by J. S. Morin
“Hmm, perhaps some other time I will tell you, once I know you can be trusted with it. For now, I will answer to Stalyart if you call me such,” Stalyart’s twin said, pulling up a chair with a shrieking noise of wood scraping against wood that made Tanner’s head resonate like a struck chime. Stalyart sighed, plunking down a bottle on the table that looked like a more reputable version of his own. Stalyart’s had a cork in it, appeared to be full, and had not lain for the better part of the night in a pool of spilt liquor and drool. “The cure that sickens.” Stalyart pulled the cork, and offered it to Tanner, then took a seat, straddling the chair with his arms propped up on the back.
Tanner gave the bottle a skeptical look for just long enough to realize that looking hard at anything hurt. He sat up, slouched back in his chair, eyes half closed to ward away the worst of the light. He took a long pull at the bottle, tasting nothing but the welcome burning sensation as he swallowed.
“So you’re here,” Tanner observed, once he had a few swallows to stop the worst of his pains.
“So I am.”
“Why?”
“Ahh, so now you are awake. Excellent. Yes, ‘why’ is a very good question,” Stalyart’s twin said. “You see, I am a cautious man. One may not think it from the occupations I choose, but given that each man must work, I am cautious when you consider all things.”
“That clears that up,” Tanner replied. “Clear as … as …”
“Yes, yes, something not very clear at all. Your wits are, regrettably, a lost cause this morning. Please listen, though, because I come on behalf of a friend. There may come a time when we two might stop a war.”
“Oh, you some hot-as-hobnails sorcerer around here? You got the ear of those Megrenn bastards and their High Council?” Tanner asked, overplaying his sarcasm to the point of self-mockery.
“No, but consider this. Brannis and Councilor Jinzan Fehr are both relying on you to relay messages,” Stalyart said, talking as if to a young child, slowly and clearly.
“Yep, that’s me, message boy to the twinborn and the powerful.”
“Ahh, but consider that they have only your memory to rely on, not wax seals and warded parchments. You not only carry each message, held open in your hands, but you must read it, remember it, and recite it.”
“Oh yeah. I’m a talented guy. A regular talking parrot.”
“Have you considered that perhaps, with a bit of help, those messages could be … rewritten—perhaps a few words here and there,” Stalyart’s twin suggested.
“And do what?”
“Bring two sides closer together. Arrange a truce, before we are all consumed by the war.”
* * * * * * * *
Brannis had hated the idea the moment he thought of it, Soria knew, yet he suggested it anyway. I am sure he had dreamed of some sweet little reunion, but he’s gotten smarter than that. He might still have his chance to talk to the peasant girl, but not until I have made certain she is safe. The trust Brannis showed in her was more valuable than all the coin in the purse she had left behind in their room, the caches she had hidden across Tellurak, and everything House Archon owned.
Soria skulked along the streets of Scar Harbor, clad once more in the dark, hooded ensemble. Even though there was nothing unsavory about being out late at night and Scar Harbor was likely safe enough for an unescorted young lady who was not a trained Tezuan warrior, she preferred to remain unseen. Whoever might be involved in Kyrus’s conspiracy—and somehow she thought that it was Kyrus at work here, not Brannis—she wanted to give them as little knowledge about her and Brannis as possible. The fact that she was starting to see differences between Brannis and Kyrus—beyond the obvious physical differences—was irksome to her.
Soria remembered the way to the peasant girl’s studio, which doubled as her home. The route she took to get there avoided the lamp-lit main thoroughfares, and took her through alleys, and over estate walls. She envied Faolen’s illusions right then, since she could have made the trip in half the time, a tenth the effort, and with no chance of being seen, had she the ability to turn invisible.
There was a light in one of the upper-story windows. It was faint, orange, small. It had to have been a single candle. A few fools were reckless enough and scared enough of the dark to keep a lit candle by the bedside, but the peasant girl did not seem to be the type. Tooth-rotting saccharine optimism did not fit with being frightened of the dark of one’s own bedchamber. It does not fit with being Celia Mistfield, either, Soria thought bitterly.
Was it even possible for nascent twinborn to be so different in demeanor? Soria could not conceive of it. She and Juliana had been joined for so long that the line between them was naught but a smudge. Kyrus and Brannis had been aware of one another a few months, but aside from superficial traits, they were mostly the same: a scholar with a heart of a hero, stubbornly naive, too clever to twist except by womanly charms. She smiled, knowing that hers were the charms that worked best on him, or rather that hers and Juliana’s worked the best on them. Sourly, she reminded herself that they were not the only charms that worked at all.
It was time to meet Abbiley Tillman once again, this time knowing that she was Celia on the other side.
Soria edged her way up the side of the studio, finding a few handholds, and making them work for the whole of the climb. Her long limbs and strong fingers made it easy work; once she reached and took hold of the sill, it was child’s play. A quick check of the aether showed a single Source inside, lying down. She pulled herself up to see inside in the light.
There were two bedrolls laid out on the floor, not even proper beds with posts and frame. One was vacant, the other held a sleeper, camped near the candle, possibly awake, possibly asleep. With great care to remain silent, Soria edged her grip on the sill until she could push herself through the window. She was glad that the night was warm enough that the window had been left open.
Creeeeeaaak.
Her undoing was the old woodwork. Thin as she was, Soria’s weight was plenty to set the sill to creaking. The sleeper rolled over, startled by the noise. Soria took no time to think, but vaulted into the room, rushing to prevent a cry of alarm.
Soria’s hand clamped over a mouth. Even through her gloves, she knew it was not the peasant girl. The sleeper had been male, with a wide jaw and a nose bigger than Celia’s, for certain. Soria conjured a tiny light, counting on her mask to hide her identity, and reveal that of the man she had just assaulted.
Boy.
Soria corrected herself immediately on seeing the youthful features. He had unwrinkled skin marked with reddish blemishes, and a paltry scruff of beard that reminded her of Iridan. His hands came up to fend her off, and she quickly realized that, boy or not, he was nearly full grown and physically stronger than her. Soria changed tactics.
While she could not manage illusions like Faolen, there were a few tricks that came close. She let her light spell end, and conjured two soft, red lights, locating them on her own eyes. It made it dreadfully hard to see, so she let her vision switch to aether. Of course, aside from the scant candlelight, all the boy would see would be the illumination of two red eyes.
“Don’t kill me. Don’t kill me. Pleeeease don’t kill me. I’ll have the money soon, I swear,” the boy said as soon as he was able to push Soria’s hand free of his face.
“Your name,” Soria said, making her voice as gravelly as she could. It was difficult sounding intimidating with a naturally high voice. She kept her words to a minimum.
“Uh, uh, Neelan.”
“Where’s Abbiley?”
“I ain’t tellin’ you where my sister’s at.”
“Stupid boy,” Soria said. “I am not going to hurt her. You? Maybe.”
“Well, you can’t get her anyway,” Neelan said. “Tomas Harkwick’s courtin’ her now. You give her trouble, you’ll deal with him and Lord Harwick. Even you lot ain’t fer havin’ that kind of trouble as what they can make for you.”
“How long?”
/>
“How long what?” Neelan asked, starting to get the impression he was not the object of the red-eyed shadowy figure who had invaded his home.
“Courting her for how long?”
“Months? I dunno. She barely comes home at all most nights. They done made up a room for her at the lord’s estate. Just … Just leave her alone, all right? Even if she’s got a lord to protect her now, don’t mean I can’t look after her too, right?”
“She loves him?”
“How would I know? Yeah, sure, I guess. She thinks he’s gonna marry her.”
Soria gave Neelan a shove as she turned all the lights went out, two red, one orangish candle glow. In a ruffle of cloaks and a few quick, quiet footsteps, she vanished out the window.
Chapter 39 - Crossroads of War
The city of Kanem sat at the border of Kadrin and Megrenn. In more cordial times, it served as the first Megrenn settlement along the most heavily traveled land route between Kadris and Zorren. Being a trade city had given them coin to spare, and like the rest of Megrenn, they had prepared for war. The city wall was new, and in pristine order, tall and thick, with high towers outfitted with catapults. It was a city poised on the border of their enemy, and expected to be the first to feel the brunt of any counteroffensive.
Ever since the first day of springtime, the city had been on guard for signs of Kadrin troop movement. As Megrenn forces pushed ever farther into Kadrin territory, fears of the Empire’s reprisals lessened. Trade within Megrenn still carried on apace; fears of war plied themselves against the scent of gold and lost, as they always seemed to in the end.
When a Kadrin airship was spotted flying past in the north, within Megrenn territory, the lax attitude snapped back into its proper shape. With no enemy ground forces in sight, the soldiers patrolling the walls called for the gates to be partially closed. Horsemen rode out to herd the traders inside the city with all haste, convincing caravan leaders to quicken their plodding pace lest they arrive at Kanem to find the city shut tight against invasion.
Amid the chaos of merchants and horse cavalry mixing upon the roads, no one thought much of a lone traveler in homespun clothes, leading his gelding afoot. He was part of no caravan, carried nothing but the clothes he wore and a few packs slung across the back of his equine companion. When the horsemen told him to hurry, he did, quickening his pace, and falling in amid the myriad travelers whose days had been compressed by the urgency the Megrenn outriders were conveying.
Cursory checks were made by the gate guards, but contraband was low on their priorities with the thought that Kadrin forces might have landed nearby. The wooden sailing ships had been harassing Megrenn forces of late, ferrying reinforcements about to head off assaults. It seemed to them that it had come time for them to land troops inside Megrenn and add a new chapter to the war.
The lone traveler took note of this, opinions of their state of mind and all, as he was ushered through the Kanem gates. He looked upon the walls, studied the armaments of the guards, and critiqued their search techniques as they interviewed caravaneers. He did this silently of course, for no impoverished wanderer ought to be a connoisseur of well-run armies. No old mule-drover ought to remember Kanem as a simple border outpost with wooden palisades and a dusty marketplace, a mere stopover on the journey from the Kadrin heartlands to Zorren and the foreign ports her ships sailed to.
But Rashan Solaran did.
The airship Ironspar had left him on the plains north of Kanem, on a lightly traveled road between one of the little hamlets of rural Megrenn and the main tradeway. There had been a father and son making a trip to Kanem. Rashan had slain them both, and taken their mule as a lark, deciding on the spot to sneak inside the city in disguise. It had been too long since he had been free to indulge such whims.
Now that he was inside, Rashan began looking around for weaknesses. The city was of modern design, built up with newfound Megrenn wealth. The walls bore Ghelkan wards, glowing uniformly in the aether, little tested by weather, and never having seen war. There were troops in plenty, though it was a mere curiosity to the demon; nothing without the means to attack him in the aether was of any true concern to him. While it was never a precise art, he singled out a few Sources that might be strong enough to indicate sorcerers about. None worried him; only the strongest were worth worrying about. To all appearances, he was clear of such impediments.
Satisfied that he had free rein, Rashan looked up at the fortified towers. He idly counted the men up on the walls as he did so, but he was looking for something else. He spotted it along the wall, built into a modest wooden frame with a slat roof above: an alarm bell. A malevolent grin spread across his face as he reached out with a simple telekinesis spell, and shoved the bell, reveling in the sound of chaos about to spread.
The ringing of the alarm bell, too sheltered and too heavy to have been sounded accidentally or by wind, signaled that the enemy had been sighted. The guards rushed the last of the road travelers they could manage to get within the city walls as they made ready to close and bar the gates. Rashan watched them work, noting that they were doing quite a remarkable job under the circumstances. Whether they were seasoned in combat or not, he could do with having soldiers like those of the Kanem garrison.
As Rashan stood admiring the fruits of his mischief, one of the many fresh arrivals to the city crossed too close to him. The man, stocky and with a wobbling gait, jostled into Rashan, shoulder to shoulder, sending the warlock stumbling a pace. With an annoyed pique, Rashan held him in place with magic. Allowing his illusory disguise to fade, he spun the man about like a wooden soldier in a child’s playtime march, allowing the man to watch as Rashan drew Heavens Cry, and slid it through his belly.
Rashan left the man to spill his innards out onto the dirt streets of Kanem, still held upright, and strode over to the city gate. His action had not gone unnoticed. Dozens had watched in horror as he murdered a helpless traveler. A handful had taken note when an old man in careworn clothes faded, only to be replaced by a sword-wielding Kadrin sorcerer. Screams and pointing had eliminated everyone else from the ranks of the oblivious, and word of his presence sparked a general panic on the streets.
Rashan continued onward, unfazed. Kanem was a new city, with all the latest fortifications. The city gates opened inward, with a portcullis able to drop down behind. It was an excellent defense against rams, and made the gates nearly as impregnable as the outer walls. However …
With a metallic snap, and a clatter of chains, Rashan’s magic broke the portcullis free, dropping it into place behind the city gate with no ready means for the garrison soldiers to lift it again. Satisfied that one of the two city gates was unusable for the time being, Rashan jogged across Kanem, herding terrified peasants in his path, to the southern gate. Having outpaced any coherent account of what he had done in the north, the guards at the southern gate had lowered the portcullis on their side themselves. Rashan had but to snap the chains to render that gate useless as well.
Rashan knew that any city, even one as new as Kanem, must have other means of egress. That was less of a concern than allowing a mass exodus, however.
Rashan attempted to count as he killed, but it was a hopeless task. He found five who opposed him with some form of sorcery, but the common soldiers died by the hundreds, the peasants by the thousands. When Rashan finally blasted down the southern city gate, he had found threescore and more Kadrins among those within Kanem. He gave them free rein of the city, and leave to take whatever they wished as they headed home to the Empire.
* * * * * * * *
“Well, it is not as if I wanted to let them escape!” Narsicann shouted. The Council was holding one of their few closed sessions in the aftermath of the escape of the prisoner Faolen Sarmon and his hostage, Anzik Fehr. “That thing wasn’t human, whatever it was.” The rest of the Council members kept to their assigned seats, but Narsicann stood up from his as he spoke, and Jinzan paced, clutching the Staff of Gehlen.
“What did th
is demon look like?” Jinzan asked, trying to focus his thoughts along practical paths. Denrik Zayne had spent most of an irritable day pondering the nighttime raid on Zorren and what it meant. It was the nearest most twinborn came to having nightmares. Little had he known upon Jinzan retiring for the night that Anzik had been found and lost in the span of that frantic chase.
“It looked young,” Narsicann began.
Jinzan nodded slightly, knowing that Rashan Solaran appeared as little more than adolescent. Still, he suspected it to be Kyrus, as he had guessed during the night.
“Tall, light hair, dressed in black, though all the Kadrin sorcerers seem to favor the dark. I did not note the color of his eyes or whether he had a pretty smile. If you want such detail, you can go find him yourself. That is what you got that thing for, after all.” Narsicann pointed to the staff.
“Not small, not white haired. Are you certain?” Jinzan asked. He had been worried, but was not sure which adversary was worse. The demon would oppose them, he knew that with absolute certainly; Rashan Solaran was the living embodiment of aggression, the avatar of war incarnate. Kyrus Hinterdale was a thinker. Somewhere within the boy, paired opposite him world for world, was the heart of a knight. He was not battle shy, but seemed to have more sense than to rush off blithely into the lair of his enemy.
“I could not judge exactly but he appeared tall enough. The hair was most certainly not white. Of course, he could have used any of a number of simple tricks to change his hair color if you saw him differently,” Narsicann conceded.
“His Source. Did you get a look at his Source?”
“No,” Narsicann admitted. “There was too much magic about. It was blinding the second I tried to shift my vision. I know the Kadrins have some strong sorcerers, but I cannot fathom there being another of such power that we did not know about.”
“Explain from the beginning,” Jinzan said. “Leave out no detail.”
The Council sat and listened as Narsicann gave his account of the events of the previous night. The spymaster was no great storyteller, but his profession had given him a keen eye for detail, and a habit of remembering those details. His tale was dry and professorial. From his telling, you could almost imagine that he had not been there at all, merely reading from reports of those who were. By the end, they knew the name of the dead stripe-cat rider who had carried Narsicann to the scene of the escape, the size and estimated complement of the Kadrin airship, and had descriptions of the mystery sorcerer, the airship captain, and the two Kadrins who had absconded with Anzik, one of whom they already knew was Faolen Sarmon.