Aethersmith (Book 2)

by J. S. Morin

  “Neither, yet. Answer me this if you can: who did Caladris get to kill those three sorcerers?” Kyrus asked.

  “What has Dolvaen been telling you?” Celia demanded, her voice rising as her face reddened. “Brannis, do not tell me you let him convince you that Caladris killed three of his own sorcerers.”

  “I already told you, I know more than Dolvaen. Dolvaen was correct when he told me that murdering Rashan’s least significant supporters was not in his interest. It got the whole Empire gossiping about conspiracies, which is the worst environment for such a conspiracy succeeding. That is Caladris’s play, framing the conspiracy for murder. Sacrifice pawns, expose their king, protect your own.”

  Celia flushed, if possible, a deeper red. She turned and ran for the door, but Kyrus’s wards might well have rendered the wall an unbroken cliff wall. The door gave no sign of even noticing her efforts to open it.

  “It was you,” Kyrus said aloud, just as the realization dawned on him.

  “Please, just let me go!” Celia begged. She began to cry, slumping against the door, and sliding down until she was sitting with her back to it. “He said I had to …” Celia managed between sobs.

  “I see now. Caladris is Rashan’s agent on both sides of this. He gave me a choice. I either join his side or I have to see you pay for the murders he made you commit. Checkmate.”

  “What are you going to do with me?” Celia said, fear evident in her quavering voice.

  Kyrus walked across the room to her, feeling a pang of guilt as she cowered at his approach. He put his arms around her.

  “I am going to protect you.”

  Chapter 36 - Pulling the Chain

  “Brannis,” Soria whispered. She put her hand on his shoulder, giving a shove that bounced Brannis’s limp body on the bed. There was no hint of response; Brannis continued to slumber on. The sun was up, and Soria was tired of waiting for him to arise. She was tempted to go find herself breakfast without him.

  “Brannis,” she called out again, this time not bothering to whisper. She shook him with hands on both shoulders, eliciting a rude grunt, and prompting Brannis to roll over, turning his back to her.

  Soria climbed up onto the bed, kneeling next to him. With a great heave, she attempted to roll him onto his back once more, but Brannis’s knees were tucked up enough that she could not get enough leverage to turn him. She briefly tried magic, but Brannis’s Source might as well have been greased in pig fat.

  “Merciful Tansha, forgive me,” Soria prayed aloud, looking up at the ceiling. She took the washbasin, and tilted it above Brannis’s head, letting a trickle of water pour down onto his face.

  “Mpff,” Brannis grunted, bringing his hands up to defend himself. Soria stopped the flow as Brannis wiped the water and the sleep from his eyes. He blinked several times, shook his head, then blinked a few more. “What is going on?”

  “You are wasting away the morning is what.”

  “No, I mean I can still see Veydrus,” Brannis clarified. He shook his head, and rubbed his fingers in his eyes.

  “That’s probably from me waking you unexpectedly. Sorry, but I would have thought you would have grown accustomed to it by now,” Soria said. “I used to have it happen all the time when I was little, but I learned how to block it out easily enough. Once you’re alert, it should go away on its own.”

  “Yes. It has mostly faded now,” Brannis said. “What was so important that you needed me awake?” Brannis looked at her in earnest for the first time since awakening. She was wearing an outfit of all black, loose-fitted fabric. It had a certain stylishness to it, but was unflattering to Soria’s figure—specifically in that it was hard to tell she had one. “And where did you get that ensemble?”

  “Well, to answer both, I have been out scouting,” Soria replied. She pulled the hood of the cloak down. It hung low, over her eyes. She reached both hands back within the hood, and tied something, pulling the hood close over her eyes. There were cutouts for her to see through, and the rest of the hood hung low over her nose and mouth. She took a pair of black leather gloves from where she had tucked them in her belt and pulled them on. Fully kitted out, it was hard to tell much of anything about her aside from her height—and the color of her eyes if one was truly observant. “I visited your old shop a little while ago, before the predawn light came and spoiled everything.”

  “Did you find anything interesting?” Brannis asked. He pushed himself up onto his elbows to be at less of a disadvantage in the conversation.

  “Well, for starters, did you happen to live like there had been some sort of riot going on in your workroom?” Soria asked.

  “Yes,” Brannis replied, perfectly serious.

  Soria laughed. “Well, then, it would appear nothing was put amiss. I took a few things I thought you might like to have back.” She gestured to a knapsack in the corner of the room. “There was only so much I could carry when traveling by rooftops.”

  “Thank you,” Brannis said, smiling at the mysterious masked figure in his room.

  “We have a lot to do today, according to your plans. Let’s get changed into some respectable attire, and be about our day.”

  “Why is my armor all laid out on the floor?” Brannis asked.

  “Scar Harbor doesn’t see too many knights these days, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t any. Besides, you’re going to be foreign, remember, Erund? What could be more respectable—and less Kyrusy—than a knight? You look near to twice his size as it stands; you’ll look thrice with the armor on. Mind you, leave the helm behind … nasty thing.”

  * * * * * * * *

  Wendell sat bolt upright, hitting his head on the bunk above. Cursing himself, he rubbed at the sore spot on his head he had just created. He found himself breathing heavily, but quickly calmed himself with the knowledge that there was no immediate threat to him. It was Faolen who had just made a harrowing escape.

  “You okay over there?” Zellisan asked. He was sitting, fully clothed, on his own bunk. He was watching Wendell with a concerned vulture’s look.

  “I am fine. Faolen less so. I need you to get a message to Sir Brannis.”

  “What’s the message?” Zell asked. It was the first time Wendell had shown any interest in sending word back to Brannis for anything.

  “I need passage out of Zorren—and quickly. I have heard rumors of flying ships that we have now. If those rumors are true, I need one sent to fetch me,” Wendell said.

  “They are true. Sir Brannis had a bunch of them made up. What kind of trouble are you in? They are going to ask before sending an airship for you, I would think.”

  “I have failed to obtain the Staff of Gehlen, but I should be able to escape with Anzik Fehr.” Wendell chose his words carefully, lest the intermittently observant, slumbering boy overhear. Zellisan was an old coinblade; he could probably hear the words “hostage” and “kidnap” even without Wendell having given voice to them.

  Zellisan fixed an unsteady, sleepy glare on Wendell.

  “Fine,” Zellisan agreed after a moment’s contemplation. “I suppose it won’t be the worst thing I’ve done. I’m still drunk enough to fall right back asleep, I think.” The burly coinblade lay back down in his bunk, and began to snore before Wendell had time even to wonder whether he would remember the message, if he was as drunk as he claimed.

  Dismissing the thought as a ship already sailed, he turned his attention to Jadon’s bunk. The thin sliver of a boy slumbered peacefully, showing no sign that he had been aware of Wendell and Zellisan’s conversation.

  “Anzik,” Wendell whispered. “Can you hear me?” He waited. There was no response. “Anzik, can you hear me? It is me, Faolen, the last of the voices you will hear. Tell me where you are.”

  “Go away.” The voice came from Jadon, but it spoke Megrenn with more purpose and clarity than Jadon was wont to display. The boy rolled to face him, eyes heavy-lidded, but open.

  “Yes, we can go away. I have an airship coming to take us away. A
ship that flies in the sky.”

  “Will Father be on the ship?”

  “No. He will stay behind, and you will not have to hide anymore. Nice beds, good food …”

  “Your store burned down.”

  The abrupt change in topic was jarring. Wendell was not sure what Anzik was driving at. The boy’s motivations were simple on the surface, but what roiling waters lurked beneath he could only guess at.

  “Yes, it did. I was there when it caught fire. I had to run away,” Wendell explained.

  “Your man lives there now,” Anzik told him in Jadon’s voice.

  “That is good news. I had not found him after the fire. I am happy to hear he is doing well.”

  “He lives in a basement in a burned building. Why?”

  “He is probably hiding, just like you. How about we all stop hiding, and go together on the airship? Go find him there, after dark. I will meet you there as well.”

  * * * * * * * *

  Varnus stalked down the hallways of the palace, garnering occasional salutes as he passed the guardsmen under his command. The imperial uniform felt the same as his House Archon regalia, mainly due to it lying atop the same suit of armor he had worn for many summers. The effect it had on others was remarkable, though. While the guard captain of a highborn house might have some large degree of influence within his lord’s or sorcerer’s realm, visitors always took him for, but the foremost among many lowborn, insignificant men. Captain of the Palace Guard was a real position of authority, though, speaking for the safety of the emperor. Folk moved when he came by.

  It was thus with a certain degree of humbling consternation that he stood outside Kyrus’s door with no means of entry. He had tried knocking in the usual spot, a place the servants and other non-sorcerers had been shown where Sir Brannis could be alerted to their presence outside. There had been no sound at all. Magic was something Varnus only understood in bits and pieces, and he had no experience with it at all personally. Though he understood there were wards and aether at work, it was still unsettling rapping your knuckles against something, and not hearing so much as a finger’s tap for the effort.

  He could not fetch someone to open the door for him, nor even ask that Brannis be alerted by some magical means. He had no official business that he could give as justification for such a request, and folk were wary of Sir Brannis since his Source had torn itself loose of whatever shackles that once held it. Of course, Varnus knew it was Kyrus Hinterdale’s Source they were all in awe of, not Sir Brannis’s, but there was no way to make use of that knowledge, either. Juliana might have been of some use in gaining entrance, but she was off on her own airship somewhere. Tanner knew a bit more magic than he did, but Varnus knew his skills would not be enough; if Tanner was a sorry sorcerer in Tellurak, he was a mule’s whisker short of useless in Veydrus.

  Varnus waited.

  After how long, he had no idea, the door to the grand marshal’s chamber opened, startling three people.

  “Sorceress Celia.” Varnus nodded in her direction. “My pardon for startling you. I have business with Sir Brannis of an urgent nature. I was unable to alert you to my presence, so I waited without.”

  ”It is all right, Captain Varnus,” Kyrus replied on her behalf. He turned to the sorceress. “Celia, just do as I told you, and everything will be fine.”

  Celia nodded, her reddened eyes speaking volumes about her state of mind as she hastened down the hallway, her destination unknown to Varnus.

  Varnus stepped into the room as Kyrus made way for him. The door shut behind him, presumably warded as well. Kyrus seemed to be getting the hang of a few basics of sorcery, at least.

  “What did you need to see me about?” Kyrus asked. Varnus made no immediate attempt to reply, he just looked askance of Kyrus. A sly little smile worked its way to the corner of his mouth. “You want to know what she was doing here? Fine. We will discuss that first. I think you best to tell anyway, I suppose.

  “Celia Mistfield is twinborn. I was skeptical at first, since it seemed entirely too convenient, but the evidence has piled high on just one side of the scales; I can ignore it no longer. She has been caught up in the murder conspiracy.”

  “She’s one of ours?” Varnus asked. “Who would have guessed …”

  “Certainly not her. She is not entirely certain of herself. I have just taken my attempt at explaining it to her, but her dreams are still scattered recollections at this point. Caladris and Rashan figured her out before I caught on. One or both—and if just one, I suspect Caladris—is likely working on securing her twin. If Rashan is involved, he is either the oldest man in Tellurak, or he has additional agents at his disposal.”

  “Caladris, too? I had suspected the warlock, frankly, but that chubby, drunkard uncle of yours? Nah.” Varnus had never minced words when it came to Brannis’s relatives. Despite intermarriage between houses dulling the worst of the rivalry, they took their shots at one another often enough, especially among the household servants. Varnus had nicknames and unflattering descriptions for all of them—though he had ceased disparaging Brannis a long while ago, about the time Juliana got to the point of being a bit dangerous when angered.

  Varnus listened as Kyrus outlined all he knew of the plot between worlds, the connection between Abbiley and Celia, and Caladris’s role in the murders, using Celia as his pawn.

  “If you think she might be in danger, why not let her stay here, with you?” Varnus asked. “Everyone thinks this place is locked up tighter than a dragon’s …” Varnus trailed off, realizing the turn of phrase he was about to use was less than appropriate for polite company—and he did not know Kyrus quite well enough to be sure how he would take to being spoken to like a tavern regular.

  “Because I want her safe, period. I do not want her safe just long enough for Juliana to return, and find out—via whatever feminine network of spies keeps track of such things—where Celia has been spending nights.”

  “Good point.”

  “By the by, what had you come here for, initially?”

  “Oh, that. Faolen just needs an airship …”

  * * * * * * * *

  Darkness negated much of the need for invisibility, but Faolen was past the point of taking chances. It was just past dusk, and folk were still milling about the streets, enjoying a fine springtime night, even in the midst of war, as they set about finishing their day’s business. In a city the size and diversity of Zorren, a lone figure clad in little more than rags might have been unusual, but not so much as to draw extraordinary attention. Of course, all it took was for one person to realize that the roughspun garments he wore marked him as an escaped prisoner, and he would be on the run again in a hurry.

  He peeked above the tops of the two barrels he had hidden between, wary even while invisible, as he turned his consciousness fully to Wendell’s world. Seeing that there was no one likely to bump into him, he stood. He was still wobbly of leg after his ordeal—wobbly of stomach as well. The sudden change in his equilibrium was the final indignity his guts would suffer. He vomited the stew he had tried for so long to keep down, hiding his head between the barrels that had been his haven, hoping to keep the sound from carrying far enough to draw attention.

  Stomach emptied thrice over, he set about gathering Aelon and Anzik for their escape from the city. The rest was up to the convoluted communications system that Brannis had created between worlds. If there was no airship that could be dispatched in time, his escape might result in nothing more than all three of them being taken captive, instead of just himself.

  In his exploration of the city when they were still looking out for Anzik, Faolen had avoided the city center—a calculated risk but a conservative one. The closer to the seat of the High Council, the greater the chance had been of encountering someone strong enough in aether to potentially see through his illusions or cunning enough to spot someone who did not belong in the city. He had counted on Anzik avoiding the area for similar reasons. Unfortunately it meant that he
was navigating unfamiliar streets after dark, and was in no position to ask directions. He briefly considered trading in his invisibility for an illusory disguise, but he was feeling simply awful. He did not trust his acting abilities just then to pull off both a convincing non-Kadrin accent, and not act as if he had been used like one of the clay tablets that Academy students practiced rune-carving on.

  For a time, Faolen tried to keep to the side streets, but he was no explorer. His sense of direction, at best, relied on the commonly known fact of the sun rising east and setting west. Sun gone from the skies, he was at the mercy of the madmen who had laid out the city’s streets. Built on the hills surrounding a prime inlet on the Aliani Sea, Zorren had molded itself around the uneven terrain much the way weeds and vines grew around ruined stonework: they filled in the easiest spots first, and worked from there, resulting in a jumble of intersections and irregular buildings fitted between non-orthogonal roads. Faolen resigned himself to following a main thoroughfare until he found himself on familiar ground once more.

  Over the sleepy sounds of a city slowly shutting itself up for the night, a roar split the air; a shouted curse in a quiet library would have sounded less out of place. Faolen had no experience with stripe-cats, but he could guess no other creature that might be loose upon the Zorren streets. The timing was too inconvenient, as well. A series of answering roars gave the impression that there were a number of the beasts scattered about. Narsicann appeared not to have taken his escape well.

  There were a great many parts of Faolen’s stripe-cat education that were lacking, but the one he presently regretted the most was not knowing how keen was their sense of smell. If they were as good as bloodhounds, I would have to think they would have used them to look for Anzik by now. No, they must not realize that I am able to use my magic a bit. They expect to see me.

  It was his own mind he was trying to convince. His empty stomach was threatening to retch up contents it did not even possess. His heart was pumping fast enough to suit a sprinting pace, throbbing in his eardrums. His hands were shaking, both from a lack of food and from nerves. He quickened his pace, liking his odds against curious bystanders, should he rouse any, over his odds against a stripe-cat with his magic still greatly hindered.