashan’s attentions after the battle of Raynesdark. Of all the feast-goers after the battle, the two of them were the ones who became most fond of the taste of dragonflesh. Of course, fondness is no crime, but stealing crates full of the cured, smoked flesh of the great reptilian goddess Jadefire (whose proper name was Nihaxtukali) was another matter. The two men gorged themselves in clandestine contests of gastric fortitude. The rarest of delicacies was washed down commoners’ gullets by tankards of cheap ale.
The warlock’s anger had been a capricious thing. One moment, it seemed as if they would be ripped open, and gutted to reclaim as much of the precious meat as possible. The next he was marveling at the uncanny resistance both men had developed to fire. Sanbin’s work as a smith was well served by immunity to the effects of the forge’s heat. Aelon had found little use for the gift aside from parlor tricks until he found himself within a burning building.
There is an instinct in all animals to flee from fire. Aelon fought that instinct once he saw what had become of Faolen. He knew in his head that the flames
could not consume him, but there are organs in the human body that offer their thoughts as secretions, quickening the heart, clenching the gut, widening the eyes. It was the smoke that panicked him, nearly broke him. The heat from the flames was like the summer sunlight beating on his skin, noticeable but no threat. The smoke clouded his vision, displaced the air, threatened to fill his lungs.
Draped with Faolen’s invisibility spell, Aelon had pressed himself flat to the floor, wondering if he dared flee as the illusionist had, taking his chances against being discovered. In the end, the fear of discovery won out, and he remained frozen in place as the smoke reached floor level. He pressed the cloth of his tunic over his face, and breathed through it, still smelling the disconcertingly pleasant smell of wood smoke despite his precaution. The cloth blocked too much air to his lungs, though, and in his panic, he was short of breath, and began feeling light-headed. He took a deep, sucking breath around the cloth, having the fool idea to fill his lungs as they demanded, then resume his filtered breathing.
He inhaled the smoke.
He exhaled.
Aelon nearly gave himself away by laughing aloud, exultant in his relief. He sat up, surrounded by fire and engulfed in smoke, a bemused, manic expression spreading across his face. He watched the room burn around him with a rather draconic sense of detachment. He reveled in the absurdity until the floors began to give way beneath him. Then practical concerns crashed back down around him. Checking that he was still invisible, he scrambled to the windows to see if anyone was still waiting outside; they were.
It was tense as Aelon dodged about the shop, seeking to keep ahead of the destruction, not trusting himself to flee while he could remain hidden within the safety of his private inferno. Eventually he wound up in the basement, cowering beneath a sturdy section of timber propped where it had fallen in a corner.
Something had fallen and knocked him cold. When he had awakened, it was daylight, although he knew not what day. He hid away until nightfall, weathering the spring rain that filled the foundation pit a fingersbreadth deep. By the starlight of the clearing sky, he found little scraps to shore up his hovel and provision it, unsure of where to go.