Aethersmith (Book 2)

by J. S. Morin

Jinzan needed no words to use telekinesis. He used that to his advantage.

  “You know what you must do to—” Jinzan said as he lifted two of the heavy chairs from behind the demon, “—TAKE IT!”

  The two chairs slammed together, crushing Rashan Solaran from both sides. But the attack caught the demon by not the slightest surprise. The chairs passed through him to strike one another as he stepped through them, briefly incorporeal.

  “I really have been at this a lot longer than you have. I read up a bit about you. Excellent student but a bit of an irritable sort. First on Ranking Day your last two years at the Academy … quite admirable. Fought in the little rebellion that freed Megrenn from Kadrin rule—with distinction, it seems. You are even twinborn. Please understand that I hate having to kill twinborn. It is a tragic waste, but that is how much I want that staff.”

  Jinzan swallowed. He had imagined the encounter differently. He thought he would be trading spells with the demon like a pair of bare-knuckle pit fighters. Instead he was finding his attacks ineffective, and the demon more interested in lecturing than fighting back.

  “What are you doing, trying to frighten me into bargaining the staff for my life?” Jinzan demanded. His mind spun. He shook his thoughts, angrily demanding an answer to how he could hurt the demon, but no answer came readily to mind.

  “No. Once I realized your limitations, I knew I was in no real danger from you. You ought to have bargained with more dragons. Those are dangerous. They have a draw like that staff gives you, but they know what to do with it. Blah, blah, blah, spell comes out. It is like fighting an Academy student. You do not even see your folly; because you know I am a demon, you are not watching the aether as you attack me.”

  Jinzan frowned. What am I missing? He switched to aether-vision. He could locate the demon by the shielding spell around him and the rune-forged sword in his hand. The demon himself was a ghost in the aether.

  “Fetru oglo daxgak sevdu wenlu.” Jinzan pointed the Staff of Gehlen at Rashan, striking him with the same lightning spell that he had just used in Illard’s Glen. Just before he finished his spell, though, he noticed a change in the shielding spell.

  Jinzan snapped his eyes back into the light. He glared at Rashan, incredulous.

  “You changed your shield spell!”

  “Blah, blah, warlock recognizes your spell, blah, blah, shield is ready when you finish. Try your little telekinesis tricks all you like, but I do not see how you can keep pace with me.”

  “I will find a way, you monster!” Jinzan shouted, blustering to keep despair from engulfing him.

  “People call me that, but really, what have I done but wage war?” Rashan asked. “I enjoy my work, but so does many a general. I may be guilty of hubris, I admit, but nothing worse.”

  “Kidnapping children is nothing worse to you?” Jinzan screamed, finally striking a telling blow when the demon’s eyes widened in surprise.

  “I did what?”

  “You would have me believe that you know nothing of my son’s kidnapping by your pet Acardian?” Jinzan demanded.

  “Ahh, I think I begin to see now. You are accusing me of Brannis’s crimes? Still, I suppose I gave him leave to do as he liked, so I bear some amount of blame. I think I was enjoying this more when I was firmly on the moral high ground, fighting off an aggressor in defense of my homeland.” Rashan brandished Heavens Cry, and leapt toward Jinzan.

  Jinzan was caught off guard by the demonic madman’s abrupt shift of mood. He stumbled back, tentative on the slick footing of the bloody floor. He drew frantically, piling aether into his own shielding spell. Heavens Cry was turned aside, but the demon was unrelenting.

  I have to get away somehow, Jinzan realized. I cannot win this day. I am no match head-on against Rashan Solaran.

  Jinzan tried to use the Staff of Gehlen as a weapon, and noticed quickly that the demon was mindful of damaging it. Twice Jinzan moved to block slashing strikes, only to have Rashan pull his attack at the last moment. Still, Jinzan was no young man, and he would tire soon from the exertion of the combat, whereas the demon could conceivably keep up his assault indefinitely. He needed to buy himself the time to make his escape.

  “At least I care enough about my son that I will seek to save him,” Jinzan said, beginning to grow short of breath.

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Rashan asked, not pausing in his assault.

  Curse him, Jinzan swore, he is too focused.

  “If you return to Kadris in time, you may just find out,” Jinzan answered, trying to give as cryptic an answer as he might, while still leaving enough to pique the demon’s curiosity. This time, it worked. Rashan cocked his head to the side, looking puzzled.

  “What are you going on about?” the demon asked.

  Jinzan had little experience with silent casting of battle spells. It was, by common agreement of every sorcerer he had studied under, quite a bad idea. However, since he had never studied with anyone who had defeated a demon or a warlock, let alone both in one body, he was inclined to venture outside the realm of commonly agreed upon teachings.

  A blast of aether caught Rashan in the chest, launching the diminutive demon across the length of the Council chamber to slam heavily against the far wall.

  “See you in Kadris!” Jinzan shouted. He took the time only for that one parting barb before beginning his next spell, drawing for all he was worth, and with all the might the Staff of Gehlen lent him. “Doxlo intuvae menep gahalixviu junumar tequalix ferendak uzganmanni dekdardon vesvata eho.”

  A sphere of aether formed around him. Jinzan had no intention of heading into the heart of the Kadrin Empire, but he needed something to convince the demon to leave Zorren once he was no longer there to at least put up a token defense. All Jinzan could do, as he popped into the aether, was hope that he had given enough cause for Rashan Solaran to worry.

  Chapter 40 - Noble Goals

  Wind rustled the leaves of the ash and maple trees, yellow, orange, and red fluttering like uncounted thousands of tiny pennants. Booted and slippered feet walked side by side along well-worn footpaths that wended their way through Darrow Park. It was not along their way, but afforded Brannis and Soria some peace and a tranquil setting to talk.

  “It may be ‘cold,’ Brannis, but it makes sense. If this girl isn’t Celia, and you don’t fall for their trick, then the conspirators have no reason to harm her. If you do try to help her, Celia or not, then she is valuable to them,” Soria reasoned. She was dressed against the cold, in a long fur coat that looked either brown or black depending which way the light caught it.

  “And if she is Celia, and we do nothing?” Brannis asked.

  “Then she fends for herself. If she is Celia, she has it in her to do whatever it takes to get by,” Soria replied.

  “Would it make you happy if she got herself killed because you left her to her good fortune?” Brannis rather suspected it would, but he wanted to hear it from her.

  “Maybe. Maybe not. I don’t see why I ought to stick my head in the noose for her, though.”

  “You just hate that everyone in Kadrin seems to be pushing her and Kyrus together. With you married off now, it had to be someone, you know. Kyrus cannot stay a bachelor forever, not with sorcerous blood like that. The Inner Circle would never stand for it.”

  “You could have picked someone who was not a lying, murdering … manipulative …” Soria stopped her litany of derogatory adjectives when she noticed Brannis smiling.

  “Seems to be the type of girl who is drawn to me,” he commented, grinning.

  Soria’s jaw clenched, her lips pursed tight—she looked ready to hit him for a moment. She glanced at Brannis in his armor, and he found himself thankful that he was rather well protected from physical chastisement.

  Soria took hold of his arm for the rest of their walk through Darrow Park, a possessive gesture to be certain. Brannis shook his head when she was not looking his way. It was as if they were schoolchildren again, and she was waiting t
o hear if they were to be betrothed. Such bald jealously was unbecoming, but given her recent brush with death—Juliana’s at least—he could understand her need to cling to him.

  When they arrived at Abbiley’s studio home, Brannis hesitated. The two of them stood at the door, Brannis staring dumbly at it, unable to move, with Soria still clutching his arm. It is just a door. She is just a girl. This is nothing to be nervous about. Brannis managed to knock.

  They waited again, hearing voices from inside, then footsteps.

  “Hullo, what have we here?” a man greeted them as the door opened. He was dressed in a gentleman’s manner, with an embroidered red doublet and black hose, with a gold chain about his neck, bearing a heraldry Brannis did not recognize. He was not certain by his face, but between Kyrus’s half-remembered knowledge of the man and Soria’s report, he had to be Tomas Harwick.

  “Hello, might we speak with Abbiley Tillman?” Brannis managed to ask. He worried that the awkward pause before speaking to the man was not mistaken for rudeness.

  “Of course, of course,” Tomas assured him. “Abby, dearest, you simply must come here, and meet your guests. You will see why, I promise,” he called across the studio. There was a sound of something wooden being set down. A moment later, Abbiley appeared at the door.

  A gust of memory extinguished Brannis’s thoughts, leaving him mute and blank faced while he sought to relight the wick. Luckily Abbiley seemed similarly afflicted.

  “My good sir, I mean no rudeness, but you must come inside, and see this,” Tomas said, then ushered Brannis and Soria into the studio before either Brannis or Abbiley recovered their power of speech.

  And Brannis saw it. Propped on Abbiley’s easel was … him. Mirrors had occasionally shown him a better resemblance but just barely. He was dressed in armor, plainer than Liead’s that he wore, but similar in style to what he had worn upon his first adventure with Rashan, when they had met in Kelvie Forest. He was sitting on a log in the middle of a woodland scene, resting one hand on the pommel of Massacre—the serrated blade of Heavens Cry and the whimsical sculpted dragon hilt-and-crossguard and all. In his other hand, upraised, he held a ball of flame. He did not think it was Kyrus in the picture, but himself. Soria and Juliana swore to the resemblance, but Brannis knew his own face and Kyrus’s; more importantly, he knew them apart from one another.

  “I say, it is uncanny, do you not agree?” Tomas asked.

  “Aye, it is,” Abbiley managed to reply. She sounded just as Kyrus’s memory would have her, though perhaps a bit more confused.

  “Indeed,” Brannis agreed. He looked to Soria, whose eyes were wide, staring at the nearly finished painting.

  “You had said this was a painting of Kyrus Hinterdale someone commissioned,” the gentleman said. “It certainly looked enough like the fellow I saw at trial that I would never have spoken a word against it, but it is strikingly like this fine gentleman before us. Oh, but pardon me, my manners … My name is Tomas Harwick.”

  “Sir Erund Hinterdale. This is my lady, Soria,” Brannis presented Soria, preferring to leave their exact relationship vague.

  “Oh, I was not aware of any Hinterdales in the knighthood,” Tomas commented.

  “My husband’s title was bestowed in Khesh, by Lord Khazen. He uses the Acardian term to prevent having to explain the intricacies of the Kheshi Order of Fallen Stars to everyone he meets,” Soria explained, allowing her Kheshi accent to come through clearly in her Acardian.

  “Oh, you have traveled?” Abbiley asked, displaying her curiosity about the wider world. It was rather unlike Celia, Brannis thought, but he could still not deny the resemblance, nor the inexplicable ability to paint a picture of him.

  “To come here, yes. I was raised in northern Khesh by Acardian parents. Sir Erund grew up in Marker’s Point as a merchant’s son, and lived for a time in Khesh, where we met,” Soria said. Brannis wondered how much of that she had prepared ahead of time, and how much she was making up as she went.

  “This is simply fascinating. I must admit that I had a bet going with my father. I am losing a thousand eckles for someone showing up looking like this painting. You simply must join us for dinner this evening. My father, Lord Harwick, would be equally interested to meet you, I am sure. It is one of his ‘causes,’ to see the Hinterdale family compensated for the false claims of witchcraft, and see Kyrus Hinterdale’s name cleared. His kidnapping by pirates made the thing a right mess, but seeing as how you must be some sort of relation, I am sure he would want to speak with you as well.”

  “That—”

  “That would be wonderful,” Soria cut Brannis off before he could respond. “We shall give you back the remains of your day, then, and continue making acquaintances this evening.”

  “Yes, yes. If you have any troubles finding Harwick Manor, just hire a carriage, and it will be taken care of,” Tomas said.

  “It was very nice to meet you, Sir Erund,” Abbiley said.

  Brannis felt Soria’s grip on his arm tighten as she spoke.

  “Until tonight, then,” Brannis concurred.

  * * * * * * * *

  “Three kings,” Tanner announced, spreading his cards face up in front of him, drawing groans from the crewmen he played against as he gathered a pile of coins to add to his own.

  Someone scooped up the discarded Talis cards, and began to shuffle them when the tenor down in the hold changed. The sailors began to straighten up, laughs were cut short, eyes turned their attention toward the approaching Captain Zayne.

  “At ease, men,” Captain Zayne called out ahead of him. “Mr. Tanner, come with me. We have things to discuss.”

  Tanner scraped his coins into a pouch, and hung it about his neck, tucking it safely inside his tunic. Maybe with luck, he is ready to surrender, Tanner thought. These boys of his don’t have the coin to keep these games interesting.

  He followed Captain Zayne back to his cabin, where the twinborn pirate closed the door, leaving just the two of them to converse privately.

  “So, had enough yet? I can let Kyrus know straightaway,” Tanner offered.

  “Stow it, Mr. Tanner,” Captain Zayne said. “You dance a bit close to the railings as it is. If you had any idea how many times I considered having you thrown to the sharks, you would not sleep nights.”

  “‘No’ would have been fine,” Tanner said, offering a lopsided grin in exchange for the threat.

  “How well do you know Kyrus Hinterdale, Mr. Tanner?” Captain Zayne asked.

  “Barely at all, personally. Heard stories about him for years, though, from Soria. Well, those stories were about Brannis, but, you know, spuds ’n’ potatoes,” Tanner said with a shrug.

  “Would it surprise you to know that he is now in the business of kidnapping children?” Captain Zayne pressed.

  Tanner was not sure he liked how the conversation was going. It sounded like he was having his boots polished. He wondered if Captain Zayne was going to try some sort of bribe.

  “Hey, I’m a coinblade. I’m a hard guy to surprise with the sticky, red side of human nature. I haven’t seen it all, but I’ve seen most of it, ya know?”

  “Kidnapping my child, my children … sometimes this twinborn thing confuses even me,” Zayne said, shaking his head as he blew out a sigh that spoke to his frustration. “I may sound like the thieving preacher for saying so, but you are working with monsters, Mr. Tanner. Mr. Hinterdale possibly only figuratively so, but Rashan Solaran is inhuman of mind and body.”

  “Yup,” Tanner agreed.

  “‘Yup’ what?” Captain Zayne pressed Tanner to clarify.

  “You sound like the thieving preacher. Far as I can tell, you went out of your way to get your reputation, Captain Scourge of the Katamic. Can’t rightly complain when someone ignores all the nice bits of civilized life, and does a better job at it than you,” Tanner explained. He saw a dangerous look come over Denrik Zayne’s eyes. Tanner held his arms wide in a universal gesture of helpless innocence. “Hey, who am I to j
udge? I just say what I’m seeing; can’t claim I’m any better, I just don’t complain about it.”

  “What have you got to complain about ?” Zayne asked. “You laze about my ship, drinking rum, and keeping my men gambling at cards when they should be working. In Veydrus, you are Kyrus’s lapdog, cozy and safe from the war.”

  “Hey, boats are great; they get you places. They’re no place to live, though.”

  “Hah! And here I thought you might make a fair pirate, if you lifted a finger to work,” Zayne scoffed.

  “No, thanks. I could buy this ship. I don’t need to steal shipments of wine and spices, and divvy it eighty ways to try to make my fortune.”

  “I think you underestimate what a ship costs, Mr. Tanner,” Captain Zayne said with a look Tanner found patronizing.

  “Hundred fifty, two hundred trade bars?” Tanner guessed.

  Captain Zayne frowned, and said nothing for a breath. “No. Not quite that much.”

  “Really, if you aren’t ready to surrender, what did you want to talk to me about?” Tanner asked, tiring of trading barbs with Denrik Zayne. “You need me to get some message to Kyrus or not?”

  “Not a surrender, but an offer. A … trade. Possibly a peace.”

  “What ya offering?”

  “I will give him the Staff of Gehlen … in return for the head of Rashan Solaran,” Captain Zayne said.

  “Oh, is that all?”

  “No. I want my son back, too.”

  * * * * * * * *

  The coin flipped end over end, making its way across the backs of Wendell’s fingers. Jadon had his hands up on the common-room table as he leaned well across to watch intently. Twice already he had watched the coin disappear, unable to figure out where it had gone. The Acardian five-eckle that Wendell was using reached his index finger, and tumbled over between his finger and thumb. He turned his hand over, and there was nothing there.

  “How?” Jadon asked, using Acardian.

  It was a good sign as far as Wendell was concerned. Jadon climbed up onto the table, and took Wendell’s hand in two of his own, turning it over, prying the fingers apart to check between them. Wendell allowed the boy to conduct his search. Showing interest in Tellurak was what he really needed, much more so than he needed him to find the coin. He almost felt guilty deceiving the boy, but if using magic to hide the coin in both the light and the aether was what it took to pique his curiosity, it was worth suffering a bit of guilt over.