Forging Divinity

by Rowe, Andrew

  “How does he know?” Lydia asked, folding her hands in her lap, intentionally mirroring Sethridge’s earlier gesture. She frequently modeled her body language after his, as Sethridge was typically considered the leader among them, and any similarity in their behavior would help to cause others to consider her to be of similar importance.

  “Protocol,” Veruden explained. “I sent him a messenger as soon as we ran our first tests and determined the sword was dominion bonded. Even if it is not the real Sae’kes, someone went to the trouble of dominion bonding a weapon. That costs, and someone would need a good reason to spend that kind of coin.”

  Resh. Last I checked, Myros was in Torlan. That’s only a week’s ride from here.

  “Such as keeping four court sorcerers busy while they do something unrelated?” Morella suggested.

  “An excellent point,” Sethridge conceded, frowning. “Well, since you have decided not to be useful in investigating the weapon, you can go try to discover whatever this other scheme might be.” His tone was bitter enough to border on outright hostility.

  Lydia frowned as well, but she wasn’t mirroring Sethridge intentionally this time. She found that the possibilities were growing ever more disturbing.

  “I don’t need your permission to be here or to leave,” Morella pointed out in a neutral tone, leaning forward slightly as she spoke. “But I do have better things to do.” She stood, nodding at Veruden and Lydia, and departed from the chamber.

  “That was a bit cold,” Veruden pointed out after the woman had closed the door behind her.

  “I believe she may be involved,” Sethridge explained, drawing a shocked glance from Veruden. Lydia managed to keep her own expression neutral. “A spark triggered by defensive sorcery is not a sufficient reason for her to avoid casing a non-invasive spell on the weapon to identify its properties. She is an expert. If nothing else, she could simply wear a pair of gloves.”

  “That does not necessarily mean she’s hiding any sort of involvement,” Lydia pointed out. “She could, for example, be going to go inspect the weapon right now, while the three of us are in here debating, and then keep the knowledge to herself.”

  Veruden turned his shocked look toward Lydia. “Am I the only one here who believes in honesty and trust?”

  “Yes,” Sethridge said without hesitation.

  “Pretty much,” Lydia conceded, nodding. “Though, to be clear, I was not stating that I thought what she was doing was inappropriate. She may have a good reason for wanting to gather information and keep it to herself.”

  “Oh? Such as?” Sethridge asked.

  “If she suspects the weapon is real – and finds confirmation that it is – she may want to gather enough information to try to figure out how the dominion marks on the weapon work. According to legend, the Sae’kes has at least seven dominion marks on the blade. Dominion marks are impossible to replicate in modern sorcery. Knowing how to replicate that technique would be incredibly valuable information, especially if only she had it,” Lydia asked.

  What she hadn’t said – but that the others almost certainly knew, save perhaps Veruden – was that dominion marks were only found on the ancient objects imbued with powerful sorcery, colloquially called “artifacts”. Artifacts were thought to have been forged by the gods themselves in the earliest days of the world, and many sorcerers actively hunted for artifacts for prestige – or in hopes of learning to weave the sorcery used to create them.

  “And what is to stop you or Istavan from learning the same details after she does?” Sethridge inquired, sounding genuinely intrigued by this line of discussion.

  “Well, she could replace the weapon with a copy – tricky, given the limited time. More likely, she simply expects that Istavan and I are not as good at analyzing sorcerous characteristics of objects as she is. She would most likely be correct if she made that assumption. But this is pure speculation, and it remains more likely that she is both unconnected to this whole incident and that she is not going to go inspect it right now. I was simply giving an example of an alternate motive behind why she may not have wanted to look at it earlier.”

  Sethridge nodded. “Your point has been made. Well, regardless, it is best if you take a look at the weapon soon – in case Morella is trying to do something to keep the secrets to herself. Also, we should take turns speaking to the prisoner.”

  “I already have, actually. He seems nice,” Veruden said. Seeing stares the other two sorcerers gave him in response, Veruden continued, “What? I wanted to get a good image of him in my head, in case he escapes later. Too often, we waste time on discussion, not acting until it’s too late. He may have escaped by now, for all we know.”

  “I doubt that,” Sethridge said. “They did put him in the Adellan Room, after all.”

  The Adellan Room was named after Prince Adellan, a legendary prince who had been captured in battle when Orlyn was still a part of the Xixian Empire. The Xixians had promised during a parlay with Adellan’s father to keep him in a chamber filled with “all the amenities entitled to a prince” while the other kingdom bargained for Adellan’s release.

  Adellan had died chained to the wall of a pretty room, just out of reach of his precious “amenities”. The Xixians had held true to the word of their bargain, just as they had always been famous for.

  A lesser known quality of the Adellan Room was that it was located so near to the palace’s barracks, allowing palace’s guards could keep watch on the Adellan Room with minimal effort.

  The proximity to the barracks means anyone visiting the prisoner will be likely be noticed. Captain Randall probably carries the key, which means several people could find out if I go ask for it. That’s less than ideal.

  “Who ordered for him to be put in the Adellan room, anyway? That seems a little harsh.” Veruden frowned.

  Sethridge turned to Veruden, offering him an exhausted shrug. “Captain Randall. I assume his orders came down from the prince.”

  A prince ordering someone to be held in the Adellan room. That’s rather ironic.

  “Well,” Lydia said, “I suppose I’d better go take a look at that sword.”

  “If you find anything of interest, please let us know,” Veruden implored her.

  “Of course,” Lydia replied. She planned to do nothing of the kind.

  Lydia took hasty steps as she headed to the palace’s armory. Her heart wanted to run, and her mind quickly outpaced even that. Is this man an agent of the gods? If so, will my involvement interfere with their plans? No, more likely he is some sort of spy. But if so, from who? Would Velthryn be foolish enough to be so overt? What could they possibly gain?

  Her mind sorted through other options as she walked, trying to maintain some measure of composure. Either Morella is right and he’s a distraction, or he’s an agent of a third party. The Kesites, maybe, or the Rethri. The Kesites have the best incentive; a war between Orlyn and Velthryn could leave both cities vulnerable to conquest.

  She was somewhat startled when she arrived at the armory door, noticing her own arrival as her hand moved to lift key to lock.

  I need to focus, she told herself, turning the key.

  Inside were of assorted weapons, pieces of armor, and seemingly random trinkets. Her eyes caught the unmistakable hilt of the sole object that resembled a legendary sword. Her heart still racing, Lydia hesitated not out of fear, but out of reverence.

  Gods, if by your grace you have chosen to guide me to this weapon, please give me the wisdom to know how to deal with it.

  With that prayer in mind and a grim expression, Lydia stepped inside and shut the door. While she knew intellectually that prayers had never been proven to elicit direct results, and she doubted the gods had any method for hearing the errant thoughts of their followers, prayer had been drilled into her at such a young age that she engaged in it unconsciously as a matter of habit.

  She did not bother to lock the door to the room; it would delay any potential rescuers if she injured herself by
triggering a more powerful defensive spell than Veruden had.

  Her eyes scanned from side to side, Lydia noted no one else to observe her actions – but that did not mean no one was watching. She desperately wanted to speak aloud, to declare her allegiance to the weapon. Her faith was one reason, but practicality was the greater of the two. The spells on the blade might allow a true believer in the Tae’os Pantheon to draw it from the scabbard.

  With the utmost hesitation, Lydia grasped the leather grip of the weapon with her right and the scabbard with her left. Silently, she pulled on the hilt, attempting to separate the two.

  The scabbard remained firmly in place.

  Some childish fragment of hope in Lydia’s mind was shattered, but her natural inclination toward problem solving filled the gap. A scabbard stuck in place did not imply the gods did not want her to have the weapon. It simply meant that there was some force keeping the sword in place – a force she had not yet identified. She had a spell for that.

  “Dominion of Knowledge, I invoke you,” Lydia said aloud, knowing that unlike a declaration of faith, this would not arouse any suspicion if overheard.

  Her vision momentarily blackened as the spell took hold. Letters flashed in her mind’s vision, showing her fragments of a broken thought. Eru ...n de... ..laris, kor. ..s o..n .. taris. D...ni.. ..at e..s ..l o. ...a...n...

  Every knowledge sorcerer experienced using the Dominion Analysis spell slightly differently, from what Lydia had been told. Some saw images, like memories stolen from other eyes. Others said they heard a voice whispering the answers they sought. Still others claimed that after casting the spell they simply knew the answer – as if they always had.

  Lydia found herself sitting on the stone floor with no memory of how she had gotten there. The sword lay across her lap, still contained in its scabbard. Lydia narrowed her eyes at the weapon. Knowledge sorcery would extract a fragment of her own knowledge as a cost each time she used it – but she had never experienced a blackout from casting it. Any memories the spells had stolen in her past had been subtle.

  Lydia’s spell had always presented her with text; that was no surprise. Books and scrolls were her greatest friends and the only loyal ones. She had never before been betrayed with mere fragments of an answer.

  Her legs felt weak, but she managed to wobble to her feet. What in the resh was that? More defensive sorcery, like what Veruden mentioned?

  She did not dismiss that possibility entirely, but she shoved it aside in favor of other options. Perhaps the spell failed, or I cast it improperly. Or, she considered with some hesitation, perhaps the weapon is so powerful I can’t even understand what I just experienced.

  The last option she considered only for the sake of completeness; assuming the weapon’s dominion marks were beyond her comprehension would be unproductive.

  More likely, she continued to consider, I came in contact with multiple dominions at once. The spell is made to identify a single dominion. If the sword carries several dominion marks – as in legends – perhaps my spell was simply unable to translate that information. I may need to develop a new spell to try to analyze this further.

  Lydia nodded, finding that explanation acceptable for the moment, and returned to her focus on a completely different series of problems.

  The sorceress returned the weapon to its position on the table with some reluctance, and then used the table to support her weight. She was still feeling dizzy, which was not a good sign.

  Focusing as best she could, Lydia examined the weapon. At a glance, the weapon fit the description she had always heard – a hilt long enough for two hands to fit comfortably, a long and elegant blade, and a metal that shined with greater luster than any silver she had ever before witnessed. She carefully lifted the sword a few inches, trying to peer inside the scabbard to see if she could get a look at the runes that should have been visible on the surface, but the sheath was flush against the blade.

  The scabbard itself was an oddity; it was wrapped in white leather (a color used to demonstrate affluence), but with metal plating along the sides and covering the entire tip. It struck a beautiful image, but so much metal on a scabbard had to be impractical. Not that the god of swords would have been inconvenienced much by such a thing, she mused, but he was supposed to be a pragmatic deity.

  That’s the first thing I’ve noted that’s out-of-place, she considered. And, now that I think about it, the scabbard isn’t in Aendaryn’s colors. He wears silver, black, and blue. This is white and...iron, I suppose.

  It was not much evidence of the sword being a fake, but little else provided her with a clue.

  Lifting the weapon again, she moved into a combat stance. Raising the weapon into position felt easy, fluid – even with the scabbard on the weapon. The weight of the sword was negligible. She could feel it, but the weight only seemed to be enough to remind her that the weapon was in her hand. The blade felt heavier from the presence of the scabbard, but only slightly.

  I could take it, Lydia considered. I could do more experiments in my room, or just flee the city with it entirely. If this really is the Sae’kes, it could change everything in Velthryn in an instant. If I could learn how the marks work, it could usher in a new era for sorcery. And even if I failed to do that, the mere presence of the sword could save numerous lives. If stories of the weapon’s power are true, a proper wielder could turn aside entire armies.

  She dismissed the idea almost as quickly as it came to her. She could get permission to take the sword to her chambers later – just walking off with it now would be a needless complication.

  Attempting to get back to Velthryn with the sword would be considerably more difficult. The weapon’s absence would be noticed within hours. With Morella’s detection spells and Veruden’s teleportation, it was likely they could catch up to her.

  More importantly, returning to Velthryn now would require abandoning her mission. Her responsibility was to gather information on the most prominent local sorcerers, as well as the supposed gods of the city. She delivered her reports during the infrequent opportunities her position gave her the excuse to travel to Velthryn’s territory, and she had no such excuse right now. Her mission had no set end date – she would be dismissed when her superiors felt she had done sufficient work, or if her cover had been significantly jeopardized.

  The Sae’kes was most likely worth abandoning her mission – but the prisoner who had carried was potentially even more important.

  I need answers. Conclusive answers. And for that, I need to meet with the prisoner directly.

  Lydia returned to her chamber, making preparations and strategizing for contingencies. And then, after preparing an extra set of robes and a putting a mask matching that of another sorcerer in her pouch, Lydia initiated the first stage of her plan.

  Since Lydia lived in the palace, passing by the Adellan room a few times throughout the day – hours apart – didn’t attract any undue attention. Each time she ensured she had an unrelated agenda nearby, just in case she was asked.

  It was on the third pass that she deemed the halls sufficiently clear. While there were always at least a few guards on rotation, she knew from experience that there were lulls, especially during meals. It was supper hour, and most likely her best chance to avoid being noticed.

  The sorceress pressed her hand against the door’s lock, speaking in a whisper.

  “Dominion of Knowledge, show me the structure within.”

  The Structural Analysis spell functioned differently from most of her other spells, presenting her with a series of images rather than text. She could see the interior of the lock, the positions of the tumblers, and the amount of open space inside the keyhole.

  Taking a breath, Lydia flexed the fingers on her right hand and formed an image of the necessary key in her mind. “Dominion of Protection, form a key to this door.”

  The shimmering construct in her hand wouldn’t last long, but she took a moment to knock lightly on the door. There was no one
in the hallways nearby to hear her, and now she needed to focus on making a first impression on the prisoner within. She wanted to be polite, but firm, and ultimately sympathetic if she decided to help him.

  She turned the sorcerous key in the lock, hiding her uncertainty beneath a veneer of stoicism.

  Several minutes later, Lydia knelt over Istavan’s fallen body, whispering a spell into his ear.

  “Dominion of Dreams, ravage his mind with nightmares of different versions of this confrontation.” She shuddered involuntarily in the aftermath of the spell – it was a horrible thing to do to a person, but better than slitting his throat.

  Lady of Destiny, forgive me for abusing the gifts you gave me in your great kindness.

  Using dream sorcery too frequently would wreak havoc on her ability to concentrate, but she had practiced frequently enough to be able to handle the use of two spells in a day without significant side effects.

  She had faked casting the knowledge spell that would supposedly erase Istavan’s memories – she didn’t have any spells with that exact function, and most people didn’t have a high opinion of sorcery that caused nightmares. She didn’t want Taelien to formulate a poor opinion of her; especially now that it was looking more plausible he really might be an agent of the gods.

  The nightmare spell wouldn’t have any lasting negative effects on Istavan, but she hoped it would sufficiently disturb his memories of the event to prevent him from reporting her as a traitor. And, even if he did report her, she could point out that he had been affected by dream sorcery – making his testimony unreliable.

  Taelien and Lydia stripped Istavan of his robes and boots. While Taelien put the boots on in place of his absurd makeshift greaves, Lydia switched out Istavan’s robes for her own. His robes were slightly large, but she had no way of repairing the hole he had made in her robe with his incendiary spell. The damaged robes would have aroused suspicion on their way out, but oversized robes would not. Their formal uniform tunics were carefully tailored to fit each sorcerer, but the colorful robes they wore during daily business were much more varied in size and shape.